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bemusedlybespectacled · 9 months ago

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what's happening with James Somerton right now: a probably-incomplete primer

TW: suicide, including suicide as a threat and a manipulation tactic.

The short version:

James Somerton is a former Youtube essayist who focused entirely on queer history, queer media criticism, and queer issues in general. He is also a flagrant grifter who has made tens of thousands of dollars via fraud, both directly (lying about his finances to beg for money and getting donations for films he never even started making) and indirectly (stealing whole essays and articles and books, reading them out loud verbatim for his videos without indicating they were anything other than his own work, and then using the prestige he gained from using their work to get Patrons and sponsorships).

The story as told James and James apologists was that James attempted to apologize twice, was hounded mercilessly on the internet for weeks, and then, driven to the end of his rope, he posted a suicide note on Twitter, was MIA for several days, and from then on has been avoiding the internet.

The actual story, as revealed yesterday, was that James used two sockpuppet accounts to defend himself and parrot his talking points (again, while publicly claiming to be trying to take responsibility for his actions), using one to try to rebrand the con under a different name and another to deliberately stoke the panic caused by his suicide note. He was not only aware of the pain and anxiety he was causing people, but he encouraged it on one alt while hornyposting about his favorite movies on the other.

He is an unrepentant con artist who successfully used a suicide threat to prevent further interference with future cons. The only reason he was caught is because he is apparently incapable of going more than a couple of weeks without trying to get back in the internet spotlight, allowing people to tie his alts back to him. He lies for fun and profit and he should not be taken seriously, ever.

The long version:

In December 2023, Youtube essayist Hbomberguy (Harry Brewis) put out a four-hour-long video about plagiarism on the internet, and devoted two hours to addressing as much of JS's plagiarism as he could. I strongly recommend watching the entire thing, as the first two hours build on the concepts that he uses later in the video.

He also blew the whistle on James' fraud surrounding Telos, a studio James founded using thousands of dollars of IndieGoGo money that never actually produced any films despite him definitely working on them! Any day now they'll be released! Don't you worry!

A day later, Todd in the Shadows, a guy whose entire thing is music reviews, posted his own video debunking multiple outright lies that James had told about history, especially queer history. A few more days later, The Ace Couple, who run a podcast about asexuality, released an episode detailing how they'd lost $1.5k donating to Telos.

I have put the videos, Twitter threads, Patreon posts, and Reddit posts by other people discussing different aspects of James' fraud under the cut.

Every other time James was caught plagiarizing, prior to Harry's video, he would lie about it. Either he'd have some excuse (easily proven to be a lie) or he'd retreat to his favorite deflection: "I'm just being harassed because I'm gay."

This last lie was one he'd use not only to deflect accusations of plagiarism, but all criticism in general, no matter how trivial. Every time, the critic or someone associated with them would somehow dox him, or harass him, or send him death threats, or threaten to falsely accuse him of sexual assault.

This happened to The Ace Couple (who'd tried to correct him on something extremely acephobic in one of his videos), Jessie Gender (who'd tried to correct him when he claimed that there were no queer content creators on Nebula, given that she and a bunch of other queer creators were definitely on that platform), and the person who first blew the whistle on him stealing from Tinker Belles and Evil Queens by Sean Griffin (who was accused of being behind death threats he'd received, and hounded so harshly they had to leave Twitter).

It is important to note that every time James faced potentially damaging criticism, or even just a threat to his ego, suddenly he would claim to be harassed by people connected to the critic, including threats to his life. There has never been any proof of any threats being directed at him, nor evidence that, if the threats were real, that they are actually from people connected to the critic.

In the original video by Hbomberguy, Harry makes a compelling argument that James brought on a friend of his, Nick, as a co-writer specifically as a shield against accusations of plagiarism. "How dare you accuse me of plagiarism! Nick would NEVER do that!" This is even more apparent given subsequent developments which I will get into.

When evidence started dropping about different aspects of his fraud (not only Harry's video, but Todd in the Shadows' video debunking his misinfo, The Ace Couple's podcast about their experience donating to his fraudulent film studio, and Dan Olson's tweet thread about James' obvious lies about his finances), he went into hiding for two weeks, and then put out the first of two apologies. He then deleted that one and put out another one a few weeks later. And then he immediately deleted that one.

While his first apology was rambling, vague, and dramatic (lots of sniffing/crying), and his second was more measured, thought-out, and totally batshit (lots of hilariously and bizarrely implausible excuses for why he'd done what he'd done), they had roughly the same points:

Not ALL of his stuff was plagiarized! Actually, a lot of it wasn't! No specifics as to what, though!

Most of the stuff that was plagiarized was just a failure to properly cite sources, as he had no idea that putting someone's name in your end credits or video description (without specifying what parts are attributable to that person or disclosing that you are using their words verbatim) is not sufficient credit,

Also, he totally had permission, in some cases, to use their work verbatim prior to publishing the video (this is not true, and is disproven both in Harry's video and his own screenshots);

He definitely didn't commit fraud with Telos and would soon have a good explanation for where the money went! (he did not)

He was going to keep the videos up so that he could either donate the funds from any monetization to the fund Harry had set up for his victims or to "help Nick's portfolio" by showcasing his work;

He lost his best friend (i.e. Nick) over these allegations, who absolutely definitely wasn't a scapegoat, except Nick was also responsible for a lot of the stuff James was being criticized for;

He was going to keep the videos up so he could either donate the advertising proceeds to Harry's fund for his victims (first apology) or to "help Nick's portfolio" by showcasing the work he'd done; and

As a result of this entire ordeal, he had attempted either self-harm or suicide (he merely alluded to "doing something stupid").

Again, his response was to 1) downplay the severity of his actions or flat out ignore allegations against him, 2) come up with ridiculous excuses for his behavior, 3) throw Nick under the bus, and 4) claim to be in mortal danger. As far as I am aware, he has never taken any concrete action to make amends to any person, not even donating money to charity.

This was coupled with some kind of attempt to profit: monetizing his apology videos, closing and then reopening his Patreon right before the monthly charge cycle happened (totally to let people unfollow him, not at all as a grab for that money), creating a new Patreon under a different name, and changing his Twitter and Youtube handles to distance himself from the controversy while gathering new followers.

At one point (I forget if this was on Twitter or Instagram), he also said that someone had broken into his apartment due to the notoriety he'd received from Harry's video. I believe that was after his first apology, when people started to point out that he'd just changed the name of his Twitter and Youtube channel and had restarted a new Patreon under a pseudonym. (BTW, the pseudonym he used for his new Patreon was "The Gay Raconteur"; this will be important later).

It had what I think was the desired effect: any attempt at pointing out that he was rebranding his grift now came across as weirdly fixated on minor things he was doing, which certainly wasn't worth putting him in physical danger. (Again, he has never provided any proof of this happening, nor provided any evidence that these people allegedly threatening him were, in fact, in some way inspired by Hbomb).

So along comes March 5, 2024, and James posts a suicide note on his Twitter, saying that he is going to set up his videos to automatically publish (for Nick's portfolio), provide in some way for the ad revenue to go to a suicide prevention nonprofit, and then kill himself.

The immediate response from the internet was compassion and totally chilling any further criticism, since you might be callously criticizing a dead person. Harry and Kat worked for a couple of days to get a wellness check for him while a substantial section of the internet called them murderers.

On March 6, a day after the note was published, Nick tweeted that that he had cause to believe James was fine. Kat confirmed that James was safe on March 11. Due to the drama of the "suicide attempt," however, the chill on criticizing James stayed in place for months.

And then yesterday Lady Emily, one of the cowriters for Sarah Z., drops two more bombs:

James has not one but two alt accounts that he was using to rebrand and start over.

The first one was created between his first and second apologies, and originally was for "The Gay Raconteur" until he changed it to "Will"/"thatgayyouknow" and, later, "The Achillean Boy."

The second one was much older, under the pseudonym "Mikey JB," and used stolen pictures from Grindr instead of his own face. However, it is pretty obvious that it is, in fact, a sockpuppet account and not just some other person who happens to like James, as detailed below.

Both accounts, both between apologies and after his "suicide," talked about how criticism of James was unfair because the plagiarized stuff was "like a decade old" and repeating the same excuses that James had also made.

The "Mikey JB" account not only supported James, but actively threw Nick under the bus, saying that a criticized part of a video "reeks of his co-writer."

On March 6, the day after James' main Twitter posted the suicide note, The Achillean Boy account was hornyposting about Ryan Phillipe. James didn't even take a day or two off of Twitter. If he had been completely off Twitter for a couple of days, that could have been an indication that he really had hurt himself and was unable to access his phone, or at the very least unaware of the panic. But he wasn't. He was aware of it and did nothing. Actually, no! Worse than nothing!

On the same day (March 6), the Mikey JB account was actively contradicting Nick saying he was okay (they "haven't spoken in months" so there's no way Nick could know if he was alive) and saying that "people like you" i.e. his critics, "drove him to it." Not only did he ignore the panic he'd intentionally created, he actively drove it.

He saw people going emotionally through the wringer over the idea that they might have somehow caused his death, and intentionally made them keep thinking it. He say people calling his critics "murderers" for "driving him to his death," and he joined in.

Why am I explaining all of this? I want to make a couple of things extremely clear, and the context is necessary to my ultimate points, namely:

James Somerton didn't merely "credit people improperly;" he conned his followers out of more money than some people make in a year with the Telos con, while raking in thousands more per month on Patreon and buying expensive equipment, while claiming to be near insolvency and in desperate need of money.

James Somerton has never taken full responsibility for his actions or attempted to make amends. He has only ever tried to dodge responsibility, particularly by throwing Nick under the bus.

Every time he has ever been criticized, for any reason, he has lied about threats to his life to gain sympathy and quell criticism. This is a standard part of his MO. He has done this over and over and over again. At this point, I think if he says the sky is blue, someone should go out and check first before doing anything.

"But BB, what if he really is getting harassed/threatened or really is suicidal?"

So, okay: people who are attempting to manipulate you may use legitimate problems as a tool. It doesn't need to be fake to be effective - in fact, it might be more effective if it it's true. An abusive ex who says "if you leave me, I'll kill myself" and genuinely means it and actually attempts it (and possibly even succeeds!) is a lot harder to leave than someone who says the same thing but is clearly just bluffing, because the threat is real.

My rule of thumb in these cases is to treat the threat like it's real, without caving to the intended manipulation. Whether your ex is lying or telling the truth when they say, "I'll kill myself if you leave me," the appropriate response in both cases is to immediately call a mental health service or supportive family member. If it's fake, it's inconvenient for them; if it's real, you reacted appropriately. Your response needs to be the same regardless.

You don't get back together with them because it's a real threat (presumably you wouldn't do that if you knew it was fake and they were never in any danger), and you don't tell them that they're a piece of shit who should be dead (HOPEFULLY you wouldn't do that if you knew for a fact that they were telling the truth).

In this case, I am extremely confident in saying that he was coldbloodedly lying the entire time and was never once threatened, and certainly not to the degree he claimed to be. But even if he wasn't, that does not and should not change anyone's behavior in terms of holding him accountable.

And I mean actually holding him accountable: making sure he doesn't try to start a new con on new people, continuing to point out that he hasn't paid anyone back for his previous con (so long as it's still true), that sort of thing. It doesn't mean people should tell him he should go die for real or, I don't know, try to get him fired if he gets a job at Tim Horton's or Target or something else that's not fraud. That would be wrong regardless of whether he's actually in danger or not. The point is to avoid being cruel without negotiating with terrorists.

Video sources and links under the cut:

youtube

Links:

It's like Breaking Bad, but backwards: a brief history of how Somerton successfully screwed himself Dan Olson's Twitter thread about the financial fraud My Year With James: Todd's post explaining the backstory of his video (Patreon-locked) DJSO#: Dan Olson's breakdown of James' second apology (Patreon-locked) Lady Emily's Twitter threads revealing James' alt accounts, part 1 and part 2

#hbomberguy #internet drama #personal #james somerton

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777nicetits · 1 month ago

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let’s make a video for our future selfs.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ❄︎ just pure fluff. talks of having kids. established relationship. not proof read. english is not my first language.

You were laying down on the bed, wire headphones plugged in on your phone as you listened to one of the hundreds of playlists you’ve created, mindlessly scrolling through pinterest when Schlatt walks in, camcorder in hand.

“And here- Oh look, it’s mommy!”

You frown, looking up from your phone immediately in pure confusion. “Mommy?”

He chuckles. “I’m recording a video for our future kids.”

Three days ago, on Christmas, you gifted Schlatt the exact same camcorder model his parents had when he was a child, and apparently the year ending nostalgia really got to him since he’s been recording little home videos for your future selfs basically every day.

You sat up on the bed to try and look a little more presentable for your imaginary kids. You wave at the camera, “Hey kids! Mommy loves you already, even though I’m still taking birth control!”

Schlatt snorts, the little wrinkles in his eyes making a sweet appearance as the corners of his mouth moved up.

“Show them what you’re listening to!”

You turn your phone screen to the camera, the song title and album cover showing up in your lock screen.

“See, kids? Ya mama’s music taste is trash,” he teased, moving the camera up to film your face. You roll your eyes at him, a big smile plastered on your face. “Don’t end up like this, I’ll kick y’all out!”

“Sorry guys, y’all are only allowed to listen to your father’s christmas album until you’re 18.” You teased back, earning an earnest laugh from Schlatt.

“That’d be a good way to punish them, tho.”

You just laugh at him, shaking your head as you took your headphones off, moving away from the center of the bed and a little over to the left, giving your boyfriend space to lay down with you, and he did. He laid down right next to you, using your chest as pillows, turning the camera around to get you both in frame.

“Look how cute we are,” You said, pointing over to the viewfinder. “We definitely should procreate. Our genes are too good to gatekeep like that.”

It was Schlatt’s turn to laugh and shake his head at your antics. “That’s a wrap. Bye kids, love ya!”

With that, he stopped recording, carefully placing the heavy camera on his nightstand before coming back to lay next to you, pulling you into his arms, both your bodies tangled together.

“Ya know toots, hate to say it but now we really have to get married and have kids, because if one day you ever break up with me, I’m gonna kill myself and leave that video as my suicide note.”

You threw your head back, loud laugh echoing through the apartment, quickly joined by Schlatt’s low, little giggles.

omg don’t look at me!! wrote this in one go because i have two other wips that have been a huge pain in the ass for me and wanted to post something before the year ends :( hope y’all had the best holidays ever, and an even better new years 🫶🫶🫶

#jschlatt #jschlatt x reader #schlatt #schlatt x reader #jschlatt x y/n #jschlatt x you #schlatt x you #schlatt x y/n

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florencemtrash · 1 year ago

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The Ballad of the Shadowsinger

Azriel x Reader Oneshot

“Because I’m waiting for my mate to call me home.” The Shadowsinger said, “Because I’m waiting to die.”

Warnings: ANGST with a happy ending, mentions of attempted SA and suicidal ideation (they're very brief, but please do read with caution)

Author's note: I finished this at 3am last night and I think it's pretty apparent... buuuuuut I'm going to post it anyway. Enjoy...

The Shadowsinger arrived one winter night, curling into existence on the border of town like cream through coffee. Jadhan was only a boy at the time - painfully human with a broken leg that had never healed properly. The Midlands were a terrible place for a child to grow up - a place where the only thing more unstable than the ground was its sense of safety.

But things changed when the Shadowsinger arrived, bringing with him gold and the brutal violence required to scare off the bandits and murders that slipped in from the nearby Lordship. And when the Lord came for the Shadowsinger’s head, it was the fae male was the one who walked away from the fight. Except it wasn’t a fight. It was a slaughter.

Jadhan was thirty-seven now with three young boys that had come in a cluster, forcing their way into the world one after another. Sasha had never been quite pleased with him for that, but her love for her sons and her husband outweighed the pain and hardship in the end.

The boys - Mikhail, Alzhar, and Zhik - ran around the tavern, ducking beneath tables and barstools while their height still allowed it. The Shadowsinger watched them with the faintest of smiles as they clambered about, begging for more attention from his shadows.

There was little known about the Shadowsinger this deep into the Continent, but whispers still passed through the mouths of travelers at the inn. The most common piece of gossip was that he was a Prythian outlaw - banished to the Continent after attempting to kill his Lord. Jadhan didn’t know - and he figured he would never find out.

The Shadowsinger was so quiet that no one even knew his real name. They all called him Shadowsinger - Shadow for short. He disappeared into the woods at night and stalked into town come morning, but give a shout at any time and he would be there, flying overhead like a black stormcloud.

“On the house, Shadow.” Jadhan said, dropping the glass onto the sticky counter. Whisky neat, two fingers - just the way he liked it.

The Shadowsinger picked it up, swirling the amber liquid around like he hoped it would start talking to him, “You say that every night.”

“That’s because a free drink is the least I could get you.” Jadhan tipped his head towards the rickety stage where the local songbirds were setting up. The singer, Phaedra, had her eyes on Shadow, sending love and gratitude his way like a flood, “Phaedra’s been telling everyone what you did for her. You know, with the Morois boy.”

Shadow grimaced, taking his first sip. He grimaced again. The whiskey was home-brewed and tasted like it. Everyone in town said a shot of the stuff could kill a man, but Shadow was hardly a man, and more shadow than fae.

Lev Morois had had his eyes on Phaedra for a while now. And he didn’t like to be denied anything, especially women. Normally he traveled to the Lordship for his fill, and he would have been better off going there last night. Instead he’d forced his way into Phaedra’s home… and Shadow had made sure he’d never be able to hurt a woman like that ever again.

“How old are your boys now, Jadhan?” His voice was deep and smoky.

The trio neared closer, as if they knew they’d been summoned. The eldest, Mikhail, nearly crashed into the countertop, forgetting he had to bend down now. A tendril of black shadow shot out, muffling the blow and corralling him back out onto the open dancefloor with the rest of the children.

Jadhan sighed and rubbed at a burned spot on the counter, “Too old, and growing faster than weeds.”

It was a sweet pain for Azriel to see the three brothers romping around. It was almost winter and soon enough they’d be wrestling in the frosted fields, shoving snow down each other’s shirts, and hurling it at each other's heads.

When was the last time he’d seen his brothers? Cassian had stopped by twenty-five years ago, shocked and scared to see Azriel looking so wretched. The next time Azriel’s shadows had warned him, and they’d sent Cassian away.

Rhysand was a different story… he’d never forgiven Azriel for what he’d done - and rightfully so - but that didn’t make the pain any easier to swallow. That didn’t make Azriel miss them any less.

He tossed the rest back and, to Jadhan’s surprise, he let the barkeep refill it.

Again.

And again.

Phaedra’s voice crooned over the crowd, settling over drunk men and women like a warm blanket until it was time for their sober partners to drag them home. Those who were alone either settled into the hard booths for a nap or resigned themselves to a stumble home in the dark. They’d all make it to their beds in the end - The Shadowsinger would see to that.

He dropped a gold coin onto the counter - triple what the night’s libations actually cost. It was the briefest of stumbles that had Jadhan gripping onto the male’s shoulder and forcing him back into his seat.

Azriel wasn’t drunk. It would take an ocean of human liquor to get a fae drunk and then some. But he was starting to feel something.

“I got a pinch of ambrose from a merchant passing through.” Shadow’s eyes snapped up to Jadhan, who only raised his hands in surrender, “Hey, hey, hey, I know you don’t drink my whiskey for the taste, so I thought I'd put something in there to remind you of home. Something to loosen you up like liquor is supposed to.”

The Shadowsinger winced at that word: Home.

“Very well.” He said.

The boys had gone home with Sasha hours ago, and without them running about with their usual compatriots, the tavern seemed dull. Now was no longer the time for dancing and riotous laughter. Now was the time for the sad drunks and those who didn’t want to go home.

But Azriel wasn’t drunk and he desperately wanted to go home.

It was the shame that kept him rooted to the stool like a stubborn weed… that and Rhysand’s promise that if he ever laid eyes on Azriel again, he’d rip the wings off his back.

Jadhan seemed to understand that about him, leaning over the counter on sturdy arms thick as tree trunks. His leg was still lame, always had been and always would be, but that had never held him back much.

“What’re you doing here, Shadow?”

His hazel eyes flickered up.

“What’s it been? Twenty-five years you’ve been in town now?”

“Thirty. Exactly.”

So that was why the Shadowsinger had drank so much that night. It was to commemorate the sad, terrible anniversary of his banishment to the Midlands.

“Don't you think that's long enough? I don’t mean any offense, but don't you have anywhere else to go? Friends? Family?”

The male gritted his teeth and Jadhan had the sinking feeling he'd just poked the bear.

“I thought I was wanted here.”

“Of course you are. Hell, we’d all be dead or piss poor if it weren’t for you.” Jadhan shook his head, “I don’t know what you’re running from - if you’re a thief, a murderer, a treasonous bastard or all of the above-”

Shadow flinched, actually flinched, and Jadhan knew it was all of the above.

“But whatever it is,” He continued, “I think you’ve made up for it.”

Azriel stilled, shadows continuing to swirl around the wet, empty glass in front of him.

How he wished those words were true, but only a human would think thirty years was a long time. They were nothing if not optimistic.

“No. I haven’t.” Shadow said flatly. Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, until Jadhan finally sighed and went to clear the glass.

“I had a mate.” He whispered the words so quietly, Jadhan almost didn’t hear him.

His thick eyebrows disappeared into his receding hairline. He didn’t know much about fae customs and the ones he did know about were often violent, strange, or both… usually both. But he had a great deal of respect for mating bonds and understood they were prized above all else to fae.

“Had?”

