#comes in from the skylight instead of coming in through the door to make his dramatic reveal have more impact

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Finished my Arsène Lupin collection. What a ride. I cackled several times. 10/10, I already want to reread it.

[thenightcallsme]

Do I Make you Nervous? | Simon "Ghost" Riley

little re-upload from my AO3 :)

Synopsis: When Task Force 141 is betrayed by Philip Graves, they're forced to separate. Y\N fights her way through the foreign Las Almas with a broken radio and no sense of direction. Yet, somehow, she finds herself in the same church her lieutenant, Simon "Ghost" Riley, seeks sanctuary in. As they attempt to brave the storm sweeping through the streets, the infamously unreadable Ghost challenges their professional relationship.

Pairing: Ghost x F!141reader

Contains: fluff, kissing, use of Y/N, hint of angst but resolved in the end, vague mentions of blood/wounds

Word count: 5,874

• • • • •

It was all a set-up. A lie.

Disappointment and anger triumphs any sadness over Grave's betrayal. At first, he came across as over-confident in that stereotypical male way. Over time I had warmed up to him. But Shepherd? The man who has given me the most freedom I’ve had in a long time? I admit that my use as a weapon to him has put a strain on our companionship, but to station me with my own cousin only to lash out unprovoked? He’s crossed a line that he can never come back from. The small liking I had for the man vanished as soon as shit hit the fan. Everything seems to replay in my mind. Alejandro insulted and detained, Johnny shot at, Ghost cornered...

There were too many of them to fight off. I couldn't trust myself to hold my own with my mind worrying over Johnny, Alejandro and Ghost while also plotting Shepherd's death. So, though it pained me, I ran. Ghost and Johnny did the same. 

My radio was damaged in the incident. A stray bullet flew my way, and with a stroke of luck, grazed the radio instead of my ribs. The close call was enough warning to run, which is what I do now. The lack of communication only worsens the worry.

Shadows crawl in the streets of Las Almas like rats in a sewer. From door to door they go, yelling at innocent civilians in the late hours of dusk. From the conversations I've heard, they're looking for two foreign men and their female friend. They don't quite explain why we're being hunted, but the truth wouldn't change much. Every so often, a shot fires, echoing through the streets like a warning bell. A call of sorrow and fear.

With the Shadows forcing their way into civilian homes and raising their weapons against anyone who could harbour us, houses and shops aren't safe. The towering cathedral spires peeking above tin roofs and stacked houses catch my attention instead. Nobody would be inside at this time of night. For now, it's the best I can do. Also to my luck, the church isn't too far away. I take my time and keep to the shadows on my way. With a quick survey of my surroundings, I know I've bet the Shadows to this part of the city. That won't last long. The revelation has me jumping the gate within seconds of making it.

Inside the church is pitch black. Towering windows that tell biblical tales line the walls, casting light in intervals across the empty foyer. Rows of seats begin to emerge as my eyes adjust. Further back is an intricate, circular skylight tens of feet above the marble floor. Illuminating the altar below is a waterfall of silvery light. The giant cross, gold statues, and wooden altar glow like I'm looking through a blurred lens. The view is both eerie and magical...and not meant to be marvelled at in a time like this. My focus should be maintaining high ground. I begin to turn in search of a staircase when something shifts in the darkness.

A figure materialises, tall and built; easily a male physically capable of snapping my neck. My next best option is the gun strapped to my hip to parry the one in his hand. I go to reach for mine—

“Y/N?”

I freeze in surprise, but my mind eases slightly.

“Lieutenant? How—”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re here now.” He looks down at me with searching eyes. “You in one piece?”

“Yes. You—?” At that moment, my own eyes skim his body, only to halt at a worrying sight. On the left side of his waist, just above the waistband of his pants, is a blooming, dark red stain on his shirt. He’s been shot. “Jesus, Ghost. How bad is it?”

“I’ve had worse—”

He stops himself at the distant shouting. The surrounding streets haven’t been quiet since I’ve been in the church, but this time it grows closer. Angrier. Ghost doesn’t waste time ushering me along in search of a stairwell. The one we find leads to the second floor, then a third. Eventually, we discover the central bell tower. The room is dank and cold and decently big. Suspended in the middle is a gigantic bell. Even in the dark, I can see how weathered the metal is. The worn wooden floors creak as we cross it. On each wall are arched openings that allow entry to the cold night air and terrified screams. A small cluster of discarded furniture draped in white sheets huddles in a corner. From here, we have a perfect view of the sprawling city and winding streets. To those down there, we’re invisible.

Simon leans back against a wall and grunts, his hands brushing over the bullet wound. He pulls back his hands to inspect the fresh blood. However bad it is, it’s still bleeding.

“Show me,” I say. My voice comes out more demanding than I intend.

He gives me a brief exasperated look but doesn’t push back.

Ghost sits against the wall with his shoulders slumped just enough to reach my level. His jacket is unzipped, his black shirt rolled up halfway. Those tired, piercing eyes and muscular arms are the most I've ever seen of him. It feels like a reward when the weather is unforgiving enough to chase away his usual long-sleeve or jacket. His arms are tanned and muscled, with a tattoo sleeve working from the wrist of his left arm up to his elbow. I’ve begun to accept that it’s the closest I’m ever going to get to seeing him. But now I stare down at his bare abdomen.

The waistband of his black cargo pants sits low on his hips, offering a distracting view of a pronounced V-line and abs. In the moonlight, I can make out the reminders of war that mark his skin; a few silvery scars, some clean-cut, some gnarled and twisted; an old bullet wound healed closer to his ribs. The fresh one with the most of my attention is buried in a more acceptable spot. It nestles into the far right side of his waist, thankfully nowhere near any vital organs. However, it’s still a bullet wound and it still bleeds. That’s enough to worry me.

“Do you reckon it’s bad?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say I’m dying.”

“But we aren’t in the position to get proper help. Maybe sit down for a bit.” Surprisingly, he does so without question. I get to my feet, draw a small knife from my thigh holster, and rip a strip of fabric from the white sheets. When I drop back down beside him, I take a deep breath. “Here"

He takes it with a mumbled thank you and wraps the fabric around his waist.

“You heard from John?” I ask.

Simon winces as he adjusts the torn sheet. “I radioed him multiple times. Never got an answer.”

“Are you surprised by all this?”

Simon leans back against the wall. “I tend to be less surprised by betrayal. But I had some respect for Shepherd.”

I sigh, shuffling around him so that I can do the same. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Survive,” he says. “Shepherd wants you alive. Graves will see to that. He can’t kill Alejandro, either. But Johnny and I…” He shakes his head. “Graves won’t sleep until there’s a bullet in our heads and Shepherd won’t care enough to stop it.”

There’s a moment of silence as I fold my arms and look away thoughtfully. How are we supposed to do this? The blanket of night and the ensuing storm may offer some cover, but getting out of the city will be a mission. I can’t bring myself to leave without John, either. My heart hurts when I think about him. He could be anywhere, alone and outnumbered while I sit uselessly in a bell tower.

“What do we do about Johnny?” My voice is quiet. Fearful. “My radio was damaged so I couldn’t reach out to him. Maybe his is the same. But not knowing… He’s the only family I have left. My only real friend.”

“Don’t worry about Johnny. He’s one of the most resourceful and strong-willed Sergeants I’ve dealt with in a while. Have faith in him.” He looks at me then, tilting his head to the side. “I wouldn’t say he’s your only friend.”

“I do quite like his girlfriend…” I murmur.

“And Alejandro? Ronaldo?”

I purse my lips as his question draws thought. I’ve been considering Alejandro and Ronaldo as allies. Companions. But I’ve grown quite fond of them. Considering them as friends would set me up for heartache if anything were to happen. So I haven’t… At least openly. Despite my attempts to create some distance in our relationships, my subconscious has decided for me. Those two are my friends. It explains the immense distress I’m battling over Alejandro’s capture.

“I guess so.”

“Me?”

Silence ensues from both of us.

His question stuns me; I was prepared for him to stop at Alejandro and Ronaldo. There’s nobody else in Las Almas or back at home that I pay attention to. Besides Ghost, at least. I could answer him in a second. I almost do.

Ghost is infamous for his detachment. He’s quiet, short-tempered, dangerous and mysterious. I’ve heard the comments that he suits his code name. Spiritual beings do not communicate through speech but through action. Ghost is the physical embodiment of the epiphany. Anybody able to coax a few sentences from him outside missions is admirable. Outside of that, his physical emotions require deep analysis and theory to understand. The mask only makes things more difficult. I’ve never seen him show palpable kindness through his aura or words to anyone, never heard him allow the use of his name, never heard him offer others insight into the raging whirlwind of his mind.

And yet he lets those things slide around me.

He lets me speak his name when no one is listening. He offers me comfort when I need it most — if not through limited words, through soft gazes and a hand on my shoulder. I’m usually able to get him talking. Sometimes I receive short answers, sometimes I receive enough to help me understand more of that whirlwind mind. He even occasionally shows pieces of himself that take away from the guessing game I usually play.

I shut people out because the last people I let in betrayed me.

I never consider answering personal questions, but you tend to have a lot of them. And every time you ask…I almost answer

I guess you and I are more alike than I thought.

All of it has me wanting more. More of his mind, his words, the soft gazes I’ve noticed are reserved for me. What I already have is nothing compared to every naked truth he could be telling me. However, what I’ve managed to coax from him seems to be more than he’s told anyone in a long time. At first, I marked it down as me being the only female on the team or Ghost considered me fragile. But I've proved myself, and nothing about being a 'fragile female' (which I very well am not) does not automatically give me all these passes. I now realise it is much more than that.

Never once has he called me his friend. I already have. Now it’s his turn.

“I don’t mind you, Simon, but friendship can’t be one-sided,” I say. While it’s a simple statement, a silent question hides between each word. Are you my friend?

“If it was as one-sided as you think, you wouldn’t be calling me Simon.”

My heart skips a beat. There. It’s an answer to my unspoken words, but it’s not plain as day. As usual, Simon tells me something that is anything but straightforward. There’s room for interpretation in his answer—something that is beginning to tire me. It’s almost as if the honest answer is criminal and he’s trying to cover up his tracks. Almost as if not speaking that honest answer can allow him to deny it.

I don't bother concealing my annoyance. “That’s not what I want to hear and you know it.”

“Fuck sakes, Y\N, I said it,” he says. His voice comes out both argumentative and exasperated.

“No, you didn't. All I ever get out of you is stuff that works around the truth. Stuff I have to think about to understand.” I'm crossing a line, I know. I just can't help it. “What’s so hard about admitting it?”

“Don’t.”

His tone is final. I don’t care.

“Does the truth scare you?”

His eyes squint, becoming barely visible against the black paint, the mask, and the low light. I can clearly picture a scowl jumping across the many faces I’ve imagined. While I want to flinch away, I don’t. Not for a second do my eyes lower, and not for a second do I grow offensive. I remain calm and collected, which I think annoys him more.

“You want the truth?” he growls. The accent of Manchester seems to thicken. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t want to admit I think of you as a friend ‘cause I bloody well want to ignore it. For years, it’s only been me and I planned it to be for the rest of my life. Then all of a sudden you and your annoying cousin appear and jeopardise everything. The only person with an inkling of anything was Shepherd and I was fine with that. But now you’re catching up to him. You’ve so effortlessly undone everything I’ve worked hard to maintain.” The growl in his voice dies down the longer he speaks. In the last sentence, his voice is quiet, defeated, but a little begrudging. “And I knowingly let you.”

“If it was bothering you that much, you should have told me,” I say with a voice equally as quiet. “If I knew you didn’t want me to know so badly, I would have respected that.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I think about telling you everything. I may get pissy at you over your questions, but…” A sigh. The truth is shameful to him. “I look forward to them.”

“If it makes you feel any better…” I laugh a little. “It’s really annoying how intriguing you are. Not just your past and your face… When I’m not trying to guess what you look like, I’m refraining from asking you stupid questions. Shit like if you’re a cat or dog person.”

“Dog person,” he replies. Any hint of anger or annoyance has disappeared. “Cats have too much attitude.”

I squint. “You just don’t appreciate them.”

“You strike me as a cat person.” He pauses in thought. “You just remind me of a cat, really.”

I raise my brows, giving him an exasperated look. “Are you going to tell me I have an attitude?”

“Maybe. But there’s more to it.”

I cock my head in question.

“Cats are friendly. Independent.” His eyes shift and I wonder if there's a smirk beneath the mask. “Curious.”

“Was that another dig at my questions?”

“Yes. Now shut up and listen.”

Before he continues, I find myself turning my body so I can fully look at him, my shoulder against the concrete walls and my legs folded beneath me.

“There’s that look in their eyes that they know your worst thoughts. Your secrets. They’re also graceful. Got that high-class elegance about them. But they can be unpredictable, striking out when you least expect. Once they sink their claws into you…” His eyes search my face. “You can’t get rid of them.”

I look up at him in wonder, my mouth slightly agape as I try to find a suitable response. Nothing I could say would express the way his words sink in. I’ve always coined Simon to be the observant type, keeping to himself and remaining silent. But I never expected him to relay his finds. His usual short, sharp answers contrast the compliment greatly.

“I think…” A small smile curves my lips upwards. “…That was the most meaningful compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Never. Now I have a question.”

“The floor is yours.”

“Do you have, like, Queen Elizabeth tattooed on your face? The British flag?” I grin. “Something mask-worthy, you know?”

“Why does it have to be something British?”

“Because there’s no way you’re the only Brit I know that isn’t somewhat stereotypical.”

Simon huffs a laugh. “No stereotypical tattoos. Sorry to disappoint.”

“A big scar, then?”

He tilts his head. “No scars that make me want to wear it.”

I raise my brows. “So you do have a scar?”

“Only one big one.”

“Good to know.” I nod my head with thoughtful eyes. “I’ll add that to a mental note.”

His eyes widen a fraction. The skull sown to his balaclava only offers the view of his painted eyes and nothing. Not even his eyebrows. I guess he’s raising them in question.

“How often do you think about this?”

I let out a long breath. “You have no idea. I change what I think you look like every day.”

“What do you think I look like.”

I go quiet in thought for a moment. As I said, the image changes… Only more frequently than I want to admit. Sometimes the change is small. Sometimes the change is big. I know I’m not the only one stumped by this, either. John and I joked over it once. He said things eluding to him being unattractive. A crooked nose, a huge scar, broken teeth. Every time he made a guess I would laugh, but never did the ideas seep into my mind. Nothing in an unattractive sense, anyway. Despite the possibility, I can never picture him as ugly.

“It varies, but…” I take one last second to collect my thoughts. “Without that skull piece, you have dark eyebrows. I imagine your hair is brown. And you’re eyes…it’s hard to tell with the paint, but they’re more deep-set and heavy-lidded. The balaclava is tight enough to make me think you have a straight nose, high cheekbones, strong jaw…” I shake my head. “Beyond that, I’m stumped.”

I can tell he thinks deeply about each characteristic. I sit patiently and almost wait for confirmation, but I know better than that. If he’s not going to show his face, he’s not going to—

“My hair is brown.”

I’m about to backtrack on my previous thought when he reaches towards the space between my neck and shoulder. In the frenzy that has been the last hour, my hair has come undone. The braid was unsavable, making me pull out the band and attempt a ponytail…only for it to snap in two. My hair now falls in dishevelled waves. A small part of my hair falls over my shoulder. Simon gingerly reaches for it, curling it between his finger and examining it in the low light. …Can he hear how fast my heart is beating?

“Not like yours. A few shades lighter, maybe. And that scar…”

Even more gingerly, Simon pulls one of my hands from its folded position, and I pray my expression doesn’t betray me. Rough, calloused hands press against the back of mine. The size difference is almost comical. He guides it to his masked face, working his fingers working around mine to spread them out. He drags my hand over his right cheekbone, across the hollow of his cheek, and towards his jaw. My mind is hyper-fixated on the shape of his face.

“Right along there.”

His eyes continue to search my face. There’s nothing but curiosity in the blue-grey of his irises. Curious at what, I can’t tell. Everything about this has my mind raging. The way he looks at me, the way he holds my hand against the black balaclava, the way he towers over me even when sitting down... The thoughts that surface are shameful. He’s your lieutenant, for Christ’s sake. Have some respect. The remembrance of his position has little help.

If anything, it strengthens the fantasies.

His hold shifts on top of my hand, the pad of his thumb swiping across my skin to stop on the inner side of my wrist and press down. He may not have been able to hear my heartbeat…but now he can feel it at the worst possible moment.

“You’re heart is beating fast.” He inclines his head. “Do I make you nervous, Y\N?”

God, is my breathing even? I can’t tell.

“You just caught me off guard, is all.”

Simon hums thoughtfully as his hand breaks away from mine and reaches forward. His fingers connect with my collarbone before finding my neck, exploring upwards in search of a pulse point. A shiver of excitement and nervousness runs beneath my skin like a ripple. His other hand slides over my knee and up my thigh. If my heart was racing before, this is a life-or-death sprint.

Slow are his movements. Calculated. He knows exactly where my heartbeat reverberates in my neck. Instead, he drags the moment out, coaxing out his desired reaction. But there’s something else in the slowness: a window for me to flinch away and draw the physical line neither of us has ever drawn. We’ve brushed shoulders and hands. We’ve sat with our bodies aligned in cramped cars. He’s held my hair back in a bathroom as I threw up after a panicked episode (something I would like to forget if he wasn't so surprisingly understanding). He's placed a hand on my shoulder for many different reasons. All are excusable moments. The ones that surpass professional boundaries can be marked as friendly. However, the intimacy of this moment is new. Scary. Exciting.

“Did you know your bottom lip twitches before you lie?” Simon asks. I find myself at eye level with him. When did he get so close? “I don’t like lies. Try again.”

“Sometimes…” I breathe.

“Sometimes, what?”

Bastard. “Sometimes you make me nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because…” I frown. “I don’t know.”

He’s definitely leaning closer now. Not just with his head, but with his whole upper body. Out of the nerves Simon is so adamant on understanding, I retreat, only making it a few inches before my back hits the other wall. Simon half hovers over me, the hand that was on my thigh now bracing himself on the floor. There are only a few inches between our chests. Even less between our faces. Not once does he lose his connection with my pulse.

“Another lie.”

“I don’t know how to word it. That's not a lie.”

Simon drops his head so that his covered mouth hovers beside my ear.

“Good girl.”

Never has praise sounded so seductive. It takes every inch of concentration to reign in my self-control. I might have ripped off his mask then and there…

Only, I think he’s beating me to it.

From where his head hovers, I can’t see his masked face. The wide, strong shape of his shoulder obscures most of my vision. He retracts his hand from my neck to reach somewhere I can’t see. The sound of moving cloth widens my eyes and upsets the rhythm of my breathing, the uneven rise and fall of my chest barely brushing his.

Maybe he’s adjusting it, I convince myself. He has only ever offered you little pieces at a time. What he’s offering me now is more than he ever has at once. While my body screams for more, my mind knows I can’t expect too much from him. Whatever he’s doing now is more than enough.

“You’re breathing funny.”

The feeling of breath skims the shell of my ear and down my neck like a warm, ghostly waterfall. It takes me a second to notice a difference in his voice. It’s low, it’s rough, it’s teasing. All are easily noticeable and nothing new. What is new is the enhanced clarity. An added sharpness lingers in his accented words. The slight muffle is nowhere to be found.

I was wrong. He’s lifted his mask.

“Because you’re taking off your mask." My answer comes out in a weak whisper.

He doesn’t speak about the mask, instead repositioning his hand to my neck to find my pulse.

“If you can’t tell me,” he murmurs, returning to the previous topic, “your heartbeat can.”

A warm feeling presses into my neck. A gasp slips past my lips as my heartbeat continues to quicken and stumble beneath his thumb. Against my skin…I think Simon is smiling.

Nothing about this seems real. Simon plants slow kisses on my neck with his bare lips. They’re a little rough, yet soothing. Whether they’re full or thin, I can’t tell, but the lack of obvious signs paints an image of something in between. His nose brushes the base of my jaw. Just above the pointed tip is where the balaclava begins. I can feel the hard edges of the sewn-on skull pressing into my left temple. Light stubble covers his jaw.

As his mouth works slowly against my neck, my jaw, and my collarbone, my hand slides up and over his chest. I slowly feel his bare neck. Beneath my fingers, his Adam's apple bobs. Further I explore, feeling the planes of his skin. The stubble scratches against my curious hand. Raised skin runs in a line over the right side of his face; the scar. It’s thin and generally clean-cut. He pulls back slightly as I feel his face. A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest as my thumb traces over his lips. I was right, they are something between full and thin. His lower lip feels slightly fuller with a deep hollow beneath that curves into his chin.

When I find it in me to speak, my voice is breathy.

“Kiss me.” He seems to still at that. When his reply isn’t instant, I continue. “You don’t have to… But I won’t look. I swear it.”

Silently, he reaches for my hand. He holds his over mine for a moment as he did with the mask moments earlier. Then he gently pries it away. Cloth shifts in my air as he fixes the mask and pulls back. I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I respect the decision. Simon looks down at me with lust-blown pupils. Mine must be the same.

He takes a second to examine me. My heavy-lidded eyes, my slightly parted lips, the way I slump beneath him, the glistening wet spots left on my neck. He whips it away before he speaks.

“Can I trust you?”

We both know the answer to that, so instead of saying the obvious, I one-up him.

“Do you want to trust me?”

Silence passes for a heartbeat.

“Of course I do,” he says softly. “I want to trust you. I want to touch you. I want to kiss you. …Undress you. I’ve wanted to for so long.”

Then he moves.

My thoughts go quiet as Simon’s hands reach upward. When his fingers brush the base of his mask, I reach out and still his hands. The action takes both of us by surprise. For months I’ve been thinking about this moment. Just now I’ve admitted how much what he looks like takes up my mind. Now I find myself stopping him, but not because I’ve changed my mind. I worry that this will be something he’ll regret.

“Simon,” I say. “You don’t owe it to me to show your face.”

“But I do.” He inclines his head. “Now keep your pretty eyes up.”

My breath catches in my throat as he pulls it off in one swift motion. I take in everything I’m seeing in amazement, wonder, and bewilderment.

He’s handsome. He’s really handsome.

The ruggedness and confidence he carries seem to be etched into the planes of his face. A light stubble shadows his angular, defined jaw. Just as I had imagined, the bridge of his nose is straight and strong. His high cheekbones, deep-set eyes and smudged black paint create deep shadows. His mouth is wide. The shape of them is a physical manifestation of what I had imagined. With an average fullness, his upper lip is slightly smaller with a soft cupid’s bow. Tracing the angles of his right cheekbone is that straight, silver scar. His hair isn’t as short as most other military men’s. It’s a little messy from the mask and, true to his words, a few shades lighter than mine. I can tell that, the longer it gets, the more it curls.

I stay silent as I take him in, eyes wide. Somehow I find the courage to slowly reach out. His blue-grey eyes dart to my hesitant fingers. When he doesn’t deny me, I close the space, this time feeling him without needing to imagine his image. I apply a little pressure as I brush his skin, feeling the warmth of his cheeks, the scar tissue on his cheekbone, and the stubble on his jaw. His eyes train on me. This is one of the few times I cannot understand what I see in them.

Whatever he’s thinking, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I stare back at Simon. Not Ghost, Simon.

“I was starting to think you weren’t real,” I say jokingly.

He laughs softly. One side of his mouth quirks up into a skewed smirk. My heart flutters at the sight of it. When he speaks, it’s with that teasing tone that always had me imagining a smirk. Matching his expressions to his tones is a strange thing to see, but I love it.

“Is this real enough for you?” he asks.

I hum in agreement. “You’re a lot better looking than I imagined.”

He raises a brow in mock offence. “Do I radiate unattractiveness? I’m offended.”

“I never said I imagined you ugly.”

I draw my hands back, taking another good look at him. My amazed smile remains. So does the awe in my eyes. Now that I know how good-looking he is, it’s going to be hard to get him out of my head. At least I can’t scold myself over falling for a faceless man anymore.

“I guess if I die tonight… I can go a little happier.”

