#coming out as someone who never leaves the house

[pretentious-blonde]

realisation

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: it’s a feeling he hasn’t touched in years—something selfish and dangerous and impossible to let go of

warnings: therapy, big big feelings from steve, migraines, anxiety

a/n: soft steve always has my heart <3

series masterlist

Steve never liked the quiet, that’s part of the reason he loved his job. The noise in his classroom was gentle, filled with curiosity—excitement. It was an odd definition of peace, but he never questioned it. Kids brought out something within him he thought was lost, he liked that about them.

That’s also why he never enjoyed going back to his own place. It was the kind of quiet that felt too suffocating. When he first signed the lease after leaving his parents' house, he thought the isolation would be a blessing—a sanctuary where it was just him, no drama, no outsiders.

No threats.

But as time went on and memories resurfaced, that same quiet began to feel heavy.

He found himself remembering what it was like when he first moved here, when progress was just beginning—because in a way, it was again.

Slashed, back to fucking zero.

He could no longer move forward. Couldn’t talk about it anymore—not in the way he needed to.

He couldn’t safely open up in his therapist’s office, couldn’t make you understand now, not really.

All he had left was Robin—the same Robin who had nearly fallen apart trying to hold him together at the start of all this—and he couldn’t do that to her again. Wouldn’t.

That is why he has to do this. 

It’s late afternoon, and he’s got one sock on, one sock half-off, pacing across the tiny stretch of kitchen linoleum with the phone pressed to his ear. His free hand scraped through his hair, again, again—like maybe if he does it hard enough, he’ll comb away all the thoughts circling in his head.

He hasn’t slept. The therapist’s words from yesterday rattle in his mind, reverberating through every breath. 

Intervene. 

He’s replayed the warning all night, half expecting someone to burst through the door and threaten him again. It churns in his stomach. All the guilt and fear—he can’t figure out which is louder. 

He just knows he’s been lying in bed, eyes wide at the ceiling, again. 

The excuse he comes up with is a simple one, not really a lie. Because in a way, his head does ache. It’s not the blinding kind of pain that used to knock him off his feet after a particularly bad episode, but the pressure’s there, right behind his eyes, throbbing in time with his pulse. 

He might as well call it a migraine if it keeps you at arm’s length—keeps you safe from whatever might be going on inside his mind. But that’s not really true anymore.

The threat is, once again, in the real world.

He closes his eyes the moment he hears your voice on the other end of the line. He tries to answer in a steady tone.

“Hey,” he begins. “I—hey. Um. I don’t think I can make it tonight.”

It’s quiet as he waits for your answer, like you're feeling out the tone of his voice. 

“Why?”

Didn't take much to sense something was wrong. You were observant. 

Too observant. 

That’s why he had to create this distance. 

“I’ve got a migraine coming on,” he manages, voice unsteady. “Just… sort of crept up on me. Thought it was gonna pass but… doesn’t feel like it.”

He can picture the worried fold between your eyebrows, the way you’d tilt your head if you were standing in front of him. 

“Is it bad? Y’know… like last time?” 

You ask it so gently, and he bites the inside of his cheek. 

Last time.

The last time—when he nearly lost everything you had built together.

The last time he left you scared.

The last time he really fucked up.

“No,” he speaks quickly. “Not that bad. Just a bit of pressure. Thought I should stay home—sleep it off.”

He hears you exhale, a soft sigh that says you’re not convinced. 

“Steve…”

“Sweetheart,” he counters, trying to keep his voice light, “I’m alright. I just… need a quiet night.” He punctuates it with a half-hearted laugh, like it might sell the story better.

“Okay.” There’s a pause on your side. “Well—I’m coming over.”

His chest constricts. 

Of course you are. 

He knew you would. It’s one of the things that scares him most about letting you in: you show up. 

Always. 

“No—no, you don’t have to,” he blurts. “Really. I’ll just be in bed. It’s not exactly good company.”

“Good thing I’m not looking for thrills,” you tease, voice warmer. “Let me take care of you a little.”

He almost loses it right there. The phone cord wraps around his wrist as he paces in a tight circle, sock skidding on the tile. 

He thinks you’re too good for him. So he says it out loud, in a voice that cracks just a bit. Hopefully he can blame it on the “pain.”

“Maybe,” you answer, and he can practically see your small smile, the tilt of your lips. “But I like you. So that’s kind of your problem now.”

He can’t fight it anymore. He'll say it's his lack of energy.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Door’s unlocked.”