Shadow’s lips flattened into a thin line and Jadhan could have sworn his eyes began to brim with years.

The Shadowsinger nodded stiffly.

“Dead?”

Shadow gritted his teeth and nodded once more, wings drooping low enough to brush against the sawdust packed floor.

Jadhan sighed so deeply he seemed to shrink into himself, and Azriel was once again struck by how quickly humans aged.

Silver streaks were already beginning to color his temples and his leg was getting stiffer and stiffer each day. It wouldn't be long until he was forced to swallow his pride and buy a cane like Sasha had been suggesting.

It seemed like just yesterday Jadhan had limped his way into the woods, calling out for the Shadowsinger with a copper coin clenched in his fist and a bargain to make.

Kill my father, and I will do anything you ask of me. Anything at all.

There had been such determination in the little boy’s body that Azriel hadn’t hesitated to fold his small fingers back over the coin and then do what he had been told… to do what he’d always been told to do.

“I’m sorry, Shadow.” He shook his graying hair, “I’m so sorry.”

Azriel grimaced, fists tightening until they turned pale, “Don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t you dare.”

He frowned, “And why not?”

The Shadowsinger stilled and got quiet again, “Because it was my fault. I killed her.”

Jadhan, for all his mortal naivete, didn’t look surprised at his answer. He only twisted his mouth to the side in thought before asking once again, "Why are you here, Shadow? Why don't you leave?"

Azriel looked at him, hazel eyes filled with despair.

He would never tell Jadhan this, but he’d always been envious of humans for one thing - they could die of old age. They could be killed easily. So easily that all it would take was one flick of Azriel's wrist and Jadhan would be no more.

Fae were not so easy to kill, and their only end was a violent one. Maybe that was why Rhys had banished him to the middle of the Continent where life was harsh but simple, and fae were nowhere to be found.

No one here was strong enough to kill him. Azriel would know - he’d spent the first five years on the Continent searching for a way to die and getting into so many bloodbaths it had lost its luster.

“Because I’m waiting for my mate to call me home.” The Shadowsinger said, “Because I’m waiting to die.”

___

There were many reasons Azriel built his house in the woods. Firstly, he liked the privacy Secondly, when the nightmares came, there was no telling the damage he could do.

Tonight’s dreams were especially violent and cruel to him.

Elain appeared before him, sweet and delicate as a dove and despite knowing better, he couldn’t help but follow her into the darkness like a fly to a carnivorous flower. It wasn’t her fault - he should have known better than to drag them both into this mess. She’d been reckless, hungry for some semblance of control in this new and strange world, and he had been all too willing to play the role of the selfless knight.

When she kissed him it felt wrong, but like every other night, he was too powerless to push away. This was how it had happened, and there was no changing that.

She whispered against his lips, “Thank you for coming for me.”

Azriel’s stomach twisted, because two people had gone on the mission into Beron’s lair, and two people had come out. Azriel had wrapped his arms around Elain’s silky body after saving her, and left you behind.

He followed Elain further, chasing her shimmering pink skirts onto the Autumn Court battlefield where she dove into the grasses and disappeared.

This was where it truly went wrong.

He caught sight of you on the hill, blood blooming like roses from where the ash arrows pierced your flesh. Your wings were gone and you leaned too far backward, still feeling their phantom weight against your back. That was what it had taken to bring you down. That was what it had taken for Beron to break you.

It was like a bolt of lightning running through his body when the bond snapped into place. Your bruised eyes shot open and you fought against the chains, horror freezing your heart.

Azriel would know, because he felt it all.

“AZ! NO!”

Beron’s ax caught the light as it came down on your neck and this wonderful thing he’d dreamt about for over five hundred years was snatched away from him.

Azriel shot up in bed, skin slick and suffocating under the blankets. He kicked them off his body, taking big, desperate gulps of air as his stomach and shadows settled down.

He rubbed his chest, feeling that hollow space where the bond used to be.

He’d had you for less than a minute… he should have had an eternity with you. You should have had an eternity with all of them.

On the day you died, Rhys and Cassian had also lost a sister. Feyre and Nesta had lost a best friend. Cassian may have been quick to forgive him, but Rhys could never. He’d already lost one sister. Nothing could have prepared him to lose you too.

Shadows swarmed around him and he already knew his powers had wrecked the roof once again. Moonlight streamed through the newly made hole in the ceiling, pooling around his shaking form. He imagined it was the Mother staring down at him with her unblinking eye. Disappointed. Angry.

The mating bond had been utterly wasted on him.

“I’m-I’m sorry, Y/n.” He gasped out, trembling. He wrapped his wings around his shaking shoulders, as if that would be enough to shield him from what he’d done.

Once again he was that little boy trapped in the cellar. Abandoned. Unloved. Alone. But this time he deserved it.

“Please. Please.” He begged. He begged for the madness to take him. He begged for an end to his eternal life.

“I want to come home.” He sobbed. “Please. I want to come home.”

You stood before him at the foot of the bed - a vision that had arrived three days after coming to the Midlands and never left. You looked at him sadly, your white dress hanging still despite the breeze that flowed through the room. But you didn’t say a word. You didn’t say anything at all.

___

Jadhan was fifty-five now. The Shadowsinger still came to the tavern every night, drank his whiskey on the house, and left once the songs were over.

Mikhail had left at eighteen, chasing after opportunities on the edge of the Continent. Zhik had died the year before - the youngest and the weakest of the trio. Not even the Shadowsinger could fight the cold that came for him in the Winter and stole him away before Spring.

Now it was Alzhar and Jadhan that ran the tavern. Alzhar who poured the Shadowsinger his drinks.

“On the house.” He said, sliding the glass along the countertop. Whiskey. Two fingers. Just how the Shadowsinger liked it.

“Thanks, Alzhar.” He raised the glass in the air before tossing it back in one shot, grimacing. Either he was getting older, or the whiskey had gotten worse.

Snow flurried past the windows, more rain than anything else.

“Happy Solstice day.” The Shadowsinger said with the faintest of smiles.

“Happy Solstice day.”

It was no grand holiday in the Midlands, and it certainly could never hold a candle to the festivities that were going on in Velaris, but still, Azriel would take whatever comfort he could get.

Phaedra had quietly retired from singing, opting to strum along with her guitar in the background. But her daughter led the band now, a vibrant star in the midst of these quiet lands with a smoky voice that was only rivaled by her mother.

“Happy Solstice day, everyone!” The tavern-goers cheered and a new generation of children shrieked from their spots closest to the stage. “Now I know it’s not looking too great outside, but we all know what dear old, Phaedra says.”

“Are you calling me old, Miss Devra?” Phaedra hollered, red painted lips turned down in a frown.

“I’m calling you a dear, Mama. You’re still as young as a rosebud in April.”

“That’s right!” Alzhar whooped. Phaedra winked and blew her future son-in-law a kiss.

Devra’s smile was positively radiant, “Alright, alright well whatever. She says daisies look brightest when they’re down in the shits, but that’s not really the most appetizing turn of phrase now is it?”

Everyone erupted in a mixture of laughter and cheer.

“Come on now, Dev.” Alzhar called out, “You’ve kept us waiting long enough. Sing!”

She rolled her eyes playfully, “Well since you asked so kindly,” She cleared her throat and began to croon,

“When my mama first warned me you’ve got trouble on your tail, I told her foxes are quick runners and my heart ain’t just for sale. I won’t be wooed by sweet flowers or sugar tea on ice, I just want someone who’ll love me and who’ll never think twice. I’ve-”

The tavern door burst open, letting in a howling blast of night-chilled air tinged with rain and frost. Everyone cringed back except Shadow, clutching at their thick coats and gasping at the sight of the being that came in from the darkness.

The female was anything but cold with her shining, warm eyes and radiant skin. She glowed like she'd been brushed with an otherworldly glimmer. She was sunlight shooting through crystal.

Dev stopped singing immediately, her hands slipping from the worn out strings with a strangled thrum.

The Shadowsinger stumbled, actually stumbled, to his feet, and the world seemed to fall silent.

Shadows shot out towards her, curling around her legs and licking the hem of her midnight blue coat. She was the moonlit darkness given form, delicate and fierce at the same time.

“Azriel.” She breathed out, finally giving a name to the nameless fae. “Azriel.” She repeated, still in disbelief.

The Shadowsinger - Azriel - walked forward without a sound, his scarred hands shaking at his sides.

She looked ready to throw her arms around him. Whether it was to embrace him or strangle him was yet to be seen.

Before she could make a move or say anything further, he dropped to his knees, head bowed and trembling. He swallowed thickly, keeping his eyes trained on the floor between her feet like he was scared to even look at her straight on.

If he had been looking at her, he would have seen the horrified shock that parted her lips and widened her eyes.

He pulled out that sleek obsidian blade he carried with him everywhere. The knife seemed to hum, the silent sound reverberating through the room and causing the air above it to warp.

Everyone knew that that knife was as much a part of him as his wings. But he held it out to her now like an offering, wings stretching open so that everyone could see the orange glow of the fire through the thin membrane, and the tendons that flowed through them like rivers.

Alzhar looked to his father in confusion. Was this some fae custom he wasn't aware of? Should they all be bowing to her? Perhaps she was their queen.

But his father only let out a slow breath, shoulders sinking down.

The Shadowsinger was the picture of reverent misery, and he would let her take whatever she wanted for her revenge.

His wings.

His life.

Anything...

Because I’m waiting for my mate to call me home.

That was what the Shadowsinger had revealed to him years ago, and Jadhan had never forgotten it.

Because I’m waiting to die.

Her beautiful face crumpled, then turned resolute. She ignored the blade, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and hauling him up to his feet. Azriel’s eyes blew open in surprise.

“You bastard. You absolute bastard.” She said, her silky voice shaking, “I’ve been looking for you for years.”

“Y/n,” Azriel whispered reverently, “I-”

She slammed her lips against his, swallowing whatever desperate apology had been about to escape his mouth.

The Shadowsinger froze, then slowly melted into her touch, wrapping his arms around her waist so tightly it was a miracle her ribs didn’t snap. Shadows swirled around the pair in a perfect mixture of light and dark - like moonlight bleeding through winter clouds.

No one in the tavern could stand to look away. They were absolutely transfixed. Some great power was moving in the world and they could feel it. Magic or not, it demanded to be felt.

When the two fae finally pulled away from each other, gasping for breath, something in the earth seemed to crack open and shake the ground, releasing pressure that had been building for hundreds and hundreds of years.

Tears slipped out of her eyes, salty and not entirely unwelcome.

“Oh, Az.” She whispered, cradling his face with one hand and clutching her chest with the other. The Shadowsinger was weeping now, curling into her like a vine seeking sunlight, “How could I have forgotten this?”

He buried his face in her neck, breathing in the scent of elderflower and mountain pine like a man starved. His shadows grew around him, thick and powerful. And before anyone could even let out a strangled gasp, they disappeared with a whisper of smoke and shadow.

You reappeared in darkness, holding Azriel’s shaking body against you like an anchor to a ship.

“I’m here, Az. I’m here.” You gently shushed him, tangling your fingers through his hair.

You scanned the room finding nothing but a rickety bed and a dresser in the corner by way of furniture, and a small pile of firewood against the wall.

Moonlight streamed in through the roof and you held out a hand, latching onto the rays and weaving them together so tightly they filled the room with a silver glow.

“Az.” You whispered, all your attention turned back on him, on your mate. "Az." You gently shook him, pressing fervent kisses to his temple until he finally lifted his eyes.

Azriel looked exhausted, purple bruises shading the hollows beneath his gorgeous eyes.

“How-” Azriel gasped, “How is this-”

“Bryaxis brought my body to the Cauldron.” You finished, equally out of breath, “It took him years to put me back together but… he did it. He did it, Az.”

Azriel closed his eyes, sinking to his knees. This time you let him fall. And you fell with him, climbing into his lap so he could bury his face in your wind-swept hair.

Home.

You smelled like home to him.

“Promise me." He begged, "Promise me you’re real, Y/n. Please, promise me. I’ll-I'll do anything." He could feel you on the other end of the bond, your heart pulsing and alive. But… he didn’t know if he'd be able to survive if he woke in the morning to find that this was all some terribly perfect dream.

“I’m here, Az. I’m here.” You replied thickly, “I’m here and I’m whole.” You tugged off your coat, throwing it somewhere behind you, and pulled down the neck of your sweater. A thick line of scar tissue wrapped around your throat, one of the many physical reminders of the horrors Beron had put you through.

Azriel stilled, one hand daring to trace the pale flesh with a feather-light touch. “I… I did this.”

“No...No.” You whispered, brushing away the moisture that had collected on his cheeks, “You didn’t do this, Az.”

“I left you behind.” His voice broke. “I took Elain and I left you behind. Y/n, I’m so sorry. Please, I’m so sorry.”

You flinched and closed your eyes. It was one of your worst memories to date - the sight of Azriel’s broken face as the first ash arrow caught you in the back and brought you to the ground. The second was what had done you in, piercing through the membrane of your wings and digging into the ground, pinning you there.

Azriel had only gripped Elain’s golden form closer to his body. He could only fly one of you out, and in that moment he had made his choice and leapt into the sky.

Azriel felt your emotion through the bond and desperation flooded his system once again.

He couldn’t lose you. Not again. Not like this. Not when he had so much to make up for.

“I know what I did, Y/n. I know it was unforgivable, but I swear to you I will do anything you ask. Whatever it takes. If you’ll just give me a chance, I- ”

“Shhhhhhh.” You shook your head, pressing your finger to his lips and silencing him. “I forgive you, Az.” You said, cupping his face.

He immediately leaned into your touch, craving the feeling of your soft skin against his.

“I don’t-I don't want to think about that anymore. Trust me, I’ve spent the last half a century agonizing over it.” You said, smiling without humor.

His hands rubbed up and down your back, tracing the ruined remnants of your wings and silently begging you to explain.

You hesitated, collecting your words and speaking them carefully, “I would have come sooner but… I was so scared and confused about everything. My body didn’t feel like mine anymore without my wings with-'' Your hand flew up to your throat on instinct.

Azriel gently pulled your fingers away, kissing the pads of your fingertips all the way to your palm, and then your wrist. His lips brushed against the pulsing vein as soft as a feather. It was such a small point of contact, but it grounded you to reality.

“I couldn’t remember anything. It was like… like I was starting from scratch. Building my life from the ground up.”

Azriel repeated the gesture with your other hand, soft lips skimming over your skin until you shivered, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” He whispered softly, “I should have been there.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should have known.”

You looked at him for a long time, drinking in the sight of him and refamiliarizing yourself with his face. He did the same with you.

He looked tired and thinner than you remembered, the elegant planes of his face now harsh and sharp. But buried beneath all those years of loneliness, he was still there - your Azriel. The male who never did anything in half-measures. The male who couldn’t help but make some of the most impulsive decisions you’d ever seen in your life, and also some of the most careful.

Gods, you’d missed him.

You'd missed talking to him and laughing with him. You'd missed the simple joy of being in his presence and the way that the world seemed to fall with hush whenever he entered a room.

“I came for you as soon as I remembered.” You brushed a strand of inky black hair from his forehead, and then flicked him. Hard. “But you just had to go and disappear on the Continent without a trace.”

That wasn’t completely true. He’d left bloody, brutal footprints for a while, but those had dried up too quickly.

The smile Azriel gave was weak and dull, but it was a start, “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Y/n.”

“That’s alright." You murmured against his lips before kissing him, "You can make it up to me.”

Azriel’s heart leapt in his chest, and the bond responded in kind, singing louder than a choir of a thousand songbirds. Even after all this time, even after everything, the Shadowsinger hoped.

“Y/n-” That light began to dim, hateful voices whispering in his ear that he was unworthy of you, that he would destroy this chance at happiness just as swiftly as he’d done the first time, that he would ruin it all, “I don’t deserve-”

“Stop it, Az.” Your words were soft but commanding, “I don’t care about what you think you deserve or don’t deserve. I want you. I want my best friend back. I want you back.” You wiped the tears from your cheeks, “I want you back in Velaris, and if it turns out I’m still pissed at you for everything, we’ll figure it out, ok?”

You took a shaky breath and Azriel looked up at you in awe. He gathered you in his arms and captured your lips in a softer, more gentle kiss. A kiss that said, I’m tired. I’m so so tired and for the first time in my life I’m going to force the voices that tell me terrible things to be silent.

And it worked for a spell, but Azriel was pulling away again, looking guilty.

“Rhys-”

“I’ve already handled Rhys.”

His brow arched up every so slightly. Your guilty eyes flitted to the side.

You loved Rhys like a brother, and you fought with him like siblings do. That was why the last thing you'd done before leaving Velaris was force him to lift the banishment... and then you'd punched him in the face.

“I wasn’t exactly happy with him when I found out he banished you to the Continent. And to the Midlands too. I’ve heard it’s terribly boring here.”

Azriel smiled, and this time it was a genuine one full of love and relief, “Everywhere is terribly boring without you. And terribly painful.”

“That’s a very good answer.” You replied, feeling that a great weight had been lifted off your chest.

He held you in a gentle caress, tracing your brow bone and the curve of your lips and committing the feeling of you to memory.

This was real. This was real. This was real.

You both folded in on each other like paper houses laid to rest, until you were tangled up on the floor. There was a perfectly functional bed not even four feet away, but even that seemed like too much effort after everything that had happened.

Azriel wrapped his wings protectively around you, settling down with his head against your chest so he could hear your heartbeat. You hummed in tired contentment, peppering his forehead with kisses as your eyelids began to droop.

“I want to go home, Azriel,” You murmured, “I want to go home with you.”

Home.

Azriel swallowed thickly, “We’ll leave tomorrow first thing in the morning. I promise.”

You opened a bleary eye, examining your mate quietly, “Do you not want to say goodbye?”

Azriel kissed your chest, right over your heart. Thirty years ago he would have said yes. He would have taken time to get his affairs in order and to make sure Jadhan and his sons, Phaedra and Devra, and the rest were taken care of. But things had changed, and he knew that no matter what, they would be alright. They would live and travel and fall in love. If they were lucky, they’d experience the joy of dying in their sleep surrounded by loved ones at the end of a long and eventful road.

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

You pressed one final kiss to his forehead, absorbing him in the warmth of your arms. Azriel sighed, hanging onto the golden thread in his chest that wrapped around his soul and bound him to you.

“They’ll be ok, my love.” You murmured.

And so will we. You whispered the promise down the bond, soft and gentle.

He closed his eyes, pressing the words I love you into your skin.

“I know.” He whispered to the night sky once your breathing had evened out, “I know.”

That night at the tavern felt like a dream - the kind that left you groggy and awestruck when you initially awoke, and then slipped away like water cupped in a child’s hands.

Everything seemed louder than before, even though the townspeople walked about in a contemplative daze. It was the forest. That’s what it was. It hummed more brightly. The blanket of power that had rested over the treetops for decades had lifted overnight.

No one spoke of the events aloud - they were too aware of the enormity of what they’d witnessed - but they all knew the truth.

The Shadowsinger had finally been called home.

___

“Quick!” Alzhar’s eldest son, Samu, called out to the twins. They hobbled over as quickly as their stout legs could carry them.

“Samu,” Niran whined, “I’m tired.”

“Papa said to be back by dark.” Rhaan reminded them all. The only trademark that separated him from his twin brother was the flash of blond through his ruddy brown hair. White-tailed deer they called him.

“I want dinner.”

“Me too.”

Samu looked over the hills where the sun was sliding down the sky like rain on a window.

“But we haven’t found the house yet!” He protested.

“We’ve been searching for days.”

“Yeah, we’ve been searching for days.” Niran parroted.

“Of course we have!” He threw his hands up in the air, “Did you really think the Shadowhouse would be easy to find?” He clicked his tongue in disappointment, shaking his head, “Go back if you’re so scared. I’ll look for it myself.”

Niran and Rhaan looked at each other, identical frowns pulling at their lips. They wanted to prove their worth, but they were still younger than Samu, and their hunger mattered more.

“We’re telling Mama you didn’t listen.”

“I want your dessert.”

“Wait, no. I want it. Can we share?”

“I’m not sharing!”

Samu smiled triumphantly and stomped further into the woods, leaving the twins to their usual bickering.

The little boy sprinted back home hours later, a gleeful kick in his step. The sky was already turned pitch black, but the Mother had sprinkled out the stars like salt to guide him home.

Devra stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips, swollen belly blocking out the roaring firelight like an eclipse.

“Where have you been?” She gasped out, grabbing Samu’s head and holding him close to her stomach. Samu loved when she did this, convinced that his newest sibling would talk to him first.

Niran and Rhaan wanted another brother to tussle with, but Samu was hoping for a sister. She could tussle with them too, he was sure.

He ignored her question, grabbing her hand and hauling her back inside, “Papa! BaBa! I found it! I found the Shadowhouse.”

Niran and Rhaan popped out from their bedroom, clambering after their older brother as he dragged their mother along.

Jadhan and Alzhar looked up with relief. Jadhan’s hair had turned white as snow in his old age and hints of gray were beginning to sprout from Alzhar’s temples.

“Papa!”

“Samu, what have we told you about staying out past-”

“The Shadowsinger left something for you and Baba.”

“What?!” Jadhan sat up straighter, grimacing at the painful twist of his leg. He motioned his grandson closer, helping him climb onto the bed.

The little boy dropped the blue-velvet bag into his outstretched hands, leaning back on his heels with rapt attention. Samu, being the boy that he was, hadn’t opened it on the whole journey over and was now buzzing to learn what secrets it held within.

Jadhan was immediately startled by the weight of the parcel.

“Open it!”

“Wait! I want to see!”

“Help me up!”