The way he tilts his head and looks up through lowered brows sends my mind into a frenzy. I’m used to the action with his mask on, usually with the sewn-on skull. Now, with every part of his face laid bare for me, the feeling it stirs comes tenfold. He gives me a fake accusing look. Beneath the teasing air he gives off, that desire remains.

“A little?” he murmurs. His face grows closer, giving me a better view of the hollows and curves and marks of war.

“A little not enough?”

His eyes dip to my lips. “Not by a longshot.”

Then Simon kisses me.

Eyes fluttering closed, I sink into the feeling of his lips against mine. Gently. Hesitantly. Does he expect me to pull away? How could he think such a thing when I almost seemed desperate when I asked him? My hands slide over his chest, slowly linking behind his neck as the kiss deepens.

For a moment, everything fades away. The gunfire, the screams, the impending death we may face any moment... All of it reduces to a meaningless blur. Suddenly all that exists is me, Simon, and the secret embrace we share. In our kiss is a million unspoken words; a tidal wave of passion laced with a bittersweet sadness. The talk of ‘dying happy’ is no exaggeration. We very well may die, and seeing his face and feeling his touch eases the painful thought. Maybe this way I can find him in the afterlife - seek out his mysterious eyes and lopsided smirk and spend an eternity together. Or perhaps there is no afterlife, and this is my last stroke of luck.

Satisfied with the knowledge of what he does to me, Simon lowers his hand from my neck. The pressure reapplies near my belt. His fingers timidly skim the bottom of my tanktop, pulling the tucked part from my waistband. My own fingers weave through his brown hair as his hand slides further beneath. My kiss falters when he finds one of my breasts. His hand comfortably rests over it, his palm slowly kneading at the flesh. A low groan builds at the back of my throat.

After a moment, we pull away, chests rising and falling as we take deep breaths. His forehead rests against mine and suddenly I'm wishing we could do this over again. Except I picture less sadness to tinge every word and action. I picture the safety of home, the warmth of a bed, a carefree air that allows us to just enjoy the other's company. Reality comes back in a painful rush.

“I don’t want to die,” I whisper.

His hand retreats from my breast at my words. Instead, he takes a hold of my waist, giving me a comforting squeeze.

“You are not going to die. Not today. Not when there’s so much more I want from you.” He adds the last part with a teasing, suggestive smirk.

He looks down at my lips again—

“Ghost, how do you copy?”

We both freeze at the sound of a voice, so caught up in the moment that the radio is forgotten. Both the unspeakable things and sorrowful thoughts flooding my mind suddenly vanish at the sound of a familiar voice. There’s an equally received look on Simon’s face as he reaches for the small radio.

“I read you loud and clear, Sergeant,” he says. “What’s your location?”

“I…don’t know,” John replies solemnly. “Streets are crawling with Shadows. Where are you?”

“You see church spires above the houses?”

There’s a second of silence. Then…

“I see them.”

“Good. Head straight there and come inside. No Shadows here yet. They’ll be busy going door to door.”

“Affirmative. I’m on my way. Have you got any word from Y/N?”

Simon looks at me, silently giving me the floor to speak. “I’m right here, Johnny.”

There’s a sigh of relief on the other end. “Oh, thank fuck. You in one piece?”

“I’m all here. You?”

“Got a shot to the shoulder. Nothing I can’t handle.”

For the next while, Simon and I sit huddled side by side, guiding Johnny through the radio. I generally leave the talking to Simon. Listening to him speak and sinking into his warmth is good enough. Every so often, he'll say something that takes me by surprise. Sometimes it's a dad joke, either really good or incredibly bad. Sometimes it's something that alludes to Simon not minding Johnny. He never outright admits it, but saying 'I like you alive' to Johnny's 'so you do like me' speaks for itself. I smile at that. I have sunk my claws into him, and he's not going to be able to get rid of me till the day I die.

[agere-fics]

Doctor Papa

dni: k!nk, anti-agere, agepl4y, or ddlg-esque blogs 🍄 this blog is a safe space for age regressors and age dreamers 🍄

pairing: caregiver!papa!bruce banner x regressor!little!reader

characters: uncle thor, bruce banner, reader, mentions of: steve, bucky, sam, and tony stark.

summary: you have to get MRIs done but you're nervous. thank goodness, papa knows how to cheer you up.

word count: 1,751

content warnings: MRIs, hospital gown, reader is written like they're a child's height, no mention of a particular chronic illness, please tell me if i'm missing anything

author's note: tadaa!! all done! this is the most i've written for a one shot! very proud of myself. also, this is inspired by me having to get MRIs done recently ajfhs

♡

Sometimes stuff we've done lots of times can still seem scary; which is annoying because who wants to feel anxious about the same exact thing over and over again?

You have to get these scans done by tomorrow. With every heart of your being, you wished that wasn't true but your previous scans were too old.

UGH!

Luckily, your papa had a trick up his sleeve.

He told you to stay here, in this gigantic, empty, white walled room. It was utterly boring, there were no paintings or statues or anything. Not even toys! Well, okay, you had your Mr. Rainy Day Bear but still! At least there were floor to ceiling windows- OH, and a skylight, too. Those are always nice.

While you waited for Bruce to come back, you watched what went on outside. There was Tony using his latest invention to attempt to lift Uncle Thor’s hammer. Tony still had no idea that it couldn't possibly work! How silly of him.

Bucky, Sam, and Steve stood in a far apart triangle. They were tossing around the Captain America shield like a Frisbee, guffawing, and yelling things that were joyously incomprehensible. It looked like lots of fun! Definitely more fun than MRIs. Maybe, they would let you join in later.

The double doors of the empty room swung open and papa’s humongous green form entered.

“Okayyy, love bug, I've grabbed all the cardboard pieces from recycling that weren't gross.” He grimaced thinking about the black, moldy gunk that spoiled some previously useful parts. He shrunk back down to Bruce Banner size after dumping the cardboard into a large pile. “We should have enough for our little art project.”

“Art project?” You looked at him expectantly. Your eyes were actually lit up with stars of joy this time, instead of meteor shower anxiety.

The idea was to make a cardboard MRI machine. Having an art project to focus on would comfort and reassure you about the process you would go through tomorrow. If he could make it fun, your anxiety wouldn't be so bad.

“I’ve seen the machine before, papa, I can make the bestest one yet!” You hopped on your toes, giddy with tight, flapping fists.

“I grabbed your sticker books and some paint, too-”

“OH YAY, THANK YOU PAPA, THIS IS SO EXCITING!!”

Mission accomplished. Anxiety gone, replaced with magical cure Art Project™. Bruce smirked to himself.

You laid down on a tall, square cardboard piece. Bruce traced your form with a sharpie as you giggled. Once you had the correct length, you both began cutting a rectangular piece and put that piece on a metal cart with wheels.

Then, you cut out half circle pieces and hot glued them all together until it made one large 4D sphere with a hole in the middle like a donut.

At one point, the glue burned you but Papa Bruce fixed it right up and stopped the booboo pain with a cure-all kiss.

Your cardboard MRI machine may look done to outsiders but it wasn't even close. It was missing the most important part of all: the stickers! There were heart stickers, stickers with dolphins, rainbow stickers, puppy stickers, stickers that had Mr. Hulk and Papa on them, too! There were even stickers of Stevey, Bucky, Iron Man, and Uncle Thor! Papa said for your birthday he'd make stickers with you on them, too.

You also painted squiggles, polka dots, lines, circles, triangles, kitty cats, and zig zags. All of them in your most favoritest color.

“There!” You stood proudly, hands on your hips. “Now, it's very, very pretty, papa.”

Papa gave you a minute and then asked, “Are you ready to practice?”

You blinked and sighed. Defeat warping your mood. “Yeah...”

Papa spun away, put a doctor's coat on, and then turned back, holding a clipboard. “Alright, are you the caregiver for Mr. Rainy Day Bear?”

“Yeah, papa.” You lightened up a little bit.

“Papa? No, I'm Doctor Doctor. Who's papa?”

“You're papaaa!” You pointed at him.

“Okay, okay I'm Doctor Papa.” He repeated, “Are you the caregiver of Mr. Rainy Day Bear?”

You tilted your chin up and did a faux British accent. “Why, yes, sir. He's feeling very, very bad and needs a scan.”

“Ah, yes, I see that on his chart, Caregiver.” He flipped through the scribbled pages on the clipboard. “Let's have. Mr. Bear lay down on the table with his head on the pillow.” Bruce gestured with his hand.

You laid your stuffie down on the pretend bed, placing Mr. Bear’s head gently on the pillow. You patted his hand for good measure.

Doctor Papa put ear plugs into the bear's ears and placed cushy pink headphones on him. The headphones had cat ears on them. Papa raised his voice a little, “Mr. Rainy Day Bear, what kind of music do you like to listen to?”

“Doctor Papa, Mr. Bear is nonverbal.” you said matter of factly. You raised your pointer finger to the sky. “I’ll answer for him. He likes The Wiggles, Papa- I mean Doctor Papa.”

“Alrighty then, The Wiggles album coming right up.” Bruce pulled out his phone, scrolling until he found the right music. “Wiggles rave?”

You nodded, then kissed the tippity top of Rainy Day’s head. “You'll be okay, Mr. Bear.”

Bruce began to push the cardboard bed into the donut sphere. You took a big, big deep breath in.

“BRRRR BEEEP AGHHHH RRRRR DNNNN-”

That breath was immediately released back into the atmosphere. “PAPAAA!” You clutched your chest, laughing so hard your legs felt weak.

Doctor Papa continued, “DRRRRR EEEEEE EHHHHHH MRRRRRR!”

You were rolling on the floor, tears leaving your eyes. How silly of your papa!

“BRRRRRrrrrrr….” Papa rolled the cardboard bed out of the donut. “How are you feeling Mr. Bear?”

“Papa, he can't hear you!”

Bruce laughed. “Oh, yeah, right.” He removed the headphones and then the earplugs. “How is the fantastic Mr. Bear?”

You lifted Mr. Bear’s paws and had him sign to Bruce, ‘I am okay.’

“Perfect! Let's take a look at your scans here…” Papa turned around and scribbled quickly on the paper. When he faced you again, he showed you the scan. It was a poorly constructed scribble of Mr. Rainy Day Bear with a big, biiiiiiiig, heart right in the middle. “I knew it, Lots-Of-Love-itis.”

You unburied the British accent. “Quite good, sir. Well done, Mr. Bear.” You placed a hulk sticker on his paw and hugged him tightly.

Papa kneeled down and asked, “Do you want to practice with you this time?”

You gave it a thought, looking this way and that. “Hmmm, will you make the funny noises again?”

“BEEEEP BRRR-”

“Not right now, Papa!” You shouted with a smile.

“Oh, during the practice?” He waited for you to finish rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Okay…” You breathed in, out, in, and out slowly. “Let's practice, Doctor Papa.”

♡

“Big day, lille venn.” Uncle Thor said as he helped tie the back of your hospital gown. He double knotted the strings behind your neck and then the ones by your hip. “There you are. All set.”

You frowned at that, looking at Thor with big, watery eyes. “Not all set.”

“It'll be okay.” His hands (placed on your shoulders) turned you to face him. “Remember your breathing?”

“Mhm.”

“Let's do it together.” He raised his left hand as you did the same. “Climb Yggdrasil, breathe in.”

You traced up your pointer finger.

“Let's sit at the very top, hold your breath.”

You paused at the tip of your finger.

“Slide down the Yggdrasil branches, breathe out.”

You traced down your pointer finger.

Uncle Thor had you repeat that four more times, until the tears dried and the anxiety flowed further away.

“Very good, great job. Let's go see Papa.” He held your hand as he walked you towards the scary room. Worse than the boring room from yesterday.

You turned the corner and there was Papa at the computer. “Hey there! The computer’s prepped and waiting for you, little one.”

You looked at Papa, then Uncle Thor, and then Papa again. “Okay… I'm ready.”

Papa led you to the metal bed. It was rectangular and thin. A sheet was laid out on it so you wouldn't get super cold. There was a thick pillow on the end that had your favorite kitty cat pillowcase on it, which made the corners of your lips turn upwards.

Papa pressed an arrow down bottom next to the donut sphere that brought the bed down to your level. He held your hand as you hopped on and then helped position you onto the center. He guided you through a big, deep breath so that your body was as comfortable on the table as can be instead of tense.

Next came pink headphones with cutesy kitty ears on them and plain boring ear plugs so that your hearing wasn't hurt from the loud noises. Papa already set up your favorite kind of music so when the headphones were placed on you, it was already playing. Bruce furrowed his brow in question, moving his thumb up and down. You replied with a thumbs up. You were ready.

Bruce handed you a panic button to hold just in case and laid a blanket over you to keep you warm. Papa kissed the top of your head and left the room.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath in and out.

BBRRRRRRR

‘It's okay. I'm okay.’

BEEEEEEPPP

‘Woohoo, I'm doing awesome!’

REEEEHHHHHH

‘This is boring, it's got to have been a bajillion minutes by now.’

After ten years (minutes), the machine stopped and Papa walked back into the room. He gave you a high five and bunches of praises that you only heard some of because of all the ear protectors. But you could tell by his facial expressions that he was so very proud of you.

He pressed the arrow down button again and the bed began moving to an easier height. You removed the headphones and earplugs yourself, you felt like such a big kid (in the best way)!

You stretched this way and that while making funny noises which made you abrupt into hearty giggles.

Bruce held your hand as you jumped down. Next thing you knew, he was hugging you tightly, picking you up, and spinning you around and around!

“I'm so very, very proud of you, bumble bee!”

You kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Papa!”

♡

[azrielsmommy]

Dark Paradise (Part One)

Pairing: Azriel x Fem! Reader

Summary: Never in the existence of Prythian had there been a rightful heir to two courts, much less a female, but there you are, in the flesh. With war upon the lands, and questionable family dynamics, a certain shadowsinger takes it upon himself to make your life just a little bit more interesting.

Word Count: 1058

Warnings: some angst, sexual themes

a/n: i have NEVER written anything on here about acotar, or just fanfics in general. this is just some slight backstory, i promise we get into the MEAT of it all soon!

The blazing sun was beating down on your face, causing your hair to shimmer with faint red hues as you approached the throne room. The sound of your long white skirt swishing, accompanied by the clicking of your heels against the white marble floors, were the only noise throughout the palace, not even birds sang their melodies.

As you walked through the large doors to the throne room, the sun increased by tenfold, beaming in through various circular skylights. To fae not from the Day Court, the sun would've been blistering and heat-stroke inducing, and in your years spent here, you've witnessed a fair share. Yet to you it was pleasant, you loved it, a sweet reminder of home. A slight smile stretched across your lips as you took in the intricate designs that decorated the pillars in the throne room.

The effort and care that went into sculpting this beautiful room never ceased to amaze, but your favourite piece of artwork was certainly the thrones themselves. Halting your footsteps before the stairs that led up to the three thrones, each one made of glistening white marble, all enveloped in golden light. You admired the middle throne, belonging to Helion, your father. It's the largest of the three, built for a High Lord, and it'll be yours, when the times comes, but you wish it doesn't anytime soon. You're tired of loosing family.

A wave of sorrow crashes over you as your gaze drifts to the smaller throne of the left, empty, a solemn reminder of your dead brother. It's covered in a large gold and white cloth, several little trinkets on the throne serves as a memory of him. You wrung your hands, as you focused on keeping your emotions at bay.

A sigh escaped from you, disappointment at the lack of your fathers presence, you thought he would've been here, welcoming you home from your travels. Dropping your hands in annoyance, you turned on your heel ready to leave when you heard echoing footsteps.

"What kind of daughter leaves her father, all alone, while she travels to Vallahan." Helion's voice had a teasing tone as he gracefully walked towards you.

"What kind of father forgets about his daughter?" You playfully retort back, raising an eyebrow as you try to keep a smile from forming on your lips. Helion stops just an arms reach from you, as he dramatically places a hand on his chest as if physically wounded.

"I would never forget about you, my sweet daughter." He spoke in a soft tone. The smile that threatened to spread on your face finally forms as you laughed, throwing your arms around your father in a tight hug. Helion held onto you like his life depended on it. You relished in the feeling of finally seeing your father after your long time spent abroad. After a minute he released you, instead throwing an arm around your shoulder, ushering you out of the throne room.

"How were your diplomatic measures in Vallahan, I presume they went smoothly?" He asked as we walked together through the palace hallways. It went more than just simply smooth, your time was spent drinking at bars, dancing until you could no longer, and sex with males of all kinds. Of course you successfully made alliances and discussed peace with fae in power, but a simple nod satisfied your father.

The rest of the evening was spent catching up with the people of your court over a the banquet created in celebration of your return. You spent your night drinking lavish wine, and dancing until your feet hurt, males watched you with pure lust and greed in their eyes, but you paid no attention to them.

As the night turned into early day, everybody stumbled back to their respective homes, and you to your room. Giggles slipped past your lips as you staggered down the halls to your room. Cauldron your feet fucking hurt.

"Stupid shoes," you slurred while fighting with the straps on your heels, fingers struggling to unclasp them. Finally you stepped out of them, letting your bare feet hit the floor. Nearly moaning at the feeling. Shoes in one hand you continued the trek to your room. Nearly face planting into the door, you stumbled towards your bed, and flopped down, shoes thrown onto the carpet.

You fell asleep as soon as you landed on your bed, not even caring to get under the soft covers, or take of your makeup and dress. As you slept your dreams were plagued by a man, he was shroud in shadows, his very aura exuded mystery.

His body looked like it was sculpted by the Mother herself, the lines of his muscles still visible through the battle leathers that he wore, and those wings. Dauntingly huge, you've never seen a pair of Illyrian wings that large before.

As your eyes drifted upwards towards his face you froze, he was devastatingly beautiful, the kind of beauty that would have any female begging for his attention. Your hand involuntarily reached out towards him, unable to take yourself out of the spell he seemingly put you under. He was some sort of an otherworldly dark paradise.

Your fingers just grazing his shoulder before you abruptly awoke. Shooting up from the bed you gasped, reeling from your dream that felt all too real.

Who was that man? Why was I dreaming of him? Thoughts ran through your mind at the speed of light, as you glanced around your room, a small shadow in the corner near your vanity caught your eye. As you watched the shadows flicker and slink about, it seemed as though somebody, through the shadows, watched back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Azriel splashes his face with cold water, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat down. Running his hands through his hair he leaned against the bathroom counter, staring at himself through the mirror. He doesn't really.....dream, his sleep is always restless, filled with memories from his childhood. So imagine his surprise when a women, with slightly copper hair appears in his dreams, and reaches out for him.

His brains feels like mush, shaking his head, he tries to free the questions that desperately cling to his mind, as he heads into his closet, dressing into his leathers for the day.

Rhysand and him have a meeting with Helion today.

[ereardon]

That Summer || Part One [Bradley Bradshaw x Reader]

A Bradley Bradshaw AU

Summary: One night during the summer you turned eighteen, you woke up to a surprise. Your father, a retired Navy Admiral, had posted bail for the son of a former colleague who was now orphaned and had gotten himself mixed up with the law. Instead of letting him get lost in the judicial system, your father signed himself up as Bradley Bradshaw’s guardian to prevent him from going to juvie. You were explicitly told to stay away from the boy in the attic room. But as the summer went on, you and Bradley struck up an unlikely friendship that turned into a forbidden relationship. Bradley tipped your world upside down, challenging everything you had once thought you knew. How could the two of you think it would end any differently than it did when your father called the cops the night he found the two of you in bed together?

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader 

Warnings: Cursing, illusion to violence, mention of dead parents, angst

Wordcount: 3.5K

Series masterlist here; Part Two here

“Do you know him?” 

You looked over. The familiar dark hair. The tanned, even skin. The dazzling smile. You could hear his laugh in your ear even though it had been years. You could practically feel the vibrations of his voice and the way it used to smooth over your skin in the middle of the night as the two of you laid side-by-side on the queen mattress, the stars twinkling through the skylights of your childhood bedroom. 

You would know Bradley Bradshaw anywhere. It didn’t matter that it had been fifteen years since you had last seen him. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t heard your name fall from his lips since the night the two of you were ripped apart. It didn’t matter that you had once told yourself you’d never love another person the way you loved Bradley, only for him to be gone in an instant.

He was bonded to you. He was infused in every single atom in your body. He ran through your veins alongside your blood. He haunted your dreams. He patrolled your memories. His touches were tattooed on your skin like a glow-in-the-dark map that only you could see.  

You looked up one last time. And watched as Bradley turned, his hand pulling at the sunglasses that sat squarely on his nose until he was looking, staring, at you. And it was just the two of you, once more. It was like none of it had ever happened, and also everything had happened. And you were eighteen again, on the beach, in Galveston. And he was just a boy who held your hand and promised you the world even though he didn’t have a dime to his name. Even though he had no right to offer you a future, even if you both knew it was a lie.

You looked away. “No,” you whispered softly. “I don’t know him.” 

***

In the middle of the night, you jolted awake in bed. The sound of voices in the foyer and the familiar thump of the giant wooden front door as it sealed closed caught your attention. Your father ran a tight ship and an even tighter house. It was incredibly unusual that anyone would drop by unannounced in the middle of the night. You turned to the clock on your nightstand. It was after two in the morning. 

Silently, you eased out of bed and tiptoed out of your room into the hall, peering down from the railing of the curved staircase. Two stories below, you heard voices and spotted several figures moving into your line of sight through the wooden posts on the stairwell. 

You saw your father’s familiar, formidable, figure first. Tall stature, hair grayed with age. You could tell, just by how rigid he was standing, that this wasn’t a positive interaction. He radiated anger and disappointment, even from two stories away. You were all too familiar with this side of him.

The next person who popped into your field of view was a police officer, dressed in uniform. You frowned. Your father, a retired Admiral, wasn’t unfamiliar with the local Galveston police force. But they didn’t make it a habit to come to your house at two o’clock in the morning, unannounced. 

Finally, a third figure floated into view. You sucked in a breath. He was young, late teens, with sandy brown hair, wearing a ratty t-shirt and a pair of shorts. You watched his body language. How he kept his eyes trained on the ground, head bowed so low his chin must have been touching his chest. How even from all the way on the third floor you could tell that he was in desperate need of a shower. 

And then, finally, the voices ceased. The policeman held out a hand to shake your father’s. He looked at the boy, who raised his eyeline and nodded solemnly. And then the door was shut and it was just your father and the boy, staring at each other in the foyer. You leaned down, close to the white wood posts in the railing, trying desperately to hear what they were saying. And then you watched as your father sighed, shaking his head, heading for the stairs. 

Before you could scramble out of your crouched spot, the boy looked up, catching your eye. 

That was the first time you saw Bradley Bradshaw. 

You were seventeen, about to turn eighteen. You had your entire life ahead of you. You had kissed boys before. You had thought, wrongly, that you had experienced pain before. You had thought you understood the world and its intricacies. You thought you knew exactly where your life was going to go. 

Everything you had ever known went out the window that night as you looked down the curved flights of stairs and saw Bradley. Everything you had ever thought was true was flipped on its head the second his warm brown eyes locked on yours. 

You scurried back to your room, closing the door as you heard your father’s footsteps on the second floor platform, starting his ascent to the third floor. You waited with baited breath as two sets of footsteps passed your room, turning down the hallway toward the attic tower room. 

Your family had moved to Galveston five years prior once your father finally retired from his post at Top Gun in California. The first time they brought you down to Texas, you gawked at the house. It stuck out like a sore thumb. A giant Victorian monstrosity near the beach, with a steep, gabled roof and a round tower on the right side. 

The tower room remained empty for as long as you could remember. It was mostly storage for your mother’s hideous Christmas decorations or whatever hobby she decided to have that week that would inevitably get stored away once she turned her mind to something else. 

The sounds of their footsteps grew more muted as the two of them climbed the stairs to the tower room. 

You closed your eyes, trying to wash away the haunting image of the boy staring up at you only moments before. But it was burned in your retinas. 

Somehow, even then, you knew. He was going to change everything. 

***

When you woke up the next day, you had almost forgotten about the entire event the night before. 