He hangs up too fast, like if he stays on the line a second longer, he’ll give up the entire game. The phone slips from his hand onto the receiver with a dull clack.

He just stands there in the fading sunlight, staring at the pattern of the kitchen countertop. He can’t figure out if he’s more relieved that you’re coming, or more terrified that you’ll see the cracks he knows will soon show. 

He moves into the living room, collapsing onto the couch. The cushions sink under his weight like they’re trying to swallow him whole. He feels like an idiot as he scrubs his hand over his face. He should’ve just faked the entire day, come up with an ironclad excuse—maybe said he had to run errands or something. 

But then you’d ask questions, you’d want to help him, and he’d buckle anyway because he can’t say no to you. Not when you sound like that. 

Not when your first instinct is to care.

He glances at the stack of second-grade spelling tests on the table and pushes them aside, annoyed at the very sight of them. He was trying to keep busy, to put a pen in his hand and shut off his brain. But the weight in his chest is too big, too heavy to ignore, and nothing about marking a dozen attempts at the word “elephant” is going to clear the images swirling in his mind.

Last night was bad. 

Worse than usual. 

He’d tossed and turned for hours, drifting into shallow snatches of sleep that delivered him into the Upside Down, or a half-memory of it. The vines. The pulsing lights. And you, off in the distance, looking at him like he was a stranger. 

He’d woken with a jolt, drenched in sweat, heart hammering. Spent the morning sipping lukewarm coffee with no music, no TV, no noise at all—just the sound of his own heartbeat roaring in his ears.

He knew this would happen, especially after his last appointment, but it still hurt all the same. He hadn’t had a dream like that in weeks, proof that all of his progress feels like it’s been ripped from under him. 

Everything about this is too much and not enough. He’s tiptoeing on a razor’s edge of fear and yearning, wanting to protect you but also wanting to crash into your arms. He doesn’t deserve how you look at him, the way you always ask if he’s okay. 

And now you’re on your way over, and he can’t stop you. 

Doesn’t truly want to stop you.

Because in the back of his mind, he knows this feeling. He knows it all too well.

Knows what it does to a person.

It always starts slow—just a ripple, a toe in the water—until suddenly the tide’s pulling you under and there’s no surface left to reach for.

He knows what it means to drown—in both senses of the word. But this time, it’s worse. This time, it’s not his choice whether he comes back up.

This time, it’s yours.

And all he can do is hope that if it comes down to it, he’ll be the one sinking. 

Not you.

The front door swings open quietly, you don’t bother waiting for an invitation. By the time Steve looks up, you’re already stepping inside with that urgency in your eyes—like you’ve come prepared to handle any crisis he’s trying to hide. 

He hates that he can read your body language. Hates that he can see how cautious you are, bracing yourself for whatever version of him you’ll find.

And he hates even more that you’d still come anyway.

For a moment, he just stands there in the middle of the living room, unsure of what to do with his hands. He was halfway through tidying up, something to move his stiff body. Make you think that your boyfriend can at least seem to hold his life together. 

He’s in his usual knit jumper and a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms, hair a little mussed from the nervous nap he never took. The lighting softens him, makes him look more fragile than he feels, it traces the curve of his jaw and the soft downturn of his mouth. 

He’s tired. You can see it instantly—the weighted slump of his shoulders, the slight effort in his exhale. Maybe there’s a pang of guilt in his chest at being so transparent, but he can’t quite fix his expression into something more reassuring. 

Not tonight.

“You look rough,” you say, raising your eyebrows in that gentle, teasing way.

He can tell you’re worried. It’s there in the careful tone of your voice, the way your gaze flicks over him like you’re scanning for damage.

“Yeah…” His lips twitch in what might be an attempt at a smile. “I know.”

Before he can stumble out a courtesy greeting, you close the distance, slipping your arms around him and drawing him into a hug. The warmth of your body presses flush against his chest, and he stiffens for half a heartbeat—like he’s not quite sure he has the right to accept this comfort. Then instinct kicks in, and he melts. The tension drains from his shoulders, and he drops his head to the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent. The one he never knew he would crave so deeply. 

His arms rise to wrap around your waist, palms splayed against your back as if to steady himself.

“Hi,” you murmur into his hair, voice muffled against his temple.

He breathes you in, a tired sigh slipping out. 

“Hey,” he answers, almost inaudible.

The quiet in the room no longer feels suffocating—it feels like a shared breath, something that belongs to both of you. Your fingers slide into his hair, combing it back gently, and his eyes flutter shut. 