Alzhar and Devra relented, picking up the twins and leaning close. Their own curiosity was itching to be satisfied.

Jadhan opened the bag and tipped it over spilling dozens of gold coins onto the quilt. Devra gasped, her hands flying up to her mouth. Alzhar didn’t bother hiding his shock, his mouth agape.

It was more money than they’d ever seen in their lives, Jadhan didn’t concern himself with it - he hadn’t had to worry about money in a long while. Instead, he picked up the slip of paper that had also fallen out, carefully unfolding it with trembling, wrinkled fingers.

For all the drinks “on the house” and for your son, Mikhail, who traveled to the edges of the Continent and made it possible for my mate to find me and bring me home.

Scrawled on the lower edge of the paper were more words, cramped and small like they’d been jotted down as an after-thought.

Also, your whiskey is absolutely disgusting. Never let anyone else drink it.

Everyone stilled, watching Jadhan carefully.

Without warning, the old man tipped his head back and roared with laughter.

Samu leaned back in surprise. His grandfather was a naturally solemn man, and he'd never heard him laugh so loudly and so fiercely.

Alzhar reached for the slip of paper, skimming the words quickly.

"No!" He cried out in disbelief, "Stop! This can't be. Devra, look-"

One by one the adults fell into fits of roaring laughter, collapsing onto Jadhan's bed or onto the floor. Even the boys cheered - confused but happy to be part of whatever story had just finished unfolding.

Jadhan was seventy-one years old when he died, and he died laughing, surrounded by his family at the end of a long road.

Down the street in the tavern, the band was still playing the same old songs, although they were being performed by yet another generation of songbirds. But, there was one new addition to the repertoire.

A song penned by Phaedra and aptly named The Ballad of the Shadowsinger years before her quiet passing.

It was always the last song of the night. Always. And it ended like this:

Come Solstice day

Come wind or rain

Now calls the heather

The Midlands will have no reason to dismay

For the Shadowsinger has been called home again

___________

Another author's note:

I feel like I threw in so many new human characters so I made a family tree. Ha!

Also, please enjoy the small essay I wrote last night after writing this oneshot...

From last night:

Listen, some red flags are just pale orange scraps of fabric when you’re an immortal non-human being who’s been alive for hundreds of years. Don’t come for me. I’m so tired. It’s 3am. I should sleep.

Ok, note from Florence B at 3:16am because I am making CONNECTIONS. Not all of this was intentional, but maybe it was? Maybe I’m just stringing connections after the fact. Maybe I’m a genius. Probably not, but still. I’m so tired, guys. Why am I doing this right now? I should be sleeping but I can’t sleep so I’m going to do this instead.

Buckle down folks for the essay I am about to write:

I have my qualms about the ACOTAR books, as I’m sure most people do. Don’t get me wrong, they’re wonderful reads and it’s the series that got me back into reading after college, but they’re not perfect by any means.

One thing I think that gets brushed under the rug (especially given how ALL the batboys fall for girls who are literally in their late teens/mid-twenties - it’s a major red flag but we forgive because it’s fiction) is how DIFFERENTLY fae experience time. LIke, these fuckers live hundreds, if not THOUSANDS of years. The only way they die is if they get killed, like purposely poisoned or stabbed or whatever have you. I tried to write this/touch upon this when Azriel describes how he’s jealous of Jadhan for his humanity and how no matter what, Azriel is stuck potentially living an ETERNITY with the reality of what he’s done. It’s why for me - personally - all the stuff about the mate bond driving males mad or the choice that Rhysand and Feyre make to bind their lives to one another kind of makes sense. Like, if I was faced with an eternal life sentence in a world that was as brutal and cruel as the ACOTAR universe is, HECK YEAH I MIGHT BIND MY LIFE TO SOMETHING/SOMEONE I CARED ABOUT! I’M NOT DOING THIS SHIT ALONE! You’ve gotta retire from the game at SOME point.

I know I probably made things really confusing by introducing a whole host of human characters spanning several generations (re: the family tree up above), but as I previously mentioned, I thought it was important to do this to contextualize/compare the lifespan of a fae to a normal human. While Jadhan is growing up, getting a job, getting married, having kids, Azriel is still struggling with his banishment to the Midlands and his own sense of self-worth. The line about Jadhan approaching Azriel and offering him money to kill his abusive father who broke his leg was thrown in there later on around the 1am mark. And I didn’t think of it much - I just wanted a reason for Azriel to know Jadhan personally throughout his life from childhood to old age. BUT! Now that I think I’m thinking about it more, it makes sense that Azriel would be able to accept Y/n’s forgiveness so quickly. He sees a lot of himself in young Jadhan and by helping him escape his abusive father(albeit by violent means) and watching him grow up into a strong man and a good father, Azriel’s helping heal his own inner child.

The kids! Oh my goodness I love the kids so much. Once I threw the first kid into the story I thought - fuck it, we’re going to make the parallelism painfully obvious with Azriel seeing himself, Rhys, and Cassian mirrored in Mikhail, Alzhar, and Zhik. Then of course I had to bring things around full circle and give Alzhar three boys and a girl on the way (yes, Devra is pregnant with a girl and Samu is going to shower her with all the love that Rhys gave his own sister).

Finally, I’m going to address any comments about Y/n forgiving Azriel too quickly. 1) I feel like it is a universally acknowledged/unacknowledged truth that no one hates Azriel as much as he hates himself. And no punishment could ever be worse than the self-loathing he feels for himself (NOTE: people, if a partner/romantic love interest/friend/crush/whatever EVER says this kind of stuff to you, drop them like a two-ton boulder. That’s a major red flag, but once again this is a fictional man/fae so we can let it slide). 2) Once again, these fae are literally HUNDREDS OF YEARS OLD. I can only speak for myself when I say this, but I feel like if I had known and loved someone for that long, I would be willing to forgive a lot and trust that time might be able to heal deeper wounds than humans are used to. Time is precious to us humans, we can’t always afford to wait and hope for things to get better on their own, but fae can.

Are those all my thoughts? I think those are all my thoughts. It’s 3:47am now. Oh jeez. To future me: I’m so sorry if you have to read this and it’s bad and you have a coffee-fueled headache all day because I fucked things up for us.

#azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel x mate reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel angst #azriel x reader angst #ANNNNGGGSSSTTTT #angst #angst with a happy ending

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leonkennedybreedingkink · 5 months ago

Text

BUSY BOY

fuckboy!leon x fem reader

warnings: suicide jokes, some slight secondhand embarrassment, unwanted advances, drinking. lots and lots of pining. everyone left fboy leon alone but I’m still here unfortunately. title taken from busy boy by chloe x halle.

Bright sunlight filtering through the blinds of someone’s unfamiliar dorm room wakes you up, red coloring your eyelids. Oh, fuck. You hit the vodka and rum and wine coolers a little too hard last night.

God, you should just bar yourself up in your room whenever you drink. You always make bad decisions when you’re blasted.

One time, you woke up in a ditch wearing someone else’s clothes.

Another time, you got arrested for biking home blasted out of your mind because that apparently counts as drunk driving.

This is the stupidest of all the decisions you made.

Leon snores in the bed next to you, one arm extended over his head and the other across his freckled chest.

He’s kinda cute when he’s not fucking with you, pink mouth parted and bangs falling into his eyes.

Like when you guys were in the same communications-slash-effective speech class and he made a persuasive presentation on why you should go out with him as part of one of the units. You don’t know how, but he actually got a good grade on it.

Maybe that criminal justice major is a perfect fit for him.

You, however, knew better, and made sure to keep away from him. Two words: community dick. Until yesterday.

Last night flashes through your mind—

Dancing. Grinding. Bright lights. Vodka. Making out so messy spit drips down your chin. Stumbling into his dorm room. Your back hits the door, then he hauls you into his arms and throws you onto the bed. More kissing. Oral. Sex three different ways before you both pass out.

—and you groan before you can stop yourself.

He shifts next to you, his snoring stopping.

You freeze and go deathly quiet, hoping against hope that he’ll stay asleep, changing a glance backwards.

Your prayers are answered because he goes right back to sawing logs, nearly crowding you out of bed because he starfishes when he sleeps. Fuckin’ figures. You know he’s not a selfish lover, but he’s gotta make up for it in other ways.

Fuck.

You gather up your clothes—all except your underwear, you couldn’t find that without turning his room upside down and waking him up.

Whatever, going commando’s better for you or some other hippie bullshit your mom texts you about.

You manage to make it out of his dorm without waking him up and hightail it to your own a couple minutes away, exchanging your clothes after a quick shower and brushing your teeth.

On your way to class—that you have with him somehow—you snag an energy drink and down half of it in the three minute walk to your class.

You look like you got dragged backward through a row of hedges, but at least you’re on time.

Leon, king of hearts, shows up five minutes late with a wave to the professor and parks his happy hungover ass on the other side of the room from you.

Good, you were hoping this would be one and done.

Class ends after an hour and you grab your things, getting up to flee before he has a chance to talk to you.

It’s too late, he’d already sauntered up to you while you were putting your notes away.

“Think you forgot something.” Leon says nonchalantly, then digs into his pocket and dangles your underwear from a finger, tongue poked between his teeth with a smile.

You might just hit him. You’re gonna knock his ass out and go to jail.

You snag the underwear from him with a scowl and he huffs a laugh, tucking his hands back into his sweatpant pockets as you shove your underwear into your own pockets.

Never mind, you might have to find a hole and crawl in it and never come out. Actually, campus has a pond that you could reasonably try to drown in like some sort of dark academia aesthetic post that’s a little too on the nose. But it seems like it’d be painful and take a long while.

You stomp out of the classroom and don’t look anyone in the eye, stopping to refill your water bottle and to find a corner to catch up on your work in, trying to put your embarrassing hookup out of your mind.

You fucking feel like everyone’s eyes are on you. Logically, you know they’re not. You know that they’re not and that people are too damn busy to stare at you.

You groan, rubbing your eyes after throwing down your pencil on your work.

Leon slides into the seat next to you. “Been avoiding me?” He asks, muscled arm sneaking over the back of your chair.

“We only had one class together.” You reply measuredly, a headache building in your temples and pressure behind your eyes.

“Two, since we count the speech class.” He replies easily, setting the back of his knee on the opposite foot.

“You’re such a fucking lawyer.” You mutter, picking up your homework pointedly. There’s no point, you’re no good at math, but hopefully, it irritates him that your attention isn’t on him.

Leon gives you a catlike smile, head tilting to the side. “That’s what I pay tuition for. I’d say it serves me well, since I got that A in the persuasive speech about why you should go out with me.”

Your eyes roll to the ceiling, an annoyed and unamused look on your face. “What the hell do you want?”

“To fuck you again.”

You actually look around when he says that, your face heating up. It’s ten in the morning, mind you. Thankfully, nobody gives a shit. His laugh catches your attention and you glare at him.

“Jesus. You’re acting like it’s such a big thing.” Leon rubs the back of his neck, then looks around disinterestedly. Since when has he had that tattoo of a lion? That’s a little on the nose.

“Shut the fuck up.”

He kisses his teeth, unable to fight a grin. “Harsh words.” He remains grinning when you smack him on the arm. “Ouch, that really hurt. Can you kiss it better?”

“Ew.” You enunciate each syllable in the word, brows raising as you lean slightly forward for emphasis.

That grin of his is implacable. Unstoppable force (your irritation) meets immovable object (his smile).

“You know you want me.”

Scratch that. Unstoppable force (your irritation) meets immovable object (his self-confidence).

When you only stare at him, Leon leans forward, pushing hair behind your ear, a far softer look in his eye than you’ve seen on him before.

Any stomach fluttering you may have felt is immediately undone by him smirking at you, that smug perma-smile on his face again. “I knew it.”

“No, you fucking didn’t.” You reply incredulously, that same feeling written all over your face. Your face heats all the way up, rivaling the sun itself, compounding your embarrassment.

“Mm-mm.” He pokes your cheek, leaning back in his seat, one corded forearm settling on the shared armchair.

He needs his ass beat, preferably by someone bigger than both of you so you can have the satisfaction of seeing him black and blue.

You get your wish a few days afterward, watching him waltz into class with a bruise on his cheek and split knuckles. This time, you walk up to him afterward. “You look like someone dragged you backward through a bush.” You say bluntly, sipping your coffee.

Leon smiles, pulling his bag over his shoulder and stepping away from the desk. “You’re a ray of sunshine this early in the morning.”

You take a step back so he can get out of the row. “Just saying. What’d you do?”

He shrugs blithely, pushing a hand into his pocket. “Barfight.”

Your eyebrow twitches up. “You lost?”

His head tilts to the side, a sly smile pulling at his mouth as he blatantly stares at your mouth. “You should see the other guy.”

Jesus Christ. Yeah, okay, now you kinda see why he pulls as many bitches as he does.

He steps a little closer. “Were you worried about me?”

Other kids filter into the classroom, so you walk away. This time, Leon follows you. “Remind me why you don’t want us to hook up again?” He says casually, grinning when you scowl at him.

You roll your eyes. “Because I don’t.”

“Disappointed?” He asks innocently, following you into the library building.

“No.” You say quickly, then scowl. “Yes.” Trick question, either way he’s going to try and argue that into his favor. Fucking lawyers.

He hisses through his teeth, that implacable grin on his face again. “Ouch. How can I make it up to you?”

“By leaving me alone.”

He pouts at you and you almost laugh. That’s probably what he wants, he wants you to laugh so he can worm his way into your good graces. He’s not a bad looking guy—and probably not so bad a guy—you just think he’s a hoe. Good for him, but he’s not for you.

He shrugs after staring at you for a bit, then walks away, whistling tunelessly.

That’s it?

That was not fucking it.

Since your little mishap with Leon, you’ve made it your mission to go for a party once every business month.

You had a good streak of not seeing him until you went to his frat. You figured, ‘Hey, what are the odds? The place will be packed. Needle in a haystack odds of seeing him.’

No such luck. He’s going shot for shot with a brother of his, face pleasantly flushed and blond hair tousled, an impish grin across his face and dimples out in full force.

You immediately turn the other way to avoid him, wandering back to your friends and dancing with them, going back in for shots whenever your drinks are too low.

What happens next is about Shakespearean levels of drama. The beginning scene is this: your friend has a guy grinding on her even though she’s told him to stop and is currently trying to get the hell away from him, you and your other mutual friend trying to bodily block him.

He calls her a stupid, ungrateful bitch, trying to step up to her as if he doesn’t have a head and at least thirty pounds on her.

She calls him a cunt and that makes everything worse.

“Bro.” Leon says, tapping his brother on the shoulder from the side. “Leave her alone, man,” He hiccups mid-sentence, turning his head away and hiccuping into the back of his hand. “she said no.”

Said brother slaps Leon’s hand away, a sneer on his face. “Fuck off, Leon.”

Leon shrugs and seems like he’s about to walk away until he bodily blocks the brother from your friend when he tries to step up again. “Dude, leave her alone. Go find some other girl.” He sounds a little like he’s sobering up.

The brother shoves Leon away, sending him back a step. Leon responds by clocking him in the jaw and knocking his ass to the floor, shaking out his hand and jumping headfirst into the scuffle less than a second later.

They break apart in about five minutes, Leon sporting a bloody lip and a butterfly bruise on his jaw and the brother with a lot more wear and tear.

Leon keeps himself between the brother and your cluster of girls until the brother spits at his feet and storms off to lick his wounds.

“Are you fucking stupid?” you ask immediately, silently amazed that he’s not more hurt. You saw the other guy he got in a bar fight with about a month ago and he looked like he lost a fight with a deer, so you should maybe not be so surprised.

He chuckles, wiping a streak of blood from his lip on the meaty side of his thumb. “I’m drunk.”

You look at him as if he grew two heads. “Yeah?” Obviously, you mean.

You never would’ve taken him for a bloodthirsty son of a bitch. He just seems so unassuming, frat boy antics aside. Maybe that’s his cover. Maybe all his criminal justice classes taught him how to be a better criminal.

The fight somehow didn’t sour the night, everyone as they were once Leon’s frat brother walks away to cool off, bass shaking the floor.

When Leon goes to the kitchen, you follow him and stop him from taking a swig of gin straight from the bottle and using it as antiseptic.

When you look around, you realize there’s no rubbing alcohol or peroxide or anything. That’s what you get for assuming the best in a group of men brought together by binge drinking and pack behavior.

Leon smirks at you, then takes a swig of straight gin, making sure to get his split lip soaked in it and grimacing when he’s done. “Damn.” He swipes his tongue over his lower lip and watches you pretend like you weren’t watching him.

“That’s the least of what you get.” You grumble, turning his face this way and that to assess the damage.

“It’s cute that you’re worried for me.” He licks a little blood off his teeth and takes another swig of gin.

“What if you get arrested? What happens then?” You prod at a bruise to see him wince. “Does it look good for a prospective law enforcer to be dinged with a drunk and disorderly?”

“A few d’n’ds aren’t enough to get me kicked from the program.” He muses, rubbing at the furrow between your brows with his thumb. “I think it’ll make me more relatable, personally.”

“So you’re going to be a defense attorney.”

That pulls a genuine laugh from him, surprisingly.

Maybe the vodka you’ve had is making you feel a little too warm. You take one step back.

“Thanks for stepping in.” You say after a stilted moment, looking around the rather unpopulated kitchen.

“That guy��s an asshole.” He sounds a little tipsy again, blame the gin and lack of rubbing alcohol. “Nobody—nobody wants him around, he’s such a little bitch.”

You watch amusedly as he gestures a little as he talks, one hand cutting through the air. “It’s like, the third time he’s done that, I’m gonna—g’na talk to the president to… about kicking his sorry ass out. You can’t do that to girls, man, it’s not cool.”

“What if he tries to jump you?” You lean a hip against the counter, folding your arms over your chest and watching his eyes wander. Damn, you were right to peg him for a spring coloring, that alcohol blush makes his eyes pop.

Leon laughs, taking another swig of gin. “He can try.”

This time, Leon wakes up before you do, morning sun in his eyes this time around. He rolls over, pressing his face against the back of your neck and snaking a corded forearm around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

He hopes you stay this time, you’re not so bad when you’re pretending like you’re immune to his charms.

#leon kennedy x reader #mine #leon kennedy x you #resident evil #leon s kennedy x reader #editor’s choice

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hitlikehammers · 7 days ago

Text

strongly worded letter 💌

or: Eddie Munson’s long, weird road out of (the) hell(-side down) ��️ and into love💗

rating: t ♥️ tags: post-S4, steve’s one-man search-and-rescue for eddie’s not-dead body, falling in love, fluff in surprising places, eddie’s chaotic internal monologue, alphabet magnets🧲 for the win ♥️

for @steddielovemonth day four: "I had not intended to love him. [...] He made me love him without looking at me." —Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte

To the external, uninitiated observer, Eddie is well aware his take on all of this will 100% appear both unhinged and as least vaguely self-destructive, bordering on suicidal.

But here’s the thing: if Eddie had been truly suicidal, the million times he could have just stood and let the mobs take him—bigots or mutant bats or a lichy-ballsac that made people float—he wouldn’t have even bothered fighting. Maybe he was questionably attached to self-preservation, but actively wanting to pack it in? Even the thought of sparing his poor uncle his bullshit—finally—hadn’t been a sweet enough deal. Nope: Eddie is selfishly attached to the whole living thing.

Which is why he is begging for it to be understood, in no uncertain terms:

He’d rather know for sure that he was dead in the endless, silent grey hellscape he’s been left in, than wandering in this half-formless, half-collapsing nothing-burger version of the town he grudgingly called home, unsure where he stands on the mortality-scale either way.

—

Here’s the deal.

Vents? Foolishly overlooked.

Epic concert? Rocked, no notes.

Bat-chow? Do no recommend.

Henderson sobbing? Recommend even less.

Being tagged as a corpse? Perfectly fine if that’s what you are; dead weight in an apocalypse simply cannot be justified.

The issue is when you’re tagged as a corpse, and you…aren’t one.

So you’re left behind.

Which brings Eddie to:

Meeting what they’ve been calling a demogorgon this whole time but that resembles no such thing, those goddamn lying liars: not fucking cool.

Having…enough demobat saliva or venom or poison or whatever, probably, where the misleading-as-fuck demogorgon sniffs at you like a dog with her puppies instead of eating you with those fucking petal teeth?

Neutral. Probably wouldn’t order it again.

Getting licked all over by said Petal Teeth, all lioness-grooming-its-young style? Disgusting.

Disgusting.

Figuring out demogorgon saliva has some kinda magical mystical healing properties and you’re basically just covered in fairly-smooth scar tissue now that looks months old rather than hours, and plus you got a bath out of it so most of the dried blood’s gone too?

Fine, okay, he’d leave a tip for service.

But now Eddie is as alive as he can think to test being—and he’s been running all the monster-category tests and he doesn’t pass for vampire, zombie, or any various other undead creatures, he’s hungry but mostly for like, Chicken McNuggets, and—

Stuck. He’s stuck here.

And he thinks they must have won, the Party that is, because nothing’s really happening except…things are falling apart, like rotting in slow motion.

Which is a concern. But. Cool, if it means they did in fact make the motherfucker pay.

But that also means nobody has any reason to be strolling back in to fight demons anymore, and come across his not-so-dead ass. Plus also, the place is probably going to keep crumbling—if a master of a realm is axed, the realm doesn’t typically survive. Mordor fell apparent when Barad-dûr came down. And he…

He did agree to go into Mordor.

Well, fuck him.

—

He mostly wanders around and pokes at random shit, collects some books, ignores the fact that the reality he’s looting is on borrowed time.