That was, until you floated downstairs in a tiny white cotton pajama set and spotted an unfamiliar, but somehow familiar, person sitting at the breakfast table, their back to you, just a head of brown curls in view. 

You looked up at Louise, the housekeeper, with a frown. She shrugged. 

“Y/N.” Your father’s voice boomed across the expanse of the kitchen. You turned as he strode into the kitchen through the side door, already dressed for the day with nowhere to go. Thirty-five years in the Navy had acclimated him to a sleep schedule that you could never wrap your head around. 

“Daddy,” you said softly, stepping further into the kitchen. The boy at the table remained still, not facing you, instead looking out through the bay window next to the breakfast nook, overlooking the ocean. 

“Louise, can you get my daughter some coffee, please?” he asked and she nodded, returning in a moment with a delicate china cup filled coffee with cream, exactly the way you liked it.

“Thank you,” you whispered softly. 

Your father’s eyes rolled over to the boy at the table. “Y/N. This is Bradley Bradshaw. He will be staying with us for a while.” 

Still, he didn’t turn. You stepped forward, sliding into the bench seat that hugged the curve of the bay window, setting your coffee cup down gently. “Hi.” 

That’s when Bradley finally met your gaze. You had to stifle a gasp. He had cuts and scrapes across his face and down his neck, and a black eye that you hadn’t been able to distinguish in the darkened lighting the night before. His lip was split. He looked at you silently for a moment before uttering, “Hey.” His voice was timid. Broken. He didn’t sound at all like what you had expected. 

You weren’t sure what you had expected. 

Your father put his hand on your bare shoulder. “Bradley’s father and I served together at Top Gun back in the day.” 

“That’s nice,” you said, taking a sip of coffee. “Is he still in California?” 

“He’s dead,” Bradley said and you sank back in shock. The way he said it had the effect of curdling the milk in your coffee. It was cold. Detached.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. 

Bradley turned to look back out the window, ignoring the plate of eggs in front of him. 

“Y/N,” your father said, “can I speak to you in the living room please?” 

You nodded, sliding out of the booth seat and following him through the doors into the wider living room. 

He turned to you. “I need you to be careful,” he whispered. 

You frowned. “Careful about what?” 

“That boy,” he replied. “Bradley. He’s deeply troubled. His father, Nick, was a good man. But it seems that Bradley has gone down a rather troubled path.” He paused. “Stay away from him. Promise me, Pumpkin.” 

Pumpkin. The nickname your father had called you since you were born. Your parents had wanted a house full of children, running and screaming and creating chaos. And instead, they had gotten only you. And the weight of that sat on your shoulders every day that passed. 

“You may see him at meals, but don’t fraternize with the boy,” your father warned. “He’ll only bring you trouble.” He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the top of your head. 

“Promise me?” 

You nodded. “I promise.” 

He smiled. “Good. I’ll see you at dinner.” It didn’t matter that he was retired. Your father always had somewhere to be, no matter what day of the week. He frowned upon sleeping in and relaxing. 

“Daddy?” you asked as he turned to leave. “What did he do? Why is he here?” 

Your father sighed. “He was in trouble, and needed help. That’s all you need to know.” 

“But what did he–”

“Y/N.” His voice was firm. It was his military voice. You knew it well. “Don’t ask questions you don’t need answers to.”

***

The move from California to Texas had been extreme. Your parents were Texas born and raised, and they had taken their ideals and their tendencies with them to California. But growing up in San Diego has been a blessing. You visited cousins and grandparents back in the South during the holidays and the summer, but it wasn’t until your father retired that you had truly understood what it meant to be from Texas. 

Your mother never worked. Not a day in her life. She was raised to be someone’s wife, someone’s mother. And that’s why it was such a disappointment that you were her only child to care for. It’s why it was such a disappointment that you hadn’t turned out at all like the daughter they had hoped for. 

You wore bikinis all day during the summer and let your hair get bleached by the sun and you read books with sexual themes and you resisted going to bible study youth group and you were not the daughter that they had expected. 

So when your father retired and moved the three of you to Texas, your mother signed you up for a debutante ball at the end of the summer. As if spinning around a dated country club ballroom in five layers of taffeta would have the effect of making you a lady, someone they were proud to call their daughter.

“Mother,” you whined when you found out. “I am not doing that.” 

“Y/N Sullivan,” she warned and you just knew that your full name rolling off her sharp tongue was never good. “You’re doing this and I’m not going to hear otherwise.” 

You turned and rolled your eyes behind her back. And that was how you ended up buying elbow-length gloves for the end-of-summer Ball at the Galveston Artillery Club. 

The gloves, and the dress, hung in perpetuity in your walk-in closet. Every morning when you went in to get dressed they taunted you. 

August 15 could not come and go soon enough. 

***

You didn’t see Bradley again until dinner. 

As usual, your mother was nowhere to be seen. You spent the day on the beach, tanning on a towel, reading books with your head ducked beneath a thin linen shirt, letting the Texas sun scorch you until you were so hot you had to run into the water. 

By the time you had showered and dressed for dinner, it was closing in on seven. Dinner was always at seven and it always required an outfit change. Other kids had grown up in TV dinner houses or with takeout meals eaten on the couch. You had grown up with a strict dinner time and a dress code. 

You smoothed the silky fabric of your slip dress down with your palms, making your way through the living room to the formal dining room. 

Once again, it was only you and Bradley. He looked up as you entered. He was wearing a collared shirt, obviously one of your father’s from years past, that was too large on his frame, the orange color highlighting the injuries on his face. 

You sat down in your normal chair across from him at the ten-person table. “How’d you get those?” you asked, nodding toward him. 

He frowned. “Thought you weren’t supposed to talk to me.” 

“Shit,” you whispered. “You heard that?” 

Bradley nodded. 

“I’m sorry,” you said. “My father can be temperamental.” To say the least. 

Bradley shrugged. “Whatever.” 

At that moment, your parents entered the room. Your mother’s eyes swept over where you sat across the table from Bradley, a permanent crease between her eyebrows taking hold. “Y/N,” she said softly before turning. “And you must be Bradley.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, head bowed. 

Your father grunted and sat down at his normal spot at one end of the table. Your mother took the other end. It feel surreal, like an extremely fucked up Norman Rockwell painting sprung to life. 

The entire dinner was consumed in near silence. Just the sound of forks and knives scratching at the china plates that your mother loved so dearly. Your eyes drifted across the table to Bradley, who looked like he was in pain when he chewed. He kept his eyes trained on his plate, only lifting them when he was asked a direct question. 

You were sawing through a piece of undercooked asparagus when your mother’s voice slid across your skin. “Have you found a date for the debutante ball yet?” 

You put your silver fork and knife down. “Not yet.” 

“It’s in less than two months,” your mother replied. “You need to move before all the escorts are snapped up.” 

“Maybe I’ll hire a real escort then.” 

Her jaw dropped. “Y/N, don’t even tease.” 

“Sorry mother.” 

“What about the Althans boy? He’s charming.” 

“He’s five foot four and smells like pickled onions.” 

At the other end of the table, your father snorted. You looked up and smirked. “Daniel!” your mother scolded. “Can you please tell your daughter she’s being a brat.” 

“Y/N,” he said, turning to you. 

“Yes, daddy?”

“You’re being a brat,” he replied and as you opened your mouth with a retort he added, “and you’re right about the Althans kid. He smells God awful.” 

You laughed. “What about Frank Turner’s son? The engineering student.” 

You grunted. “Pass.”

Your father sighed. “And what’s wrong with him?” 

You didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. That you had been at a bonfire last summer and Ethan Turner had made a pass at you and you had lost your virginity to him on a beach towel in the dunes. It had been awful and ever since you avoided Ethan the best you could. The last thing you wanted was for him to be your escort. 

“Fine,” he said, setting down his knife. “You have until the end of July to find a date, Y/N. And then your mother and I choose for you.” 

You took a sip of water. “Fine.” 

***

You heard him that second night. At first, you thought maybe it was the wind. But when you got out of bed and looked out the large windows facing the water, you saw that the dunes were still. It was just another hot, oppressive June night without a whisper of a breeze. 

And then you heard it again. A soft whine. A thrashing. You tiptoed out of bed and creaked open the wooden door, tipping your head out into the hallway. It was coming from the tower room. If you had been a child growing up in the house, the attic in the tower probably would have held some sort of exotic magnetism over you. A forbidden playground. Instead, it exclusively gave off Bertha Mason from Jane Eyre vibes. 

The moaning and groaning from behind the door didn’t help. You debated seeing what was wrong. But your father’s words rattled around in your head. So you crept back to bed, sliping a pair of foam earplugs into your ears, drowning out the sounds of the boy upstairs. 

You heard it for two more nights before finally you got up the courage to reach out and twist the door handle, gently tugging it open, ascending the wooden stairs up to the tower room. 

The staircase tossed you out into the middle of the room, which you saw had been cleared out of holiday decorations. Instead, there was a dresser against one wall, a small reading chair, and a double bed underneath the main window. 

On the bed, Bradley was tossing in his sleep violently, the white sheets tangling between his bare legs. You slowly stepped off the top step onto the hardwood floor, and the creaking noise caused Bradley to sit straight up in bed.

You noticed first that he was panting, like he had just been chased down the beach. Second thing you noticed was that he was shirtless, sweat dotting his entire chest, along with scratches of varying hues. 

You raised your hands up in a surrender pose. “I heard you fussing,” you said softly. “And wanted to check and make sure you were OK.” 

Bradley blinked, hard, shaking his head a few times like he was trying to orient himself. “I’m fine,” he whispered gruffly after a moment. 

“I think you were having a nightmare.” 

“Is it a nightmare if you have them every night?” he asked quietly. “Or is it just how I dream?” 

You frowned, stepping closer. “Every night?” 

Bradley looked down at his hands where they were gripping the white sheets but didn’t respond. 

“You never told me how you got those scars,” you whispered, pointing to the ones on the side of his face. 

“You should go,” he said after a moment. 

“Why?” 

“Because if they find you in here, they’ll kick me out.” 

“Do you care?” you asked. It was a genuine question. All you had seen so far from Bradley Bradsahw was indifference. 

Bradley’s eyes landed on yours. You felt the look all the way to your toes. It tingled across your veins. “I have nowhere else to go,” he said quietly. “So yeah, I care. I have to.” 

You nodded. “OK, I’ll leave.” You turned to leave, hovering on the top spiral step. “Bradley?” 

He hummed. 

“Third door on your right,” you replied quietly. “If you need me. Or if you want to talk. That’s my room. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

Back in your own bed, you pulled the covers up to your neck, thinking about the raw animalistic terror in Bradley’s eyes the second he woke up. There was something about him that drew you in. Something you couldn’t let go of. 

He was as lost as you felt. 

***

You had exactly one hundred days until you left for Stanford. 

One hundred days of summer. Nothing but the debutante ball looming over you. 

You had wanted to get a job, something to do to fill the hours of the day. But your mother was old fashioned. She begged you to get a volunteer position instead. Your father agreed. You capitulated. 

“Being well-rounded is good for a girl your age,” he said, sipping on a glass of whiskey as you stood at the large built-in bookshelf in his office. 

“I can be well rounded and serve fried clams at Nick’s Kitchen.” 

“Over your mother’s dead body,” he laughed and you sighed, choosing a tome off the shelf and bidding him goodnight. 

You spent your days languishing on the beach, volunteering at the animal shelter on the other side of the island, reading for your courses in the fall. It was supposed to be a banal summer. Ordinary. 

And then Bradley showed up and everything was suddenly, undeniably, altered. 

A/N: I had originally considered posting this as one LONG piece, but this felt like a good natural stop for the first part so it will be split into parts, not sure how many (at least three)!

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[chrysalizzm]

ttdtn blurb: execution

“Do you know what Stockholm Syndrome is, Sam?”

warnings: references to abuse, abusive relationship, references to torture, c!sam neg, vague body horror, death

for @lookinghalfacorpse's phenomenal fic the trees deny themselves nothing, which has been living in my head for the past month.

People always forget that Phil is millenniums old. That he’s put on every face there is. That he’s spoken every tongue that’s lived and died. He can clean any wound and ease any illness, and when the bombing was over and the dust had settled he’d limped through the crowd and offered potions and poultices, and consolation if they’d take it, so: of course they think he’s a senile old man who only knows pain and death. Of course.

But Sam, all of king and court magician, redstone genius and pickpocketing slummer, should know better.

And he does seem to remember, judging by the full-body flinch he greets Phil with at the door to his old workshop. All his fur roils on end, a forest of green, as he says, “Philza.”

“Hi, mate.” Phil folds his wings back demurely, watching Sam’s eyes follow the Void-black sheen of them. He steps over the threshold without waiting for an invitation to do so, steering Sam back towards his workbench with a thump on the back. He kicks the door closed behind him, and it creaks laboriously shut with a protesting groan. Sam’s gaze flickers to the door. Back to Phil’s wings. The fine, faint feathers dusting Phil’s cheeks prick up.

“Nice space you got here,” he says, real friendly-like, parking Sam’s ass in one of the only chairs that doesn’t have a chunk taken out of it for tinkering. “Gloomy and shit. Perfect for you. Is this body going blind yet?”

Sam straightens. “No,” he says mechanically. “My eyesight is perfect, thank you. I’ve improved both foveal acuity and the range of peripheral vision in my left eye. I could track in the dark.”

“Like you couldn’t before,” Phil teases. “Creeper vision and all, yeah? Though the wider periphery is nice. Bet you can see anything getting away.”

Sam’s voice comes out so stiff and starched Phil could probably make a sheaf of paper out of it. “In theory, yes.” 

Phil draws his gaze away from Sam—who knows better than to run from the mythical angel that haunts every page of every history book—to observe the rows and rows of tinkertoys, the delicate baubles, the shiny trinkets. He can practically hear his feathers puffing up in glee. It’s really a shame he knows that Sam’s hands shaped them; all he wants to do is pulverize them into pretty glittering grime.

“Is there anything specific you needed, Phil?” Sam asks, apparently having regained enough of his wits to brave impatience. “I’m busy. I just got an important commission and I really need to get to it.”

“You’ll sit right there until I say you can leave or I will sprout wings of flame and turn your bones into glass,” says Phil mildly. “Is that clear?”

Silence rings out into the workshop. A leaky faucet somewhere drip-drip-drips into the hollow quiet. Sam shifts. 

“...Crystal.”

“Perfect. Glad to see we’re on the same page.” Phil’s eyes flicker briefly to the ceiling, where Sam has, perhaps for posterity, installed a flimsy skylight. A crow—soon to be a whole murder of ‘em—pokes its inquisitive little head in, and Phil stifles a smile. Turning to face Sam, he tucks the smile behind the fan of his clawed fingers and asks, “Why did you lie to me?”

Sam jerks. “What?”

“You lied to me. You claimed you had no underhanded intentions with Dream, yet you took his leg and left him for dead. You claimed you were keeping no secrets, only to lie, repeatedly, to my face. You claimed you would do everything in your power to rectify your mistake, but you’ve instead made a bigger one.” Phil folds his hands over Benihime’s hilt, feeling her purr under his palm. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Sam?”

Sam, clearly not understanding what Phil’s saying, scoffs. “I never lied to you once,” he says matter-of-factly. “I adhered completely to my code of ethics as both an engineer and the Warden, and acted upon the best interests of everyone on this Server.”

“Taking out a perceived threat,” Phil agrees cheerfully. Sam stumbles over his words, caught off-guard by Phil’s concurrence, and it gives Phil the room to continue, “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about what you said over and over for the past three days, mate. Had a lot of time to sorta mull things over, as like.” A minute tense of the knuckles; in the back of his head, Benihime hisses. “But that’s not all that I’m here for.”

Sam lifts his head, shucking off his redstone-stained goggles. His eyes are round: comically surprised. “It’s not?” he says.

Phil smiles with all his teeth. His wings sharpen against the air. The shadows at his feet stretch and seethe. Sam recoils. 

“It’s not. I’m here not only because of those things, but also because you used Dream.” Phil’s voice unspools in a low croon. Quietly, quietly, so not even the crows overhead can hear and whisk the sacred words back to his wife. “Before the Old World fell, they had a name for what you’re doing to Dream. They called it Stockholm Syndrome. Do you know what Stockholm Syndrome is, Sam?”

Sam, his green pelt gone over gray like the gunpowder he’ll fade into if Phil takes a knife to his skull, shakes his head. Ever an eager student, quick to confess to his ignorance. Between becoming empress of a kingdom and a girl in the wilds running with the wolves, Phil had spent a stint as a young king’s tutor, pleased by how quickly the cunning kid caught on. One of many regrets, in the end.

“It means Dream knows how you think about him. He understands. He empathizes. He knows what you think he is, and he agrees. He might like you, Sam. He might even like you a lot, so much that he will ignore anyone trying to save him because you have convinced him he should not be saved. Maybe even that he does not deserve to be saved.” Techno had told him about the incident in the barn, and they both have eyes; you don’t survive centuries amongst the Servers without developing a sixth sense for interpersonal relations. Besides, Phil came before Techno. Much, much before, when there were names for these things, and people knew that you could look at your captor like a lover. Times have changed. People, it seems, have not.

“I don’t know all the details of what you and Quackity did to him in that prison. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. But I care that somehow, while doing what you fucks did, you convinced him that he is not a person, and that he does not deserve love, and that he doesn’t get to live.” The lurid, limpid fury that Phil had carefully banked before leaving burns back to life in his chest now, saying what he knows to be true out loud. “And he believes those things in part because he thinks he loves you.”

Phil didn’t tell Techno—he would have had a fit, and maybe snapped Sam’s neck, not that Phil would’ve been too pressed to stop him—but he’d walked in on an entirely different thing just a day or two after Dream’s first steps. He’d closed the door the moment he realized what was going on, but skin on skin, Sam holding Dream like a worshiper at the feet of an idol: Sam is fooling himself too. “And I think you might have used him. Just a thought.”

The air of the workshop is cold in Phil’s lungs as he draws in a careful breath. He’s always wary of losing his temper. It’s one thing to do it in front of Techno, who’s plenty immortal himself and could probably withstand an accidental eyeful; it’s another thing entirely to do it in a place not specially warded and enchanted and lined brick to brick with sigils to keep the eldritch from spilling everywhere. Once it gets out, there’s no getting it back in, so: deep breaths. Bit by bit, the inferno simmers low. His feathers ease back down. Benihime’s howls fade away.

Sam swallows hard, his throat bobbing in the dark. His new eye throws off bits of light when he blinks. He stands, and he smooths off his pants, and there are a thousand, a million words caught in Phil’s throat, held fast only by the pacts of gods, as the measly little mongrel of a creeper before him says, “I only do what he lets happen to him.”

Dream’s earnest face, his faint smile, drift in a golden-brown smudge across Phil’s eyes. “He only does what I let him do to me.” 

Philza remembers a time before the gods walked the earth. A time before monsters and a time before the Builders. He even remembers a time before the Servers, though that’s a secret sealed in blood and ichor he’ll only divulge if he wishes to die. He remembers floods and famines and foul, fetid plagues. He remembers every bone broken, every life lost. He remembers the Nether before it was a ruin of hellfire. He remembers the End before the night swallowed it whole. He remembers the Ancient Cities when they were not so ancient, before the sculk sprayed its spores, before the Warden—the real one, not a plaything for a pathetic, mewling nuisance to emulate—came through the Builders’ doorway.

Phil has been empresses, wild children, healers, teachers, gods in human skin. Phil is the oldest thing he knows.

He feels every inch his age and horror and terrible, untethered knowledge as he sheds his skin into tongues of flame.

His limbs are End in their own way, cold Void, but that’s just because of his ill-advised dealings with the Ender King. The rest of him is Blaze Empress to the bone, blessed by Hell, kissed by Death. What manner of creature could stand against his full glory, the sheer brutality of his rage? Certainly not a silly little wannabe immortal with wide, stupefied eyes and a dumb, slack mouth. Certainly not a pitiful sack of meat and bone that whirls to pick up a golden trident and is struck down between the shoulder blades with the tip of a blade whittled so finely it winnows the ligaments of his vertebrae and sticks him to the wall opposite, where he screams and curses and makes all manner of noise.

Phil chuckles, amused. It’s a sound that no mortal was meant to hear. Quite possibly it ruptures one or both of Sam’s cochleae, because the man’s ears start to bleed as he shrieks. It’s a shame. Phil had a whole spiel ready to go.

Glossy black bodies wobble across the skylight, squawk in alarm; as one, the murder takes off to tattle to his wife. Phil throws his head back, all glorious mane of sun and storm, and cackles. Benihime has already pierced Sam’s heart, is poisoning him from the inside, a slow death by unstoppable self-mutilation: informing Death would be a mercy. 

Phil folds himself back demurely into his facsimile of a body. In this way, he and Sam share something. He smooths his hair back under his hat, ducks under the doorframe, and gives the workshop a fond little pat on the wall. He’s about ten paces away when the whole thing, outbuildings and all, burst into flame. He’s twenty when he starts to laugh.

He’s forty when he starts to cry.

[seravphs]

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — PRINCE! OIKAWA X READER

Masquerades are about deceit. In a world built on spun sugar and gems the size of fists, very little can be trusted to be what it appears to be at first glance. 

wc — 1.4k 

The prince is watching you. Of course, on second thought, it’s unlikely that he would at all - you’re just a common peasant girl among the crowd, waiting for the king to deliver whatever oh-so-important speech he has today that required everyone in the realm to be packed like sardines into the tiny courtyard below his balcony. From that height, all the little bodies scattered below turn into smears of blue and red and green, reduced to scraps of colored fabric. 

But he’s looking, and you can’t shake the feeling that it’s at you, even as you, flustered, turn away to hide your face. When the ceremony ends - long hours of standing on your feet just to hear the king drone on and on - you melt into the crowd and disperse. One of many. 

You don’t know how you might have caught the royal eye, but you’d prefer to stay separate. 

Your preferences, however, do not hold the same weight as royalty. A little side effect of being a common peasant girl. 

A heavy armored hand clasps your shoulder. 

“Let me go,” you snap instantly. The crowd parts around you. No one stops to check on you - instead, they avert their eyes, pull their children a little closer, and walk double time to get away. You don’t blame them. You would, too. This is how you stay out of trouble - but now trouble has come to you. 

You think about running, but decide against it. It would be futile. Better to face it head on. 

He’s well-trained, the knight. Tan skin, spiky black hair, an impassive face that screams ‘loyal  guard dog’. Perfect posture. Uniform follows all the regulations, sword perfectly polished according to code. The worst kind. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he says. “His royal highness requests an audience.” 

“If it’s a request, I decline.” 

The guard gives you a look that clearly says, ‘don’t be stupid.’ 

The palace is a near impenetrable fortress. You’ve only managed to slip in on one occasion before, during a grand party when everyone’s guard was up, but in all the wrong places. You found a weak spot and holed yourself away on one of the forgotten balconies to watch the revelry beneath you. 

It’s a glamorous world. Every body twirling under the throw of light, fractured by the crystals of the chandeliers, glittered with massive jewels, circling their throat, embedded in their hair, given out as favors. Opal for House Kuroo, sapphire for House Kageyama, fire agate for House Hinata. Of course, diamonds and emeralds for the king and his royal spawn.

You’ve glutted yourself on the appearance of luxury already. Everyone is impossibly beautiful and everything is impossibly wealthy. Such is the life of royalty - to be surrounded by women in elaborate dresses made of swans feathers, men in suits of satin and gossamer, drinks in glasses made of mined crystal. It’s another world, down there, among the masked nobles. 

But all of that loses its initial novelty when the prince arrived. 

This time, instead of sneaking in through the servants entrance, you’re being waltzed in through the massive double doors meant for honored guests. Foreign kings and queens walked this carpet that now you stain with your muddied slippers. A maid makes a disgruntled expression at the tracks you’re making on the fine red velvet. 

Massive double doors, pale birch wood carved into fairy tale scenes and painted over with white, bar your entry into the audience chamber. Two guards, equally as blank faced as the one who guided you here, pull them open. They creak slowly, leaving a gap just big enough to pass through. 