He thinks about how a hug like this might’ve been a luxury in another life—before nightmares and secrets twisted everything into shadows. 

But with your arms around him, he lets himself believe it could be simple. 

Just for a moment. 

He’ll give himself a moment. 

When you finally pull back to look at him, there’s a softness in your expression he’s not sure he deserves. Your attention drifts over his shoulder, landing on the small table behind him. Paper after paper is scattered there—spelling tests, wobbly handwriting, even a few crayon doodles. You tilt your head, curiosity nudging your brow. 

“What’s all that?”

He steps out of your hold, just enough to glance at the mess over his shoulder. Reluctance flickers across his face. 

“Just… some papers I needed to get through,” he says, swallowing. “It’s nothing. Spelling stuff.”

“You can’t possibly do that when your head’s hurting.” 

He’s dealt with worse. 

He shrugs one shoulder in a half-hearted gesture. 

“It’s not so bad,” he tries, though the hesitation in his voice betrays him.

You don’t buy it. He can see the resolve in your stance, the way your chin sets. 

“Trying to concentrate on eight-year-old handwriting is not how to cure a migraine,” you say flatly, giving him a look that shows your playful exacerbation.

“Honestly, it’s fine,” he insists. But even as the words leave his mouth, they sound weak. 

He’s still holding onto that white lie, and guilt gnaws at him from the inside. You’ve already started marching past him toward the table, your gaze determined. 

“Why don’t you sit down and relax?” you say, lifting one stack of papers. “I’ll do it.”

He follows, hand raised in a weak protest. 

“No—hey, that’s my job,” he says, trying for a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Like, my real actual job.”

The one he needs to keep. 

Your grin appears, brightening the mood without effort. 

“I think I can handle some spelling tests,” you retort, eyeing the pages in your hands. “Pretty sure the complexities of second-grade grammar won’t defeat me.”

He sighs, a smile finally curving his lips for real. It’s small, but it’s genuine. 

“Am I gonna convince you otherwise?” he asks, half-rhetorical.

“Nope,” you say simply, lips shifting smugly as you slide into one of the dining chairs. It’s a look that tells him you won’t budge on this. 

Stubborn as always. 

He stands there for a second, torn between wanting to help and wanting to give in. There’s this warmth building under his ribs, relief and something else—something so dangerously close that he daren’t name. 

“Okay,” he finally murmurs, stepping back. The tension in his spine eases a fraction, and he can almost feel the exhaustion settling in now that he isn’t forcing himself to keep going.

“You gonna stand there or go lie down properly?” you ask, not looking up from the first spelling sheet you’re scanning.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck and drags his feet over to the couch, sinking down into the cushions with an exhale that betrays how tired he truly is. 

“Here’s fine,” he says quietly. 

The idea of vanishing into his bedroom feels unbearable right now. 

Too far. 

Too alone.

It’s selfish—how much he needs to stay near. Near enough to hear your voice, the soft scratch of your pen, proof that you’re there.

He rests his head against the arm of the couch, turning just enough to watch you from across the room. You spare him a glance, understanding flashing in your eyes. 

“Okay,” you accept. .

You stand abruptly and move to the lamp in the corner. A soft click and golden light spills into the room, bathing the scuffed hardwood floors in a gentle sheen. The overhead light blinks off with a flip of the switch, and suddenly everything feels softer, quieter—like you're tucked away in a little sanctuary, a space carved out of the world, just for two.

He shifts, propping one arm under his head, blinking against the change in light. 

“Hey now,” he jokes, words a bit slurred with fatigue, “it’s bad for your eyes.”

“Maybe,” from over by the lamp, you look at him and shrug. “But your head.”

His mouth twitches—he can’t help it. The weight in his chest lifts, just a little. 

“Right,” he mutters in agreement, the fight slipping out of him. 

He’s not sure if he wants to keep up the migraine ruse anymore, but it’s too tangled in everything else. Better to just let you have this small comfort. 

You deserve it.

You’ve been way too good to him—and because of that, he’s dragged you into this mess.

And the worst part? 

He knows he won’t be able to let you go, half-truths are going to have to be enough to compensate for his carelessness. 

You go back to the table, pulling out a chair and settling in with the stack of papers. Your face furrows in concentration as you pick up a pen—his red marking pen, the one he’s been avoiding all day. The faint sound of your writing tip against paper is a soothing background lull.