He doesn’t know if it’s healthier to deal with that part head on or keep pretending it’s not there, but he honestly could not give a fuck.

Because it’s just him. Save the demogorgon who gave him a tongue bath, he’s seen nothing living. Sometimes there’s a stray screech but it’s too distant to even guess where he’d find whatever made it, stumble upon whatever caused it. There’s not even a breeze to move the decaying trees.

There is nothing.

And it’s starting to drive him fucking insane. He might lose it before the reality caves in on him, actually, just for the sheer…void of it all.

He’s on the edge of that—losing it entirely—when he hears it, sees it.

Who the fuck took that magazine, it’s like three years old, only kept it for the tips on…

And then an echo, like a projection in the air, and it’s fleeting and its faint but where that voice what pretty unmistakable already, the coif of chestnut and the peek of a polo collar, and the seizing in Eddie pulse for both together—it’s almost more undeniable.

That’s fucking Harrington.

—

The vision is, seconds. At most.

But it shifts Eddie’s priorities entirely.

He starts the day—he’s guessing it’s the start of the day, it’s always fucking grey here but he’s just going off of when he’s hungry so—but he looks for cereal in one of these decrepit houses and eats it out of the box as he tries to get his bearings.

Tries also to remember all the weird shit the kids used to say before Eddie knew they were making any of it up.

Context clues give him that this is Hawkins. 1983 or thereabouts—makes sense for the magazine.

But what makes more sense, and is more helpful: Steve had bitched the magazine was moved.

And Eddie’s definitely the one who had it in his hand when he heard said bitching.

So there’s still some connection. Hope’s not totally lost.

Mostly, maybe. But not totally.

—

He decides to go back to Harrington’s and just wait until he goes there to sleep so he can tail him, have some sense of how he can try and make contact from his own side, let someone know he’s still here.

It takes forever; Eddie wonders just how different time runs, here, save that when he finally hears something, the vision is clearer in the air, ghostly but more complete.

And Steve looks fucking wrecked.

Like he hasn’t slept in days, like he’s about to fucking cry, like he—

He’s still the most beautiful guy Eddie’s seen in person, if this counts as in-person, but like—that was never not-true.

“Rob, I don’t know! I just, I just feel like—“

“I will handcuff you to your bed.”

Eddie tries to feel excited that whatever’s happening is strong enough that two voices come through, that Robin’s here, she’s safe too—

But he’s more invested in what’s causing the shouting.

”I know how to pick a fucking lock, Jesus,” and Eddie doesn’t not think about the lock he’s worn more than once around Steve at his belt, nope, he does not—

”The gates are closed, Steve. It’s over.”

Well. Fuck.

There goes the hope thing.

”Not all of them. Not totally.”

Or maybe not.

”Steve, I will hunt you down, I will dog your steps, I will follow you every single moment if you think I am leaving big you even consider going back to—”

“I love you, Robs, but you still can’t drive. Think you’ll beat me on your Schwinn?”

“I will slash your tires.”

“Sorry, birdie, got AAA to save me.”

And that’s all Eddie gets, but…

It almost feels like he’s got one single snowball’s chance in hell, here. Still. Just one, true, but.

If he’s learned anything the last few days, it’s that Steve Harrington’s maybe the most reliable snowball he could ask for.

His chest is all tingly about it, even—fucking traitor.

—

Eddie doesn’t even really have to follow where Steve goes next. In that he knows exactly where it is, just not why the fuck Steve wants to be there.

Especially since even the lack of evidence in ‘83’s version of the trailer still makes him look up at the ceiling and feel like he’s gonna puke.

”Oh sure Mister Munson sir, I just want to borrow your dead nephew’s cassettes, that are definitely in the trailer the fed have locked down to be sent to Area 51 or wherever, just in case he’s not entirelydead in another dimension, and he can hear me because I’m definitely not losing my fucking mind, and definitely not because being called ‘Big Boy’ didn’t fuck with my head more than mutant bats ever did…”

Steve’s frankly endearing muttering, and that last bit especially, distract Eddie enough from the fact that Steve is actively rummaging through his room.

Through his room, Jesus, Eddie moves because he even clocks that lunging at Steve here won’t do shit there to stop the questionable literature Steve’s already sifting through.

At least Steve can’t see him blush across planes of existence. Hopefully.

“Oh,” and Steve sounds shocked, but then looks…gutted?

”One more for the ‘you suck’ column,” and Eddie decides right then that he fucking does not approve of that tone, at all; ”not like I had a chance, definitely not his type…”

“But my type’s the paladin who protects everyone and needs a faithful bard to tend his wound and keep his bed!” Eddie blurts out into the nothing on his side of the divide.

“My type’s been you since fucking junior year!”

Because Junior-Eddie was admittedly much more lust-driven. Let that be said.

Now-Eddie’s equally if not more invested in the heart of a man.

And Steve Harrington, even remotely thinking that he isn’t Eddie’s type?

Maybe Eddie really is dead. And this is hell.

—

”Why do I need them?”

Eddie’s got a new box of cereal—Kix, could definitely be better—and has now trailed Steve to what looks like…the edge of town, which, who lives there…

”Nah, kid, nothing bad. Just want to see something. Promise.”

One of the kids. Maybe this is where the Byerses are, now, if they were right and they’d been on their way back? Because Eddie knows where the rest of them live, and this ain’t it.

Theresa are footsteps in one direction, and Steve wanders in the other, where Eddie sees a girl with a buzz cut he doesn’t know, but who stares Steve down in a way that…Eddie can kinda guess.

They’d all alluded to the super powered kiddo more than once.

”Can you look? Like, just to see if he’s—”

Eddie’s neck turns fast when he turns back in to the conversation, less for the words and more for how timid, how cowed Steve sounds and he…

Eddie just wants, more than anything really, to be able to reach out and touch. To comfort. To do…

Something.

”…would not feel him even if he was there. The connection is gone. The Upside Down is dead.”

And Steve deflates, and Eddie…Eddie remembers the lights didn’t they have to be emotionally unstable, kinda, to make the lights flicker, to let someone know they’re there, and Eddie’s definitely there because—

Not fucking all of it, not yet, Eddie wants to scream; or maybe yes all of it but I’m still fucking here.

Also: that man is 100% my type and I want a fucking shot, I want my snowball’s chance in hell, I want to bite him and call him sweetheart like I mean it and I want, I want, I want—

Also that.

Steve leaves with some…fucking magnets.

And the lights didn’t do jack shit.

—

Eddie spends most of that night playing with magnets.

Well, not at first.

First, he tries yelling, sobbing, focusing like a Force-user, really anything he could think of to get Steve’s lights to flicker. No such luck.

So then Eddie makes a side quest, after having dutifully made certain not to leave Steve’s side for…however many days.

He pops to Melvald’s because of anyone’s got kiddie alphabet magnets, it’s gotta be them.

And score. Definitely not the worst thing Eddie’s stolen. Plus this place is on the way out. Not really relevant, here, if he cared.

Which he fervently does not.

And proves by grabbing two fifths of tequila on the way out. Hah.

He finds Steve passed out on top of his comforter, plaid monstrosity that it is, and he tries very hard to brush his hair back—nothing.

And then Eddie…somehow that’s the straw that breaks the pack-mule’s back. Something in him just fucking snaps.

Because he distinctly remembers this whole fiasco being tied to the labs owned by the fucking Department of Energy, right?

And they can’t even keep the electrical connection between dimensions working?

That’s…that’s unacceptable.

He’s gonna…he’s gonna file a fucking complaint. He’s gonna show up at a picket line. He’s gonna write a strongly worded letter. He’s…

Actually, he’s got all night if the way Steve’s sprawled says anything for how long he’s gonna stay conked out. And he’s also got these handy alphabet magnets.

Letter it is.

—

”What the fuck?”

d3ar 3nergy d3pt he4d i ju5+ wan+ed to te11 th15 guy i w4n+ t0 b1+3 him but n00 y0u c4nt e73n d0 +h4t i h8 u

Eddie trips over some empty bottles, the answer of how they got there pounding in his head real quick—oh, hey, hangovers do transcend dimensions, seems suspicious—but yeah, okay, he does remember getting creative with the abundance of math magnets in the poorly-labeled alphabet pack last night, misleading to lead on letters by default on the packaging. He does recall being very convinced a sideways ‘7’ was a passable ‘V’. But.

He’s not looking at his side of things. He’s looking at Steve’s.

And so is Steve.

And then Steve—who Eddie wants to bite but also kiss and maybe just hold in his arms chest to chest to feel his warmth because when his control broke last night it conveniently knocked him upside the head with the clear realization of that fact that Steve Harrington?

Is doing all this shit for him. On the hope of a maybe.

And Steve Harrington had been disappointed not to have found his lookalike in Eddie’s porn rags.

And Eddie wrote a letter to the fucking DoE in magnets about it, and Steve can see it, stuck to his fridge in 1986 as clear as Eddie slapped it there in 1983.

”…Eddie?”

Steve’s voice is so small and so fearful to be wrong. His chest is heaving, he’s scared.

Eddie scrambles for the magnets left on the floor and smacks them violently to the refrigerator door in record time, prays to everything he doesn’t believe in that Steve can feel his relief spelled out in the bulky primary colors:

h3y 61g b0y v3

And goddamnit, when Steve falls to the floor with his jaw dropped loose, Eddie is 100% sold:

A ‘V’ turned on its side absolutely makes the bottom half of a heart for the three to butt-up to.

—

“Got these to play so if you were there, and couldhear me, you could find your way, if,” and Steve, Steve has been talking to Eddie since they both woke up and found those magnets, even if they haven’t been able to replicate anything, not the letter nor the faulty lighting trick Eddie’d complains about on the fridge in the first place: it could just be a fluke. Steve has no reason to believe Eddie’s alive, that Eddie did that, that Steve didn’t sleepwalk into sleep-spelling, that Eddie even alive in some form would be following his every move.

Of course he is, but. Steve can’t know.

It’s all on faith. For Eddie.

And fuck is Eddie’s heart doesn’t go playing ping pong with his ribs for how much it hits him, how wide and warm it swells in his chest like hope, only second to affection, to want, to—

“Vecna’s not gone, but he’s like, one step from it. I don’t know he can get you but,” Steve taps to the Walkman, to the headphone he gets on just one ear so he can hear and also so someone else—so Eddie—can hear Megadeath as Steve bustles around his house, packing a duffle that reminds Eddie of when they were peeping to storm the castle—

That’s what Steve’s doing. That, that’s what Steve is doing right now.

“I just,” Steve heaves a deep breath, hands on his hips before one pinches between his eyes; “I felt like you were still there, I can’t explain it,” and Eddie’s shaken to his core right now in the best possible way so when he blurts out in a croon:

“Power of loooove, Stevie!”

He can’t be blamed for that. He can’t. He’s…

This man is going down into hell, has not grantee of what Eddie knows in it being largely innocuous, now, save…undead Vecna lurking somewhere, so weak he’s not even noticed.

“But we know music works though, so.”

Steve’s still narrating his plan; Eddie is just staring. Wants to…wants so fucking bad to touch.

“We have to wait for night, for me to get down there. They’re shitty with security on the graveyard shift.” Then Steve’s smirking, and fuck, he’s so pretty.

”Plus Robin sleeps like the dead, she won’t have a chance to notice what I’m doing even on the off chance word got out.”

And the fact that Steve is willing to defy his own platonic soulmate for Eddie—barely knows him in terms of days and hours but at least, if it’s the same as Eddie’s realising more and more that he feels, and unshakable too: it’s like his soul knows Steve, and that cannot care a lick for how time runs, it’s bigger than that.

There’s too much of a sense of potential, a crackling possibility just being in his proximity, even with the distance of other goddamn dimensions—there’s too much swirling in Eddie already for it to mean nothing.

Plus, like: flip the script. Steve is risking everything on a whim, for him.

It cannot be nothing.

“I’m hoping you’re where we left you, which,” and Steve’s voice catches, he pauses, looks around like he’s hoping Eddie might pop into the visible spectrum, so he can see and know, but then he just looks up at the ceiling like—oh, fuck, like it’ll make sure no tears fall out and:

“I can’t fucking tell you how sorry—“ Steve starts to say be Eddie can’t bear watching like this, strides over in an instant and grabs Steve’s hand.

And Steve stills.

And Eddie can feel his pulse in his wrist.

“Is that you?” Steve barely breathes, stares now at his arm where…Eddie can only see the kind of glimmering overlap that means two things are happening in the same place on different planes, he’s grown used to that. But.

If Steve can feel him, if there are moments here that are probably limited where Eddie can prove some little tiny bit that he’s here and he’s listen and he’s with Steve—

He pulls Steve’s hand and drags him into the kind of full body hug he’s been aching for for…fuck.

Too fucking long.

“Eddie,” Steve sighs out, and Eddie can’t help himself. He runs hands through Steve’s hair, and holy fuck: Steve leans in.

Steve feels it enough to lean in.

“It feels like I’ve been falling for a ghost, man.”

Steve says it on a whisper, like he’s still not sold entirely, or else maybe afraid to break a spell. Eddie gets that second part.

“But I guess it kinda started before that, so maybe it’s not as fucking crazy,” Steve laughs a little wet with it and…Eddie has to, because what if he never gets another chance, and hell—if he does, how can he deprive them both the chance to know whatever the sensation will be, like this?

Eddie’s not up to risk never knowing what a cross-dimensional lip lock feels like, okay?

So he doesn’t.

“Please don’t be a ghost,” Steve breathes out and fuck, Eddie can’t taste it but he can feel the way the air moves and it’s, it is; ”I think if you are, I’ll live the rest of my life trying to make it work anyway, I,” and Steve doesn’t get to finish because Eddie pushes in again, and Steve’s as good as his reputation and then some, on wholly separate planes of being.

Eddie cannot fucking wait to feel it flesh to flesh.

“I fall fast, man, but this is kinda insane,” Steve pants, arms out awkward with any indication where to hold. He’s adorable.

He’s delectable.

“But you did say you wanted to bite me, assuming you were talking about me,” Steve smirks but then his eyes go wide:

“Oh, shit, are you a vampire?”

And Eddie has no idea how long he’s been down here alone, surrounding by the silence and the darkness and just the projection level overlay of Steve when he’s lucky, but Jesus H. Christ—

“Is that you laughing?” Steve chokes on his own kinda-giggle as he braces against an unseen and unseeable force barrelling into him: of course it’s Eddie.

Of course he’s fucking cackling.

Because however long it’s been, he definitely hasn’t laughed at any point at all in that span of time—and fuck if he didn’t need it.

—

Steve slips down the last burbling gate not without effort, not without lava-hot road rash no doubt fucking with his already not-yet-healed stomach.

When he’s tackled, thrown straight to the ground, weight pinning him to the ground that’s more dry, more deadened than Steve remembers from just days ago: when his back hits the ground—none of it matters.

“It was me laughing.”

And then Eddie’s mouth is on his—it’s the echo he was afraid he’d imagined that morning, just like the hand on his wrist, just like the laughter wrapped around him.

“You’re an even better kisser in person, holy shit, even your fucking glowing reputation shortchanged you.”

And Steve’s kinda breathless, not just for getting smooshed to the dirt; but then Eddie’s kissing him again, and breathing seems really kind low on Steve’s list of giving a shit.

“You are so my type it’s not even funny,” Eddie says, before diving back into kiss with a bruising kind of force, an unmistakable kind of intent; “I think my type has fully migrated to include kinda just you.”

And Steve’s heartbeat kinda stutters at that because…that’s new.

No one’s ever…well.

It’s just new.

“You weren’t wrong to leave me behind, you don’t ever have to apologize,” and then he’s kissing along Steve’s jaw, and it’s Steve’s laughter now, the tickle of dirty curls dragging at his stubble; “you got out, you’re safe, you’re here,” and Eddie sounds almost overcome with feeling, with relief, and then in the end, bubbling with joy. And somehow Steve can tell it’s not because Steve’s here to save him, bring him home.

It’s just because Steve’s here and that, that is—

Steve’s heartbeat’s just gonna do that tripping thing for the foreseeable future he thinks, at this point. Probably.

“I was trying to convince myself otherwise, because I didn’t think there could ever be a shot in hell but I was falling before it all fell apart, too,” Eddie says in a rush, leaning again to kiss the corners of Steve’s lips, like talking is just an inconvenient interruption to better ways of using his mouth and given how goddamn much Eddie Munson’s always talked, that fucking says something:

“And ever since, it’s felt like I was falling in love through a movie screen,” and he cups Steve’s face to angle it just so as he breathes, those eyes endless and glistening; “could see but never reach, until,” and then he’s kissing him straight on the lips again, a full-frontal assault, tongue seeking teeth, looking for the depths of his goddamn soul of something.

Steve isn’t even embarrassed for how he arches up, how he fucking moans. No one could ever feel this and do anything less.

Like: fucking impossible.

“I liked your letter to the editor,” Steve gasps when Eddie breaks apart and concedes to needing air, presses kisses up and down Steve’s throat while he regroups.

“Oh, shit,” Eddie’s face pops back up—dirt smears and ruddy and in need of a shower but on the whole in way better shape than Steve last remembers having to walk away from, and fuck, fuck—he’s never walking away from it again; “can we send that to the Post? No edits, I want my numbers intact, let them try to figure it out like Zodiac.”

Steve snorts, because god he really is half in love with this nerd, and he’s not a ghost, he’s sold and his chest is heaving into Steve’s and he’s grinning wills and he’s here and they’re here and this is realand—

He yells when the sting clamps through his much-less-extensive uniform of his Members Only jacket despite the weather—it’s freezing, but like, the gates were just cracks, he had to move like a ninja!

Just not a bite-proof ninja, apparently.

“You know, I should have expected that,” Steve deadpans, but his smile gives him away as Eddie pulls his mouth back from the stretch of Steve’s neck that runs to his shoulder, where honestly Steve thinks Eddie punctured the coat in the process. Fucking feral gremlin.

Steve really wants to keep him. Like, indefinitely.

“You really, really should have,” Eddie agrees, beaming like the sun when there’s only dark around them, making it all feel so warm in the chill.

“Honestly should have expect nothing less,” Eddie’s smile curls a little dangerous as he leans in again, apparently satisfied with having caught his breath enough as he mouths wet against Steve’s lips:

“Big boy.”

And then, again: he pounces.

♥️

also on ao3💫

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

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pippin-katz · 10 months ago

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The Awardist - Nicholas Galitzine & Taylor Zakhar Perez

I have to write down the best bits and record my thoughts while listening to this because I am completely losing my mind over what is our first real interview with the boys that was recorded in real time.

27:55 - right off the bat we got a great inside joke/reference from the host that had me cackle

28:19 - taylor being happy to see their faces and nicholas immediately shutting him down like "well i'm not happy to see taylor's face"

28:40 - taylor joking about putting a post-in note over nick's face lmfao

29:30 - the way they don't want to talk over each other, it's giving alex's bedroom flashbacks

29:40 - nick being like "oh! oh, it's good!" when dipping into the online response when the movie released lmfao 😆

30:33 - the silence following the social media question where they were apparently nodding followed by taylor saying they were texting each other like "mate" "mate" back and forth

31:20 - THEY TALKED ABOUT THE SIGNING WARS

31:44 - nicholas calling taylor "this little fucker" had me dying cause me and @meraki-yao were literally referring to him as that in our conversation on ig yesterday

32:00 - nicholas genuinely asking taylor "what possessed you to do this?"; it's giving storage closet in the children's hospital vibes when henry's like "why do you dislike me?"