It’s blinding inside. The hall is lined with massive, floor to ceiling windows, and the roof is one large skylight. The mirrored floor and the parts of the wall that aren’t entirely windows are encrusted with gold and jewels that send sparks into the air, as if inside the throne room, living stars were stolen from the skies, and dance along the paths of royal footsteps. It’s very emblematic of the Oikawa family and their taste for wealth to hold audience inside what looks like a massive diamond. 

It takes a while for your eyes to adjust, but the royal family doesn’t wait. 

“Thanks, Iwa! You’re dismissed, go enjoy the rest of your day. These are specific orders to take a break, so don’t even think about disobeying,” the prince magnanimously declares with a beatific smile on his face. 

For the first time, you see the twitch of an expression on your escort’s face before he leaves. 

“And you,” the king cuts in. 

There’s only one person left in the room he could be addressing besides his son. 

You shift nervously. There was only one reason you would have caught the eye of the royal family. 

“Thank you,” the king says, and suddenly he’s striding down the hundreds of steps that lead to his throne. He pulls your hand to his lips in an elegant gesture. It makes your skin itch. Perhaps you’re allergic to royalty. 

When he lifts his head, his eyes are misty. “Thank you for saving my son’s life. I heard from him first hand, how a peasant girl from outside the palace had snuck in. How she found him, seconds from choking to death on poison in a brief moment of respite in the gardens. You slapped the chalice from his hand. You saved the prince, the kingdom, and most importantly, my only child. We, the royal family, owe you a great deal.” 

Prince Oikawa tilts his head in agreement. 

You realize they’re waiting for you to say something. When you speak, your throat is too dry. You croak out the beginnings of a sentence before you have to swallow hard and start over, this time, more clearly. 

You stutter out your words, nervous and unsure. “It was…It was nothing, your majesty. I didn’t mean to. It was just…reflex? I suppose?” 

In the echoing silence, you add, “Long live the king,” then wince. It sounds so fake, even to your ears. 

“So modest,” he says, with his booming laugh, as if he hadn’t been crying just a few moments before. “You truly are among the most loyal of my subjects, the very best. I’d like to honor you.” 

“No, sir, it’s not necessary-“

“I insist. From today forth, you are to be the captain of Prince Oikawa’s royal guard, always at his side. You will be his living shelter, his sword, and his shield. You will throw yourself between him and danger, and defend him with your life.” 

Doesn’t seem like much of an honor to you, to be ordered to die for the prince, but it’s not like you have a choice. It’s better than the other option. 

“Thank you, your majesty,” you say, eyes cast down. 

Royals always take forever for things that might be done in the span of seconds. You feel claustrophobic, even with the massive windows, the room feels like it’s closing in on you. There’s panic clawing at your throat that you’re barely tamping down. You want to go. You need to go. It doesn’t help that Prince Oikawa is watching you with devouring eyes. 

“You may be dismissed-“ 

Hope surges up your chest-

“Once you have spoken to Prince Oikawa. May you be good friends, my dear.” 

“…Thank you, your majesty.” 

Then, it’s just you and the prince alone. 

He looks even better than the night you met. The prince was meant for this, after all, the consequence of being the living descendants of the Sun God - if you believed the stories. His skin glows in the light, and faint shimmers of rainbow arc across his white clothes from the crystal. His gold epaulets make him seem broader and more real than he did at night. He’s by no means a small man, but the semi-translucent loose shirt he wore then, combined with the fragile look in his brown eyes, made him seem like almost a different person entirely than he appears right now. 

You break the silence first. “Why did you tell the king I saved your life?” 

Because you hadn’t. 

You’d tried to kill him. 

The poison in his glass had been your handiwork, the price of a ninety million dollar bounty placed on his head going through the underworld. 

He smiles, drawing closer. Up close, he’s startlingly beautiful - and terrifying. He’s perfect to the point of intimidation, with his blindingly white teeth, his poreless skin, the raw power in the way he carries himself. He’s used to getting what he wants. 

So are you. 

But now, you’re defenseless in enemy territory. 

“Why else, my captain?” He’s directly in front of you now, so you can see how even his white boots are perfect, without a hint of dust. “To keep a close eye on you now that you’ve been promoted to my guard.” 

You feel a strange sense of anger that he’s belittling you so. That your talents, so revered among assassins, are so unfrightening to him that he would invite you into his home, even allow you to guard his back. 

“I could still kill you,” you threaten. 

“I do hope you manage to succeed.”

[skylarstark4826]

Shuri stared at the bracelet that had just been placed on her wrist; the jade glinted in the dim light of the cavernous room. The fibers of the plant which had saved Talokan itched slightly on her wrist, but she didn’t mind.

“Namor…” All of the words that came to her mind did not seem adequate, and she was left speechless—she couldn’t remember the last time words had failed her.

Well, she could. But she didn’t like to think about that.

Finally, she said, “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“It is the least I could do,” he said with a soft smile. She couldn’t help but notice how close he was to her, she couldn’t help but feel the warmth radiating from his skin. And when the urge to move even closer to him came, she was powerless to stop herself.

Their shoulders brushed. “Talokan is a wonderful place. Your people are lucky to have you.”

He paused; after a moment, he waved a hand. “It is the people who make Talokan wonderful. I am the lucky one.” He met her gaze, his eyes twinkling. “But you couldn’t have known that when you offered to come here. You are a very brave woman, Princess.”

“You can call me Shuri,” she told him quietly.

“Shuri,” he murmured, as though trying out the name on his lips. Then he smiled. “When we are alone here, I will call you Shuri.” He looked out at the water before them, and she could tell there was more he wanted to say. She waited patiently to hear it.

“I have one more proposal,” he began. He turned toward her resolutely and she couldn’t look away from his eyes; they held her in rapture. “Talokan and Wakanda are both powerful nations. But alone, we are vulnerable to outsiders. As strong as our nations are, we would be stronger together. United.”

She knit her eyebrows. “What do you propose?”

“Marriage,” he said simply.

She blinked, attempting to maintain a mask of calm. “Marriage,” she repeated. “And… to be clear… who would be getting married?”

He smiled. “You would be queen of Talokan. Our nations could protect each other; if we are one, no one will dare to risk war with us. We could trade resources and create a lasting alliance between our peoples. We would be unstoppable, Shuri.”

She nodded slowly, staring into the water. There was an answer forming in her gut, and it terrified her with its clarity. “It is not an easy decision,” she said, tamping down her instinct. “I will need time to think.”

“Of course,” he nodded. “I understand.” He looked up at the skylight far above them; moonlight shone in his dark brown eyes. “It is very late. Would you like to see your room?”

She nodded absently; he stood up and held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it and got to her feet, and neither of them let go. Instead, he led her through winding corridors with their fingers intertwined.

He stopped outside an intricately carved, heavy wooden door and faced her, his free hand drifting up to hold hers. There was a soft, reverent light in his eye as he looked at her, and his gaze occasionally flicked down to her lips. Her heart thudded in her chest.

“This is where you’ll be sleeping,” he said, still holding her hands in his own. “I hope it’s to your liking.”

“I’m sure it will be perfect,” she smiled. “Everything so far has been.”

It was hard to tell in this light, but she thought she saw a tint of red rise in his cheeks. “If you need anything, I’m just down the hall. Good night, Princess. Shuri,” he corrected with a smile. “Good night, Shuri.”

“Good night.” She stilled as he moved closer and pressed his lips softly to her cheek, and she felt him pause as well.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then his mouth was on hers—she was never sure who moved first, and she wasn’t sure she cared. Her lips melded perfectly to his and his hands drifted to her waist, bringing her closer until they were flush against each other. Through the thick fabric of his robe, she could feel the solid muscles of his stomach rise and fall with his breath.

She slid her tongue along his bottom lip and he opened up to her, deepening the kiss until it was searing, making hot lava pool in her belly. Every nerve he came in contact with was aflame—every skilled swipe of his tongue and nip of his teeth made her feel like she hadn’t been touched in a thousand years. His breath was hot on her lips and his hands gripped her hips; her dress rode up and her breath came in crashing waves. One hand rose to grip his hair and the other fumbled with the knob behind her until they were spilling into her room, the door swinging shut behind them.

Immediately, he pushed her against the heavy door—the carved wood pressed into her back and it took everything in her not to moan at the feeling of his body holding her in place. His hands rose until they caressed her ribs and she ached for them to go just a bit higher, but they stayed where they were. He probed her mouth expertly with his tongue and she responded in kind, tangling both of her hands in his hair and tugging lightly. He let out a hissing breath and broke away from her mouth to swirl his tongue along her pulse point, and her breath hitched audibly.

He paused and she felt him smile against her skin—then he doubled down on his ministrations. He hiked up her dress until he could find the bare skin of her hips, and she felt her knees wobble slightly as her body pulsed with need. He slid his hand down to the back of her thigh and hitched her leg up, his strong, weathered palm rough on her soft skin—their hips were flush now and she felt his hardened arousal press into her. Want swelled in her and she couldn’t stop the quiet moan that escaped her mouth, but it was cut off by another perfect, searing kiss.

She felt suddenly annoyed at how many articles of clothing they were wearing and reached for the white robe around his shoulders, breaking the kiss to lift it off his shoulders. He watched, eyes twinkling, as she folded it carefully and placed it on a cushioned chair in the corner of the room.

“What are you doing?” he mused.

“It is a beautiful robe, I don’t want to damage it,” she explained quietly. Then she heard his footsteps approach behind her.

Before she could turn around, she felt his hands on her back, so gentle that they almost tickled. Goosebumps rippled out from his touch.

“You are beautiful, Shuri,” he murmured. He found the top clasp of her dress on the back of her neck and undid it, then his fingers drifted down to the next one. She stood still, heart pounding, while he made his way down her back, the pads of his fingers occasionally brushing against her spine. Finally, the last clasp was undone, and she heard him hold his breath for a moment before he drifted a feather-light finger all the way back up to the nape of her neck.

She let out a shaky breath.

He spread the dress apart with his hands, fingertips sliding gently over her skin, and she rounded her shoulders so that it would fall easily to the ground; it slinked off of her with a soft rustle and lighted on the ground, the intricate jade jingling slightly. She was left wearing only her underwear.

His hands remained on her shoulders for a moment, then drifted down to her waist and wrapped around her middle, pulling her closer. He placed a kiss in the crook of her neck, his lips lingering there.

Slowly, she turned around and met his burning eyes, once again unable to look away. “I should fold up the dress too,” she breathed. “You made it yourself.”

A radiant smile overtook his features and he laughed, a sound like music. “If it gets damaged, I will repair it,” he said. His thumbs traced light circles on her hips. “You are kind to be so concerned.”

Her hand wound around the back of his neck and she brought his lips down to meet hers again; he responded enthusiastically, moving in sync with her, and while her fingers dipped into his soft hair, he splayed his hands on her back and pressed her to him firmly.

The quiet moment they’d had was now overridden by a sense of urgency, a searing heat that swept them both up with its energy. She arched her bare chest into his and he teased her mouth with his tongue, listening to her quiet gasps of breath and relishing in the feeling of her, enveloping him.

He walked them back until she was pressed against the wall, then made his way down to her collarbone, nipping and swirling his tongue on the delicate skin there, and her breath became labored. She arched her chest again and he took the hint, his lips drifting over her skin until he closed around a nipple, teasing it with his teeth and wetting it with his tongue, and the sound of her moans in his ear made him throb. He took her other breast in his hand and rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, continuing with his mouth on the first before switching.

She let out a huff of breath, and her hands drifted to his hair again. When he peered up at her, he saw that her eyes were closed. “Namor,” she breathed, not bothering to say anything else.

He straightened up quickly and kissed her again, the control gone from both of them—this kiss was different from the ones before, all breath and teeth and tongue. She clawed lightly into his shoulder blades and his thumbs pressed roughly into her hips, hard enough to hurt, but she moaned instead. She reached down to the waistband of his pants and hooked her thumbs in the fabric, pulling it down just enough before finally wrapping her hand around his cock and feeling it pulse under her touch.

He let out a quiet groan and, in one smooth motion, picked her up like she was weightless. He gripped her thighs as she wrapped her legs around him and he pressed her into the wall again, separating from her for a moment to look into her eyes. Her breath was heavy and her eyes were lidded, and she gave him a small nod.

He reached down to the thin fabric covering her entrance and shoved it to the side, guiding himself slowly into her. She moaned into his mouth, and his control waned for a desperate moment—he bucked his hips roughly and she bounced from the motion, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. She found his lips again and her tongue teased inside, and he felt her slickness coat him as he slid in further. She nodded again, gripping his hair tightly, and he bucked into her a second time. His breath was shaky and warm on her lips.

She started to move her hips with him, developing a rhythm, her breath getting shorter with every thrust.

“Harder,” she whispered, and he moaned at the word before obliging. He clutched her hips and pulled her down while he thrusted up, and her fingernails clawed at his shoulders again, hard enough to leave trails on his skin. He continued with this new force and rhythm until she gasped into his ear, “Harder.”

He moaned and grazed his teeth along her neck before sinking them into her skin, swirling his tongue as he thrusted harder, her whole body bouncing with his force. Once again, he could feel his control waning, and he reached down to her apex and swirled his thumb around the sensitive bundle of nerves there until all he could hear was her, gasping for air, moaning his name, her volume building to a crescendo. Finally, she became quiet for a moment, and then she pulsed around him, her legs tightening around his waist and her hands grasping at his marked shoulders. A moan pulled itself from her lungs and the sound of it pushed him over the edge, his thrusts getting sloppy as he released into her, riding them both through their highs.

They stayed like that, quiet and still for a while, until their breath returned to normal. Then he slowly pulled out of her and she let out a contented sigh as he lowered her to her feet.

She stood on her own for a beat, but then her knees wobbled and she began to spill to the floor; he caught her easily and held her up with a smile.

“Are you okay?” he murmured.

She nodded and looked around the room for a moment; the colors were warm, the walls hand painted with intricate murals leading all the way onto the high ceiling. A large, unused bed sat flush against the opposite wall. On the floor in the middle of the room, there was a woven rug made of a thousand colors. She smiled back at him brightly.

“This room is very much to my liking,” she told him.

After a brief test of her legs, she took his hand in hers and led him to the soft rug. They lay down next to each other on their backs and told each other stories of their homes, then, after an indeterminate amount of time, Shuri snuggled in closer to Namor’s warm body and laid her head on his chest, closing her eyes. He traced circles on her arm, a soft smile on his lips, feeling a peace he hadn’t known in a long time.

Just before she drifted off to sleep, Shuri spoke, her voice vibrating softly in his chest.

“I think I know my answer.”

[sophluorescentmusing]

DUNE II.

Shishakli bathes in the flames. That is both how it ends, and how it begins. 

Chani lies naked beneath the skylight in the gardens, and imagines that with the sear of the sun, her flesh peels from her bones, eyes melt in her sockets, and ashes catch in the wind. She skates blunt finger-nails down throat and sternum, down the valley between the ribs and the flat, muscled plain of her stomach. Shishakli bathes in the flames, but Chani burns in them. 

Her fingertips scrape through the hair at her mound—index twisting the curls around her fingers. She is moist with memory, sweating beneath the heat of it and the sun. Eventually, she ventures further—slips her nimble fingers (calloused by years handling the blade) against her sex. Her chest spasms: a half-breath. Her lips part. Her eyelids squeeze shut.

Shishakli tongues at her in memories tinged ruddy with spice. Her hands grip Chani’s thighs, thumbs digging into her skin, and she splays her open with force Chani would allow no other to have. She slings Chani’s legs over her shoulders (in her waking state, Chani only crooks her knees, plants her heels to the blanket she’d laid across the cool, stone, palace path) and mouths at her core. Her nose brushes Chani’s clit, her tongue presses into Chani’s slit, and she groans to fill Chani’s pleasured quiet.

A door opens, the sound of it distant.

The memory searing her eyelids flickers, wanes with her changing attention.

Her forefingers slip across her clit, dip into her body, and she quakes beneath her own ministrations.

A voice begins, ends.

“Chani—” An inhalation, a breath.

Her eyes slit open. Her movements still. “Outworlder.” Witch. Anger blazes through her (she sees Shishakli keel over and scream) and passes from her. Chani’s fingers slide from her body; she sits up, propping herself on her hands and ignoring how her chest heaves with the pleasure taken from her so coldly. “Be gone.” 

“You always come here when you hurt.” Irulan has never mastered her tones, her emotions. The masks worn by Jessica Atriedes and her son are impervious, well-mastered, and make Irulan’s attempts look pale and unseemly. Chani feels contempt for the woman, and also pity; she understands the yearnings of the heart, even if how she loves Paul will always be different from the silver-witch’s.

“I find peace in the quiet.” Her womb feels knotted and twisted and choked of life. She’d sloughed out a child that never breathed, and with it her water, her blood. Paul Muad’dib does not offer much comfort when it happens. She knows him, and knows what relief looks like, even when etched among the grief. She knows Paul Muad’dib had seen, and still, had allowed to happen. It is when her desert mouse fails to offer her the comfort she so needs that she steps away, wades into the memories, and seeks out Shishakli’s hawk-eyes and firm hands.

Irulan sits.

Her pale limbs fold like the fabric of her dress.

She looks small sat upon the stone.

A woman of her breeding would be unaccustomed to anything less than a throne.

I told you be gone, but the words do not find voice. Chani wades in the unknown, wishing she had her lover’s prescience or Shishakli’s conviction. In the time since Muad’dib became Lisan al Gaib, she thinks she has lost conviction—was convinced back too easily, and now sits in this fog, this cloud of will-she-won’t-she. “Why are you here?” She asks instead. She picks up the slip-dress she had worn into this humid abode and drapes it over her lap. 

Irulan’s gaze follows the movement. “You don’t go to your husband.”

“Muad’dib and I have our own ways.”

“He does not come to me when you leave him.”

“Do you expect him to?” She doubts many things of Paul, but his faithfulness to her is the easiest of covenants he can keep. It no longer impresses her, though she had thought it more paramount when she were younger. He would have her, wholly and totally, if he could prove his faithfulness to other covenants—but his faith lies in his Path, of which she has not the prescience to see and to know. It divides them as clearly as the Shield Wall separates the city from the worms.

“I wish he would.”

“You wish on an impossibility.” She has felt and thought many things of Irulan, rarely kind. Now, pity sits on her tongue with the weight of stone—unignorable. “Find another lover.”

Irulan scoffs, an unpretty sound. Chani flickers back to the memories. Shishakli had liked to scoff at her, too. The sound was less impervious, more kindly exasperated. But Irulan still creates nostalgia. “The Emperor would rejoice to remove me from my position, and adultery would only allow him the impetus. A man can have a concubine, but not a woman.”

“You think yourself unequal; this is Arrakis.” She waves a hand frivolously. Her sticky, moistened fingers catch the sunlight. Privately, she is of the belief that Paul could not flay a woman for being in love, for seeking affection wherever it could be had. So much of him had drowned in the worm-water and the ensuing storm, but there is still a shadow of the boy he was, the boy that emulated his father (he who they say ruled with his heart). “Do you expect my intercession?”

“No. I would not ask it of you.” Irulan falls quiet at her own admission. She has thoughtful eyes—large, wide, white. The Eyes of Ibad have not yet developed—and may never, considering how the woman keeps from the culture of her husband and her people and it makes her more telling than Chani believes she would want herself to be. “I apologize for my interruption. I wondered if you would be alone, if he sought you out after your partings.” 

“He does not.” Her body feels awash with cold. The breeze filters through the palace always, guided by careful architectural choices. Only now does it seem to touch her skin and chase away the searing touch of sunfire. “I come here to be with my memories. Nothing more.”

She stands then, drags her dress over her head. “Stop looking for love in Paul Muad’dib, Princess.” She gathers her blanket in her arms. “You people stripped him of his heart, put him on his Path. You will find yourself disappointed at every turn.”

With that, Chani leaves Irulan with her ghosts.

[quietlyimplode]

leave everything but your bones behind

Whumptober 2022: day 22 - alt prompt - Made to watch

Warnings: torture/Dreykov being a creepy mf

Word Count: 1k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha becomes unwell and only the Red Room can fix her. The choice is die or go back to the very place that made her.

A/N: <3

Main Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

———

The trap is set from the moment Clint walks into the airplane hanger.

He should have known it wouldn’t be easy. The first shot misses him, as he ducks and moves to the left.

Taking cover as two widows emerge, Clint swears, their guns drawn effectively pinning him down.

There’s no way out, unless he kills them, and every time he looks to them, all he sees is Natasha in her widow suit.

Instead, he shoots the light fixture above them, making the place dark, glass shattering everywhere.

They separate and duck, allowing Clint to move to the door.

The first shot is a warning, as a third widow approaches in the dark.

“Drop it,” she says, accent strong.

“Okay, okay,” he says loudly, the tall widow approaching.

He throws his gun to the right, and then turns to face the three widows now surrounding him.

Clint holds his hands up, dread at whatever is going to happen next, holding him frozen. He wishes he could say it was part of his plan, but at this stage, it’s not.

He can be flexible though; if the outcome is still the same.

As they march him into the offices, he takes all the terrain in, making a plan as he goes.

Part of him wants to see Dreykov, meet the man that he knows from Natasha’s stories.

Some of them, he wishes he didn’t know.

He’s ready to kill him, regardless.

.

Natasha runs, sprinting into the cockpit of an empty plane. She doesn’t think she’s been spotted, the darkness covering her.

She breathes heavily, wondering why the room is clear and quiet. There’s evidence of a fight.

Clint must be somewhere around, she should be in in the rafters, because that’s what he’s likely to have gone.

If she can get to the roof, then she can scope the place more easily.

Moving quickly back outside, she climbs the drain pipe, getting to the roof quickly, finding a skylight to look through.

.

He’s cuffed to a chair, his head tipped back, towel on on his face. It’s a torture he’s endured before, but one he feels you can never prepare for.

Natasha used to hold her breath in the shower, trying to extend the time she could hold onto that one bit of oxygen.

He’d laughed then, but sees the necessity in it now. He wishes he could hold his breath like Natasha.

The water is cold as it blasts through the towel, shocking him into taking a breath, regretting it immediately as he chokes on water coming through.

They don’t even bother with questions.

He counts six times before he hears the opening and closing over the doors, even though he can’t see anything; her knows.

The footsteps are of the man in charge.

“Clint Barton,” he hears, the towel removed from his face.

He’s older than he expected.

His teeth yellowing, an incisor missing, as his accent doesn’t feel wholly right.

“Hello,” Clint grins.

.

Natasha sees it and her heart sinks.

Clint is tied to the chair, water boarded by Max. The widow who seemed to have an affinity with drowning. Natasha knows it’s because she almost did.

In their water training, tied to the bottom of a swimming pool, Max had been the one that couldn’t hold her breath long enough, effectively drowning where she was held.

When she was resuscitated, they used her as an example. How to survive drowning, how to resuscitate someone who had.

She knows it’s Max’s preferred method of torture, because she knows how much it hurts. How much your lungs scream and your brain shorts out wanting air.

Natasha watches Clint cough, buck against the ties and she is about to drop down, when it all stops.

Dreykov walks in, and Natasha can’t breathe, panic making her skin crawl.

.

“Where is she?”

His voice is gravelly, like a lifetime smoker, which Clint assumes is not far off.

There are four widows around him now.

“You can’t protect yourself from me? That you need to be protected by girls?”

Dreykov backhands him, his rings cutting into Clint’s face.

“Yeah thought so. You hit like a child.”

Clint laughs to himself, “but from what I hear, the children you traffic can probably hit harder than you.”

He’s hit again, the smack resounding.

He takes a little pleasure that Dreykov’s face is red and anger clear on his pudgy face.

“Where.”

Hit.

“Is.”

Hit.

“She.”

Clint sees stars. His head pounding, as he feels the swelling around his cheeks and eyes start.

“I’m here because we failed at killing you,” he smiles, “I won’t fail this time.”

This time his hand is grabbed, two fingers pulled back and snapped.

The man is such an idiot, he doesn’t know Clint is left handed.