He watches you, eyelids heavy. He just lets his gaze linger on the shape of your face in the lamplight, the slope of your shoulder as you lean over a misspelled word. He breathes, in and out, feeling a tug in his chest every time you shake your head in mild amusement or scribble a little note in the margin. He closes his eyes, so filled with longing he cannot figure out where to put it all. 

Just let him have tonight.

Let this be all he feels tonight. 

Seconds bleed into minutes, and he’s not sure when his breathing slows, or how his tense muscles start to loosen. Eventually, he feels the calm settle over him, the quiet that used to feel like a noose around his neck. Now it’s more like a blanket—soft, encompassing, safe. He exhales as his eyelids droop.

His mind drifts in a liminal space between wakefulness and the pull of sleep, cocooned by the low lamplight. 

You clear your throat and tap the tip of a red pen against a test paper, amusement lacing your words. 

“One of your kids spelled kitchen like kitchin. I kinda like it,” you say, a small laugh escaping. “It feels… softer.”

He murmurs a response, voice thick from exhaustion. 

“Yeah,” he manages, eyes fluttering open just enough to find your silhouette at the table. “Bet that’s Jackson. He says breakfirst too. I never wanna correct that one.”

His words slur slightly, and he barely registers that he’s smiling. You lift your attention from the paper, your own playing at the corner of your mouth.

“Breakfirst makes sense,” you tease, the pen still in your hand. “It’s the first thing I think of when I wake up.”

He chuckles softly, shifting against the pillow. The motion tugs at his shoulders, reminding him how tight his muscles are. 

“Mhm,” he drawls, eyes sliding shut again. “He told me last week he wakes up thinking about pancakes. Said it just… appears in his brain.”

You snort a laugh, then set the test paper aside, leaning back in your chair. 

“I think I’d like him,” you remark, mock-serious. “He’s got the right idea.”

It’s so easy for him to picture Jackson—a scrawny seven-year-old with an overbite and an endless supply of energy. The image floats into his mind and settles there, a soft spot in the midst of his own troubles. 

He can almost see the bright classroom, the crayons and the whiteboard, the echo of little voices calling him. It feels like a life unshadowed by therapy sessions and the secrets choking him from within.

He lets the moment linger, a comfort in the back of his mind. Then a memory surfaces—one he rarely shares: his mom, the aroma of melted butter, the slowness of an early morning without his dad. It nudges at him, stirs something bittersweet in his chest.

“My mom used to make pancakes when my dad was out of town,” he hears himself say, the words spilling out so softly he almost isn’t sure he’s speaking aloud. He feels you pause. You don’t respond right away, giving him space to unravel the memory if he wants to.

Like you always do.

He swallows, blinking slowly at the ceiling. 

This is a safe one to share.  

“He traveled a lot,” he continues, voice quieter now, each syllable steeped in nostalgia. “Work stuff. Sales, I think—always sounded vague. But when he was gone, it was like… things relaxed a little. She’d let me sleep on the couch, and we’d have pancakes in the morning. Not the box kind, either. She did the whole thing—batter from scratch, butter in the pan, bubbles on top when they were ready to flip. Real old-school.”

Your pen lands gently on the table. He can feel your eyes on him across the distance. He knew you’d appreciate another piece of his past, no matter how small.

What scared him was how much more he wanted to give you.

How easily he’d hand it all over—just from the look on your face.

“That sounds nice,” you say, your voice subdued, maybe to match the mood he’s set. He wonders if you can tell how vulnerable he feels, laying this out for you. 

“She’d put bananas in them sometimes,” he murmurs. “I hated it—but I never told her. Didn’t wanna mess it up. It felt like… I don’t know.” His voice wavers, and he breathes out carefully, as if exhaling might scatter the memory. “A good thing.”

For a moment, all he hears is sound of his own breath. Your voice comes softly across the room. 

“You didn’t want to change it.”

“Yeah.” He nods, eyelids heavy, almost speaking more to himself than to you. “Exactly.”

He slips deeper into the cushions, a sort of melancholy peace settling in his bones. Remembering those mornings—milk and flour and eggs whisked in a bowl, the hiss of the stove, his mom’s rare, relaxed laugh—feels comforting and too big to hold onto. 

It reminds him of being a kid, back before entire worlds twisted into nightmares and scars. Before he had to figure out how to keep people safe by keeping them in the dark.

Outside, the sky is darkening, casting shapeless shadows across the walls. You rustle the papers again, returning to your marking with diligence. That rhythmic scritch, pulls him back from the edges of old memories.