33:04 - "take it nick" immediately upon being asked the dense question regarding fans reacting to their portrayals of henry and alex, and the way that nicholas laughs and stutters makes me think that taylor totally did that on purpose to mess with him lmfao

34:00 - taylor stopping to talk to fans regardless of where he is or where he's going and specfically mentioning how meaningful it was that people have said *TW* they were contemplating suicide when they read the book/watched the movie and that it helped them 🥺

35:40 - the host referred to the film as "a coming out story", which i don't really agree with as a label because the coming out portion is an added piece of their relationship as two public figures, but their love is the actual story

36:40 - nicholas referring to the film as "wholesome and funny" made me smile so much because it truly is wholesome

37:18 - not the host making the "top to bottom" joke 😭

37:58 - nicholas and taylor have talked about their friendship with each other and how they instantly clicked; nick knew within a few minutes of rehearsal that taylor was "his buddy" 🥺

38:41 - catch me squaring up with everyone who has made nicholas self conscious and self deprecating about doing so much intimacy work on the screen that he refers to it as "basically his thing" like that's all he's recognized for; i am so ready to punch some motherfuckers 😡

39:10 - "it's so fun now, seeing my mate at all these awards and stuff"; catch me fucking crying

39:24 - not taylor misremembering the "nicholas or joey" question as "who was the better kisser"; he totally combined the "is nicholas a good kisser" question with the "who has your heart tonight" question

40:05 - taylor talking about matthew's background in theatre and how they got to actually rehearse with each other; i will never stop being insanely grateful that matthew is a theatre guy

40:55 - the way i said "oh my god" out loud because i was so excited by the question

41:14 - improvised the "physicality" of the store room; i.e. they just fell on top of each other and clamored around 😂

41:32 - the way i literally gasped so hard that i started coughing when nicholas called taylor "tay", i am not even fucking joking, that was so fucking cute 😭

43:42 - fucking wheezed upon realizing where the question going

44:02 - the knowing way taylor was like "i will take this one" lmfao

45:10 - not me going so red from second hand embarrassment 🫣

45:44 - taylor bringing the jockstrap that nicholas wears in bottoms, and nicholas immediately adding "i won't even go into mary & george" 😂

47:51 - taylor finishing nicholas' sentence about matthew's direction for the cake scene; sharing a braincell lol

48:36 - taylor's dog passed away the night of the first day of filming like wow, that fucking sucks 🥺😭

49:05 - "everyone's looking at me with these sad eyes" made me so sad but then taylor said "do you want some tea?" in a terrible british accent lmfao

49:50 - nicholas complimenting and boosting taylor's performance while having such a hard time emotionally 🥺

50:49 - taylor bringing up running through the museum; i can hear the smile in his voice while talking about it 😭

51:28 - they filmed the kensington palace fight and the red room the week after nicholas got covid

52:40 - oh my god, the way you can hear nick grinning as he throws taylor under the bus for the sequel question 😂

53:30 - taylor wants a second book to base the sequel off of

54:03 - taylor used they/them pronouns for casey!! see? he knows, it was totally nerves

55:20 - it felt like it was over too soon, i desperately need more of them PLEASE 😭

This is the greatest thing that's happened in like, a month for me lmfao I am literally begging for more people to interview the boys about RWRB, I am so fucking desperate for more content of the two of them together. They are everything to me 🥺

Thanks for reading!! If you enjoyed this essay & would like to support me, you can give me a tip on my Ko-Fi! ☺️

#red white and royal blue #rwrb #rwrb movie #matthew lópez #rwrb book #casey mcquiston #rwrb interview #alex claremont-diaz #taylor zakhar perez #henry hanover-stuart fox #henry fox mountchristen-windsor #nicholas galitzine #firstprince #spotify #the awardist

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josephquinnswhore · 2 months ago

Text

Salvaging old wounds - dave york x female reader

summary: you and Dave are thriving post-birth. but someone threatens to ruin your perfect life.

word count: 5.3k

content warning: age gap, stockholm syndrome, no prenatal care, home birth, bitter ex wife Carol keeps the kids from Dave, breaking and entering, conversation about reader being a missing person, murder, set up death ‘suicide’, abuse of power, sheriff Dave, mentions of mental illness. Use of pet name; honey.

tagging some peeps that commented on part one. @sunshineispunk @summer-wine111 @romanarose @axshadows @queeneamidala @cockykookiee

It’s sometime in the early hours of the spring morning, cold enough to tug on your knitted sweater, already awake in the kitchen, soothing your son with some quiet shushing sounds as you pack Dave’s lunch for work today as he showers in your ensuite down the hall.

Your finger flicks the coffee pot on, and searches through the cupboard for his favourite mug. A tacky hand drawn Father’s Day gift from Molly when she was younger.

A small smile creeps across your tired lips, seeing the inside of the cul stained from years of use. You’d washed it countless times over the past few months you’d been re-allocated to live in the house, but he insists that it makes the coffee taste better.

The light on the microwave reads 06:58. Like clockwork, as the pot comes to a boil.. entering the room right on cue, greeting you with a sleepy smile.

“Morning, honey,” he greets, voice still rough from sleep, his hair still wet from the shower.

He approaches you from behind and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He presses a soft kiss on your neck before nuzzling his head into your shoulder.

Although he could tell you were tired he admires that you’re still here in the kitchen, preparing his lunch and subduing your son from his quieting cries. “Good morning to you too. I’m just packing your lunch for work.”

Noting the weariness in your expression, concern etches in his eyes, and the grip on your waist.

“You’re exhausted.” Dave steps back, his hands still on your waist, and gently turns you around to face him. “Are you not sleeping well?”

“I had a few hours, we woke up to feed and change every two hours or so, but it’s expected with a newborn, right? And I’m coping. I’ll find some time today to rest.”

Dave nods, his expression softening. “Yeah, I know. But you don’t have to handle everything on your own, especially at your own expense. I can take him tonight so you can get some rest, okay?”

You lean your head into his shoulder, kissing the blue business shirt you’d ironed last night. “Thank you.”

He smiles faintly, his hand running gently through your hair. “Of course. I want you to rest and be happy, you know that.” He pulls back slightly, his gaze filled with love and gratitude. “Besides, I’ve been practicing my burping techniques.”

A tired laugh escapes you. “Yeah? It’s been a while for you hasn’t it?”

Even though Dave had two kids of his own from his marriage with carol—it had been nearly a decade since the girls needed burping, or feeding.

Dave chuckles, looking both sheepish and proud. “It has been a while. But I’m confident in my abilities.” Massaging your luscious hips with his thumbs. “How’s our little munchkin doing?”

“He’s good. Kind of in and out with sleeping. I searched it up and found it’s called active sleep.” Finally, you set an ice pack into his insulated lunch box with a fork and set it aside.

Dave tilts his head, a mix of curiosity and concern on his face. “Active sleep?” He raises an eyebrow. “As in, he’s moving around and making noise but still asleep?”

“Yeah. It’s normal apparently, I did some reading about it last night, because it was freaking me out.” You watch as he pours himself a coffee.

Dave takes a sip, then sets the ceramic mug against the counter, fingers still holding onto the small handle.

“Well, that’s good to know. As long as he’s not crying himself hoarse or anything, I suppose.” He glances at you, a playful grin on his face. “Are you doing more baby Google searches?”

“Not right this second no. But I’m certain something will come up,” you tell him in advance.

Dave laughs softly, placing a comforting hand on your cheek. "That's completely normal, honey. Being a parent is this mix of wonder and fear. But you're doing a great job. Our little guy is lucky to have you as his mom."

“He’s lucky to have you too. So are the girls you know..” A moment of silence. “I’m sorry she took them away from you.”

Dave's expression changes, his smile fading. A heavy sigh is all he can manage for a moment, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, it was tough when it happened... still is, honestly.”

He pauses, looking at you with a mix of gratitude and sadness. “But having you here... you and our son, it makes it all feel a little less lonely, you know?"

Pushing yourself off of the countertop you’re leaning on and approaching him, kissing his cheek, the smell of his potent aftershave now clings to your skin. “They’re your girls, they love you.”

Dave leans his cheek into your kiss, appreciating your comforting gesture. "I hope so. I miss them every day." The heavy rise and fall of his chest is an attempt at gathering himself. He glances down at you, a hint of vulnerability in his dark eyes.

"But having you and this family we're nurturing... it helps. More than you know." He was glad you had adapted to this life, and seemed to revel in it.

Living up in the house with him rather than the basement. It was perfect, the way you leaned into domesticity and motherhood with arms wide open.

Dave glances down at his watch, reluctantly breaking the peaceful moment between you. "I should head to the precinct. Are you going to be okay on your own today?" Studying your face is a means to make sure you’re going to be alright.

“Of course. Joey and I will do a heap of fun things. And laundry.” You laugh humorlessly. Although you don’t mind the chores at all.

Dave can’t help but feel pleased to hear your response. “Alright.. don’t overwork yourself, the chores can always wait.”

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer so he can hold you tightly. He rests his chin on the top of your head, closing his eyes.

"I trust you." Dave whispers, a soft firmness to his voice. “You take care of our son, and I’ll be back real soon. We can spend the evening together as a family, whatever you want to do."

“I’ll have dinner prepared.” Leaning upward, you make the effort to instigate affection, fingers grazing the back of his damp hair.

Dave parts from your own lips hesitantly, wearing a content smile.

Reluctantly, he pulls away from you and your warm embrace, his hands lingering on your waist for a moment longer before dropping them to his sides.

He glances down his son, a soft smile playing on his lips. Leaning downward, a delicate finger reaches down to caress his chubby cheeks. “Be good for your momma," he utters in softly to his son.

Dave leans in to press his lips against your sons forehead, the small tuft of dark brown hair on his head were the same as his father. “I’ll see you tonight. I love you both.”

You return the sentiment and wave after him. “We love you, have a good day.”

The morning passes swiftly, with you engrossing yourself in domestic tasks. Piles of laundry need washing thanks to the sudden influx of baby clothes dumped into their own washing basket. Dirty dishes need washing and packing away.

All the while, the Joey still sleeps in his cot that you’d wheeled onto the wooden floors so you could watch him as you tidy up.

The house is quiet, the only sound coming from the soft whirring of the laundry machine as it spins to remove water, and the occasional rustle of Joey in his sleep.

When your son awakens, you tentatively pick him up and hold him to your chest with two cautious hands before sitting him down on the soft mat in the living room, a child-safe foam mat that is three inches thick to prevent him from injury.

Joey's eyes slowly open, adjusting to the bright light, searching for you. He looks around at his surroundings with innocent curiosity, his eyes still wide with that baby wonder.

Fixing his socks, you prepare him for tummy time, making sure he's comfortable. Joey wiggles, his limbs still uncoordinated and jerky, as he attempts to lift his head off the mat.

“You’re getting so good at this,” you coo in wonder.

Joey responds to the sound of your voice, turning his head in your direction with a look of recognition and delight.

His little arms push against the mat as he tries to raise himself up, but his movements are still clumsy and unbalanced. He let out a few soft, baby grunts, seemingly frustrated yet determined.

“Don’t grow up too fast, Joey. Your dad and I are still taking this all in.”

Before long Joey is whining and fussing over tummy time, and you decide to set up one of his musical playmats, with a half circular cover, soft animals dangling from the play equipment. Quiet nursery songs play a simple instrumental with flashing rainbow lights.

Joey's attention is drawn to the musical mat, his little brown eyes wide with fascination as he gazes at the movement and sounds. The music and the dangling animals capture his attention, and his grunts of frustration are replaced by noises of discovery.

He stretches out his tiny arms, trying to grab at the dangling toys, though his aim is still off target, tiny hands are swatting the animals and they swing back and forth.

The house phone rings, and you ignore it at Dave’s request.

But a woman’s voice comes through the speaker of the voicemail machine in real time.

“Dave. I have been calling non stop. Seriously, you’re refusing to contact me about money which I know you have. I need you to call me back or I’ll have to use the spare key to retrieve my personal documents from your house which will only make things worse for you in court.”

Dave had informed you about his ex-wife, how she was trying to make contact with him over child support for the girls. You had been instructed not to answer the phone or door at anytime, for any reason while he was gone.

So it wasn’t exactly a surprise to hear this, more like a bit of an annoying interruption to the sweet moment between you and your son.

The thought of her showing up to the house with your son, armed with a spare key and able to break into your home while Dave wasn’t hear made you feel sick. You look down at Joey, his attention still focused on the musical mat, unaware of how anxious you’re feeling.

“You have one new voicemail.”

As the voicemail machine plays the automated message as she ends the call, anxiously, you resort to chewing on your bottom lip.

You hesitate for a moment, looking down at Joey before deciding to do what you thought; was acceptable in regards to safety. Then, summoning your courage, you walk to the phone and dial Dave’s personal phone number.

And you’re pacing a little up and down the hallway as the shrill shrieking of the call trying to connect reverberates through your ear. He’d only been gone four hours or so, you hope he wouldn’t be upset.

Dave is busy with some administrative work at the precinct, thankfully sitting in his own office with the door shut, when his work phone rings. He glances at the number on his screen, recognising his very own landline.

A flicker of concern crosses his face, a little surprised that you're calling so soon, but doesn’t hesitate longer to answer the call. "Honey, what's wrong?" Dave asks, his voice laced with concern.

“Dave.. Carol just left a voicemail. She mentioned having a spare key to the house, said something about her showing up to let herself in.” The padding of your relentless pacing is noted on his end of the call.

He curses under his breath, the tension evident in his voice, even though the rustle of the phone he can hear your panic.

"Damn it." He mutters, a mixture of frustration and anger in his tone. Rubbing a hand over his face, trying to process the situation, but quickly comes to a solution.

"Okay, listen. I'll be home as soon as I can. Just don't answer the door for anyone, alright? And keep Joey safe."

“Okay, got it. I love you.” With a shaky exhale, you clutch onto the phone, watching your son play on his mat.

"Love you too, honey." A concerned sigh exits his lips. Dave ends the call and lets out a sigh, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His mind is racing, hoping that Carol wouldn’t show while he was gone.

He just knew he had to get home to you first. Before all his hard work and family are taken.

Setting the phone back down onto the hook, you take a hurried step toward the front door to lock it. But it’s too late, there’s a rattle of a key being put into the front door and unlocked.

Carol walks into the house as if it were here own, and stares at you for a moment, freezing when she recognises you, it takes a moment.. but you’re the girl on the news.. the missing girl.

Carol stands before you, her eyes narrowing as recognition gradually dawns on her. She takes in your appearance, the image of you from the media coverage suddenly clicking into place.

A mix of shock and confusion washes over her face.

"Y-you..." She utters in disbelief, her voice trembling. "You're... you're that missing girl..."

The realization hits her like a ton of bricks. She looks at you with uncertainty, her lips trembling as she struggles to process the situation.

"Oh my god... oh my god!" She repeats, her voice filled with fear and outrage. "You're here in Dave's house."

Carol takes a step towards you, her eyes wide and frantic. That could only mean one thing. "Come on sweetheart, let’s get you out of here!"

“I’m not going with you, stop it. This is my home, you cannot waltz into here and start making demands!” You shrug off her attempts to grab at you.

Carol doesn't anticipate your swift reaction, and her hand is abruptly shrugged away. She looks at you with surprise, her eyes wide and panicked. Taking a step backward, looking you over again with newfound fear.

"Sweetheart, listen to me-" She starts, the desperation evident in her voice.

“You’re vile.. coming into our home and trying to take me away from him after you left him with nothing! Your feeble attempt to take his son away won’t work! I love him, and I’m not going to ruin our family!”

Carol's eyes widen even further as she listens to your fierce defense of Dave. She hadn't expected this kind of loyalty, certainly not after what she knew.

She stands there for a moment, her chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths as she tries to process. But her fear begins to turn into a different emotion, anger.

"You- you're brainwashed! Do you understand that? He kidnapped you!"

“Do not insult me. I need you to leave, now!” The loud shriek of your newborn son filled the air between you. “You’re upsetting my son.”

Carol's shoulders shake with frustration, despair seeping into her voice. "I’m upsetting your - what?! You don't even realize how twisted this all is."

She glances towards the crying in the background, the sound of your son's unrelenting wails adding fuel to the fire. "You think I'm going to walk away and leave you here like this? You're brainwashed, do you not see that?!"

“He told me you’d do this. You’re a pathetic excuse for a woman, you took the girls from him! What the hell is your issue with me and my son?”

Carol's cheeks flush with anger, her hands trembling at her sides. "You can't seriously believe what he's told you, do you?"

Her voice disbelieving. "He's manipulated you, honey! Can't you see it?"

The woman approaches you, hands outward as if you’re some savage animal. “If you want what’s best for your son.. you’ll run and not look back.”

You felt so much anger inside of you.. “Don’t you dare. Dave is a great father to our boy.”

Carol rolls her eyes exasperated, not believing a word you say. "He's a monster!" Her voice rises in anger. "How can you not see that? He took you from your family, held you prisoner and forced you to bear a child."

Carol glances towards the sound of the infant's cries in the background with disgust, a glance that doesn’t go unmissed by you.

“He did not force this child upon me!”

She stares at you, pleading. "You may think you love him, but he's manipulated you. It's called stockholm syndrome. You're not thinking clearly!"

With another moment, she pulls out her mobile phone, “if you won’t protect your son.. I will. This is for your own good.” Turning her back to you, she’s already dialling 911 on the keypad of her mobile phone.

It felt like things slowed to a standstill, hearing those three loud beeps on her screen of her dialling the number sent something instinctive off within you, to protect everything you had.

There’s no real decision made, just reaching for the nearest thing in your reach, the landline chord, as you tear it out of the wall, the phone clatters to the ground. In that fleeting moment, Carol's world abruptly crumbles.

She barely gets time to process what's happening before the chord from the landline is wrapped around her neck, the realization of your actions dawning on her are too late for her to save herself.

Carol gasps and struggles, her phone clattering to the ground as her hands fly to her neck, clawing desperately at the white chord, but you’re in a state of rage, protecting your son, and yourself.

Everything you’d built with Dave. That’s what was on the line.

Carol fights against you with every ounce of strength she has left as her breaths become short inhales, unable to deliver the oxygen her burning lungs are aching for, her body writhing and her legs twitching out in panic, her nails clawing at the chord around her neck.

But the power of your grip and the determination, she didn’t stand a chance, Carol fought with every fibre of her being, kicking and trying to grab at you. But it was too little too late. Before long the last panicked gasp escaped her lips, the life leaving her eyes.

Time seems to stand still. The air fills with the silence of a struggle, the tension leaving the space around you seems to thicken. Your chest heaves with victory, heart racing as you drop the chord from your hands.

Slowly, you rise to your feet, the weight of what you've done settling in. But your son's cries pull you back to the present, a reminder of that innocent life you've vowed to protect.

With shaking hands, you pick up your infant son, comforting him, hushing his cries as you hold him close.

With a softness that contradicts the violence you’re capable of, you cradle the infant close to your chest, settling him.

Dave comes barreling through the unlocked front door, his usual composure thrown to the wind at the thought of you being gone.. He takes in the sight before him, the reality of what he's seeing sinking in, and he decided it’s a better outcome than what he had worried about.

He closed the door behind him, locking it, approaching slowly, his eyes fixated on the body on the floor, the woman he once married. His face contorts in anger and relief all at once.

“What the hell…” Dave whispers under his breath, his voice betraying his stunned, curious surprise. “Honey?”

You come into view, cradling your son close to your chest. “Dave..”

Dave's eyes meet yours, drinking in the sight of you holding your son, and he knew that this was inevitable.

Slowly, his gaze moves down to Carol's body, then back to you, a mixture of concern and suspicion etched across his face. "Honey..." Dave repeats, his voice laced with a hint of confusion. "What happened?"

“She.. “ Your bottom lip trembles. “She said she knew me. And that you were a monster and if I knew what was good for me I’d take our son and flee.”

Dave's expression hardens, his jaw clenching in frustrated anger. “God damnit...she’s wrong, so goddamn wrong. I’m glad you have some sense in that head of yours. Our son belongs with us,” he mutters, shaking his head in disbelief.

He doesn't move to investigate her cause of death yet, but can assume it probably has something to do with the phone chord on the floor right beside the body, dedicating his focus completely to you. "Did she touch you?”

“No, but said that if I wouldn’t protect our son from you, she would. I.. I caught her trying to call the police, but I.. I. I had to stop her before she could make the call.”

Dave swears under his breath, anger and frustration written all over his face. But he nods, “this is good, you did good, honey.”

His gaze falls on Carol's body, then back to you, a myriad of emotions playing out on his features. "Damn it... she just... she couldn't leave things well enough alone.”

He steps toward you, his voice soft, "It’s okay. I know. She forced your hand... it wasn’t your fault."

“She was trying to take our son away from us. Attempting to force my hand to abandon you. Our family.” Your son coos softly against your chest, tiny hands seeking comfort of your skin.

Dave's dark eyes search your own, his expression softening further as he tries to soothe your anxiety. He takes another step closer, his voice low and steady.

"Honey, that was never going to happen. No one's taking our son away from us. No one. You did what you had to do."

Dave reaches out tentatively, placing a gentle hand on your arm, as if testing the waters, a gripe of fear settles inside of him that this may have set you back to where you started twelve months ago when he brought you here. "You defended our family. That's all it was."

“I love you.. but what are we going to do about this?” Your hand gestures to the dead body in your hallway.

Dave looks down at Carol, his expression hardening once more. "We're gonna deal with it." His eyes flicker back to you, his hand still on your arm. Dave's voice is firm, but gentle.

"Trust me. I'll handle everything. For now, just take care of our boy, alright? Leave this all to me.” His large hand takes up the entire length of your baby’s back. “I need you to do me a favour, okay?”

You nod compliantly, listening. “Anything you want.”

Dave meets your gaze, his expression serious and focused.

"I need you to trust me. She recognised you, honey. You need to change your appearance, cut your hair.. colour it. I’ll buy some contacts for you. So that way we don’t have to be a secret anymore. No one would recognise the old you.”

“I’ll do it.” Dave's lips twitch into a faint smile. He appreciates your willingness to comply, no argument, just trust and commitment.

“Good.” Dave says, his voice quieter now. He takes your hand, his grip devoted to comforting you.

“It’s going to be okay. I won’t let anything happen to us, to our son. Trust me.”

Later that evening you hack carefully at your hair, and colour it. You hardly recognise the face of the girl that had gone missing. Because she was gone. “How did Joey go down?”

Dave watches you affectionately from the doorway in the bathroom as you hack away at your hair. “Effortlessly.” He murmurs.

“How do I look?” The transformation of your physical appearance is gradual yet significant. When you step away from the mirror and approach him, revealing the new you, he can’t help but smile.

“I can hardly recognise you,” he says, his voice soft. “You look... different.

Dave steps closer, his gaze roaming over your new look as he takes it in. He reaches up, running a hand through your hair, fingers caressing the strands. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” a slight warmth rushes up your neck and ears at his complimentary praise.

Dave moves closer, standing a few inches from you. His hand tangled in your hair, he pulls you against him. Strong arms wrap around you, his hand resting in the small of your back, holding you flush against his chest.

Dave leans forward, tilting your chin up so that your eyes meet. There’s a deep tenderness in his gaze as he speaks, “I never want to lose you, you know that?”

“You won’t,” you promise. “Never. Neither Joey or me.”

Dave sighs, his relief evident. He leans his forehead against yours, drinking in the moment of comfort. The weight of the situation lifts from his shoulders for a brief moment.

“Good. I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost you...”

Pulling backward to look down at you, his thumb gently caresses your cheek. He searches your eyes, before suddenly he places a soft, lingering kiss on your forehead.

His hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you to your bed with a gentleness that belies his strength. “You won’t ever need to know.” The promise sends a thrill of affection up his spine at your devout promise.

Once there, Dave lays down, pulling you onto the bed with him, manoeuvring the duvet so that he could tuck you in.

He wraps his arm around you, his body cradling yours, holding you tight against him. “I know...” He whispers, his voice a low, comforting rumble against your ear.

Dave warned you that in the coming days there would be someone coming to knock on their door about carols death, to leave it to him.

Three days after her death, they arrive.

Two of his officers greet him as he swings the door open. “Dave. We dropped by to have a chat, hoping that now is a good time.”

He eyes his men, nodding, fooling them with a deep gaze of concern. “Of course, what’s going on?”

“It’s Carol.. we got a call for a welfare check and she.. I’m sorry, sir. But she’s dead.”

Dave stutters, and his men express their sympathy. “How did she..”

“Suicide. Left a note and found her hanging from the ceiling fan.” One of his men turned to the police car they’d arrived in. “We don’t think the girls saw anything, but we recommend sending them to see someone anyway.”

Dave knew how it worked, they had to offer grief counselling as apart of the process.

“She struggled with her mental health for years but I never thought it would come to this,” Dave utters in disbelief.

They see you holding your son and wave to you. “Good morning ma’am.”

You smile and wave. “Good morning officers.”

They don’t recognise you.

“We didn’t know you had a son,” an officer commented.

Dave smiles proudly at his son. “I’ve been trying to keep my life as private as possible since the divorce.”

“Well, congratulations, sir.”

“What about my girls?” Dave asked, voice remains steady and composed as he plays his part, playing the role of the grieving ex-husband. He truly was concerned about his girls, though. They were so young, but with the family Dave had orchestrated, he knew they’d be down.

“We’ve got your girls in the back of the car, I’ll go get them.”

The sight of his daughters after twelve months since the initial divorce makes his resolve truly crumble, how much they had grown.

“Alice! Molly!” Dave's heart aches as he holds his two daughters in his arms, their presence filling him with intense emotion and relief. He had grown used to the pain of their absence in his life, the separation a constant weight on his shoulders.

But with them in his arms, the pain he had so valiantly endured crumbles. His eyes brimming with tears as he weeps gently into their shoulders, fingers clutching into their backs softly.

“We’ll.. give you some time to process all of this. I’m sorry again for your loss, Dave.”

Dave's grip tightens around his daughters, as if afraid to let them go again. He holds them close, a mix of grief and relief coursing through him.

“Thank you. Thank you for bringing them back to me.” He mutters to the men, not for delivering the news, but for returning his daughters home.

Dave watches as the officers leave, their departure marking the end of having to play the role of the devastated ex husband. Once they're gone, he turns back to his daughters.

“I've missed you both so much…” He says, voice choked up with emotion.

“We missed you too!” His girls cherp into his shoulder. Molly, the older daughter of the two looks past her dad and sees you, holding a small baby in blue clothing. “Who is that?”

Dave looks over at you, a hint of pride and affection in his expression. He then follows Molly’s gaze, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

"That... that's Joey," Dave inquires softly, his voice filled with tenderness as he glances between his daughters and his infant son. He stands up, his hand still resting on his shoulders, gesturing for them to follow him.

"He’s your little brother.”

You slowly approach the girls holding your son in hand. “Hi girls, my name is rose. I’m Joey's mummy.”

“Like the flower?” Alice says.

The alias rolls off your tongue as you introduce yourself, the name Rose sounding unfamiliar and foreign to your ears, but it was necessary to move on with your new life.

Alice's comment, however, brings a slight smile to your face. "Yes, like the flower." You confirm, your voice soft and gentle. “Do you want to meet your baby brother?”

The girls' eyes light up with excitement as you offer for them to meet their new baby brother. They look up at Dave for confirmation, before turning back to you with eager nods. "Yes, please!" Molly says, her voice brimming with anticipation.

“His name is Joseph David York. But your dad and I call him little Joey.” Dave grins at the mention of his son's name, pride evident in his gaze. He steps closer as you speak.

“He looks like you, dad!” Molly comments. Your son did have Dave’s dark brown eyes—and the subtle curve of his nose. The infant was practically a carbon copy, your genetics failing on this conception.

"That's right. Joey does, doesn’t he?" Dave nods, his voice filled with affection.

Dave watches as his daughters take to the little baby, their hearts instantly won over by the sight of their young brother. The sounds of their admiration fill the air, soft and innocent.

His gaze falls on you, meeting your eyes with gratitude and relief. In that moment, everything seems to fall into place, a sense of peace and happiness washing over him.

Dave takes in the sight of his two daughters playing and cooing at Joey, their faces lit up with joy and affection. Beside them stands you, the woman he loves more than anything.

He feels a surge of contentment and gratitude, his heart swelling with the weight of it all. Dave's eyes meet yours, his expression filled with love and thankfulness.

Dave has achieved all he ever dreamed of and so much more, and he knew he couldn’t stop himself from wanting more. He wonders what your daughter would look like.

One day, he’d find out.

#dave York #dark dave york #dave york fic #Dave York x you #Dave York x female reader #reader is a mother #dark Dave York fic #part two #sheriff Dave York

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juniperskye · 10 months ago

Text

Why are you in my head? Pt. 3

Sneak Peek: Eddie and you are soulmates. The legend of soulmates is that you start to hear one another’s thoughts around age 16 – not all the time, but when you’re feeling a strong emotion. It simply flows out of you and into the other, the legend also states that the closer you are, the more you can hear them. **The events of season 4 did NOT happen** I did also use some of the dialogue

Bold are Eddie’s thoughts; Italics are reader’s thoughts. (mind you, they are essentially hearing both sets of thoughts)

Eddie Munson x Fem Sunshine! Reader (Soulmate AU)

Fluff/Angst - Part 1 Part 2 Part 4** Part 5

Word count: 2583

REQUESTS ARE OPEN - not edited - please be kind. Feedback is welcome if it's constructive!

Warnings: READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!! My blog is 18+, minors DNI, explicit language, no use of y/n, fem reader, mentions of drugs/sale of drugs/drug use, arguing, mentions of Eddie’s drug addict parents, mention of post-partum depression, mention of child endangerment, mention of child death, mention of murder, mention of suicide, mention of foster care, let me know if I missed any!

That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story

I miss you so fucking much. How could you think so little of me. I’m sorry. You just don’t understand what it’s like. You don’t even know me. We’re soulmates, of course I know you. Our thoughts weren’t shared until we were both teenagers, you know nothing about how I was brought up. Can I see you? Please.

Thoughts between soulmates were shared more frequently when experiencing high levels of stress, primarily during long periods of separation after meeting, or fighting.

“Hey bug, Eddie’s on the phone for you.” Your dad knocked lightly on your door.

“Tell him I don’t want to talk to him!” You hollered up to your dad.

Since your fight with Eddie, one week ago, your parents had noticed your very apparent, sour mood. You really had no choice but to tell them that you had in fact met your soulmate and had been hanging out with him non-stop. Your mom had been thrilled for you; she had wanted to know everything about Eddie. Your dad on the other hand, he was furious. He clocked the tear tracks that ran down your cheeks the second you walked in the door, and he wanted Eddie’s address so he could kick his ass. You had assured him that it wouldn’t be necessary, that no matter how upset you were in the moment, in your heart you knew the two of you would be able to work things out.

“Sweetie, maybe you should take his call.” Your mom suggested.

“Maybe you should butt out!” You shouted back.

You were immediately filled with regret. Quickly making your way up the stairs you threw open your door to come face to face with your parents.

“Mom, I am so sorry.”

She pulled you into a tight hug, her hand gently brushing at the hair on the back of your head. She always did this when you hugged, and it always brought a warm comfort throughout your body.

“It’s okay. I know that you are upset. Maybe you should try talking to him sweetie, it might make you feel better.” She suggested once more.

“Okay, I guess you’re probably right.” You nodded.

“Well, that’s good because he is on his way right now.” Your dad informed you.

“What? Dad! A little warning would be nice! He doesn’t live that far, and I have to get ready!” You started scrambling down the stairs into your room to get ready.

Your parents chuckled, remembering what it was like to be that young and new in love.

A knock at the door had you sprinting up the stairs and practically shoving your dad out of the way so you could get there first. You weren’t quite ready to have Eddie meet your parents, especially since you aren’t currently on the best of terms.

You opened the door with just enough room to slide out of the house. You took note of Eddie’s disheveled appearance, he had bags under his eyes, his hair looked especially frizzy, and his skin didn’t have its usual glow.

“Hey.” He said sheepishly.

“Hi.” You replied.

“Did you uh, did you want to go sit in the van and talk?” Eddie said gesturing to where it was parked at the end of your driveway.

You nodded and the two of you made your way to the vehicle. He wanted so badly to pull you into his arms and kiss all this pain away, but he knew that it wouldn’t be that simple, he had made some snap judgements and said some hurtful things to you. He knew he needed to apologize and that the two of you still had a lot to learn about one another.

“Baby, I am so sorry. I said some awful shit to you, and I shouldn’t have. I just, I am so used to having people judge me. For how I look, for where I live, who I live with, the people I hang out with, the music I listen to, the field of work I’m in. And I know that you weren’t judging me, that you were just looking out for me because you care, but baby I couldn’t help but let those past feelings eat me alive when you were talking to me.” Eddie explained.

“Eddie, I appreciate you apologizing. I’ve had time to think about things too and I can understand how my reaction could have come across as judgmental. Eddie, my dad is a cop, I have heard what happens to people when they’re caught with a little bit of weed in their possession, but if you were caught selling it, or something worse. Eddie I can’t lose you. Not when I have only just found you.” Tears were running down your face at this point.

Eddie scooted closer to you on the bench of the van, he brought his hand up to cup your cheek, gently brushing away your tears with his thumb. He leaned in and pressed a sweet kiss to your lips. When you two broke apart, he leaned his forehead against your own, his hand brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I am so sorry baby. Please forgive me?”

“Eddie, before I can forgive you, I need to know that you don’t really think of me like that. I may come from a well-off family now, but there is a lot you don’t know about me and I just – I need to know that you don’t see me as some privileged brat.” You begged.

“Sweetheart, no! I don’t think of you that way. I am so sorry! I don’t even know why I said that. It’s like a defense mechanism. I know that there’s so much I don’t know about you, and I hope that you will trust me enough to tell me everything there is to know about you.” He rushed.

You were both startled by a knock on the window. Looking over at the passenger window, you were mortified to see your dad standing there, giving you and Eddie a small wave. He then gestured for you to roll the window down. You visibly cringed as you began cranking the window open, mouthing an embarrassed apology to Eddie.

“Dadddd…what do you want?” You whined.

“Your mother sent me out here to let you know that dinner is ready. She also wanted me to ask if your friend here would be joining us.” He explained.

Your eyes darted over to Eddie. You were trying to decipher his expression, was he as horrified as you were? Was he intrigued by the idea of meeting your parents.? Was he ready to flee and never return?

Would you want me to stay?

You couldn’t help but smile. His thought was timed perfectly, this soulmate thing definitely had its perks.

Of course I want you to stay! I just don’t want them to scare you off.

“If it’s alright with you sir, I’d like to stay for dinner.” Eddie looked at your dad, who replied with a curt nod.

“I can’t believe you’re a Metallica fan! I just finished learning Master of Puppets on my guitar!” Eddie gushed.

“That’s a tough song, I bet you had to practice for weeks!” Your dad indulged Eddie.

This is so embarrassing! Your dad is so cool!

Your mom laughed at the exchange between the two men and she and you cleared the table. She gave you a knowing look and nodded towards your room.

“Why don’t you two go watch a movie, your dad and I can clear the rest of this up.” She suggested.

“Only if you’re sure.” You asked, gaze shifting from your mom to your dad.

“Door stays open.” Your dad pointed towards you.

With that you grabbed Eddie’s hand and led him down to your room, being sure to leave your door open, per your dad’s request. As you descended the stairs, Eddie’s jaw made its way to the floor. He was amazed by your room, you had records hung on the walls and ceiling, one of your walls had an incredible photo collage, with photos of you, your friends and family throughout the years, and below that were stacks of books next to a small desk. He’d have to ask you about who all these people were. You also had a projector screen that you clearly used for movies.

“This is amazing! You read J.R.R. Tolkien and Stephen King? And these records, this is so cool, I would never want to leave if this was my room!” Eddie exclaimed.

God, like you could get any hotter.

“Yeah, my parents are pretty cool about letting me express my creative freedoms or whatever.” You shrugged.

You couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach, Eddie had talked about how you got everything you’d ever wanted, and this made that seem true. If only he knew.

Things had continued on pretty well with you and Eddie over the next few months. You guys had grown closer, trusting one another with the heavier secrets of your lives. Eddie had told more in depth about his parents. His mom had gotten hooked on drugs thanks to his dad, who was quick to put hands on Eddie and his mom when he was under the influence – which seemed to be more often than not.

You had wanted to tell Eddie about your past too, but the timing just didn’t seem right. Every time you went to share, something came up, or you were trying to avoid it coming across as you are one-upping him and his trauma.

Things aren’t always what they seem.

Eddie had dinner at your house once a week, and you’d traded off whose house you’d go to after school each day. Nothing physical had transpired between the two of you other than a few heavy make out sessions. At each other’s houses you had fallen into a routine, at yours you would either watch a movie or read, at his you’d either watch a movie, listen to music, or help him with his campaigns.

Tonight happened to be dinner at your house, your parents had suggested ordering a pizza tonight and playing Monopoly. Eddie had enjoyed nights like this, your parents had been extremely welcoming of him. He had appreciated that they didn’t judge him, not once in all the time he has known them. They had been warm and kind and accepting.

Your dad had bonded with him about his taste in music and had shown an interest in Dungeons and Dragons. Your mom talked to him about his future and his dreams of being in a band, but the reality of him probably becoming a mechanic. Your mom had told him that he should pursue music as long as he had something he could fall back on should it not work out. She told him that he could achieve his dreams as long as he worked hard at it.

These conversations, these dinners, these nights with your family had been amazing, they had also been painful for Eddie. He couldn’t help but feel hurt that he didn’t get to have a childhood like this, that he had to get his ass beat by his dad while his mom was strung out on the couch. He hadn’t been removed from their custody until he was about 10 years old, that’s when child services pulled him from their care and moved him in with Wayne.

Wayne had grown fond of you immediately; he had seen how Eddie had changed immediately after meeting you. He had been happier, which meant the world to Wayne. All Wayne had ever wanted was for Eddie to have something good in his life and here you were. You and Wayne were buds and it filled Eddie with a sense of pride that his uncle approved of you.

Now if only things could stay simple like that forever.

Eddie and you had finished dinner and a game of Monopoly at your house. You were planning to go to Eddie’s after to watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2. After pulling up in front of the trailer, Eddie made his way to your side of the van and pulled you out of the car. You giggled as he kissed you and the two of you stumbled into the living room.

He made his way to the kitchen to grab drinks for you both and he began popping some popcorn.

“Sorry about my parents tonight. I know they can be super lame.” You huffed out a laugh.

“What do you mean? Your parents are great!” Eddie said.

“No, I know, but they act so goofy. It’s embarrassing.” You shook your head.

At least you have parents.

“Jesus Eddie.”

“What? I didn’t…oh shit. Babe I’m sorry. It’s just, you should be thankful that you have parents who care about you. Not all of us are that lucky.”

“I’m not that lucky Eddie! Fuck! How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t know me! You don’t know anything about me!” You sighed.

“Then tell me! Please, enlighten me as to how your two wonderful parents can be so bad!” Eddie egged you on.

“THEY'RE NOT MY PARENTS!” You shouted at him, then took a deep breath. “Eddie, they’re not my real parents.”

Eddie sat a looked at you, mouth agape, speechless. You could tell that he was waiting for you to continue, but you needed a moment to collect your thoughts. You had to explain everything, this conversation could change everything.

“My parents, Eddie, they did some horrible shit. Neither of them had any other family, my mom she uh, she had post-partum depression, she wasn’t doing well, for a long time after my little sister was born. I guess that had caused my dad to seek comfort elsewhere, I was only six when all this happened. But uh, my mom she uh she left my sister in the bath alone, my sister slid down into the water and drowned, she was only 8 weeks old. When my dad came home and found her, he was furious. Eddie he killed my mom, and then he killed himself. I ended up in foster care and bounced from home to home until I was twelve, until they took me in.”

“Sweetheart. I, I am so sorry. I don’t, I’m not sure what to say.” Eddie whispered. “But uh, you said. You had mentioned that your mom told you bedtime stories about how her and your dad met.”

“My mom now, she would tell me how her and my dad met, every night until I finally started sleeping.” You explained.

The nightmares made it impossible. I couldn’t stop seeing the blood.

Eddie crossed the room and pulled you into his arms. He couldn’t believe that he had been so stupid this whole time. You had been silently telling him that your life wasn’t all that perfect, that though now, it seemed good, it hadn’t always been. He needed you to know that he was here for you, no matter what.

I’ve got you. I will always have you baby.

A sob escaped your throat, ripping through the silence. Eddie held you; he laid you with him in his bed, his hand brushing through your hair gently, whispering sweet nothings to you.

I haven’t told anyone that story. Nobody, ever. Not even my parents. Your secret is safe with me. You are safe with me. I love you sweetheart. I love you Eds.

Tag List: @sashaphantomhive

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tsuiioku · 1 year ago

Text

𝖎'𝖒𝖆 𝖒𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖘𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖒 「𝔬𝔰𝔞𝔪𝔲 𝔡𝔞𝔷𝔞𝔦」 ༉‧₊˚

from anonymous ⇢ can I request a fanfic Nikolai or Dazai nsfw? maybe it could be a new coworker that he’s interested it or something, honestly I’m fine with anything but i just an idea!

content. f!reader. not-safe for work, alcohol, bathroom sex, bruises, choking, clubbing, creampie, fingering, hickeys, implied/referenced fleshlights, jealousy, misogyny, perverted dazai, pet names (baby, dearest, good girl), possessiveness, protectiveness, praise kink, semi-public sex. not proofread. 4.2k+ words.

author's note. i cannot believe how long this request took for me to complete. it is the first in a series of requests that i've received in the past two months that i'm finally getting to, but it's here! and this is weirdly my first full BSD smut fic, so sit back and enjoy the ride ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )

would you like to see more? fill out the taglist or comment under this post.

synopsis. it started as a night at the club and then became something much, much better.

After multiple bouts of terrible run-ins with the press, Fukuzawa had made the executive decision to hire a media liaison as an intermediary for their discussions with the news. And she was, at least in Dazai's eyes, the perfect little thing. He almost fell over when she strode through the door—well, he actually did. He had dropped to his knees and begged her to kill him, grasping onto her delicate hands for the first time, only for the sweet woman to dismiss his proposal with a wave of her fingers and a concerned contort of her lips.

And God, she was perfect.

She walked around the office with such charismatic confidence, one that rivaled his own, always clad in a fashionable pair of dress pants that shaped her ass just right and flared at the bottom to compliment her legs. Her blouse was even better, with puffed sleeves that bounced at every step and a collarline that exposed just the right amount of cleavage. It was the perverted mummy's dream.

However, he liked their new liaison for many other reasons—he wasn't that shallow. (Name) She was so easy to talk to and kind to her co-workers, even with a sassy flare rivaling Doctor Yosano's. And even though she didn't have an ability, she held herself up with wit and intelligence alone—he couldn't help but admit that the smirk that curled onto her very kissable-looking lips whenever she outsmarted someone made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up.

His personal favorite habit of hers had become the one that centered entirely around him—obviously. (Name) always made it a habit to check in on him, especially once she realized his suicide quips weren't just a ploy to get closer to women. It had started with a weary checkup and an occasional smile but blossomed into a friendship laced with jokes and playful banter.

She was such a charmer.

It had been quite a busy day for the agency—though it typically was—involved in another city-wide event that had placed every citizen on their toes. So, to his dismay, he was forced to admire her from afar, watching her hold off intrusive media outlets with a grace and dignity that she solely wielded. Though he couldn't help but notice her rapidly dwindling patience—it was apparent. The scrunch of her nose as she listened to the misogynistic rambles of news anchors or the overly-sweetened tune of her smile as she confronted a demeaning photographer—all little traits he had fallen for.

He knew the next person who even looked at her funny would face the wrath of a she-demon.

And he couldn't wait to watch.

"How's our charming Ms. (Name) doing on a fine evening such as this, hm?" he mused as he rolled towards her desk, spinning circles as he sat backward in the chair. A softened smile, starkly contrasting her prior annoyance, appeared on her face, shoulders slumping as she relaxed into her chair.

"I'm doing fine, Mr. Dazai," she mocked, hands settled near her hips. "But if I have to talk to another snobby reporter, I may commit a murder."

She leaned towards his chair, dramatically batting her eyes. "You'd bail me out, wouldn't you?"

He smirked—this back-and-forth banter had become more and more common between them, much to his delight. He swooned with a coo, draping his arm across his forehead. "I would, dearest—if only I had the money for such a thing!"

"I barely have enough for canned crab..." he trailed off with a frown, a sudden reminder popping into his head. "How would you feel about an evening on the town."

She raised a brow. "Hmm, what are you suggesting?"

"I'd forgotten about these tickets." He reached into his back pocket and then into his other back pocket—then another and another. "I received them as a favor a couple months ago. They're entry tickets to a fancy club up in the north sector."

She peered over his shoulder with pursed lips once he pulled two crumpled tickets out of his vest pocket, eyes widening once he unfolded them. "The Royal Crown? Dazai, these are so expensive!" She snatched them from his hands, holding them up with scrutinizing eyes to the light. "Are you sure they're real?"