He starts to say something else, when the skylight above them breaks, and Natasha falls through, guns drawn as two widows are dropped immediately.

The second she points them at Dreykov, her face changes, body frozen.

He laughs and claps his hands.

“You should know, my Natasha, that you can’t hurt me. My pheromones prevent it.”

Clint has no idea what that means, but he thought that Tony and Bruce cured it.

Was this the same for something different? What did it even mean?

He watches as her face turns to one of consternation, not pulling the trigger and standing motionless in anger.

“Try and pull the trigger,” Dreykov snarls.

“You can’t, can you?”

“You haven’t figured it out yet?”

He steps closer to her, the two black widows flanking her.

“You can’t hurt me.”

There seems to be a moment where Natasha realises the gravity of the situation, dropping her guns and pulling a knife.

“Try it,” he gloats, confidence as he steps towards her.

It’s like an invisible force field surrounds him as Natasha strikes down. It doesn’t get anywhere near him and she grunts in effort.

Easily, Dreykov disarms her, holds her face in his hands and licks her face.

“Pathetic.”

The two other widows pull her back, secure her to a chair opposite Clint, as finally she makes eye contact with him.

Morse code was never his strong suit, but as she blinks rapidly, he understands.

“I’m sorry too,” he blinks back.

.

[perceivedregret]

pt 6 finally!! can also be found on ao3, user is the same over there. part 1 of Extended Hours can be found here.

because i want but don't receive, quarantine me and teach me what you mean

Robin is sitting in the center of the kitchen island with her legs crossed, muttering annoyingly to no one in particular as she inspects the tape in her hand. She cranks her finger in one of the slots before an exasperated sigh escapes her.

“Ya know, there’s literally a sticker right there. It's kinda hard to miss since it’s in big, bold, bright red letters smack dab in the center of the box. Why is it so hard to be kind and rewind?” She sets the tape down beside her with a clatter before laying back and throwing her legs out, socked heels thudding against the island's wall where her feet bounce before settling, hands low on her stomach.

Nancy lets the ladle sink down into the spiked bowl of lemonade she had been stirring, wandering over until she's right beside Robin. She rests her elbows on the counter, leaning into Robin's leg as she scoops the tape into her own hands.

"It looks like it’s only about half way through, it won’t take too long for the player to rewind it. But hey, can you check to see if I put in enough of, well, everything?" She glances back at the mix of different bottles that Steve had pulled from the liquor cabinet that surrounded the punch bowl.

Robin doesn't move, instead turning her head to look at Nancy, arm reaching out. "How does Steve not  own one of those automatic rewinder thingies? How do I  own one but Mr. Moneybags here has to subject us to possibly spoiling the movie like heathens. What if the frame it’s stuck on is a major plot point and bam, it’s all just ruined?"

"Bite me, Buckely," Steve mutters, arms crossing over his chest as he leans against the archway leading into the kitchen. He'd disappeared for a moment to show Eddie where the bathroom was.

It's the door right on the left, just down that hallway. Left! Yea, that one, right there.

Stevie, there are like, a bajillion doors down this one hallway and you just said left and right. Can you just–

"Remind me, Robs, who broke the last one? Also, you could've checked it and had Keith rewind it back at the store. How is this my fault?"

Nancy shakes her head between them as her lips quirk to stifle a smile, already used to their bickering. She sets the tape down and reaches out to take Robin's outstretched hand into her own. She pulls at her fingers then gently massages at the palm. Robin continues, surprisingly unfazed by the contact, her unoccupied hand pointing accusingly in Steve's direction.

"It’s always somehow your fault. And honestly how was I supposed to know that the kids put an Eggo in the damn thing? They're not five! By the way, if we were working at Family Video, this tape would have been set and ready for our viewing pleasure. Just sayin'."

Before Steve can make a retort the front door opens with a bang and all three heads swivel at the sound. Argyle’s voice carries throughout the entire house, the smell of sweet fresh pizza wafting in with him.

"How's it hanging brochachos y  brochachas. I come bearing the fruit of gods." Argyle rounds the corner with two boxes of pizza held high above his head, the smile on his lips full of pride.

"Pizza isn't a fruit," Robin deadpans as she pulls herself up to rest back on her elbows, hand slipping out of Nancy's grasp. She eyes the unmarked pizza boxes warily as he sets them down on the only remaining free space on the counter.

There's the sound of the front door shutting and soon after Jonathan is shuffling in with a pack of Coronas in one hand, the other hand passing a joint over to Argyle. He throws his head back and blows smoke up into the space of the kitchen's skylight before heading over to the fridge.

“Tomatoes are a fruit, Robby. There's probably more fruit in this pizza than veggies, now that I’m thinking about it." Argyle takes a long pull, the cloud of smoke thickening in the skylight before he reaches over to let Jonathan finish it off, Jonathan's arm bends awkwardly behind him to get a hold of it as he continues to search the fridge.

"Roach is yours, bro. Anyways, I made these babies from scratch right at home. D'you know they sell empty pizza boxes? Kinda wild. Still tryin' to convince the old boss man to expand. Hawkins is in need of their own Surfer Boy, pronto."

Jonathan closes the fridge empty handed, searching the kitchen with a pout. Steve chuckles as he points towards the living room.

"I got you Twizzlers, Byers, they're in ther–"

Jonathan doesn't wait for Steve to finish, just grabs Steve's face between his hands before pulling Steve's head down to plant a kiss on the top of his head, red eyes as wide as he can make them. "You're great, ya know that?" He disappears into the living room, the sound of him settling into the couch with a loud satisfied sigh following shortly after.

"Aye man, did ya want a slice?" Argyle calls out after him. He opens a box with raised eyebrows, presenting it to the other three.

Nancy shrugs a shoulder before taking a slice. "It smells good. Need to eat something since we're going to be drinking. Especially if we have to follow that list you two came up with. It screams alcohol poisoning."

"Nance, you made the punch," Steve scoffs as he grabs a slice, folding it down the middle to take a bite. "If you end up with a splitting headache in the morning, point that finger directly to a mirror."

"Ew, Steve! You're allowed to chew and swallow your food before speaking. You know that, right?" Robin takes a slice, eyes still skeptical and her nose scrunched in distaste. She shakes her head to herself, muttering fruit should not be hot before pulling all the pieces of pineapple off and eating the slice with just the ham and cheese.

Argyle picks up every piece Robin abandons, popping them into his own mouth. "Keep 'em comin' Robby."

"Wait, does that mean you don't like pies?" Nancy's voice is incredulous as she takes another bite of her slice, fingers picking at Robin's abandoned pineapple pieces along with Argyle.

Robin takes a bite, taking a moment to mull over Nancy's question before answering. "Depends. Do unbaked pies count?"

"Robin."

"Nancy?"

Eddie sneaks up behind Steve, on his tiptoes to peak over his shoulder at the slice Steve is about to take another bite from. "My brain is telling me that this isn't right but my stomach is telling me to devour it."

Steve stiffens, surprised by the sudden closeness. Eddie's chin lowers until it sits on Steve's shoulder, their bodies with just a shadow of space between them. His hair tickles Steve's neck and before he can stop himself Steve sways back until half of Eddie's body is pressed against his back.

He makes the mistake of turning his head slightly towards him because suddenly Steve's senses are overloaded by everything Eddie. He feels the warmth of Eddie's body on the half of his that he's pressed up against, can feel him from his neck all the way down to the back of his knee. The only thing that Steve is able to process in this moment is how he wants to be buried, to be covered up beneath him completely.

And then there's that overwhelming smell of mahogany and apples, with that subtle hint of cigarette smoke in his hair. He has to fight the urge to move, to slide somehow even closer. He wants to turn his head and bury himself nose first into those curls, or to that pulse point where it will definitely be that much stronger. He’s getting dizzy. 

Mistake. Definitely a mistake.

Eddie's arm reaches over until it comes around Steve's other shoulder. He takes the slice from him and takes a bite, his jaw brushing against Steve's. He hums contently before unraveling himself from around him, the half eaten slice officially stolen. He settles against the opposite side of the archway, mirroring Steve who leans back against his own side. 

Steve stands there frozen, staring at his suddenly empty hands. He looks up and makes eye contact with Robin. That look is back again except this time as they lock eyes with each other it finally clicks and he suddenly understands it.

He feels like he just got out of a fight and just barely came out swinging. The air is no longer in his lungs, the ants are revved up and he can't bring himself to shake them off. He's having to rewire his brain, reconnecting all those moments before, those moments where he thought he was going to be eaten alive by those ants, the ants that only started up when–

Oh.

Oh shit.

"Are you responsible for this absolute monstrous creation? I thought the kids were imaginative, that I  was, but this?" Eddie pushes away from the archway, walking towards Argyle to introduce himself just as Robin hops off the counter, making a beeline straight for Steve. “Is this a Cali thing?”

"Yeah man, sup sup, I'm Argyle." He tips his head in Eddie's direction, loose hair that isn't held back from his backwards upside down neon orange visor slipping forward over his shoulders before straightening back up.  "Eddie, right? I like your style bro, it screams hot goth. Think you and Eden would get along great."

Steve doesn't get to hear Eddie's reaction to that because he's being pulled away by Robin, her arm locked to his by the elbow. The yelp that escapes him as he almost trips over her feet that ram right into his as she forces him to move backwards makes everyone look back at them, eyes confused and concerned.

“Nance, can you get the movie set up? Steve and I just need to get some pillows and blankets from the guest room. Oh, and can you get my chips for me? Think I left ‘em in the car. Be right back!” Robin tugs again and Steve can’t do anything other than follow.

Once they get to the guest room Robin all but shoves Steve through the door before backing up to shut it behind her, voice a panicked whisper. “You looked like you were gonna be sick–” rough shake of her head. “We don’t have a lot of time here for you to panic over this so I need you to relax and–”

“Relax? Buckley, you knew. This whole time you knew and you didn’t tell me.” Steve pinches his nose and huffs a ragged breath. “I’ve been drowning and I had no idea why and you knew! Robs, I’ve been in your corner and pushed for you to take a chance on Nance all week and you–” He points accusingly in Robin’s direction before raking a hand through his hair as he spins in place, throwing himself face first into the bed. 

“That’s not fair! No, that’s not even remotely the same thing and you know it, so don’t you even try it, bucko.”  Steve can’t see her but he can hear her patter over to the drawer and pull it open harshly. “I had an inkling, I will admit to that, but honestly? The way you were acting around him I thought you knew and were just being– oh I don’t know, I thought you were just being Steve! Hot and cold, ya know, confident flirt to sudden flustered, dumb idiot.”

Robin continues to shuffle around the room, opening cabinets and the closet door. A pillow thuds onto his head and soon he’s buried beneath comforters and throws.

A beat of silence.

“Rob, what’s wrong with me?”

He mutters it into the bed, so when Robin doesn’t respond right away he thinks she didn’t hear him. But when he pulls his face away from the mattress she’s right there in front of him. She’s looking down at him, hands at her hips with eyebrows drawn together. He sighs, folding his arms underneath himself before resting his chin on his arms.

She lowers herself to a squat, mirroring his position so that they’re almost nose to nose. “What do you mean, what’s wrong with me? I can list a number of things that are wrong with you, Steve Harrington.”

Steve chuckles at that, turning his head to rest his cheek on his arms. “I just… didn’t realize it, ya know? Why didn’t I realize it? I’ve never felt this way over…"

“A guy?”

“Yes. Wait, no. I mean– yes and no? I’ve definitely felt things before. Tommy wasn’t even the first dude to make me realize I liked guys, if I’m being completely honest. But before, it was more of… a physical type attraction–”

“Okay okay, no need to elaborate. I get it,” Robin throws a hand out, eyes squeezing shut as a chuckle bubbles out of her. Her eyes flutter open and she looks as confused as Steve feels. “But then… what do you mean? What's so different about Eddie?”

Steve honest to god whines like a petulant child before shoving his face into the mattress again. “I would like to fucking know Robs, because all I feel when I'm around him is physical. Except with him it’s so goddamn different, it’s not the usual bullshit. It doesn’t compare to anything else, not even Nancy.”

Robin jumps because suddenly Steve is moving to rest on his elbows and he’s reaching out to grab her hands in his. All she does is nod for him to continue.

“There’s been this feeling– it’s like I’m drowning except multiplied by a hundred. And then there were these… ants? I don’t even know how to describe it but I felt this, like, incessant tingly and floaty feeling at the tips of my fingers. It would crawl all the way up to my chest until I felt like I would suffocate from it. It feels like that all the time when I’m around him.”

Robin doesn’t know how to respond but from the look on her face she’s coming to some conclusion, a conclusion Steve is struggling so hard to find. She doesn’t know how to tell him so she just squeezes his hands in hers and let’s him barrel on.

“It’s so god damn different with him, so fucking different. Like, just last night after I got off the phone with you I called him while he was still at the Vibe. I was supposed to wait for him to get home but I couldn’t. I needed to call him because I swear to god I was on the verge of losing my fucking mind. And when he finally picked up the phone….” Steve is shaking his head, eyes unfocused as he remembers that moment of utter relief. 

“When I heard his voice it just… went away. I felt like I could breathe again.”

Robin tugs at his hands. “Steve–”

“Guys, the movie’s ready!” Her eyes cut away from his when Nancy's voice comes muffled through the shut door.

“Oh, we gotta get back out there,” Robin mumbles, moving to grab some of the stuff off of Steve.

“Fuck. Fuck!” Steve mutters, dropping his head to the bed one final time before struggling to dig himself out of the pile Robin buried him under. “Robin, what do I do? What the hell am I supposed to do? Shit, does Eddie even like guys?” 

“Shit shit shit, Steve wait, just–” Robin scrambles to gather the pillows and comforters as Steve crawls backwards and grabs the ones she didn't pull off. He leaves a yellow throw over his head and bundles himself in it. "I’m pretty sure that Eddie’s–”

"Did you guys need help?" 

They both freeze, eyes wide. Eddie's voice is loud behind the door and Steve can feel that bubbling in his chest again. Robin's face scrunches and Steve huffs a laugh and his anxiety makes his chest pang as he's able to read her. He shakes his head at her in response.

No, we won't ever have a moment's peace. 

Steve grabs at a pillow from the head of the bed to hug it tightly to his chest, pulling the throw back around himself. He turns to face the door, fingertips shocked by the coldness of the doorknob. After a deep breath that does nothing to calm his nerves Steve nods to himself determinedly and opens the door.

He regrets exhaling his breath before opening it because as he breathes in again the door wafts in that scent of mahogany and apples.

Steve thinks he might die.

“Stevie. Bobby. I don’t know how to tell you guys this but you two are terrible hosts.” Eddie tsks, leaning against the door with an elbow braced by his head against the frame.

A scoff comes from behind Steve. He’s being pushed to the side as Robin moves to stand in front of him, shoving some of the blankets and pillows in her arms into Eddie’s chest.

“Robs, Robby, Bobby– can you all agree on one nickname, for christ sake.” She pokes Eddie’s arm that now holds some of the pillows and throws, mutters “be nice,” before skirting around him and towards the living room. But not before giving Steve a wide eyed glance once she’s out of Eddie’s line of sight, exaggeratingly tipping her head towards Eddie.

Steve only telepathically begs for her to stop it and doesn’t move to follow her. He can’t move because Eddie is right in front of him.

Can’t move, doesn’t want to move because he now knows that the reason he feels like his heart is going to fall out of his ass is because he likes Eddie Munson.

And he doesn’t know if he could like him back.

Eddie’s eyes were following Robin as she made her way towards the living room, a half smirk exposing one of his dimples. Eddie turns back, giving Steve a full smile that makes Steve swallow hard to avoid saying something stupid, like, I adore your smile, can I please kiss it.

“Ya know, yellow really is your color, by the way.” Eddie tips his head, considering Steve for a moment. “Yup. Your color,” he mutters before turning and heading straight to the living room, hitching the throws and pillows up in his grasp.

Steve pulls his lips into a thin line and follows him. He’s feeling deja vu as he holds his breath. He thought apricots were going to make him melt but no, the apples were going to straight up kill him.

When he finally rounds the corner of the hallway into the living room, Steve stops short.

Jonathan and Argyle are taking up one of the couches, legs tangled into each other as their heads rest on opposite ends of the arm rests. They’re tossing Skittles at each other’s faces, trying to catch the rainbow sweets into their mouths and giggling whenever one misses and they have to go searching into their hair or behind their necks to find it.

Robin and Nancy are on the recliner, which is luckily wide enough for the two of them to sit side-by-side comfortably. They’re under a large purple and pink throw, bowl of pretzels on a pillow that they have on top of their legs, their spiked lemonades in either hand.

Robin smiles nervously at Steve when their eyes meet. She glances down at the floor apologetically but honestly it looked comfortable enough. There were multiple layers of throws and comforters for padding with various pillows thrown about.

Steve doesn't care that he has to be on the floor. Hell, some nights he'll throw a pillow down in his own room because the floor just makes sense for the night.

No, the thing that makes him stop is realizing that the only space left is the floor for Steve and Eddie to share. Steve seems to be the only one fazed because Eddie collapses almost immediately into a pile of pillows, using the blanket to burrito himself by rolling around on the floor.

"Stevie, can you grab my drink before you start the movie? I left it in the kitchen." Eddie is now inching himself like a worm to a stack of pillows to lay back and watch the movie, still cocooned in his throw wrap. 

Steve turns towards the kitchen and makes his way over to the bowl. He ladles two spoonfuls into a solo cup and takes a sip, nose wrinkling. Nancy has always been heavy handed with the alcohol, even for Steve's taste, but surprisingly tonight she kept it reasonable.

Which is not what Steve wants, no needs, right now. He shakes his head and grabs the half empty bottle of vodka and pours himself a generous shot and immediately knocks it back. He exhales a burning breath, completely unfazed and considers taking a second when Eddie's voice directly behind him makes him jump. Steve turns his head to look at Eddie as he leans his hip against the counter beside him.

"Shots already Harrington? What, is your tolerance so high you need to get ahead?" Eddie is bundled in a gray throw, hair a frizzled mess where it can’t be kept in that loose low hanging knot. 

Steve glances towards the living room, eyes narrowing and his heart hammering. “Didn’t you just ask me to grab you your drink, you worm.”

Eddie scratches at his cheek, a smile fighting its way onto his lips before pointing into the living room. “Bobby said Drew forgot her bag of chips on the counter.” Eddie reaches across Steve and past the bowl, bag crinkling loudly in the quiet kitchen as he picks it up with the tips of his fingers.

He slides closer towards Steve. The smell of the spiked lemonade, apples, and alcohol is overwhelming. Eddie takes the shot glass from Steve, fingers brushing along his. He tips his head towards the bottle of tequila.

"I'll try to keep up." The murmur sends a chill down Steve's spine. He's sure the blush on his cheeks isn't from the alcohol but hopes it's what Eddie will believe. Steve doesn't break their gaze as he grabs the bottle and pours a shot. If a few droplets fall onto Eddie's fingers, neither one mentions it.

He doesn't look away when Eddie grabs the shaker of salt. Doesn't look away when his hand is taken and brought closer to the other man's face.

And now he most definitely can't look away because Eddie is tipping his head, the back of Steve's hand brought close to his lips. He licks the back of Steve's hand before shaking the salt over the wet strip, making Steve's breath catch in his throat.

Eddie licks his lips before raising the shot glass with a small intake of breath. “Cheers.” He licks at Steve’s hand again, tongue wide, taking up every grain of salt with him before knocking back the shot. His eyebrows come together as he brings the glass down. “That was actually really smooth, Harrington. Didn't even need the lime. Is this daddy’s good stuff?”

He takes his own cup of spiked lemonade by the lip between his pinky and ring finger that still holds the bag of chips before using his other hand to pick up the bottle to inspect it, corners of his mouth turning down in approval as he makes his way towards the living room.

Steve doesn’t respond, only nods his head even though Eddie can’t see him. He’s stuck looking at the wet strip. but he wipes it away before he can do something abhorrent about it. He takes his own cup and follows Eddie, stops to double back and grab a few different bottles of liquor into his arm and fingering a few shot glasses.

Eddie is already back on the floor but is seated up against the couch Argyle and Jonathan are on, the bottle of tequila between his outstretched legs. He's turned at the waist and he's got two joints in his hands, seems to be asking Argyle about his strain of Purple Palm Tree Delight and comparing it to what Steve assumes to be from Eddie's own stache.

"Uhhh, Steve?" Robin watches him warily as he places the bottles and glasses on the coffee table they moved over by the fireplace.  He pulls the throw that slipped down back over his head and turns to her.

Steve takes a sip from his cup, flinches and decidedly pours more vodka in. He takes another sip and smacks his lips approvingly. He clears his throat, mutters "What's up?" and moves over to the VCR to hit play, then shuffles to the wall and turns off all the lights.

"Dudes and dudettes, it's time to get spooky-ooky" Argyle whispers, moaning like a ghost before almost falling off the couch in a fit of giggles because Jonathan dug his heel into his thigh.

The VHS is rolling and the trailers start playing. Steve considers skipping through them but decides to let them roll, giving everyone a last minute chance to get or do anything before the movie actually starts. He's about to go and settle (a safe distance) on Eddie’s right when Nancy snaps her fingers at him.

"Hold up, bring me that bottle of Morgan." Nancy reaches her hand out and when Steve doesn't immediately move back to the coffee table she rolls her eyes and motions again. "If you and Eddie are going to go overboard then I want to be a part of it."

"Wait, what are those two gonna drink," Robin asks, pointing back to Argyle and Jonathan, voice lofty. "And do I have to-"

"No no, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. If you wanted to drink water that'd be alright, too," Nancy places a hand to Robin's shoulder, rubbing circles with her thumb, other arm still outstretched expectantly towards Steve.

Argyle reaches behind the armrest to grab the bucket filled with ice and the beers from the floor. "We got the 'Ronas here, Robby. Don't wanna get too wishy-washy, yanno." He digs a bottle opener out from somewhere between the couch cushions and pops two bottles open, handing one to Jonathan and wedging his own between his thighs.

"Where'd you even get that," Steve mutters, slipping Nancy her requested bottle. When he finally settles down with the throw over his legs he realizes he's a lot closer to Eddie than he initially wanted to set himself up to be. He'll just blame it on the room being too dark, sinking deep against the couch.

"I think the last time we tried hard liquor after a sesh we kinda slept for, like, thirteen hours straight," Jonathan mumbles before laughing and flicking a Skittle at Argyle's chest. "Bro, remember that night."

"I can't forget that night, man." Argyle's laugh and the way he pats Jonathan's ankle before letting his hand rest there indicates there's a memory there that everyone else isn't privy to. He pulls at one of Jonathan's legs to settle further into the couch, further tangling themselves.

Eddie is watching the interaction, humming softly and slowly nodding to himself before looking over to watch Nancy and Robin. Steve follows Eddie's gaze.

"I'm not saying I don't want to also drink, I'm just– I think someone should be sober enough to make sure the rest of the group doesn't do or, ya know, say something stupid or embarrassing." Robin chews on her thumb nail before shaking her hand out and grabbing her drink. Her eyes flitter towards Steve and it’s only a millisecond, but both Nancy and Eddie start to swivel their heads back and forth between the two.

Eddie smirks, points a finger gun to Robin, rings bright in the dark room. “Wait, are you worried you’re gonna have to go another round with the Russian spies?”

Robin chokes and starts coughing around her drink. Nancy lowers her hand that had remained on Robin’s shoulder and starts patting her on the back. She leans forward, muttering around an amused smile, “the Russian what now?”

“You told him?!” Robin sputters between coughs, opting to take a long pull from her cup to soothe her throat. She groans in annoyance after a sizable swallow. She turns to Nancy and throws her hands up, her cup of lemonade swishing dangerously. She shakes her head at Nancy, mumbles out a quick “it happened once and it was an accident,” before staring daggers at the boys on the floor. “Steve-”

“No, don’t you worry yourself Bobby, he didn’t get into specifics. Stevie here isn’t one to kiss and tell. Nah, he just told me about, oh who was it,” Eddie’s eyes shine as he turns back to Steve, the current trailer playing on the screen painting his face purple. Steve can’t help but smile with him. Eddie snaps his finger guns and redirects them to him. “Bonnie Wriggly’s gummies. I sold her those gummies, by the way. You’re welcome.”