There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again, barely conscious, his words filled with drowsiness. A little piece of anxiety wells in him suddenly—intrusive. 

It’s about the kids—about whether they notice the days he can’t quite summon his usual energy. The way he knows he’ll be tomorrow, when the smile won’t come as easily, no matter how hard he tries.

He hates asking you this. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually save for Dr Avery, but that isn’t an option now. It feels cruel—testing the waters just for his own peace of mind, leaning on you to give him the direction he can’t find on his own.

His voice is small when he finally asks. His eyes half-lidded, drifting toward you, too tired to stay open all the way.

“D’you think the kids…"

Fuck, this is hard.

"D'you think... they know when I’m having a bad day?”

You pause for a moment, shaking your head as your eyes meet his, looking at him like he just hung the moon. It undoes him utterly, the way you let out a gentle sigh,

“I think…” you speak slow, perhaps to allow his exhausted mind to keep up, but the words end up hitting him twice as hard. 

“I think they know you’d still show up for them anyway. It’s… just who you are, Steve.”

It's just who he is...

Is that how you see him?

He absorbs the statement slowly, like it needs time to settle in his bones. There’s a kind of weight to it—the raw honesty behind every word you offered, like you handpicked them with care, laid them down gently just for him.

It loosens something deep in his chest. A knot he didn’t even know he was carrying starts to unspool.

He doesn’t feel like he’s a failure.

Maybe he is a mess. Maybe he’s always been a little broken, stitched together with stubbornness and guilt and whatever scraps of hope he can still find—but he’s here. 

He’s trying. 

He’s still showing up.

That has to count for something.

His eyes drift shut at last, sleep too heavy to fight. Maybe he can let himself rest a little. Just for now, with you close by. He breathes out, chin dipping into the pillow, and finally gives himself permission to fall.

As his consciousness fades, he holds onto one stubborn wish: later that evening, when he opens his eyes, you’ll still be there, still close enough to chase the doubt out of his mind—at least for a little while longer.

When Steve’s eyelids flutter open, it takes him a second to remember where he is—or why everything suddenly feels this peaceful. 

The living room is draped in darkness, the overhead lamp turned off in favour of a single warm light coming from the kitchen. For a disoriented moment, he hears nothing. Then a soft clink of metal on ceramic reaches his ears, followed by a faint hiss and the gentle scrape of something in a pan.

He pushes himself upright, blinking the last traces of sleep from his eyes. The couch creaks and the fabric of his jumper feels slightly rumpled from dozing. He rubs the back of his neck, rolls his shoulders, wincing at the dull ache there. 

A quick glance at the window tells him night has fully settled over Hawkins—streetlights glow faintly outside, their beams catching on the air.

The heaviness he’s carried around for days has receded, at least for the moment. His head doesn’t throb. His chest feels looser, the anxiety dulled. 

That sure as hell isn’t just from the nap. 

Slowly, he stands, letting the blanket slide off his hips, and runs a hand down the front of his jumper. His bare feet touch the floor with soft thumps as he pads toward the kitchen, one sleeve pulled over his hand like a restless kid, not even realising he’s doing it.

The closer he gets, the more the smell of butter wraps around him. He’s struck by how surreal it all seems—like stepping into a memory. Except it’s not some dusty recollection from his childhood. 

He stops in the doorway, half-hidden by the frame, and sees you standing at the stove. You’ve rolled your sleeves past your elbows. There’s a mixing bowl on the counter, a spatula in your hand, and the sizzle of batter hitting hot butter is the only real noise besides his own breath. 

Plates are stacked on a small portion of the counter you’ve managed to clear. A current of tenderness runs through the space—through him—that has little to do with the heat of the stove.

“Hey,” he says softly, still a little groggy. His voice is low, reverent, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly will shatter the spell.

You glance over your shoulder, a quick smile flicking across your face as you meet his eyes. 

“Hey,” you answer, tone hushed not to hurt his head. “How’re you feeling?”

He swallows, stepping into the kitchen a bit more, hand trailing against the wall. 

“Much better,” he admits. 

And he realises, in that moment, it’s true. 

The tension in his spine has eased. When he looks at you, all sweet in his space, the last of his fears feel like they’re retreating into the corners of his mind. 

“What’re you doing?” he adds, voice soft, curious.

“Making dinner,” you reply with a casual shrug, turning back to the stove.

You slide the spatula and lift it, revealing a perfect golden underside. As you flip, the batter sizzles, sending up a little puff of fragrant steam. You nod toward the mixing bowl. 