He pouted. "Of course I am! Can you really doubt a handsome face such as mine?"

She struck him with her pointed, unimpressed expression. He fell as if he'd been shot, crying out to the ceiling, temporarily drawing the attention of their co-workers, only for them to look away. Same routine. "Oh, Ms. (Name)! You wound me!"

She huffed, unable to restrain her laughter, returning the tickets to him with a slap to his chest. "Uh-huh. I'm so sorry."

Her coy, playful grin softened with a sigh, her beaming smile stirring Dazai's stomach. "But I'd love to go with you—if they're real. And if they're real." She stood from her chair, patting his shoulder as she passed by. "You can pick me up at 8."

And she walked off, clocking out of her shift with an almost unnoticeable pep in her step—unnoticeable to everyone that wasn't Dazai. He sighed, leaning against the seat of his chair with a lopsided grin.

She was so cute.

She spent the next few hours inside her apartment dolling herself up, swaying and humming to the tune of the local radio station as she slipped on one of her favorite dresses, drawing a dark shade of lipstick on with a pop of her lips. A knock rang out just as she slipped her heels on, gathering her purse as she made her way to the door.

"Coming!" she called from down the hall, only to pause mid-step.

The knocking hadn't come from the door. It came from the balcony.

She crept towards the balcony, ducking behind some of her furniture as she tried to spot some kind of burglar or serial killer, but she couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. It was just her balcony, sitting aglow in the warm setting sun. She stepped out, taking in the breathtaking sight of the cityscape as she relaxed, relieved to find that she hadn't been stuck in a horror scenario—

"Graaah!"

"Oh fuck!"

She smacked the obscured figure with her purse, knocking whoever it was to the ground. It groaned in pain, and that familiar voice struck a chord with her, making her look closer at the figure as grumbles tumbled from its mouth.

"Bellaaaaa. How rude," Dazai whined, rubbing his forehead.

She clutched her hand to her chest, calming her racing heart as she panted. "Don't do that!" Her lips twisted into a snarl, glaring daggers into the wounded man. "You scared the shit outta me!"

"I was just making sure you could defend yourself," he claimed, although she could spot the lie through the amused glint in his eyes. "You never know what could happen to a poor, unprepared damsel."

"I am not a damsel, Dazai," she deadpaned, bending down beside him. "Let me see your face."

Her hands cupped his face, ignoring or missing the blush surfacing on his cheeks as he stared at her wide-eyed. Gentle fingers brushed the wound's edges, wincing with a tense sigh as she examined the damage. "Yikes. That's gonna leave a bruise."

Damn, she didn't realize the force she had behind her hit. Good to know.

She grabbed him by the hand, taking him inside and into her bathroom, kicking a stool out from behind her toilet with her foot. He looked at her dumbly, watching as she tapped it with her heel. "Have a seat."

He plopped down, looking almost monstrous with his lanky legs bunched awkwardly against the floor of the pintsized room. With bated breath, he watched as (Name) shuffled through her cabinets, having to stretch on her toes and allowing him to admire her in full view. She was wearing a velvety little cocktail dress that cupped her curves and cinched in all the right places—was it getting hot in here? He couldn't help the way his mind wandered, wondering what would happen if he just stood up, grabbing her by the hips and just—

"And there we go." She thumbed a plaster onto his forehead with rhythmic circles, brushing her lips against the material's edge before she placed the medical kit back. He froze at the feeling of her lips, fingers hovering over the spot she kissed—they were so soft—staring at her as she obliviously continued to hum to the radio. But then she stiffened as if snapped out of a trance, turning towards him with a blank expression, though the panic in her eyes was palpable.

"Don't say a word."

He grinned softly, leaning against his palm.

"Wouldn't dream of it, dear."

It was a bar unlike any (Name) had ever seen. The outside sparkled in the peeks of moonlight that escaped through alleyways, contrasting the warmth of browned brick encompassing the walls. It glimmered the further they walked in, arm-in-arm, as excitement bounced between them. Goosebumps crawled up her arm as thumps of pop music chimed out from the entryway, the buzz of anticipation running through her veins.

The main room was bustling with people, chatting between sips of bubbling champagnes and smooth whiskies. A ginormous bar was the centerpiece, lined with aged-metal chairs lit with LED lights. Warm backlights illuminated a collection of rums, bourbons, whiskeys, and wines she had never seen before, making her mouth dry. One of the bartenders, clad in an all-black suit, poured another patron a sweet drink, vicariously feeling the antsiness of alcohol settling into her system.

"Can't believe you're looking at him like that and not me," Dazai whispered into her ear, tickling her skin.

She hid her flustered expression with a jab to his side—Dazai did look quite handsome now that she had a better look at him. He was decked out in a black suit jacket, unbuttoned to reveal a dark red vest and white dress shirt underneath, topped off with a tie. Her favorite part had to be his hair, which was pined to the side, allowing her to see how his rich, chocolate-brown eyes bloomed in the heated light.

Part of her was tempted to run a hand through the soft, bouncy waves. Maybe if she just—

"Something on your mind, dear?" he asked, his voice low as they settled into seats at the bar.

She perked from her daydreams, shaking her head. "Nope. Just thinking about what to drink."

He huffed, amused with a cocked brow. "Are you sure about—"

"What can I get you two tonight?" a bartender asked promptly, and (Name) couldn't help but internally thank him for his impeccable timing.

"I'll have a French 65."

Dazai hummed at her choice, though he already figured she would pick something along those lines, eyes scanning the bottles of alcohol for a second. "And I'll have a Negroni."

The bartender whipped up their drinks with a flick of his wrist, and she couldn't be but stare at the burbling liquid as it poured out of the strainer and into a tall glass, sliding with a clink in front of her. She lifted the glass to her lips, savoring the hints of citrus within layers of bourbon and champagne.

The bar continued to become more crowded, not surprising due to its popularity among tourists and affluent residents of the city. She couldn't help how she stiffened as they touched shoulder-to-shoulder, packed in by the crowd; her heart thumped inside her chest—she couldn't tell whether it was due to the adrenaline of the alcohol or the proximity of their bodies.

"—and then he smacked me! Can you believe it? Me!" Dazai raved, an alcohol-induced flush on his cheeks.

She merely giggled, pushing his shoulder with her free hand. "Poor Kunikida. That man has to deal with your—"

"Hey, sweetheart."

Another person slid up in the seat beside her, replacing the sweet but drunk woman who had previously sat there. She stared at him, a man with greasy blonde hair and eyebags that rivaled a raccoon, with bewilderment. The exhaustion of the day had settled deep within her bones, her sass dulled by the alcohol and blanketing warmth of the bar atmosphere.

"Can I help you?" she asked, raising a brow. Dazai stiffened behind her, his muscles growing tense as he stared at the man with equal scrutiny.

The man grinned. "I was just wonderin' what a pretty lady like you is doin' here all by your lonesome."

"I'm not—"

To her utter annoyance, he cut her off again and placed a sweaty hand on her arm. "How 'bout you come back to my place, eh?" She winced as the smell of beer hit her nose, trying to scoot away. "And I'll treat ya' to some dinner."

A bandaged hand settled against her back. "I'm afraid she's with me."

The stranger merely laughed at Dazai, and even (Name) couldn't help noticing how fingers twitched around her waist. "Come on, man. You wouldn't mind sharing, would ya'?" Those sweaty hands caressed her arm, and she couldn't help feeling relief when she realized that she had long sleeves. However, she grimaced at his disgusting insinuation. "A pretty thing like her deserves to be—"

"I'm afraid you're mistaken."

Arms snatched her by the waist, settling her onto Dazai's lap. She could not stop trembling in his arms, eyes wide as his chest met her back—wholly encased in him. Though, she couldn't say she minded too much.

"She's mine." Warm breath bristled against the exposed flesh of her neck, a trill of anticipation traveling up her spine as a hint of arousal shot between her legs. "And someone as short as yourself should probably focus on homework rather than picking up women."

The drunken man shuddered as he felt the stern glare of the former Demon Prodigy, who was eyeing him like a hawk. This was far from the humor Dazai held in his previous conversation, eyes reflecting a past he had tried to leave behind long ago. Cold and irate, like the biting sting of a gun pressed against the temple. The man sputtered his apologies underneath whimpered breath, scrambling to leave his seat as he pushed between weary bystanders.

She watched the stranger leave with a stern stare, slumping against Dazai with a huff of relief. "Heh. Thanks, Dazai." Her eyes tilted down to look at the head propped on her shoulder, only to see burning brown eyes staring at her, his expression unreadable. Analyzing. Sweat gathered on her temple, straightening up as her fight-or-flight response screamed at her, his arms tightening around her waist to trap her against him.

"Dazai?"

He interwove his fingers with hers, pulling her off the bar seat as he led her towards the back of the club. They rushed past varieties of people as the bass of music shook their feet, some chatting while others practically fucked with their clothes on. The smell of alcohol grew stronger as they reached a strange hallway, the former mafia executive pushing her into a single-stall restroom before locking the door behind them.

"D-Dazai—what's going—mmf-!"

He sealed his lips across hers, devouring her whimpers with desperate kisses as he pressed her body against the door. She trembled in his hold, wrapping her arms around his neck as his tongue slid across her bottom lip. It was electrifying, the bubbling sensation of an intoxicating haze slipping between them.

"You're so pretty like this, ya' know?" He trailed kisses across her jawline. "So sexy. And that dress—it was made for you, baby."

Her laughter was almost hysterical, drawing him in with a pull of his tie. "Then I must say that you look quite handsome in that suit of yours, Osamu."

He forced himself to restrain a groan, muffling it into her neck. "I love it when you call me that." His hand drifted to the back of her throat, trailing kisses along the searing skin as her moans mixed with laughter to create an invigorating concoction. "And those sweet little giggles of yours—God, you've got the voice of an angel."

He drew her in with a squeeze to her throat, teasing the skin at the junction of her neck between his teeth. "I've gotta hear more."

Each kiss was calculated, ensuring that her body felt inflamed. She flinched every time Dazai's lips met her now-aching skin, stroking her fingers through his hair, eliciting a low groan from him as she tugged at the soft curls that blanketed his neck.

Her hands fiddled with the edges of his suit jacket, shimmying it down his shoulders and flinging it onto the floor. She wanted him badly—she didn't know if it was the alcohol acting as liquid courage, but as his hands drifted across her breasts, she found that she didn't care.

His lips met hers again, meticulously working her dress up and bunching it around her hips. He pried her legs apart with his hand, settling his knee between them and pressing up. For months, he had thought about the noises she'd make when he touched her like this. But it was better than he had imagined. She practically melted in his mouth, moving her hips in small circles as more noises were withdrawn from her lips.

His hands met her hips again, gently, before squeezing them with a bruise-inducing grip. "Stay still." She froze, unable to hide the thousands of impure thoughts that bounced around her head in reaction to his voice's simple, low rasp. His fingers slipped under the band of her panties, pooling arousal on his fingers as he drew diligent strokes around her sensitive bud, enthralled in the orchestra of pleasure that begged to be brought forth from her lips.

"You're soaked, baby."

"D-Dazai." She bristled, breath hitching as he pried her wet pussy apart. He looked absolutely entranced by the amount of arousal that gathered on his fingers, dipping one inside and then another, watching with predatory eyes as her thighs began to tremble.

His fingers were much longer than hers, hitting spots she could only dream of reaching on her own. "Mmm. You like that, baby?" She cried out as he stretched them out, brushing against her sweet spot. "You like the idea of being full, don't ya'?"

She could merely nod as she threw her head back, being forced still by the hand on her hip.

He littered openmouthed kisses across her jaw, running his tongue across her skin to taste her as he thrust his fingers inside her pussy at an aggravating pace. "You need to be full, right? You want my cock. You want me to fill you up."

"Please, 'Samu—" She batted at his spine, heaving as she pleaded. "Fuck me."

Any of his remaining resolve crumbled in a matter of seconds, sliding his fingers out from between her legs as she whined. Instead, he placed them inside his mouth, opened barely enough to let her see how his tongue wrapped around his fingers, consuming her liquid arousal with a pleased hum.

"How could I refuse when you asked me so nicely?"

He hoisted her by her hips, hands propped against her ass as she was pinned to him, her sensitive, soaked pussy brushing against his strained erection that sat painfully inside his pants. With a flick of his wrists, he pulled her panties off and sat her bare ass down on the frigid marble surface of the counter, spreading her legs with a firm tug as he soaked in how her arousal pooled onto the surface below.

His fingers went to pull at the zipper of his pants, tantalizingly slow. "Look at me." Her eyes shot up to his face, a darkened look in his eye at the way she immediately obeyed his command. "Yeah, that's a good girl."

He leaned forward, the warm scent of gin brushing against her face as he cupped her face, almost drawing her attention from the feeling of his cock resting against her folds. "You're my good girl, right?"

She nodded, staring at him despite the temptations to glance downwards. He only continued to rub his cock against her, with enough irritating pressure to make her want to wrap her legs around his hips but not enough to make her mind go blank. Her brows furrowed, a pleading pout evident in the beginnings of her lips.

He only grinned.

"Come on, baby. I need'ta hear you say it."

Her mind was hazy, too fogged to connect her abstract thoughts through the heat. Words tumbled out of her mouth faster than she could process them. "Please, Dazai—I need you. Please, please—I'll be good, please—" She let out a yelp as he slapped her thighs, hands working to relieve the sensitive skin as he moved his cock away.

"You're almost there, sweet girl," he cooed, condescension as heavy as the liquor in his breath. "You know what to say. Come on."

Her muscles screamed at her as she did everything in her power to remain upright, wanting to give into the fantasy of crumpling over and letting him pound into her while she lay limp. Not yet. She always knew that he would be the type to tease, to make a woman work a bit for what they wanted. She just didn't realize how infuriating it would be—not that she had the will to complain.

She just wanted to be full.

"Please, 'Samu. I'll be good—I'll be your good girl, I promise." Her rambling ceased with a shudder as he slid his cock inside her, immediately trying to buck her hips forward to take more. He only smiled at her impatience, filling her to the brim as her pussy quivered around his cock.

"That's right." He kissed the seared skin near her collarbone. "You're mine."

She couldn't control herself as he began to pump in and out of her, salacious cries of his name pouring into the open air with just the music of the club outside to deafen the sounds of their pornographic escapade. Her nails caught onto the fabric of his shirt, scratching at any sliver of unbandaged skin to create crescent scars.

He groaned at the perfect fit, eyes rolled back at the sheer bliss of it all. She was so much better than the stupid fleshlight he had been using almost every night, too pent up from the sight of her at work every day. This was so much better.

He finally had the real deal, and he wasn't gonna let her go.

"That bastard thought he could put his hands on you." His voice had darkened, becoming guttural as his grip on her hips tightened. "He probably thought he'd be the one doing this to you. Taking you back to his dinky little apartment and prying you apart." And a part of her wanted him to leave a bruise, a reminder that this wasn't some lustful wet dream.

He chuckled, holding onto her like an anchor as he found his rhythm. "But I'm the only one who gets to see you like this."

His hand wrapped around her throat, strained moans escaping from her kiss-bruised lips as he squeezed down. "To touch you like this." He pinned her down, flattening her to the counter with each thrust, relishing in the way she clenched down on him the deeper he went. "To fuck you like this."

"F-Fuck-'Samu–" she whined, her stomach twisting in knots from the pressure of his cock, growing even wetter from the edge of a snarl in his voice.

He chuckled, his other hand crawling up her chest, pressing against her breast to feel her heave. Her back arched up to his touch despite how the grip on her throat grew tighter, making her feel lightheaded. "You like that, don't you? Like being mine?" The way she tightened around him was the only answer he needed, mindless babbles escaping her mouth. He released her throat with one last little squeeze, smearing her remaining lipstick across her cheek with his thumb. "Good. You'll have to get used to that, baby."

She grabbed onto his shoulder, bringing him into another searing kiss as her impending release approached, her arousal already creating a puddle as it dripped off the counter and onto the floor. He rasped against her lips, slipping his tongue into her mouth to devour more.

"Scream for me, baby."

Her vision went white as she let out a loud, debauched moan of his name, rocking her hips to his ceaseless thrusts as she chased through her release. He jerked at the feeling of her pussy fluttering around him, pumping into her as he groaned into her mouth, spit trailing from his lips as he panted, bracing himself against the counter.

"Fuck."

If he had to pick his favorite sight of the night, it would be this very moment. Here she was in front of him, his beautiful co-worker, dress disheveled and makeup smudged by her tears as she creamed on his cock. God, he could feel himself getting hard again already, watching carnivorously as her legs trembled, eyes closing in exhaustion. His hands traced through her sweat-slicked baby hairs, thumbing her dress down as best he could while he leaned into her. Part of him would've been okay with falling asleep right here, basking in the afterglow.

But the music outside served as a reminder.

He glanced up from his place, nuzzling her neck, mischief already drawn in his eyes.

"We're not done, love. We're heading back to my place."

TAGLIST: @imhandicapableofmath @seisitive @solandiss @ruru-kiss @ishqani @sillyspookycat

#☆.musings #f!reader #request: [anonymous]#bsd smut #dazai smut #bungo stray dogs #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #osamu dazai x reader #dazai x reader #osamu dazai #dazai bsd

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elexaria · 11 months ago

Text

TW — mentions of suicidal ideation and suicide attempt

simon is out on sick leave, his mental health has gotten worse since johnny died. “can’t have you in service if you’re not 100%, riley.” price gruffly remarks as he signs simon’s papers, eyes looking up through thick eyebrows at si, who is angrily glancing away.

sick leave is torture. simon feels lost, no anchor to tether him down to earth. without work, he is nothing. without johnny, he’s ….. nothing.

he spends all day rotting away in bed, his thumb rasping against a battered old photograph of him and johnny on holiday in mallorca. johnny with a gorgeous tan, and simon all pink. no, he doesn’t get an impeccable bronze. that man BURNS.

the corners of simon’s lips twitch as he glances at johnny in the photo, admiring how handsome he truly was. he would give anything to see him again.

and then it gets hard to get anything but dying out of his head. if he dies, then maybe he can see johnny again. they can finally be together again. right?

the capt drops off a small bundle of johnny’s stuff at simon’s apartment, and then a small package is delivered in the post from mrs mactavish, johnny’s mom. various bits and bobs, some of johnny’s tshirts, his favourite cap, some sketchbooks.

his dog tags.

simon’s surprised to find them; he thought that they would be put in johnny’s urn or something. but clearly his mom thought otherwise, she must’ve known how much johnny adored simon. he would have moved heaven and earth for that mancunian.

still, suicide ghosts every waking moment of simon’s life. he glances at johnny’s dog tags besides his bed, chewing his chapped lips as he entertains the idea more. and again when he’s walking around the shops, glancing at various means of killing himself. his thumb rasps against the cold metal of johnny’s tags from within his jacket pocket as his free hand extends to read the packet of rat poison. might be a bit too painful, and apparently it stinks to the high heavens.

simon puts the box of rat poison back, continuing to walk around the shop, thumb still stroking against the dog tags as he continues to glance around the store. he can’t take painkillers, there’s a limit to two boxes per person. so, he settles on visiting the hardware store, and buys a bundle of sturdy rope. even grabs some plywood and metal brackets. “makin’ a swing for the little’un.” he mumbles to the cashier, flashing an uneasy yet somewhat believable smile to her as he fishes out some loose bank notes from his jean pockets. he’s not big on wallets.

for almost a week, simon sits on the edge of his bed staring at the bundle of rope next to a chair from his kitchen. he knows its the only way out, so why is it so terrifying? just do it, riley. do it.

he scrawls out demented ramblings on some loose leaf paper, barely readable chicken scratch to captain price, gaz and to mrs mactavish. “i’ll always be grateful for you for bringing my johnny boy into the world.” is somewhat legible in the letter written to her.

he neatly leaves the letters at the foot of his bed, taking a deep breath as he reaches into his pocket for johnny’s dog tags. for a moment, simon admires them in the dim lighting of his bedroom, watching as the thin metal clinks together. sergeant john mactavish.

as the tags slowly slip over simon’s head, the ball chain momentarily getting caught on a wry piece of scruffy blonde hair, they finally join with simon’s own tags on his chest as he stands on the kitchen chair. for a moment, his hand reaches out against his wardrobe to steady his balance. he slips the noose around his neck, heart thumping against his rib cage ferociously. do it, simon. do it.

simon’s trying his best to still his breathing, taking deep breaths as he tries to dull the nagging thoughts, against his instincts to not do this.

“tae fuck d’yae ‘hink yer daein?!”

simon falls back against his wardrobe out of shock, eyes wide with horror as he glances in the direction of that all too familar voice, that voice that immediately drowns out every single thought that was screaming at simon to kill himself.

it’s johnny.

he’s effervescent, an angelic silhouette of his mortal self. a halo of warm light, blue, ghosts around his form.

simon’s mouth is agape, eyes still wide as his body freezes. immediately, he tears the noose off of his head, damn near stumbling off the chair to get a closer look of the spectacle in front of him.

“johnny? but… you’re…”

“dead? aye, sherlock. i am.” the silhouette retorts sarcastically, flashing ghostly pearly whites in a lopsided grin, one that’s terrifying just like johnny’s signature grin. simon backs against the wardrobe, his breathing uneven and scant as he begins to panic. this isn’t normal, this isn’t right.

the mass of energy and light shaped like johnny notices this panic in simon, and seems to frown. it slowly moves towards him, a hand reaching out to touch simon’s shoulder. it’s hauntingly cold, and it makes simon recoil with horror. the spectre frowns even more, retracting its hand.

this can’t be johnny.

because johnny’s dead.