At that Steve chuckles, taking the bottle of tequila from between Eddie’s knees. “Damn Munson, what kinda drugs are you dealing to the kids of Hawkin’s High?” He takes a swing directly from the bottle and Eddie pulls it away from him, an endearing snort escaping him.

"First of all, you weren't supposed to eat them all in one sitting, alright. And I only get the good stuff worth buyin’, sellin', and usin'.” Eddie uses two fingers to pull his hair back to show off the joint he has tucked behind his ear before shaking his hair out to cover it up again. “I trust Ricky to keep the kids happy and safe.” Eddie winks at Steve, tipping the bottle to take a sip.

“Whatever, pour some more here Munson,” Robin grumbles, red solo outstretched. Eddie pulls himself forward, hips first and shuffles on his knees before bending across Steve to pour some into her cup.

Steve’s eyes almost flutter completely shut, that scent of apples clouding him. In this position Eddie’s cut off shirt rides up higher, exposing more of his torso, the battle vest long since abandoned when they’d all first arrived. He can see a tattoo of vines and leaves peaking out from his hips before it disappears back into his black jeans. Oh what he would do to be able to catalog each and every single one of Eddie’s piercings and tattoos.

He exhales slowly, eyes shutting completely as the scenario of being able to get himself into a position to be allowed to catalog Eddie takes over. He shifts uncomfortably, shaking his head to will the images away.

Eddie rocks back, sitting on his heels, free hand thrumming to some unheard beat against his thigh. He tips the bottle towards Steve. “They were smokin’ in here earlier. Do your parents not notice the smell?”

Steve clears his throat with a shrug. “They’re never around anyways. Right now they’re in a conference down south, gonna be gone a few days. I’ll just crack the windows open to air the place out ‘til then, it’s whatever."

It’s not really whatever but Steve doesn’t really give a shit. If his father comments on it he’ll just shrug and play dumb. It works every other time.

Eddie moves back and settles beside Steve against the couch, making Steve's heart threaten to beat out of his chest because now he's closer, much closer than what he had designated to be 'safe.'

The room goes pitch dark, and then suddenly everything is bathed in a bright red as the movie begins. The music is shrill and is accompanied by heavy breathing with the sound of metal sliding against metal, and it rings loudly throughout the room. Eddie leans over, the tip of his nose skimming against Steve's ear, making him shiver. He pulls the comforter up so that it bundles up at his hips, tightly crossing his arms over his chest.

"S'wondering, is it cool if we smoke in here after the movie?" Eddie's voice is low, and Steve knows it’s because he's trying to keep quiet but it makes Steve want to evaporate. "I mean, only if you're up for it."

Steve turns his head as Eddie leans back but it’s not as far as Steve anticipated him to. They're only a few inches away, and Steve holds his breath because if he gets another wave of that scent–

So instead he just nods his head, eyes glancing down to watch Eddie lick his lips. His throat clicks around a hard swallow, barely breathes out a yeah, that's fine, I'd be down before forcing his attention back in time to watch the blonde in a white nightgown trot down the dingy school hallway on the screen. From his peripheral he can see Eddie smile. He almost regrets looking away too soon because he wants to see that dimple.

No, better to have looked away. Smart, definitely smartest decision of the night because if he didn't he's sure he would have tried to close that gap.

The room is bathed in the blue hue as Tina explores the school’s boiler room and everyone gets quiet and they just watch the movie. They take their first drink at about the four minute mark. Steve raises his cup to the screen once the kids start singing Freddy’s nursery rhyme. “Creepy kids, everybody drink,” and they all do.

It doesn't take long before everyone is in a fit of giggles, but only because they can’t take the movie all too seriously. Once Freddy comes on screen they can’t help it, the guy is utterly goofy and comically gross. But everyone gets quiet once they realize Tina is dead.

But it’s only for a beat of silence.

"Oh shit, Tina’s fuckin’ dead, man." Jonathan mumbles.

"Murder!" Eddie cheers, raising his solo up and everyone else follows.

Salud! Here, here! Cheers!

And the night continues on like that. Debauchery? Drink. Someone starts screaming bloody murder? Drink. The dumb teens investigate a suspicious sound or wander off on their own? Drink.

When they had first realized the main girl's name was Nancy they collectively decided to add to their list to drink to every time she did something their Nancy would probably do, which luckily wasn’t too often.

When Glenn and Nancy are introduced, Steve can feel the girl’s eyes on him. He ignores it at first and lets their mumbling go unnoticed, but when Nancy and Robin start to kick their feet and Robin outright cackles, he can’t take it anymore.

“What?!”

Robin waves her hand out in front of her, head falling back against the recliner. “I’m sorry, but does Glenn remind you guys of someone in this room, or is it just us?” Robin giggles, finger pointing at the screen as Glenn is trying to sneak his way into Nancy’s bedroom on screen.

Nancy and Robin are leaning into each other, howling when the guy complains about climbing barefoot on a rose covered trellis to climb into on-screen Nancy's window. Steve narrows his eyes at Robin, miming himself reeling up a fish on a line, except the fish is his middle finger.

When the movie ends everyone is feeling their drinks in some capacity. Or, at least the ones who remained awake were feeling it because Argyle and Jonathan are properly passed out. 

Steve blinks at them because he hadn’t realized when they had moved. Argyle has his face buried in the crook of Jonathan's neck, half of his hair covering most of his face and the rest cascading towards the floor. Jonathan’s arm that pillows Argyle’s head hangs slack at the edge of the couch and his other arm is over his eyes. From the way he’s breathing he’s definitely asleep.

Steve locks eyes with Eddie first, gauging his reaction. But Eddie just smiles fondly at them before putting a finger to his lips with a slight shake of his head. He reaches into his pocket to pull out a lighter before pulling the neatly rolled up paper from behind his ear. He raises his eyebrows in question, to which Steve sighs a breath of relief before nodding.

Steve chances a glance back at Nancy and Robin while Eddie lights up the joint. He waggles his pointer finger between the two girls, tipping his head to the other two on the couch. “Did either of you know about this,” he whispers. They both shrug, unraveling themselves from the blanket they were underneath, the bowl of pretzels long since empty and abandoned on the floor.

When Eddie takes a pull he offers it to them but they both shake their heads as they get settled onto the bed of throws and comforters, pulling pillows underneath their chest and resting on their elbows. A cloud of smoke billows up as he blows out and hands it over to Steve.

Robin's cheeks are flushed, her eyelids low. She rests her chin into her palm and watches as Steve fills his mouth with the smoke and then inhales deeply. He swivels at the hips and leans over towards the stand that's beside the couch to grab an ashtray. He puts it out and lets it sit on the edge and thickens the cloud in the air with an exhale.

"D'ya know that those gummies were the first time I got high," Robin mumbles. The other three all turn to look at her, surprised but also not entirely because it's, well, Robin. "What? I'm in marching band, okay. They don't–."

Eddie shakes and bows his head, trying to stifle his laugh. A hand reaches out to pat the space in front of him. "Oh Bobby. The band kids are one of, if not the biggest host of Hawkins High's delinquent degenerates. My customers range from all social clicks but the band kids, drama kids, and the preps are my top three."

He lifts his hand to wiggle three fingers before dramatically putting up one finger. "And I would bet my life– no, my dear, bright red Sweetheart, that those band kids are my number one."

Robin looks dazed. "Who–" she blinks slowly and tries to picture her bandmates, because seriously? Then suddenly she looks over at Nancy. "Wait, have you ever?"

Somehow Nancy's already blushed cheeks get a few shades deeper. The tips of her ears are bright red as she opens her mouth but no sound comes out. She rolls her eyes and points an accusing finger.

"Only because it was one of Steve's stupid moves, okay. I did it once and all it did was make my mouth go dry and I ended up getting an A minus on one of Kaminsky’s exams because I was too tired to study after." Nancy narrows her eyes at him and tries to taper her annoyed smile.

Steve chuckles at that and shrugs a shoulder. "I mean, it worked, didn't it?"

Nancy mutters idiot, swaying into Robin’s shoulder. She plays with the charms on her bracelet, tangling one of her ankles with Robin's behind them.

"Move, what move?" Robin's mutters, obviously lost. Subconsciously she traps Nancy's ankle with her own before she directs her question to Eddie. "What move could this doorknob have pulled by smoking some pot? Ya know, other than lowering Nance's inhibitions?"

“Okay, now hold on,” Steve huffs incredulously. He moves closer to the girls, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing the two on the couch and Eddie follows suit.

He leans back, his palms to the floor beside his hips with elbows locked and his ankles crossing in front of him. “I don’t need to lower anyone’s inhibitions to make a move work, alright. It just so happens that one of them involves a toke.”

“Really, Stevie? Shotgunning is one of your moves?” Eddie says it with a monotone voice but the hint of a smile gives him away. He rolls his eyes before mirroring Steve and answers Robin with the same bored tone, but not before that smirk takes over. “It’s a way to help someone take a hit. If someone doesn’t know what they’re doin’ they can start coughing. It hurts and it’s just a waste of the hit.

“So,” Eddie takes the joint from the ashtray and holds it up in front of him. “To help avoid all of that, you can try shotgunning. One person inhales the smoke and blows it into the other person’s mouth and they inhale that. It’s weaker that way and less intense, so it’s softer on the throat and lungs.”

“Ew?” Robin's face crumples in disgust, shaking her head at the idea. “How is blowing out someone's hot weed breath into someone else's mouth a move?"

"Well when you put it like that," Nancy mutters, taking a sip directly from her bottle of Morgan. She quirks her lips, turning onto her side to rest her head in her hand. She cards her fingers into her own hair, ankle still trapped between Robin's. "It's not so much… it's the intimacy of it."

"I still don't…" Robin looks between Steve and Eddie, still not able to picture it. But then she gets that glint in her eyes and Steve's stomach whirls and not in a good way all of a sudden because he can see it, even in this very tipsy (is he drunk?) stupor, that she's plotting.

"Can you show me?"

A beat.

"Robs, I'm not doing that with you."

"I don't think that's a smart idea, Bobby."

Steve and Eddie respond at the same time. They lock eyes but then immediately avert them. Eddie starts to pick at his already chipped nail polish and Steve is suddenly very interested in the texture of the comforters.

Robin scoffs. "I didn't mean with me." She flops onto her back and sighs. "Nance, they don't want to show me the move." She pouts, and Nancy chuckles as she reaches a hand out to cup Robin's face, thumb hovering over her lips.

"Robs, it's just how Munson described it, there’s nothing more to it." Steve hopes his voice is coming off as nonchalant. Robin taps a finger to her chin and Steve knows she isn’t done. His stomach is in knots because he knows what she's doing and it's making him dizzy, the kind of dizzy he can't blame on the booze. 

"Okay, but, like, what if I'm… I don’t know, what if I’m with someone and they try to do the move on me? What if I don't see it coming? I feel like I should know. Don't you think I should know? Seems like everyone at school already knows. You three know, those two probably also know. Like–"

"Think you’d be fine, Bobby." Eddie lolls his head to the side and rests it on his own shoulder. "'Sides, it would be hard to miss. Pretty sure you'd see it coming if someone tried to pull that on you. Also, you could just say no, considering your initial reaction to it was ‘ew’."

"Why don't you two just show her."

Silence.

"She learns from seeing and doing. Help her get through the– oh what does Dustin call it?" Nancy rocks forward once and removes her hand from Robin's face to snap her fingers. "The curiosity door. You two swung it wide open and now she’s locked out. Just– walk her through it so her curiosity doesn't kill her."

"Why are you two so hung up on this?"

"It's really not that big of a deal."

“Did you just insinuate I’m like a cat?”

They all speak over each other but Robin continues to question Nancy in a hushed tone and ignores the other two because “I feel like I give off more puppy vibes.”

The two lock eyes again but don't look away this time. Steve feels as if he’s in a bubble, Robin and Nancy are suddenly so far away. Eddie thrums his fingers and considers Steve for a moment. Steve doesn’t move, doesn’t want to burst this thin veil of absurdity because are they about to…?

He feels as if he’s going crazy, like he’s on fire.

Eddie is the first to speak.

"Who'd receive?"

Steve is officially ablaze. His breath stutters, he tries to respond but chokes on the words. He clears his throat. “I’ve never been on the receiving end of a shotgun, so I don’t…” He hopes Eddie heard him because he can’t get himself to speak any louder.

Eddie hums that low note that makes Steve’s heart skip a beat and then suddenly starts to move. Steve doesn’t understand how there isn’t smoke coming out of his own ears because he’s burning up.

Eddie picks up the ashtray with the tips of his fingers to clear the space between them. He shuffles closer to Steve until he’s close, too close but still not close enough. He mirrors Steve again except now they’re shoulder to shoulder, hips barely touching. He settles his hand beside Steve’s, just the tips of his fingers blanketing his.

Steve’s body is on high alert because Eddie is way beyond the designated safety line. Except that line doesn’t even exist anymore, it had been absolutely decimated the moment they didn't look away the second time they locked eyes.

Eddie lights the rolled up paper, takes a pull and then inhales. He doesn’t move towards Steve, instead blows it down between them so the smoke shrouds them. He flips the joint.

“Here, you can–”

“Can you–” Steve’s voice is barely above a whisper as he interrupts him, yet he doesn’t finish saying it. He just stares at the damp end that faces him and waits. But when Eddie doesn’t move, he lets his eyes travel up. His gaze trails up his arm, to his neck and then his jaw. When he gets to Eddie’s lips he forces himself to look at his eyes and hopes, begs without saying anything more that Eddie understands that he wants him to be the one to do it.

Eddie’s face is unreadable as he searches his face. Steve starts to doubt himself and the entire situation, thinks he might have messed this up. He parts his lips to just say never mind, forget it, to fix this before the bubble outright bursts but then Eddie nods.

If they weren’t so close Steve is sure he would have missed it. It’s so subtle but he nods and Steve might actually combust with relief.

Suddenly the fire is in his gut and his fingers that touch Eddie’s twitch. He’s lightheaded and it has nothing to do with the booze. A breathy chuckle escapes him and he finds his words again, feeling a bit confident. “You wait any longer to do this and that thing’s gonna go out, Munson.” 

He nods again but it’s impossible to miss this time. “I gotcha Harrington.” Eddie says it low, low enough for only Steve to hear. He pulls away with a smirk and brings the joint towards his lips and takes another pull. He inhales slowly as he leans away to put it out on the ashtray again. He holds his breath and moves back.

Steve shifts, sliding his right foot up and extending his arm to rest it on his knee, his other hand moving just a bit until his hand is almost completely blanketed by Eddie’s. Eddie raises his other hand to the side of Steve’s face. His fingertips ghost over Steve’s skin and Steve can’t help the shiver that sends a chill down his spine.

His body is screaming for him to move, to get back to safety, no to move closer but, fuck, he can’t fucking think. He can’t think because the apples, oh god those apples. His mouth is watering and all he’s able to process in this moment is Eddie Eddie Eddie.

Eddie’s thumb is at Steve’s chin. He pulls at him, his hand no longer a ghosting touch but a searing brand. He gently applies pressure with his thumb to get Steve’s lips to part, bringing Steve’s face closer to his.

Steve’s gaze is fixed for as long as he can onto those chocolate brown eyes until he can’t fight it and they slip down to Eddie’s lips. They get closer and there’s nothing left for him to do but huff out the final short breath he had in his lungs.

There are no ants, there is no anxiety, there is no doubt.

Steve’s eyes have already slipped closed but he can feel it when Eddie is right where he needs to be. He sways forward, lips so close that if he opened his mouth anymore–

When Eddie finally exhales Steve has to fight every single impulse to reach forward and get directly to the source. When the smoke passes his lips and into his lungs he stifles the moan that wants to escape him, but barely. Instead he bends his arm, tries hugging it to his knee in a last ditch attempt to keep himself from reaching out to touch, to grab, to feel him, but he fails.

His hand wraps around Eddie’s bicep and squeezes so tight that Eddie’s arm shifts and his hand slips farther into Steve’s hair, thumb now resting high on his cheek. There’s a flitter of hesitation, his fingers twitching but then Eddie reaches farther, seizes a fistful of his hair and pulls.

Steve’s breath hitches and he can’t take anymore in. His lungs are on fire, not because of the smoke but because the air in his lungs was just in Eddie’s and Steve can’t get enough. Steve’s hand that’s encapsulated under Eddie’s hand balls into a fist and Eddie can only just capture his wrist to steady himself, but not before he slips forward, his bottom lip bumping against Steve’s top lip.

His grip on Steve’s wrist tightens and a gasp escapes him. Steve tries to swallow the sound but there’s no more room in his lungs. He doesn’t exhale just yet, because if he does then this moment ends. No he can’t just yet, he needs a minute, needs an eternity to collect himself before he does something stupid like let himself melt forward.

When Eddie’s grip in his hair loosens Steve exhales slowly, smoke diluted and adding to the current billow. Steve pulls back slightly, eyes slipping open and–

He realizes he's fucked up. Royally, completely, and utterly fucked up because Eddie is so fucking beautiful. Cheeks red, lips parted, pupils completely blown, and damn it. His face is framed by those strands that he can’t pull back into that low hanging knot, eyes dazed, bottom lip being pulled in to bite on and–

Steve is so fucked.

“I missed it.”

“What happened?”

The bubble pops.

Steve’s head snaps back at Robin and Nancy’s voices, eyes blinking away the fog. Eddie blinks with him, eyebrows coming together as he just continues to stare back at Steve. He’s searching his face again and it makes Steve's stomach flutter, makes the ants tick up again because he can’t read him, doesn’t know if what he’s finding is good or bad.

The room is completely silent. Robin inhales, about to continue when suddenly there’s a knock on the front door and everyone’s head snaps towards it because who the hell is knocking at this hour?

The voice that comes through the front door is muffled but unmistakably panicked and familiar. “Eddie?”

“Chrissy?” Eddie mutters, sobering up almost immediately as he pulls away entirely and makes his way over to the door.

Steve looks over to Robin and Nancy and their faces reflect his same confusion. He shakes himself, completely over the moment and follows suit, a few steps behind Eddie who’s already opening the door.

“Babe, what are– did you walk all the way over here?” Eddie steps out, hands on Chrissy’s shoulders. He whips his head left and right, doesn’t seem to find anything in the night before ushering her in and shutting the door behind him. “The hell, Chris are you okay? What happened, I thought you were having dinner with your family?”

Steve hears the sob that escapes her and he’s suddenly wide awake, brain fog completely cleared. Her face crumples when she sees him. “I’m so-sorry I didn’t mean to crash you’re– but I just– I-I remembered where your place was because of the p-parties you threw and I, just, I didn’t know where else to go. I can’t go home. I can’t.”

“Stop, stop, don’t apologize.” Steve’s tries to hide his concern and just tries his best to keep his voice soft as he crosses his arms over his chest. He looks up at Eddie and Steve is taken aback for a moment because he’s never seen him upset before, let alone angry. When Chrissy hiccups on a sob, his face softens and he turns her, holding her tiny body close to his.

Steve can hear Nancy and Robin shuffling up behind him. He turns and blocks Eddie and Chrissy from their line of sight as much as he can. Robin’s eyes are saucers and she stumbles as she gets close, the throw around her shoulders. “Did he just call her babe?”

Steve shakes his head at her because now really isn’t the time. “You and Nance take my room tonight, okay? Parties over.” When Robin opens her mouth to say something, Steve raises a hand to gently lift her chin. “Not now, Robs. I’ll make pancakes in the morning.” He flicks her shoulder and points towards the stairs.

Nancy tips her head to peak past Steve’s shoulder before putting her arm around Robin and leading her upstairs. Before they disappear completely Robin spins and leans over the banister. “Steve, come up when you’re done with, well, when you’re ready for bed. Okay?”

She doesn’t move until Steve nods. She smiles tightly down at him before turning back, arm around Nancy’s shoulder. “I shouldn’t have spun so fast, I think I’m gonna be sick.” He shakes his head at her, rolling his eyes endearingly before turning back to Eddie and Chrissy.

He doesn’t know what to do or say, so he just watches them for a moment. Eddie is having a silent conversation with her, muttering into her hair as she sniffles into his shoulder. Steve waves a hand to catch Eddie’s attention.

When he does he points back to the kitchen, motioning for them to follow. Eddie nods, giving Steve an apologetic smile but he waves him off. Eddie takes a step forward, making Chrissy have to stumble along backwards with him. His lips quirk as he takes another step and she yelps, and soon they’re both giggling as he drags her towards the kitchen, her feet dragging between his legs.

Steve pulls out three water bottles from the fridge, clearing out some of the mess on the kitchen’s island for Chrissy and Eddie in case they want to take a moment to calm themselves before he offers them his guest bedroom.

He sets two bottles down in front of them, and Chrissy mumbles a shy thank you before taking a few sips. “I’m really sorry–”

“Please, don’t. It’s… I’m just glad you felt safe enough to come here. That Munson was here for you, ya know?” 

“It’s just,” Chrissy huffs and rolls her eyes, annoyed but seemingly with herself.

Steve rests his elbows on the counter, leaning forward. “It’s not Jason, is it? He didn’t–”

An annoyed scoff escapes Eddie. “No, it’s not that meathead asswipe. This one came to her senses after her date with him last week and broke things off, finally.”

Chrissy shoves at him playfully, her laugh still heavy with the residual pain. “Shut up. No, no, it’s just my mom. I had a fitting for this year’s new cheerleading uniforms, then we went out to dinner and she just…” Chrissy’s eyes roll up and she stares up at the ceiling. Her eyes well up with tears, and she pulls her lips into a tight line. She inhales slowly before blowing out a shaky breath, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. “My mom fucking sucks, sometimes, ya know.”

“Yea, moms can suck sometimes,” Steve mumbles. He knows well enough how much mom’s can suck. He takes a few sips from his own bottle of water.

Eddie slings an arm over her shoulder, pulling her in. She hugs his side, wiping away her tears with her shoulder. “I’m-”

“You apologize one more time and I’m going to make you sit through an entire DnD session and you will have to participate. You’ll have to make a character sheet, pick out which dice set of mine you’ll want to use, dress up, talk in-character the whole time– I mean, everything.” Eddie deadpans. When she laughs, Steve and Eddie chuckles along with her.

She sniffles a few times, before using her sleeve to wipe at her nose. She leans back  and bumps her shoulder against his. “I love you.”

Eddie rolls his eyes leaning close to kiss the top of her head. “Yeah, you too.”

And that’s Steve’s cue–

He claps his hands once before remembering the other two are still on the couch. He winces and looks over, but thankfully they're still dead asleep. “You two can take the guest bedroom.”

“Oh, that’s not–” Chrissy starts but Steve waves her off again.

“Chrissy, I don’t know you all that well and I know women are very capable of making their own decisions, but I can be pretty persuasive. Well… unless you’re Robin. Or Nance. Or even Max, actually, now that I think about it.” Steve laughs dryly, running a hand through his hair and taking another sip of his water. “No, no– jokes aside, I insist. Please, it’s this way” He motions for the both of them to follow.

“Come on, Chris. I can’t drive right now, anyway, none of us can. I’ll take you back to mine after we pick up Max from Byer’s place. I won’t take you home until you’re ready to go. Yeah?” He reaches out a hand and she takes it with a small nod.

Steve leads them down to the same room where he and Robin got the blankets and pillows, standing clear to let them through.

Chrissy stops short. “Where’s your bathroom?”

Steve’s lips quirk. “Eddie can show you, he knows where it is.” Eddie chuckles at that before leading her towards it. When he returns he stops at the door and leans against, facing Steve. He crosses his arms and stares down at the floor before looking up and Steve has to avert his eyes.

“I’ll let you two, uh.” Steve clears his throat, pinching his nose as that prickling sensation starts behind his eyes. He blinks once and clears his throat again. “I’m makin’ pancakes in the morning, if you two are still here when we all get up.” He raps his knuckles on the doorframe and turns.