“Figured something simple might do the trick,” you say quietly. “And, y’know, you mentioned them.”

He lingers a step longer, breath catching in his chest as he’s catapulted back into the memory he shared with you earlier. The smell of a hot pan threads nostalgia through his core, tangling with the gratitude he feels in this moment, watching you do something so unexpectedly thoughtful. It renders him speechless.

“Pancakes,” he manages finally, the word falling from his lips, soaked in wonder.

You glance back, giving him a small smile. 

“Don’t worry,” you say, catching the weight of that memory in his eyes. “You don’t have any bananas.”

You really were something else. 

He exhales a shaky laugh through his nose. It’s almost real—almost. It slips out unsteady, because there’s something about the simplicity of it all. The way you act like the world could be set right with just this—this one small, human thing.

And what floors him, is that for a second—God, maybe longer—he believes you.

Believes it could be that simple. 

You gesture with the spatula toward the small dining table. 

“Go on,” you suggest, “sit.” 

There’s a gentle command in your tone, like you’re used to looking after him—even if, not so long ago, he would’ve insisted he didn’t need it.

He obeys, walking over on slightly unsteady legs. 

Obeys.

The word sounds strange, but it’s accurate: you speak, and he follows. Not because he’s weak, but because you make him feel safe. You make him feel seen. And in that safety, he allows himself to lean on you more than he’d ever planned.

Drawing a chair out, he settles into it with an exhale, placing his elbows on the tabletop. The wood is cool through the knit material, and he can feel the faint vibration of your movements through the floor. Figures form in gentle arcs along the cabinets, as if the night outside has pressed its nose to the windows but hasn’t dared to intrude.

He’s spent a lot of time alone here, pacing the small perimeter while his mind churned with old memories. 

He wonders if this is what normal looks like. If other people get moments like these all the time—moments where the person they trust wanders into their space, rummages in their cupboards, whips up something simple that tastes like childhood. 

If so, he thinks he’s missed out for too long. 

Please let him keep this.

Just for a little while.

He’s not sure how long he watches you. He’s content to let the seconds stretch, your quiet movements hypnotising him. The whisk tapping the side of the bowl, your gentle footstep shifting weight. 

When you finally switch off the burner and turn to face him, plate in hand, he’s still staring. You serve the pancakes on the two most similar plates you can find—he doesn’t exactly have a matching set. You slide one in front of him, the other in front of you, the only sounds are the dull scrape of forks cutting through soft batter, the occasional drip of syrup pooling on porcelain.

He lifts a bite to his mouth, nodding in faint approval as he chews. His jaw still feels tense, like it’s absorbing some leftover stress. Beneath the table, his leg bounces with restless energy, but outwardly, he tries to keep calm. You watch him, noticing the slight furrow in his brow. Neither of you speak until you finish the first few bites; the tension in the air is subtle, but it lingers.

“You going into work tomorrow?” you ask, casual enough that someone who didn’t know him might think it an idle question. But he senses the concern under your tone. 

You’re not prying, exactly—just checking in.

“Yeah.” He nods, quickly swallowing. “I’ll drop you back home after this, don’t worry.” 

The words come out automatically, as if he’s already set a plan for the day: take you home, show up, teach the kids. Everyone safe and accounted for.

You carefully set your fork down, the faint clink slicing through the atmosphere. Your gaze holds him a second longer than normal. 

“I’m not leaving,” you say softly.

“What?”

“What if…” Your voice takes on a cautious edge.  “What happened last time… happens again?”

Last time?

Oh.

Angel, don’t do this to me. 

He goes rigid. The memory knifes through his mind like a jolt of cold water: the flash of your startled eyes when he’d woken gasping, his fingers clamped around your arm before he even registered he was awake. The shame of your worried face as he stammered an apology, trembling with leftover panic from the dark corners of his sleep. A strangled feeling clutches his chest, and he drops his gaze to the plate. 

“It’s not gonna be like that,” he murmurs, his voice guilty.

“I already packed my pyjamas.”

He sits back in the chair. 

The effect you have on his is downright dangerous. 

A part of him wants to argue—he doesn’t deserve this level of care, not when his baggage bleeds into reality and threatens to drag you with them. 

“No, seriously,” he presses, voice quieter now. “I’m gonna be just fine.” 

There’s a self-loathing edge to the words because he knows it’s not true. You sense it in an instant.