#elexaria writes #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #simon riley #soap mactavish #ghoap #ghoap au #ghoap angst

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tobiasdrake · 4 months ago

Note

I know you haven't done your deep-dive fighting style posts in a while, but I was curious if you'd want to do one for Cell? I think his whole deal as a composite of multiple powerful fighters could be interesting to consider...

Oh, sure. Let's talk about Cell.

Cell is a complicated creature. The surface level is just that he's a regenerating bio-android who can use everybody's attacks, but we're gonna go a bit deeper than that. The first thing to note about Cell is that he, very unusually, does not have a ki signature. Rather, he has five ki signatures; One for each of his five genetic donors.

There is no distinct "Cell" ki the way there is for "Yamcha" ki or "Gohan" ki. Cell reads like Goku, Vegeta, Piccolo, Frieza, and King Cold are all standing in a circle holding hands or something. But this isn't just a neat detail; It also informs on his fighting ability.

Cell is able to use moves like the Kamehameha because he has their wielders' ki. Which has wild implications for how ki and martial arts works, if we're being honest. Apparently your techniques are stored in your ki like genetic muscle memory. He can also perform the Taiyoken/Solar Flare because that, too, is stored in Goku's ki.

Cell taps into one of his five wells of ki to call on that person's moves. But that comes with drawbacks. Cell's Kamehameha against Piccolo was weak and unimpressive because the well of Goku ki he has inside of him was taken from the fight with Vegeta, and we're a long way past that.

Cell-Goku's ki just isn't strong enough to power a very impressive attack, compared to the Nameless Namekian.

Further, because these abilities are stored like genetic memory, Cell himself doesn't fully understand what he's capable of.

He knows what these abilities are on a conscious level. He knows that he can do them. But he lacks experience. He has a wealth of technical knowledge without practical understanding of how to apply it.

He has a good laugh at Trunks over this shit.

But when it's his back against the wall, he's no better than Trunks.

Cell may have Goku's, Piccolo's, and Vegeta's ki, but he is no Goku nor Piccolo nor even Vegeta. He doesn't know how to fight when he's on the backfoot. He doesn't know how to turn things around when the tide shifts against him. How to plan his moves out in advance and then execute that plan to overcome a superior foe.

Because for all his advanced knowledge, he's still green.

He's sitting in an engineering workshop with the best tools that billions of dollars of wealth can buy and a middle-school education. He only knows how to dominate.

Which frequently bites him in the ass.

Likely as a consequence of how many raging egomaniacs are packed inside of him, Cell has a severe overconfidence problem. He conducts himself as if he were invincible, at one point even going so far as to let Vegeta hit him with his best shot and very nearly paying the ultimate price for his foolishness.

Sometimes it's only Piccolo's regeneration that keeps him from losing fights that, with his power, he should be winning handily. He coasts a lot on being very hard to put down.

Cell's comfort zone is when he can step out onto the field, having leveled up so far that nobody can touch him. He's not playing a fighting game. He's playing an RPG. If the fight turns against him, if he can't overwhelm his opponents, he turns his tail and runs for his life so he can grind some XP and try again.

And when he can't do that, he turns to more desperate measure like crying about the unfairness or trying to nuke the planet to murder-suicide his opponents. Thought, admittedly, the former was a ploy to manipulate Vegeta.

Cell's an extremely sore loser, is basically what I'm getting at here. He has a hard time figuring out ways to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, instead preferring to simply ragequit when fights turn against him. While also going out of his way to help his opponents power up, secure in the misguided belief that he's untouchable.

Cell has two modes: "I am invincible!" and "Oh no I'm vincible what do I do!?" The latter of which is a problem Goku, Piccolo, and Vegeta have all faced over their lives and come up with a variety of answers to, but for which Cell mostly falls back on "I need a level-up so I can be invincible again."

Cell's fight with Goku is his best. It's the one fight he has that genuinely feels like he and his opponent are both giving as well as they get.

It's this fight, keeping pace with Goku, that pushes Cell to his most interesting places as a fighter. Though, conspicuously, he's sandbagging and secretly this is yet another fight in Cell's comfort zone, where the true threat to him is minimal.

Uh, except when Goku outplays him.

See above, re: Cell nearly losing fights he should be winning handily.

Nonetheless, we get to see Cell at his best here. Which still pretty much consists of the basics: Punch, kick, Kamehameha here or there. And at one point pulling 17's force field out from desperation.

Cell's inexperience leads him to have difficulty anticipating his opponents' moves or gauging their strength.

And, fitting for a copycat fighter, he also has seemingly no capacity to innovate new ideas, strategies, or techniques for himself. Over the course of the Cell Games, he pulls "My Kamehameha will destroy the Earth if you don't stop it!" three separate times.

He really has no better ideas than this one. Which he stole from Vegeta.

But he also doesn't make a lot of use of his copycat abilities either. He mainly relies on the easy ones: The Kamehameha and Taiyoken, both of which are described as pretty simple and easy to perform. Though this isn't because he can't do more complex moves, as we see him break out Frieza's Death Beam in his fight with Gohan.

He has other moves. He just doesn't use them much.

(This is not the case in the anime, where he not only makes far more use of his technique pool but also they increased his number of donors to give him a wider pool of moves to copycat.)

I would be loathe to describe Cell as lazy. He puts a lot of effort into grinding XP in his own special way so that his Android manhunt can go off successfully. But his art is lazy. His style. His technique.

Out of all the major Dragon Ball characters, Cell is the most complacent. He was born already knowing everything he thinks he needs to know, and demonstrates little to no desire to refine his abilities on a technical level the way Goku, Piccolo, Vegeta, and even Frieza do.

He has a built-in roadmap of shortcuts to power, and so far as he's concerned, that's all he needs to become unstoppable.

#dragon ball #dragon ball z #cell

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gremlin-girly · 2 months ago

Text

It's a Wonderful Life

A Bucky Barnes Christmas fic

Tags/warnings: ANGST, FLUFF, mentions of suicide/depression/abuse/ptsd, post end game, Steve went back, generally depressing stuff but it's a happy ending :)

Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be translated, copied or reposted or put through an AI machine.

Summary: based upon the film of the same name. On Christmas Eve, Bucky takes a walk and meets a stranger who assures him life is worth living.

Word count : 2.9k (2977)

A/N: Merry Christmas everyone! ☺️ sorry to make it so sad - I may come back amd edit parts but I dont know yet! I apologise for any mistakes etc etc. And there's another note at the very end! - Love, Grem x

Dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

Bucky Barnes Collection | Navigation

Christmas Eve in New York was always cold and today was no exception. Bucky wasn't sure how far he'd walked, but he was at a bridge not far from the city, watching the lights wink in the distance.

Leaning on the stone ledge, breathing into his gloved hands to (at the very least) keep his flesh hand warm, he did what he had been doing since the moment he blipped back; think about his entire existence and the lead up to this point, here on the bridge, on Christmas Eve.

The water below whooshed by quickly although you couldn't see the inky mass below. It was loud, almost too loud to hear himself think. He sighed, dropping his hands to the metal railing stuck into the stones.

What was the point of it all?

Bucky wondered, staring into the black void below, if he'd ever truly be free of HYDRA. Sure, his brain was apparently brainwashing-free but, and not to insult Shuri, he was with HYDRA for almost a century.

Almost a century.

Almost a century of abuse. Seven decades worth of scars. Seven decades of murders deserved and not. Seven decades of being frozen and defrosted to the point his body sometimes makes him sick because he shouldn't be out of cryo so long. Seven decades of torture, mental and physical, on top of losing Nat, Tony and... Steve.

End of the line.

What a joke.

What was the point of dragging the Winter soldier kicking and screaming to fix him, to put your life and others' on the line for him; a man who tried to kill you and your friends multiple times, only to leave him once he was back to his old self?

Well, old self was a bit of an exaggeration.

Bucky's grip on the railing tightened, creaking under his strength as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. He hated, hated, hated to admit that he was angry at Steve. Resentful. If Bucky was in Steve's position he would have put a bullet in his brain.

He tells himself, night after night, that Steve had good intentions. Bringing him back, fixing him but... leaving him? Bucky knew very few people, and very few (rightfully) didn't trust him. The only connections he had to most people were Steve and with him gone, it was like people stopped having to pretend to tolerate Bucky and left him alone.

And Steve... after the blip, he'd changed. But coming back after five years, five blissful years where there was no fighting, no pain, just nothing... for Steve to vanish like that made Bucky think he had done something wrong.

Bucky didn't know when he had started crying. He wiped his eyes roughly with his hands and sniffed. He was also a man out of time. He didn't understand modern slang, modern music (which was awful), modern romance or any of that texting stuff or Facebook. Or whatever the bird app was. Or was it as letter now? God. Everything was confusing.

There was a sick comfort in knowing what he was good at with HYDRA.

What was the point of it all?

Even if he threw himself over the railing, by some sick cosmic joke he'd probably live; if not by losing another limb.

"Excuse me?" A voice calls. Bucky ignores it. "Bucky Barnes?"

Bucky blinks and looks over in the direction of the voice. It's not one he recognises and neither is the person.

Before him is an old woman, bundled in thick coats and scarves. She has thin, short white curly hair that's almost translucent and an angled face with chubby, rosy cheeks and eyes that glitter with a playful wit. She's somebody's grandma, with that half-stern eyebrow raise, matronly and motherly look rolled into one.

"Hi?" Bucky blinks at her trying to place her. He still doesn't recognise her.

She approaches a little closer and peeks over the bridge where Bucky had been staring and whistles, cutting through the rush of water in the darkness. "I hope you weren't thinking of jumping."

"No." Bucky lies, still confused.

"Ah, clever boy. It would do you no good. Plenty left to do."

"Do I know you?" Bucky asks, staring at her.

"Oh! No. You don't know me." The old lady says cryptically. "But I know you, James Buchanan Barnes. I know everyone."

Bucky stands up to his full height, towering above the old lady, who watches him unphased. He tilts his head at her, narrowing his eyes, trying to decipher who or possibly what she is and what she could possibly want with him.

"I'm guessing you know me from the news? Or from history books?"

"I know you as James Buchanan Barnes, born March tenth, nineteen-seventeen. I know you as the Winter Soldier. I know you as White Wolf and now I know you as just Bucky."

Bucky reels. Civilians didn't know about his time in Wakanda and he was certain that not many people just knew him as Bucky outside of SHIELD.

"How...?"

"Nevermind how." She snips, adjusting her handbag on her forearm. "What brings you to the bridge tonight, Bucky?"

It sounds like a loaded question. It is a loaded question. The old lady seems to be goading him into admitting something he didn't want to admit.

"I...Just out for a walk." He falters, looking down at his feet.

"Perfect. Walk with me?" The old lady offers her arm out to him, and for some reason Bucky is compelled to take it. Walking arm in arm, they slowly make their way back into the thrum of the city centre.

There are people everywhere.

Pretty standard for New York on Christmas Eve. There are kids, carolers, couples and Christmas-everything along the streets. There's music playing Here Comes Santa Claus somewhere, lights flashing and a giant tree decorated to the nines every few blocks.

"Look at them," The old lady murmurs looking out into the crowd with a warm smile. "Aren't they just the sweetest?"

Bucky follows her gaze. There's plenty of laughing kids, couples walking hand in hand and making gooey eyes at one another but Bucky knows there's more beneath the surface; abusers, pick pockets and murderers walk amongst them. He would know.

"Yeah." Bucky says gruffly. "I guess."

The old lady's gaze pierces him with a stern look. "You don't believe me."

"There are just as many bad people as there are good." Bucky huffs. "No matter what, it hardly makes a difference."

"Now, now," The old lady tuts with a small, patient smile. "That's just not true. Look at where we are."

Bucky frowns down at her. He doesn't know why he feels compelled to stay and argue with some random old lady on Christmas Eve, but he does.

"We're in New York, lady." Bucky grumbles. The old lady jerks her head upwards towards the street name etched into the side of a tall concrete building. Time had worn most of the wording away but Bucky could still just about make it out.

"Worthing Street?"

"Worthing Street." The old lady confirms. And glances up at Bucky. "This is where you first met Steven Grant Rogers all those years ago."

"How in the hell-"

"Language." The old lady huffs and then smiles. "I told you. I know you."

Bucky frowns.

"A little bit of good always makes a big difference. It's all about perspective." She chuckles happily. "This is where James Buchanan Barnes met his best friend; protecting him from bullies. Do you know he could've died that day?"

She gives Bucky a sideways glance as memories spill from Bucky's brain. Steve hacking up a lung and trying to stand, his face and knuckles bloody, struggling to catch his breath.

"I remember." Bucky says quietly.

The lady continues. "Had you not stepped in and saved him, your lives would have been very different. Without you, there would be no Steve Rogers, no Captain America as we know him."

"But there'd be no Wonter Soldier either." Bucky counters and is surprised when the old woman cackles at him.

"There would always be a Winter Soldier. Always a Captain America. Whether or not they were you or Steven is another school of fish entirely."

Bucky ponders her words but thinks that maybe discussing alternate realities would melt his brain. Clint had tried when he'd explained the time travel stuff in the search for infinity stones but it gave Bucky a headache. He was from the 40s for God's sake.

"Your small act of kindness, your selflessness, made Steve aspire to be who he was." The old lady says after a moment. "As difficult as it was, Steve felt that he owed it to you to give you back your life. He deemed you worthy of saving above all else."

Bucky's chest tightened. He could feel the sting of tears again and forced them back.

"Probably because I saved his ass more than once," Bucky tries to chuckle, but the lump in his throat is too thick.

"Because you were his brother." The old woman says simply. She looks back out into the crowd once more before tugging on Bucky’s stiff arm. "Come on. We're not done."

"If you know everyone," Bucky begins, walking alongside the old woman. "Why did Steve leave?"

"Love." The old woman sighs. "He had sacrificed so much and so many. He knew you'd be okay."

"Did he?"

The old woman grins wickedly at Bucky. "Of course. You now have Sam."

Bucky scoffs.

"And Sarah. AJ. Cass. Yelena. Alexei. Shuri. Okoye. T'challa. The list goes on." The old woman reaches into her handbag, scouring it for a moment before producing a mint humbug and offering to Bucky who awkwardly accepts it. She finds one for herself and they continue on down the street.

"And there's those you haven't met yet." She says after her humbug has melted enough for her to speak.

Bucky frowns again. "Oh yeah? Like, I don't know, a partner or something?"

The Old Woman's eyes twinkle. "Or something."

Bucky harumphs, wrapping his arms around himself. He didn't let himself think about that; a future. How could someone love him? After everything he'd done? He was beyond damaged goods.

But the way the Old Woman speaks, as if she knows, makes a small part of him jump for joy. If even he was worthy of love and affection...

"Must you always do that?"

Bucky gives the Old Woman a sideways glance. "Do what?"

"Scrunching up your face like that." She mimicks Bucky's expression, brows furrowing deeply adding extra wrinkles to her skin and pouting her lips comically. "You look like a sad little basset hound."

Bucky throws up his hands. "Its my face!"

"Well, make it smile more." The Old Woman argues back.

"I'm one hundred and six, lady, you can't tell me what to do!" Bucky's lips twitch upwards when he catches her small smirk. "Where are you taking me now, anyway?"

"We're going to see a friend of mine."

Horizon Resedential Care was one of the more impressive care homes in New York. Set within a small block with a park for residents to mull about in, the care home boasted glowing reviews from family members who adored seeing their loved ones sociable, active and well cared for.

The small, wrought iron gate was shut; locked tight to ensure no residents went walk about in the ice and snow. Only the intercom button glowed red, begging to be pressed, to allow family visits.

"No." Bucky said, standing outside the gate. His feet couldn't move. He felt sick. He wanted to run. "I'm not going in there."

The Old Woman looked at him sadly, heartache etched all over her face. "She'd love to see you, you know."

"I - would she? Surely she thinks..." Bucky swallows thickly.

Surely she thinks I'm dead?

"You don't give the woman enough credit." The Old Woman chuckles with a shake of her head. "They watch documentaries in there all the time. The latest one was that Netflix special on the Winter Soldier."

"Oh my God." Bucky murmurs.

"Language." The Old Woman puffs. "Rebecca is more upset that you haven't come to visit her."

Bucky's heart clenches uncomfortably. "She is?"

"Of course. And you clearly know she's in there." The Old Woman gives him another annoying, knowing look. "You’ve known she was alive and haven't visited. Why?"

"Why?" Bucky growls, irritation and a sense of overwhelm crashing over his nerves like a tsunami. "My baby sister is old. I am a killer. How could I show my face to her after everything?"

The Old Woman only shrugs, turning away and beginning to walk down the street again. "You'd be surprised at how much love can forgive, Bucky. But remember, you have her back. You ought to make the most of the time you have together. Perhaps you should not let her think that you have forgotten her."

Bucky's flesh hand is fisted to hard he can feel his bones ache. He grinds his teeth as he fights down his temper. Who was this woman? And how did she know so much about him?

Jogging to catch up to her, Bucky hangs his head falling into step beside her.

"Im sorry for snapping." He grumbles. "Its just-"

"No need to apologise." She holds up a hand and still wears that kind, grandmotherly smile. "However, I do have one more person I'd like you to meet. She should be up this next street."

She?

The alleyway the Old Woman stopped in was... well, exactly how you would imagine an alleyway at the busiest time of year to look like. Trash cans scattered, rotting food mixed with debris and cardboard neatly lining each side of the alley.

"She's supposed to be here." The Old Woman comments, looking down at a thin gold watch around her wrist.

Bucky watches as a rat dives into a trash can and grimaces. "Who?"

"Ah!" The lady throws up her hands and waves at someone past Bucky. "There she is!"

Bucky turns but there's nobody there. He's about to argue with the old lady when a soft meow draw his attention to the ground. At his feet, sitting daintily with wide blue eyes, is the scruffiest white kitten he'd ever seen.

"Alpine."The Old Woman beams. "I was worried you wouldn't make it."

Bucky looks at the rosy cheeked old lady; cherub-like with her dimpled smile and then down at the kitten, who chirps at him. There's something about the Old Woman that's strangely familiar, but he can't quite place it.

"Bucky, Alpine. Alpine, Bucky." She nods and the kitten, Alpine, looks back to Bucky. Bucky stares back. This is entirely surreal.

"What the hell is-"

"She's your companion." She says matter of factly. "I had to pull a few strings to get her a little sooner but-"

"I don't know the first goddamn thing about looking after a cat!"

"Language!" The Old Woman snaps before adding spritely, "You'll learn."

Alpine toddles over to Bucky, circling around his legs and purring loudly. Bucky blinks. Once. Twice. This wasn't a dream. All of this, the wandering was real and not some sort of fucked up nightmare like he was used to having.

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth when Alpine's giant jeweled eyes meet his and she meows quietly; looking up at him with adoration that said I trust you.

"She needs you as much as you need her." The Old Woman says softly. "Take good care of eachother, you two."

He squats down and offers his flesh hand to Alpine, who sniffs it gingerly before bumping her tiny head against it. Bucky had never been one to say whether he was a dog or cat person, he never had either growing up, and then with the war and HYDRA.... But looking at this kitten before him, his heart was already a puddle at his feet.

Bundling Alpine into his leather jacket, Bucky turned to find the space the Old Woman had occupied was empty. Bucky whipped his head up and down the alleyway and peeked out onto the street. She'd disappeared.

Shaking his head slightly, he looked down at Alpine snuggled against him.

"This has got to be the weirdest Christmas Eve ever." He mutters, stepping into the street and heading back to his apartment.

Bucky's apartment was a lot noisier than when he'd left it over three hours ago. And far more brightly coloured with tinsel and fairy lights.

AJ and Cass are playing some video game on his sofa, Sarah is making something that smells delicious and Sam was in the middle of finishing up the decorations.

"I know you said you didn't want anyone around," Sam starts nervously, already holding his hands in surrender as Bucky opens the door. "But no one should be alone on Christmas. Sarah and I-"

Sam stops and looks at Bucky's jacket as Alpine pokes her head out. "Is that a cat?"

"Uh, yeah." Bucky looks down at Alpine who meows loudly. "This is Alpine."

"Right. Sorry." Sam shakes his head before continuing. "Sarah and I brought some food and snacks and the boys are gonna watch Christmas movies. I'd love it if you'd join us, Buck."

"I... yeah." Bucky nods and swallows thickly, smiling over at Sam. "Thanks, pal. Although... you're in my house."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam waves a hand dismissively but his grin is wide. "Come on. You hungry? We've got plenty of snacks. No cat friendly ones though."

Alpine puffs in annoyance making Bucky chuckle as he joins Sam and Sarah in his small kitchenette. Warmth blossoms in his tight chest as the ice begins to thaw. He tries not to let it show, when tears prickle his eyes again in the warm, flashing lights.

The Old Woman was right; there was plenty left to do.

~ END ~

A/N: Nadolig Llawen! Or happy holidays wherever you are. I hope you're having a good time!

I've been writing and editing this all damn day in between work and cooking.

Originally I played with a few ideas but ultimately decided that I wanted to keep it as non-complex as possible (but if you are curious, yes Old Woman was an angel - specifically I chose Gamaliel Angel of protection and strength, Angel of Cherubs, "recompense of God" - thanks Wiki for that one). I'm not Christian, but a big supernatural fan (hence why I loved this fic idea). I thought if anyone was to be thrown into an old school movie (Like It's a Wonderful Life) it would be Bucky.

And don't worry, he visited Rebecca the next day.

I hope you enjoyed if you've read this far! And once again, happy holidays

- Love, Grem x

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