“Wait, Steve?” Eddie reaches out, fingers wrapping gingerly around Steve’s wrist. Steve bites his lip and wills himself to stay calm because Eddie’s touch burns.

He doesn’t fully turn to face him, just barely turns his head towards his shoulder to respond. “Yeah, Munson?” When Eddie gently tugs on his arm Steve can’t help but move with it. He holds his breath as Eddies pulls away from the door frame and lets his grasp loosen so that he can drop his hand lower and tangle his fingers with Steve’s.

“I just wanted to say thanks for tonight.” Eddie gets close and Steve shutters a breath. “And that I had fun.” Steve wants to avert his eyes but in his attempts to avoid looking into those eyes, he’s now watching their hands, fingers entwined together and it makes his heart ache.

So, so fucked.

He looks up and wills himself to play it cool. “I’ll be sure to invite you to the next one, then.” Steve’s smile is small but it’s all he can muster. Eddie's grip on his fingers tighten and he shifts, like he’s about to step closer but a door shuts behind them and Steve jumps and pulls away.

“Good night, you two.” Steve doesn’t look back, swings by the kitchen to grab two more bottles from the fridge before taking the steps two at a time to get to his room.

When he shuts it he closes his eyes and rests his head against the door. He doesn’t move or acknowledge the squeaking of the floorboard as someone gets off his bed. And when arms wrap around his middle and he’s hugged from behind he just lets his head fall back to rest on top of Robin’s.

“I’m fucked.”

It’s all he says but he feels Robin nod her head against his back in agreement. “I know.”

Steve sighs, pulling her arms away from him to turn and look at her and Nancy who sits on the edge of his bed, her eyes sad. “You really like him.” It’s not a question, because of course Nancy knows. Steve swallows hard, eyes slipping shut and can only nod once. He covers his face with one hand.

“I don’t wanna talk about it. Can I just…” He points back to the door and peaks at them through one eye but both Robin and Nancy shake their heads at him. Nancy pats the space on the bed and Robin pulls on his arm, dragging him towards the bed. “Guys, I’m so exhausted I just want to go to sleep already.”

“Come on dingdong, be our little spoon for tonight.” Robin pulls harder when Steve starts to resist, but he doesn’t for long. Nancy crawls back to the right side of the bed, pulling back the covers and shutting off the lamp. Robin pushes Steve towards the left side and directs him to sit.

She crawls up onto the bed until she’s behind him, settling in comfortably with Nancy before she pulls on the back of his shirt to guide him down, and he lets her. They don’t throw the cover over him, knowing he doesn’t like to share one. Nancy settles underneath it while Robin adjusts the throw to cover her and Steve below the waist.

A sigh escapes him as he shuts his eyes. “Rob. Nance. This is so weird.”

“It’s only weird if you make it weird,” Robin mutters, looping her arm under his, settling against his back. Shortly after another arm is reaching around and it’s only far enough to reach Steve’s waist, but it’s enough.

Some time passes by and Nancy’s grasp on him goes slack. The room is silent long enough for Steve to think they’re both asleep, but when he shifts Robin’s arm tightens around him. He pats her arm, exhaustion just about to take him under. “M’not going anywhere,” he mutters, but she doesn’t loosen her grasp.

“Steve.” Sleepy grunt. “If I would have known about Chrissy, I would have said something sooner.” No response. “I just, I honestly thought that he…” Her voice trails off, unable to put it into words. Whatever it was, Steve doesn’t know, can’t care right now. He’s exhausted, too exhausted to want to analyze the hurt right now and all he wants is to sleep it off.

“I don’t know what I thought, but Steve, that feeling? In your gut, or, maybe in your chest?”

His eyes slip open and he stares into the dark room. Small sigh. “What about it?”

“Just… don’t let that kill the before feelings. Before you realized that he’s not…” Another squeeze before she lets her arm go loose around him. “Don’t let that slip away, okay?”

“Yeah… yeah, okay.”

part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8

[something-lacking]

Dragged Out of the Ashes

Summary: A few sprigs of lavender loosely clasped in scarred hands. Unseeing eyes fixed on the sky. A sizable puddle of blood formed on the floor. A genuine smile on cold lips. Quiet. Stillness. It's over. The end.

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: Blood, violence, misogyny, and implied/referenced sexual abuse.

Ao3 link here // FF.Net link here // Wattpad link here

Although certainly not for lack of trying, there is not much that Daniella enjoys. Or causes her to experience some vague approximation of enjoyment, anyway. One of the few things on that pitifully short list is gazing at the sky up above.

Every night, she lays down on her thin mattress after Master sends her off. She remains there for hours, but she doesn't sleep much. Hardly ever. Her bare-bones room offers nothing to do and she isn't allowed to leave until Master says, so she simply stares out the small window.

She'll wonder what lies beyond the estate, the endless trees, and the mountains that seclude them from everything.

She'll let her eyes glaze over. Try to quiet her thoughts with little success.

Or, most often, she'll simply watch the sky.

Currently, it's the blue hour. The soft light is pretty.

Gentle.

Soothing.

Like...

...a lullaby...

It's enough to make one drift off.

Daniella has a lovely view of it through the observatory's broken skylight.

She's already drifted off, though.

Her eyes are open, but darkness has settled over her vision.

She stopped breathing about ten minutes ago.

It's alright, though. Daniella decided that if she could not obtain Fiona's Azoth—if her last chance to fix herself fully slipped through her fingers, then she was prepared for her miserable existence to come to an end.

No more menial chores day in and day out.

No more bitter insults.

No more beatings.

Only nothingness.

It's all over. The end.

...

Fiona descends the steps of the curved staircase with Hewie at her heels.

She has yet another key. Another door to open.

She lets out a shuddery breath.

Another step closer to freedom. Another obstacle out of her way.

No... That doesn't sound right...

The horrid stinging sensation radiating throughout the entirety of Fiona's hands seems to worsen. The scraps of cloth she wrapped around her palms are already turning scarlet.

She doesn't regret it.

She's sorry. She's so sorry, which is why she doesn't regret it.

The moment is still seared into her brain.

The glass rains down.

The maid cries out as a particularly large shard sinks through her middle, pinning her place like an insect on display.

Blood runs down the glass in thick streams, pooling on the floor.

Purple lips pull back into a—

"Gah!"

Fiona startles at the cold nose that presses into the back of her knee. She had stopped walking. When did she stop walking?

Hewie stares up at her, tilting his head and letting out a concerned whine.

"Sorry, boy." Fiona reaches down to scratch behind his ears. "We'll keep moving."

They have to. That's all they can do.

She hates this place. She really does.

...

Tick-tock.

It's over.

Tick-tock.

Why does the grandfather clock continue to tick?

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

Honestly, truly, it's nothing but cruel to finally give Daniella something she desires and then rip it away like this.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

Why does the flower refuse to wilt? To die? Even after being pulled from its roots and deprived of everything?

Shut in.

Closed off.

Uncared for.

It wants to die.

Can't stand another day. Another hour. Another minute. Another second. She can't.

Daniella just wants to die.

She doesn't. Instead, she opens her eyes.

The sprigs of lavender resting in her hands appear freshly picked. They're vibrant and healthy. She holds them tightly, confused.

The sky is a new color. A dusty purple.

There is no shard of glass in Daniella's field of vision. Nothing is impaling her.

She's lying supine on the floor. The reflective surface beneath her is positively saturated in blood—surely more than should be outside of her body while she's still alive.

Not that Daniella was ever truly alive.

...Perhaps if she continues to lay here, she will eventually die.

...No, no. Daniella shouldn't be so useless. She's always so useless. Why waste an unexpected second opportunity?

Miss Fiona might still be wandering around, searching for a way to escape.

...

Fiona doesn't know where she's going. The trees, the paths... they all look the same!

"Do your best, Fiona!"

Hewie—poor, precious Hewie—is hurt.

Riccardo is right on her tail.

"There's nowhere to run!"

BANG!

"Agh!"

Fiona's shoulder begins to burn. Like someone decided to smack her with a red hot metal rod. She stumbles forward, just barely catching herself from falling down the steep, unexpected drop before her. This is a dead end, dammit!

BANG!

Something whizzes right past her head. Not good. Not good. Not good. She wheels around with every intent to start running again but finds the barrel of Riccardo's pistol pointing right between her eyes.

He's blocking the path. If she tries to get past him, the next bullet certainly won't just graze her.

"Why are you doing this?" Fiona asks. "What did I do?"

"You inherited your father's Azoth," Riccardo answers flatly. And there's that word again. Azoth. The 'essence of life'. Whatever that means. Fiona wants to pull her hair out.

"What Azoth? I don't even know what that is!"

"That Azoth belongs to us, Fiona. Don't you see? You are our child..."

What.

Fiona refuses to even try and wrap her head around that one. It's too ridiculous. Even after everything. It can't be true. She knows who her parents are—were (don't dwell on it right now). She tells Riccardo such.

He sneers at her beneath his hood, then lifts his free hand to remove it. His face, although marred by glass-like cracks, is disturbingly similar to that of her father. The sick feeling already roiling in her gut rises up to the back of her throat. She tries and fails to swallow it down.

This can't be real. This is insane.

"We are clones!" Riccardo lowers his gun slightly. "Ugo is no more—"

Fiona seizes the opportunity and rams into him with all of her might, toppling him over.

BANG!

The gun fires, missing both of them.

Fiona takes off.

"Fiona!"

...

She must have gotten far, Daniella thinks. Perhaps against all odds, Fiona did manage to escape.

A shriek echoes down the corridor. "Let me go!"

Or perhaps not.

Daniella follows the cries. She thinks she knows where they might be coming from.

There.

She is not fond of this particular room. She has never been fond of it. Not after all that has transpired within it. All of the poking and the prodding and the cutting and the anger and—

No more. No more false ends.

Quietly, Daniella twists the door handle and pushes open the door.

"Don't worry, I do not intend to kill you."

In the gap between the drawn medical curtain and the floor, she can see a familiar pair of sandals and brown trousers. She begins to creep closer, silent as a phantom.

"I've decided you shall give birth to me."

For the first time, she is aware of her heart beating in her chest. She hears her own breathing and feels something stirring deep within her. A dark, twisted excitement tightly wrapped in anxiety.

Fiona struggles against the restraints keeping her on the dirty operating table. "You..." her voice is high and strained, "y-you can't—!"

"I can do whatever I wish!" Riccardo proclaims. "I told you, you're mine. I own you!"

There's a variety of medical instruments sitting on a small, wheeled table. Daniella picks up a scalpel.

Riccardo is still too busy blathering with that painfully smug voice of his to notice her, but Fiona does. She opens her mouth to speak again, then snaps it shut, eyebrows shooting up behind her bangs and eyes widening even further.

"—this time, with your Azoth..." Riccardo pauses. "What on earth are you looking at?"

Daniella doesn't hesitate. Not even for a second. She knows that this will likely be her only opportunity. She can't waste it. She won't. She wants to do this.

Before he can even manage to turn and look at her, Daniella grabs Riccardo's face and cranes his neck back as far as it will go.

She digs the scalpel as deep into his throat as she can and drags it across, splitting it wide open. Red spills forth. It pours out like a waterfall. Riccardo collapses to the floor, choking and gasping for air.

Daniella wipes her weapon clean with her apron.

As Riccardo writhes, he clumsily grabs at her, weakly tugging at the end of her skirt, clawing at her legs. She only watches him.

...It is... alien seeing his features contorted in terror and shock rather than a smirk or snarl. And after everything, after all of the times Daniella has been laying pathetically on the floor just like he is right now, beaten or worse...

There is something enjoyable about this. A deep satisfaction settles in her bones. She smiles and, surprisingly, not for the first time since Fiona's arrival, it feels genuine.

When Riccardo's movements still, when he is nothing more than a corpse on the floor, Daniella tilts her head up. Her attention is now on Fiona.

Impossibly, Fiona begins to struggle even harder. The operating table rattles and shakes, but the restraints remain unyielding.

She can't get away. She can't move. She can't breathe. She can't breathe.

The maid begins to close the distance between them with even, measured footsteps.

Fiona's going to die. She's made it so far and she's going to die here!

The maid looms overhead. Her lavender curls are matted with blood. Dark stains creep from the back of her clothes and onto the front.

And her eyes... Those silvery, glassy eyes of hers are studying Fiona so very intently. She feels as though needles are slowly and methodically being pushed into her skin.

She should say something. Anything. But no words come out. There's an invisible block lodged in her throat and all she can do is sputter.

The maid tilts her head ever so slightly.

Cold steel presses a light kiss against Fiona's cheek. She jolts and tenses up.

The flat side of the maid's scalpel traces along her jaw and down the column of her neck.

Then, the blade finds one of the straps binding her wrists and severs it.

Huh?

After it sinks in, Fiona wastes no time in trying to free her other wrist. The maid pays her sharp movements no mind and makes her way to the end of the table, working on the straps at Fiona's ankles.

She's free. The maid freed her, despite her multiple attempts to kill Fiona earlier.

The overflow of questions in Fiona's head is only increasing.

How is the maid still alive?

Why did she help her?

Her expressionless face offers no answers.

Is she... Is...

Finally, Fiona notices the sprigs of lavender. The ones that she had left in the maid's cold, scarred hands before leaving the observatory. Their stems have been woven through a few tears on the front of her jacket (Hewie's gnashing teeth and raised hackles cross through Fiona's mind), holding them in place.

She kept them. She's wearing them. That's... unexpected?

Fiona manages a shaky smile. "...Thank you... er, I don't even know your name, do I?"

"Daniella," the maid eventually says. "I would like to be called Daniella."

"Daniella. Thank you."

Daniella simply bobs her head in response.

When Fiona finds it in herself to continue on, Daniella follows her. And Fiona wants her to. 

[kxlinthesky]

ESSENCE 7 SIDE STORY - Eden

A white room. A white place.

This tiny world, where time seemed frozen in place, was known as Eden.

And locked away inside, a young boy waited ever more for angels to arrive.

 When at last the boy escaped his gilded cage, what was it that he saw, and who was it that he met?

This is his tiny tale of adventure, searching for the “upside-down city” he so desperately yearned to see.

■■■■■■■■■■

I dream of an “upside-down city,” where an opalescent night sky dotted with twinkling orange-gold stars floats under the buildings instead of above.

In those dreams, I live in that city. It looks like the illustrations in books I read long ago. I can remember the smell of the cobblestones after rain, and the nostalgic familiarity of the windows shining with light. Crowds of people in colorful clothes live there, too, and four-wheel horse-drawn carriages travel in the spaces between massive brick buildings. The whole place feels like a toybox.

“I want to go there, too. Where is it?” I would ask.

“I don’t know,” you would reply. You laughed at me, but I wasn’t kidding.

Because I’ve been waiting here for so, so long, for the angels to descend from the upside-down city to take me by the hand.

■■■■■■■■■■

Do you get this painful ringing in your ears when things get too quiet? The place where I am is like that. It’s a tiny room that’s all white – the walls, the ceiling, the door, everything, and it never changes. The desk, bookshelf, and bed are all lined up symmetrically, and the quill, books, water jug, and cookies lying on them are all white, too. Even the bit of sky I can see through the skylight is white. It’s all boring.

Aah, I just want to go back to sleep and dream about that city again. That place is such a delightful jumble of objects and colors that it makes being locked up in this tranquil room all the more suffocating. I’ve long since grown bored of this static, unchanging life I’m living. I just sleep the days away.

I don’t remember anything from when I was born.

In my earliest memories I was already living here, hearing caretakers tell me in toneless voices that I’m a “supremely precious existence.” They bring me books, and at three o’clock they bring cookies, too. But they also feel sort of floaty, like clouds – they don’t feel real. Everything in here is like that. It’s all shaped like how it’s supposed to look, but it’s been encased in this white something or other.

I don’t even know if the caretakers are machines or real people. Honestly, there might not even be more than one – all of them look the same, so for all I know they could all be the same person. They come in every day, and all they do is perform the same actions and repeat the same phrases.

“May you spend your day peacefully and quietly,” they say.

It’s been a long time since I realized that there was nothing reflected in their eyes.

Where is the upside-down city...? It’s not here, at least.

The air smells of sunshine. My hair flutters in the breeze. I can feel my feet thumping against the steady, firm cobblestones as I race along the pathways. And I can feel the warmth of a large hand gripping mine as we walk along... but none of that is real here.

When I opened my eyes to the white skylight overhead, my heart sank. When I looked at the clock, it was still too early for me to get up. But I slept more than enough – I wasn’t going back to bed. I took in my surroundings. Everything was dead quiet, same as every night. The silence weighed heavy on my ringing ears. I scowled, conjuring up images of my dreams to escape the familiar pain.

And suddenly, I came up with the most brilliant idea.

What if I broke the rules and went outside, to look for the city?

I could find that wonderful place out there, see it with my own two eyes. Warm anticipation welled up deep in my gut at the thought. I didn’t remember ever going outside before, but it was possible that my dreams were actually memories from when I was just a baby. It was honestly kind of odd that the idea hadn’t crossed my mind before.

I stole from my bed on silent feet and gently opened the door just a crack. On the other side was a hallway with a rounded arched ceiling, stretching in both directions as far as the eye could see seemingly without end. My legs froze. I was breaking the rules. My body was subconsciously warring with my mind.

For a while I stood there, completely motionless, hesitant, wavering. But eventually the excitement in my heart won out over the uncertainty, and I took my first bold step out of the door and headed down the hallway to the right.

I proceeded with caution, but no matter how far I walked I didn’t see anyone else. Maybe there weren’t that many people in the building. The thought reassured me, and soon enough my bare feet were positively flying down the endless white hall as fast as they could go. It wasn’t long before I ran out of breath, though – I was always running around everywhere in my dreams, but I’d never pushed myself like that in real life.

I had to pause to catch my breath. I’d ended up in some kind of atrium, where the ceiling was so high I couldn’t even see it. The gigantic white stone walls around me were dotted with dozens of passageways stretching out like wedges. It was a big area, but it had this cooped-up feeling to it, like I’d stumbled into a prison, that left me struggling to breathe.

There were plenty of paths to choose from, but I knew I was going to end up lost no matter what I did. I chose the route straight ahead.

– All I could hear was the tapping of my feet echoing in the vast space as I walked endlessly onward. The halls were dim, lit only by flickering electric lights spaced evenly along the walls. I kept glancing back over my shoulder, wondering when the caretakers would finally notice I was gone and come chasing after me.

My sense of time grew warped in this ever-repeating loop of identical halls with identical walls. Anyone who experienced it once would understand the fear brewing in my heart, not knowing if I was actually progressing forward or if I was going in circles. I began to grow discouraged when I continued to see no change in my surroundings, and the thought of turning back gnawed at my mind what felt like hundreds of times.

But finally, I spied it – an exit off in the distance, a literal light at the end of the tunnel. The faint shine peeking through the cracks dispelled any doubts I had. Secretly, I felt like crying at the sight.

I rushed up to the exit at the end of the hall and peeked through to see the largest space I’d ever seen in my life. The area looked to be some kind of place of worship, laid out in three aisles. Off to the right, in the depths by the altar-looking thing, a ten-meter-tall geometric monument hung on the wall. The chairs where people would sit were unreasonably massive. Only two people were inside, each standing guard at opposite ends of the room. I snuck forward through one of the side aisles, hiding in the shadows of the pillars, heading through a lobby on the opposite side of the altar, and eventually reached a door that looked like it led outside.

I scanned my surroundings as I opened the door, but as soon as I turned my eyes outside, I was blinded by overwhelming panic. The “whiteness” was suddenly assaulting my entire body. I somehow managed to swallow the scream that threatened to erupt and slowly, carefully, opened by stinging eyes a crack, and eventually, I began to make out a faint image wavering in front of me.

... An endless sea of white earth and white sky.

That was the first view I got of the outside.

Once I cautiously confirmed there was no one around, I dashed outside the building, feeling the loose earth scatter underneath my feet like sand and dust the backs of my legs. It wasn’t hot. I shouted in delight, unable to contain my excitement. I’d only ever seen a slice of sky through the skylight in my room, and now the whole wide open expanse in its infinite glory was mine to enjoy.

For some reason, laughter bubbled out of me. I pressed a hand against my pounding chest and darted up a sloping white hill.

■■■■■■■■■■

Everywhere I went in the outside world was a never-ending white desert under a colorless sky, occasionally interspersed with round pillar constructions that sprouted from the ground like peppermint. At first I was on guard every time I saw one of them, but no matter how long I watched them I never saw any signs of people, just the structures themselves jiggling around every so often as they changed shapes.

Eventually I grew bored of the monotonous landscape, and as I walked along I couldn’t stop my doubts from floating to the surface. What time was it? Where could I find the city?

... What would I do if I couldn’t find it?

Would the caretakers’ frozen faces change at all if they knew I was missing...?

I was tired, spacing out, walking through the world with only my increasingly incoherent thoughts for company. But soon enough, I realized that the land around me was changing.

... The first oddity I noticed was “smell.” The scent of fresh grass laden with evening dew wafted through the air. It was the smell of a humid night.

It was a sensation I’d only known in my dreams. The vague, floaty sense pervading the world had suddenly gained something tangible, something to give it definition. A chill shuddered its way down my spine.

The next thing I noticed was “sound.” A rustling sound overhead, the sound of leaves on a tree swaying in the wind.

... Yes, trees were growing around me. I hadn’t noticed them at first. And when I glanced around, I could hear the faint chirping of insects. Everything together created this unshakeable sense of nighttime.

“... What is this place?”

I’d ended up in a forest in the dead of night, just like the places I saw in my dreams. I’d meant to go outside – was I just dreaming again? But even as I realized that the air around me, heavy with moisture, coiled around me like a shroud, I shook off my uneasiness and continued to climb the hill.

I had to see what lay ahead with my own eyes. And when I thought that I might see the upside-down city that very night, my frozen legs managed to push onward.

■■■■■■■■■■

What I found at the top was a strange silhouette of a building.

The weathered white rectangle was haphazardly constructed, like a child working with toy blocks, and above it stood a line of lonely looking radio towers pointed up at the heavens. I stared at it for some time, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, but looking closer I eventually spotted a small set of double doors at the bottom, in the same pure white color as the walls around it. There was no handle. I tried pushing on it instead. The hinges creaked.

Slowly, timidly, I pushed further, until the door opened just enough to peek inside. It was surprisingly bright on the other side, and wider inside than the outside led me to believe. White pillars stood scattered unevenly around the space, and a small, illuminated display twinkled in their midst. Heartened by the light, I slipped inside the mazelike building without further delay and began to slowly but surely creep my way forward.

What was this building for? I glanced around as I went. The pillars looked similar to the structures outside, and on closer inspection they were also slowly changing shape. Maybe I could learn more if I looked at my surroundings from the rooftop, where the radio towers were.

I kept my eyes peeled, wondering if there was any way for me to get up there, but it wasn’t until I faced forward again that I saw it, a tiny yelp escaping my lips. A spiral staircase reaching all the way to the ceiling had suddenly appeared while I hadn’t been looking.

“But this wasn’t here before....”

This day had been one odd thing after another, but I could still be surprised. I craned my neck, staring up at the spiral that slowly faded into darkness, too far for the light to reach.

The handrails creaked under my touch. I stretched myself up as far as I could, trying to see just how far it went, but even on my tiptoes I couldn’t see the end of the seashell-like spiral. It was paralyzingly high, that much was certain. Fear suddenly gripped my heart.

(Should I go back...? If I act innocent enough, I probably could. No one’s come after me tonight, thankfully... and I even left that kid alone in the room, too....)

But even with those thoughts swirling in my head, my legs still unconsciously rose onto the first step. The handrail curved like a living, breathing being, and it had a lavish mosaic pattern on it, but it was still old, and it groaned with every step.

Trembling, I continued my journey up. Somewhere in the middle I couldn’t help but peek down and saw the yawning pitch-black pits of Hell opening below, forcing me to hurriedly avert my gaze back up. The entire day had been nothing but stressful. It was just one unending nightmare, and frankly, I was getting sick of it. All I wanted was to go see the city. Onward and upward I climbed, growing more desperate by the minute.