“I’ll take the couch, alright?” you say. That softer note creeps into your voice, the one that tells him you’re not afraid of him—you’re just concerned. 

“Won’t be able to sleep if I’m worried about you.”

Something clenches in his throat, and he drops his head into his hands. His fingers thread through his hair, gripping it lightly as if that might keep his thoughts from spiraling. Another ragged breath escapes him. 

“You’re not taking the couch,” he mutters, muffled behind his palms. The image of you spending the night curled in discomfort while he’s holed up in his bed feels all wrong.

“If you’re feeling rough,” you insist, “you need your own bed. Please just… let me stay.”

He can’t look at you right away, eyes still trained on the dark space between his knees. The weight of everything squeezes his stomach. He drags his eyes up. And there you are, watching him with genuine concern—no pity, no judgment. 

He sees it in your eyes—there is no budging on this.

“Okay,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

A small smile crosses your features, one he has no right to feel pride at. You pick up your fork again, like this decision was the easiest thing in the world. 

He glances at the swirl of syrup pooling around the edges of the plate, but he can’t bring himself to take another bite. 

All along, he thought he was the selfless one.

He lies in bed, sheets tangled around his hips, trying to convince himself that stillness might bring sleep. 

One arm is flung over his eyes, pressing down as if he can block out the cacophony of thoughts that refuse to be quiet. The dark presses in, broken only by the light of the clock—each minute passes in silence, ratcheting up his restlessness. 

He rolls onto his left side, then back onto his right, shutting his eyes as hard as he can. 

Come on, breathe in, breathe out… 

His therapist’s voice echoes in his memory, urging him to focus on his heartbeat, to ground himself. But his brain crackles with tension, refusing to comply.

The advice feels fake now, anyway.

He flips again, this time onto his stomach. It doesn’t help. His jaw is clenched so hard he can practically feel the ache up into his temples.

When the sheets start to feel suffocating, he snaps upright and shoves them away. His legs swing over the edge of the mattress, feet meeting the cool floor. A hiss of breath leaves him—everything feels too loud despite the silence. 

He drags a hand over his face, scrubbing at his chin like he’s trying to scrape away the anxiety. He stands, letting the duvet pool behind him as he pads barefoot out into the hallway.

The living room is dim. He notices the lamp's still on, a small puddle of light that silhouettes your form on the couch. You’re curled up, fast asleep under an old throw blanket, one arm tucked beneath your cheek. Your breathing is gentle, the rise and fall of your shoulders almost imperceptible. 

You looked so soft.

He tells himself he should go back to bed, not disturb you, let you have your rest. But there’s a stronger voice in him—the one that urges his forwards. 

It’s a jarring realisation that knocks something loose in him.

You’re becoming the next point of call when things get rough. The person he turns to now, instinctively, without thinking. And what unsettles him most is knowing you’d be glad to hear that. You’d take it as a sign of closeness, of trust.

But it feels cruel.

Cruel that you’d take pride in being his safe place when you still don’t know the full extent of what you’re stepping into. Cruel that he’s letting you play nurse to wounds he hasn’t even shown you yet.

He shouldn’t need you like this.

But he is going to be cruel, just for tonight. 

He brushes a strand of hair off your forehead. The small touch makes you stir, and your eyelids flutter open. Confusion flickers across your features until you register it’s him crouched there, face etched with concern.

“Steve?” You mumble, voice foggy with sleep. “Are—are you alright? Did something happen?”

You’re panicking because of him, and it makes it ache even worse.

“Hey—hey, it’s alright,” he murmurs, voice soft as he tries to soothe you. “Nothing happened. I promise.”

You start to push yourself upright, the blanket sliding off one shoulder to get a better look at him. The shape of your arm emerges, goosebumps prickling from the cool air. He swallows, feeling another wave of guilt that you even have to sleep out here. 

On the couch for God's sake. 

“I just… can’t sleep,” he admits, voice dropping. The confession tastes vulnerable on his tongue. 

It sounds pathetic—like a kid who never figured out how to function.

“Bad night?” you ask, still blinking sleep from your eyes. Your hand finds his forearm, thumb brushing lightly over his skin. Even that tiny touch feels like a lifeline.

“Yeah. I don’t know.” He nods as he lets out a shuddery breath. “Everything feels… loud.”

His request is simple, but the desperation laced in his voice betrays just how badly he needs the answer.

“Will you… come to bed with me?”

You still. The air between you tightens. He can see the caution in your eyes, the trace of a memory of the time before. He hates that he’s the cause of that worry. 