Finally, though, I saw the top of the staircase. I climbed the final steps to find a short pathway leading to yet another set of double doors. I ran up without thinking, pressing a hand to my chest with a relieved sigh. I threw my entire body against the heavy doors, and when they opened, a gentle breeze kissed my face as the world opened up before my eyes.

A sea of stars stretched in all directions above me. From the roof of the white building, the uniform indigo sky had transformed into a brilliant gradient of azure and jade green. The heavens above glittered like blue topaz, the stars twinkling like pearls reflecting light.

And sitting there in the center of my vision was the thing I’d been searching for all this time: the upside-down city.

“... I finally found it!”

My heart throbbed in my chest at the sight. I couldn’t help the shout of delight that unconsciously spilled out of me.

The world overflowed with color. The city bustled with energy, with people the size of poppy seeds and horse-drawn carriages flitting back and forth between oddly shaped roofs. But... no, the city was floating in the midst of such faraway stars. There was no way I could see all that.

But even still, from somewhere in that faint, flickering upside-down city, I could catch a whiff of a creature that didn’t exist here.

I knew that place. Because – because I wanted to return to that place. I’d always wanted to return.

“    ”

I heard a voice calling. It said a familiar name.

... Name? But I didn’t have one of those. I stretched my hand up to the heavens, to the city, my chest aching with longing and pain....

“... Gin?”

And a tiny voice reached my ears.

I gasped, lowering my hand and twisting my head around frantically. Whatever sound I was going to make next died in my throat, strangled by a rolling wave of shock. I had been on the roof of the white building just now, but suddenly, everything around me had changed.

– Well, no, not everything. The glittering sky still looked the same. But at some point, the rooftop had vanished, replaced by a field of short, swaying grass. Cicadas sang gentle songs in the evening light. A dirt path wound ahead of me, faintly damp – maybe it had just rained – and amid the fluttering stalks of golden grass stood evenly spaced poles, large and ash gray.

And in the middle of the dew-laden, shining field, was a boy with golden hair that I knew oh so well, quietly looking my way.

“You came...?” I rushed up to him, thinking he’d followed me out of the room, but then I saw the triangular ears poking from his head and skidded to a halt. Were those – were those animal ears? And looking closer, this boy’s eyes were the color of pomegranate, not the shade I was familiar with.

... No, this wasn’t him. I eyed him cautiously. The boy with animal ears opened his mouth and spoke once more.

“I see... so this place can recreate the memories of whoever enters it.”

“... What are you talking about?... Who are you?”

“Sorry. I thought you were someone else. My memories must’ve interfered with yours when I called out to you.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying, but... I know someone who looks a lot like you, too.”

A large scarf covered much of the boy’s face, but take away the ears and eyes and he really did look a lot like the one I lived together with in my room.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

The boy’s eyes, expressionless up until now, suddenly swam with unease. “... I’m looking for something I lost. Something I need to go back. But I’ve been looking for a long, long time, and I haven’t found it.” With his head hung low, his golden hair masking his scarlet eyes from view, he could have been his twin.

“Something you lost...? Do you want me to look with you?” He wasn’t the person I knew, but my mouth automatically opened anyway. The boy’s behavior reminded me so much of him, I couldn’t just leave him be.

But when I tried to shuffle closer, the boy simply gave a tiny smile and an even tinier shake of his head from within his overlarge scarf. He pointed up at the sky. “This is the edge of the world – a space where our worlds collided. You can’t stick around here if you don’t have the right qualifications... and besides, our time is up. Your ride’s here.”

“My what?”

Just then, a round geometric pattern expanded in midair, and a pillar of white light enveloped the area around me.

“... Thanks, my other –”

I thought I could hear his voice fading into the distance, but the light was too bright. My eyes screwed shut.

The last thing I remember from that day is looking up at a downpour of feathers in the world of white, and my fingertips brushing against tough skin.

[scattered-winter]

seven sentence sunday

tagged by @moonlightbuckleys !!!! sending u ALL the kisses and hugs in the whole world MWAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! this is. an oc story im rotating. actually. most of u don't have context for them. but regardless <3 here <3 (also wayyyy more than 7 sentences but SHHhhshhhh)

Missy hesitates, raises a hand to stop Kit before he can leave. He pauses, turns back. Missy is fiddling with a long blonde braid, not quite meeting his eyes.

“There’s, uh. Something I’ve been working on,” she says, and then she reaches for her cluttered work desk and picks up a bracelet. It has large, round black beads, with intricate detailing carved into each one. She holds it up for him to see.

“It’s…a bracelet,” Kit deadpans, raising his eyebrows at her. He’s used to Missy tinkering with odds and ends, and even more used to her showing him her creations, but he doesn’t quite get why she’s so nervous over something so small.

Missy hesitates, rubs the back of her neck. He’s never seen her this nervous. “Look…see, the thing is…I made it for you.”

He must look confused, because she rushes to explain herself. “I’ve been studying those power suppression cuffs the humans use on us,” she says quickly. “It’s fascinating how they work, really, but I was hoping to reverse-engineer them to work for…well. What I was hoping.”

She holds up the bracelet to study it with an analytical gaze. “I…don’t know if it works. But if it does…it can neutralize your powers, Kit.”

Kit just looks at her, not quite believing what she’s saying. “You…you mean…this can…take my powers away?” It almost sounds too good to be true, but at the same time…it’s a terrifying thought.

“No, not quite,” Missy explains. “Just…turn them off for a while. You can control whenever you want them off, and disable the bracelet whenever you need to use them. But while it’s on…well, in theory, it’ll temporarily take away your powers and all the…side effects.”

Kit doesn’t know what to say. He just looks at her, mouth agape, trying to process what she’s saying. He could…he could touch her. He could hug her, like he’s always wanted to do. He ached for it always, a literal throbbing underneath his skin whenever he watched the others hug, or lean into each other, or ruffle each other’s hair. The longing for it, for physical contact, was almost more painful than anything else he’d ever experienced.

And now Missy was here, saying she could help him.

Fuck, he wanted to hug her now more than ever.

Instead, he lets out a trembling exhale and says, “Does…does it work?”

“I haven’t tested it yet,” Missy admits. “I mean…there isn’t really a safe way to do that…but. I don’t know. I just…I wanted you to know that I’m working on it. I won’t stop until I’ve figured it out, I swear.”

Gingerly, she hands him the bracelet, and Kit is careful not to let his fingers brush hers, despite the fact that he’s wearing gloves.

“I think,” he says slowly, not even daring to hope, “I can maybe figure out a way to test it. Without anyone getting hurt.”

Missy grins at him, dark skin smudged with some kind of oil from one of her gadgets. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Kit hesitatingly smiles back and backs out of her workshop, knees wobbling. He isn’t quite sure how he makes it out into the hallway and up several flights of stairs to the very top floor, then the ladder up to the loft. To Ryker’s room.

He knocks softly on the trapdoor, and Ryker grunts an invitation. Kit sticks his head through the opening, and Ryker looks up from where he’s sunning himself on the floor, large wings spread wide to catch the sunlight streaming through the large skylight set into the roof.

“Hey, Kit. C’mon in.”

Kit climbs inside and carefully lowers the door closed behind him. Ryker shifts to a sitting position, black wings sweeping over the floor and coming to rest behind him.

Kit doesn’t know where to start. The bracelet is hanging from his grasp, cool and light, and Ryker is sitting in front of him in a beam of sunlight, so close but so incredibly far just like everyone else, and Kit doesn’t know how to cross the distance without hurting, without killing.

“Kit,” Ryker says, and it’s his soft voice, the one he uses when he’s trying to comfort one of the younger kids after a nightmare. “What’s going on?”

Kit swallows. He can do this. “Missy’s been working on a way to…to neutralize my powers,” he says, voice hitching involuntarily. “And the only way I can think of to test it without…without risking anyone getting hurt…”

Because Ryker is the only one who has touched him skin to skin and lived. Because his powers are unique, and his self-healing can keep up with Kit’s destruction, at least for a while.

It’s painful. Kit knows that. But it isn’t fatal, and that’s better than anything else.

He can see the moment Ryker understands why he’s come. “You need to test it on me,” he says.

Kit nods, barely able to draw in a full breath. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, threatening to fall, and he can’t step back onto solid ground but he’s too afraid to take the plunge.

But Ryker just stretches out a hand, palm forward, fingers splayed, and just holds it there, in the space between them. And he just waits.

Kit draws in a shaking breath, slowly slips on the bracelet. He pinches a bead between his fingers, just as Missy had instructed, and twists it three ticks to the left. The carvings in the beads light up a cool, pale blue.

Then, with trembling fingers, Kit removes his gloves, one at a time. His fingers are pale, like the rest of his body probably is. He’s fairly sure his heart has stopped beating.

“Kit,” Ryker says, and Kit realizes he’s frozen up like a deer in headlights. “It’s okay,” Ryker continues, voice gentle. “We don’t need to—”

“No,” Kit manages to gasp. “I…I need to know.” If there’s a chance, if there’s hope, if he’ll ever find release.

Kit takes in a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and reaches forward. He’s moving in slow motion, swimming through syrup, as his hand slowly moves toward Ryker’s. Ryker doesn’t move, doesn’t try to reach for him. He just waits and lets Kit come to him.

Their fingers are a breath apart now, and Kit gathers his courage. He’s ready to pull away at the slightest sign of Ryker being hurt, at the slightest spark of his power surging into Ryker’s body. He reaches forward.

And their fingers brush against each other.

Kit pulls back immediately, in shock, in surprise, because he expected Ryker to flinch back, because that’s what always, always happened.

But there had been nothing. No spark of warmth, no crackle of fire in his veins. Kit slowly, cautiously presses the tips of his fingers to Ryker’s again, gauging his reaction for any indication that he needs to stop.

The only sign he gets is a smile, spreading slow and wide across Ryker’s face.

Kit keeps reaching, keeps moving, until their palms are flat against each other. Still, no burst of power, and Ryker is still smiling at him, so widely it must be hurting his cheeks.

Slowly, Ryker tangles their fingers, and their hands slot together like puzzle pieces.

And oh. His hands are rough, callused from battle, but they’re warm. It’s like everything Ryker had imagined, and at the same time it’s so, so much more.

He lets out a small laugh that cuts off into a hitched sob. Ryker is beaming at him, gently squeezing his hand, and Kit doesn’t know if he’s laughing more or crying as he squeezes back.

“It…it works,” he gasps through tears. “I…I didn’t think…” Then he gasps, sits up straighter as he remembers something important.

“What?” Ryker is looking at him in concern, their hands still tangled together, and Kit isn’t sure he ever wants to let go. “Are you okay?”

Kit stands, pulls Ryker up with him. “I need to go hug Missy,” he says, and Ryker grins.

“Well, what are we waiting for?”

tagging !! @soleadita and @xandromedan and @dauntingday and all my other writer friends!!!! and anyone else who wants to!!!!!!!!!!!!

[eternally6pm]

Irresistible Force - Part 2

The British Boy

Rating: M

Characters: Jakob, FCorrin, Xander, Silas, Camilla.

- the coldest shoulder this side of the Atlantic - 

@cafedeamour you’ve been so patient, thank you always for your support.

PART 1 | PART 3

---

The first morning was so much harder than he thought it would be. 

And Jakob had a pretty good idea of how hard he thought it should have been – he was a horribly heavy sleeper at the best of times, and mornings were his least favourite part of the day. One of the major motivating factors for entering his line of work was the fact that a security guard mostly operated in the evening, after things had closed, or when it was dark enough to warrant the need for additional protection. 

The last time Jakob had been up at this sort of hour had been when he was still enrolled in the military.

But that was years ago.

Out of reflex, he almost reached for his uniform, but remembered that he needed to blend in inconspicuously with a group of students, and decided instead to settle for something more casual. Fortunately, his harness wasn’t too obvious with a jacket over the top, and satisfied with this elegant solution in his state of semi-sleep, he chose to take an expandable baton and a shoulder bag along with a dusty lined notebook and a ballpoint pen.

If he was going to attend lectures, he may as well pretend to take notes.

Yawning desperately, he nursed a tall cup of espresso as he stepped onto the subway and tried not to nod off to the gentle sway of the train. 

At Corrin’s door, he gave his face one last tired rub and mentally shook himself, before ringing the bell. The muffled sound of the chime resounding through the apartment faded, and after a long moment, he pressed the button again.

The intercom hummed to life.

“- akob.”

There was a sound, somewhere between a groan and a yawn.

“Dun’ you hava card? Just commin.”

She didn’t even unlock the door. With a brief fumble, Jakob extracted the card from his wallet, scanned it against the reader and entered the pin. 

Pale autumn sunlight streaked through the half-opened curtains and filled the skylights with a wan, white glow. 

From where he remembered her room to be, Corrin emerged, or at least part of her face peered out at Jakob from behind the door. “Sorry,” she apologised, her voice slightly clearer. “I’ll be right there.”

And she vanished again, her door clicking shut.

Jakob felt his eyebrows lift in disbelief. “Are you not even up yet?” He glanced at his watch, an old but reliable thing with a worn leather strap. It was three minutes past eight. “You’re going to be late for the first day of semester.”

There was no reply.

After several minutes of awkwardly anticipating that she would finally come out of her room, he gave up and left his bag at the door, wandering over to her kitchen to examine the stove top and oven. They seemed barely used, new and still bearing that sheen of freshly manufactured, untouched brightness. Curious, he pulled open one of her cupboards.

The shelves were mostly empty, bearing a few tins of tea, a jar of peanut butter and a bag of sugar that had been snipped at the corner, sealed with a piece of tape, but had uncurled. Jakob sighed at the thought of the granules clumping together. The next cupboard held mugs, glasses, plates and bowls.

Her sleek silver refrigerator had half a tray of very old ice cubes in the freezer, a carton of milk and half a dozen eggs that had gone out of date.

What on earth did the girl eat?

Doubt stirred in him as he closed the fridge door and wandered over to the windows to draw back the curtain. Was this something acceptable for a bodyguard to do? He supposed that his job was to concern himself with her well-being, but surely a line had to be drawn somewhere – part of him wondered if it could perhaps be somewhere after the nagging urge he had to make and feed her a decent meal.

“Are you poking around my kitchen?”

And there she was, dressed more weather-appropriately in dark tights and a large knitted blue jumper cinched at her waist with a wide black belt. Her hair was tied back and it fell over her shoulder as she bent to tie the laces on her shoes. 

“Do you have a maid?”

“Yeah. She comes by on Fridays to tidy the place up.”

“What about food?”

Corrin looked up. “What about it?”

“What do you eat?” He was starting to feel a bit silly, pressing her for answers that were probably none of his business.

“I eat out a lot.”

That… would not do. He refrained from saying so though, watching her check her phone, her bag, pick her keys out of a bowl she kept on the kitchen counter. He noticed a Mercedes badge on the fob.

“Why do you care?”

He frowned at the attitude behind the question. Fine then. “I don’t.”

As she passed him, she made a small noise in the back of her throat. “I smell coffee. I want coffee.”

He took a long, pointed sip from the cup in his hand and wordlessly reached to hold open the door for her.

It was half-past eight by the time they reached the basement car park and she held out the car key to Jakob.

“You drive, right?”

He lifted the fob and thumbed the button. 

A beautiful black Mercedes AMG GT Coupe quietly flickered her lights in reply.

Ah, this, this he could get used to.

---

“So are you British?”

The abrupt question was oddly, less surprising than the sudden appearance of the person who voiced it, and Jakob barely managed to slide along the bench in time for the tall young woman to plonk herself down beside him, uncomfortably close. Had he been any slower, she might have simply sat in his lap.

When he didn’t reply, she took this as a cue to elaborate. “Like, your accent. It’s all jolly good, and cheerio then?”

Jakob very slowly lowered his newspaper and turned the page.

“Are you from London? There’s something about you that’s a little bit Mister Darcy.”

There had been a stabbing a few stations over from where Corrin lived. He made a mental note to opt for the car rather than public transport, when with her, at least for the next few weeks.

The page over mentioned the results of a local dog show. He wondered if Corrin liked dogs.

“Why the long hair? Is that a thing over there?”

“Leave him alone, Charlotte!”

Jakob felt the tension bleed out of his shoulders at the sound of Corrin’s voice. 

“He’s not the multimillionaire you think he is,” she teased, sliding a tray down onto the table in front of them as she took the seat opposite. 

Charlotte huffed, stealing a fry from the plate on the tray. “Well, you’re pretty well-off, and he’s your cousin, right? Worth a try.”

“Not if you don’t want to experience the coldest shoulder this side of the Atlantic.” Corrin shot him a look, pushing two wrapped sushi rolls and a bottle of juice in his direction.

“I resent the title,” he intoned.

“Ooh, it talks!” Charlotte exclaimed, dramatically throwing a hand over her chest.

The fourth person to join them at the table, a boy named Silas, cast him a wary look, his eyes darting to where Jakob accepted his lunch from Corrin.

Barely four hours into the job, Jakob quickly began to understand why Xander had been so firm about ensuring that Corrin was accompanied at all times.

There was something magnetic about the way she spoke, the way she responded to the world that made people gravitate to her, drawn in by a pure sense of honesty and wonder that seemed to be a consequence of the time she spent being shielded from the public eye. 

It probably shouldn’t have disappointed him to realise that her apparently flirtatious behaviour the day before was actually an inherent part of her nature – in truth, she was genuinely friendly and charming – and he was an idiot for thinking that he might have been special.

She attracted friends and admirers as easily as she drew breath, and with that sort of attention came the sort that was less desirable as well. 

It did not help that she liked to hand over her trust with the drop of a hat, and on top of all this, she was – unfairly, almost – good-looking.

Only in the last ten minutes or so when he had watched her in the queue at the cafeteria, Jakob saw at least two other students stare her up and down as she purchased lunch.

And that wasn’t including Silas. The boy was hopelessly besotted with her.

But Corrin was just a soft giggle, a friendly wave. A warm ray of sunlight, a gentle breeze and the fresh scent of flowers. She made people want her, and she had no idea.

Corrin was dangerously oblivious.

“So how long are you in the States for?” Silas asked.

“At least until he finishes his degree,” Corrin supplied for him, and Jakob let her fill in the story as much as she pleased. “You’ve put it off for long enough, right?”

He shrugged. “I had other priorities.”

“You just came over here because you know chicks dig the accent,” Charlotte accused. “Get laid, and get qualified.”

“Charlotte!” Corrin laughed sheepishly. “He doesn’t have time for that, he’s got work, too.”

“Oh? What do you do?”

“Hospitality,” Jakob replied smoothly, catching Corrin’s eye as he thought of her empty and unused kitchen. He wondered how many times Silas had been over to her apartment. Perhaps a background check on the boy would be a good idea.

Corrin stabbed her fork into her plate of noodles. Jakob noted that she had barely touched her food. “Yeah, he does all sorts of weird hours, but it does come with perks.”

“I guess that means no parties, then?” Silas was almost hilariously hopeful at the prospect.

“No, no,” Corrin cut in quickly. “He doesn’t mind parties. He’ll go.” She glanced at Jakob as if to check that this was actually the case, when in reality, he knew it was a plea for permission.

Please, let me go… please don’t tell Xander.

Not that it mattered.

“O-okay then,” Silas tried and failed to not appear disappointed by this. It was almost endearing, and annoyingly, Jakob could see the appeal of the young man.

With a small sigh, he took a bite of his sushi roll and turned back to the newspaper.

Even without any sort of prior knowledge, he knew the background check would be clean, and there would be no excuse to excise Smitten Silas from Corrin’s life.

---

The drive home was slow and hampered by traffic. 

“You can go as soon as we get back,” she told him, her face lit by the blue glow of her phone as she scrolled absently through her Twitter feed. “I’m only going to eat dinner and study.”

Jakob nodded. “You have my number and my pager. Call if your plans change.”

She lowered her phone momentarily, staring into the rear view mirror to catch his eye. “How long does it take you to get to my place from yours? Do you drive?”

“Fifteen minutes by train. Possibly less if I took my bike.”

“You cycle?” She seemed thoroughly amused by the thought.

“My motorbike.”

“Ah.” Less amused. Strangely thoughtful. “You should come by bike, then. You can park it in the car space.”

Jakob hummed a non-committal reply, but he didn’t have any intention of taking the bike tomorrow. He needed both his hands free.

“Coincidentally, Miss Nohr, how do you like your coffee?”

[achtung-attitude]

On the second floor, the wolf shudders as the illusion of All-Kill by his side disappears. He stands on the upstairs landing, completely alone. Somewhere, in the shadows, T’onga watches him, waiting for her moment. “Here, puppy, puppy, puppy…” she whispers.

Yeon-in snarls softly, hearing the whispered voice, but unable to tell from where it came. He paces in a circle, sniffing the air. He peers inside the upstairs bathroom, the guest bedroom and obsessively well-kept master bedroom.

But T’onga isn’t in any of these rooms. Instead, she sits on the roof, having climbed up from the skylight in the master bedroom. From above, she watches the wolf sniff around All-Kill’s room. She balances delicately on the sloping tiles and keeps ready to slip back inside through the skylight. 

“Get deeper inside,” she thinks. “Look around the far wall. Then I can climb back in, closing the skylight as I go and close the bedroom door behind you. And then…”

She shifts slightly, but this causes one of the slate tiles beneath to loosen. She panics for a split second and over-adjusts her position to keep from making any more noise, but in doing so, she causes the loose tile to rattle down the sloped roof. Sensing what’s coming, she moves away from the skylight.

Yeon-in, of course, hears the rattling above him, and bares his teeth in a cruel grin. His eyes go red and the ceiling directly above him bursts into flames. He concentrates his sight and the flame intensifies.

T’onga watches the fire expand from the roof’s peak. “He’s going to collapse the whole roof!” she thinks. “He’s willing to destroy this house to get to me!”

She looks around and notices a section of unburnt bushes in the backyard, standing 3 meters away from the end of the roof. T’onga has nowhere else to go. “Fuck it,” she mutters. She stands and begins running down the narrow rooftop, tiles cracking and sliding down as she goes.

The wolf hears her running and he dashes back out in the hallway, blasting flame along her path. Before the flames can engulf her, she vaults off the edge of the roof, leaping the full 3 meters and catching the tall bushes for safety. The entire roof is now alight.

She begins to climb down the bushes, but she senses eyes on her. Looking up, she sees Yeon-in poking his head through the upstairs bathroom window, his eyes gleaming red dots.

T’onga shakes her head in annoyance. “Would you give me a fucking second?!”

She feels the branches heat up and the leaves go dry. She releases her hold and drops over 5 meters before the bushes catch fire, before landing on the hard cement.

T’onga groans in pain, sitting up and gasps. A reddening burn mark rises on her chest. “Ugh… Ow… Why… Is my face so hot?” she wonders, then notices, with horror, that her hair is on fire. “Ahh…! AAAAAAGHHH!!!” she shrieks, instinct propelling her to sprint towards the pool. Before the flame can spread any further, she dives into the water, snuffing it out in a puff of smoke.

In the bathroom, Yeon-in blows open the bathroom window, shaking his head, his ears ringing from the roaring flames. With the glass blown away, the window is now big enough for him to climb out.

He leaps from the second story window, landing on the still burning bushes, with much greater ease than T’onga. With animal agility, he hops down to the ground level. A wicked, toothy grin spreads across his muzzle as T’onga floats to the surface.

“You really are a good boy, aren’t you?” she mutters, her wet, blackened hair plastered to her face. With this and a wicked grin of her own, she appears like a ghost from East Asian myth. “Always so eager to make Master happy. So eager, you don’t notice things that you usually would.”

The wolf is taken aback. His ears, subtly ringing, pick up the sound of angry buzzing.

T’onga goes on, crossing her arms on the edge of the pool. “I must’ve really shaken All-Kill up for him to get this sloppy. Before… he would have never let a pest problem get this bad.”

Yeon-in suddenly yelps in pain, a stinging pain piercing him behind his right ear. He spins around and sees a swarm of wasps cascading from their hive, which is being swallowed up by the wolf’s flames.

END of CHAPTER 67