“Steve, I—I don’t know.” Your gaze drops to your lap as you recall his grip on your wrist, the way he shot out the door without so much as an explanation. “Last time, you were so out of it, and I didn’t know what to do, and you—”

“I know,” he interrupts, leaning in just enough that you feel the warmth radiating from him. “I know. And I’m sorry—I really am.” His voice wavers, and he takes a shaky breath. He wants to reach for your hand but forces himself to keep still, give you space. 

“But—but it’s not gonna be like that tonight. I’m okay, I just… I don’t want to be alone right now.”

You search his face, like you’re checking for any sign of doubt. Your gaze wanders over the weariness lining his eyes, the way his shoulders slump, the vulnerability in his expression. 

“...Are you sure?” You ask softly, a thousand questions and concerns pooling behind the simple words.

He’s sure. 

He wouldn’t put you in that kind of danger. 

“Yeah. I just—please.” 

He doesn’t care that it sounds like begging. Right now, he is begging. 

Your eyes dart between his, and you sigh softly. In the low light, he looks worn down—like that earlier nap had only skimmed the surface of whatever’s been dragging him under. 

It doesn’t take long to decide. The fact that he’s asking at all tells you everything. He wouldn’t, not unless he was sure. This isn’t casual. It’s something close to desperate.

“Okay.” Another short pause, your hand still on his forearm. “Okay. Just give me a sec.”

You shift the blanket aside and stand, the couch springs creaking as you move. He rises too, unfolding himself from his crouch. There’s an awkward silence where neither of you speaks. He feels like he should apologise—but where to start, he isn’t quite sure yet.

He extends his hand, fingers itching to hold your own. He leads you down the hall, every step slow. At the threshold of his bedroom, the air cools, and he can feel your hesitation in the slight drag of your feet. It sparks another pang of guilt. 

He nearly drops your hand, ready to say it’s okay, you don’t have to do this. But you tighten your grip, an assurance that you’re choosing to stay.

The bed is still rumpled, blankets half on the floor from where he stormed out. Silently, you both gather them up. You toss one over the mattress, smoothing it down just enough to make room to lie on.

When you finally slip under the covers, he follows, gingerly settling next to you on the mattress. He keeps to his side at first, giving you space.

The moment stretches—two heartbeats, three. 

The tension is palpable, and he regrets getting up in the first place. You turn onto your side, facing him, catching his eyes with your own. They’re wide, and beautiful. 

So fucking beautiful. 

There you go, looking at him like that again 

You look weary, and he bets he does too, so he can blame the sleep when he reaches out. He slips an arm around your waist and waits—just waits. Allowing you to choose how close to him you will get. 

He doesn’t let out his breath until you nestle closer, allowing him to tuck his chin over your head, the long exhale that seems to pour into the darkness. 

“You okay?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he answers.

He hopes he will be. 

He senses your small smile, lips curving upward against his jumper, a subtle shift in your posture as you settle down. 

“Get some sleep,” you murmur, reaching curl your arm around his waist, mirroring his position. 

“I will, angel,” he murmurs into your hair. 

He will, but not yet. 

First, he waits for your breathing to slow, for your shoulders to uncoil, for sleep to settle over you. Guilt weighs on him for putting you through this—sleeping beside someone you believe isn’t okay. 

He isn’t, but there’s a sick sixth sense inside him that warns when a night will be rough. Tonight won’t be, though. 

He’s sure of it.

What he’s just done feels like a trial, a test of whether you’d follow him, stay with him. It troubles him the more he thinks about it, but there’s no other way to explain it. 

He needed to know if you would—because if you did, it’d mean you feel for him what he feels for you.

He might be hopeless when it came to saying how he felt—couldn’t talk to his parents, had to be cornered by Robin, nearly let it all slip through his fingers just trying to name what was going on. 

But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it.

Steve felt things—deeply, messily, all at once. Always had. He’d felt this particular emotion before, or thought he had, in flashes: in borrowed bedrooms, first relationships, and soft pink roses. Young and dumb, sticky and sweet, like he saw in the movies. 

But it was never like this. This was bigger than him, something that carried a risk—like most things now did. 

Everything in his life felt more intense now. 

This was no exception. 

He felt it in every part of him. For the first time in years, he was glad he could still feel that much. That he hadn’t gone numb to it.

He held you, a secret he needed to keep. Even if he couldn’t give you every word of it, Steve Harrington knew what this was.

He knew what love felt like.

He’d fallen into it.

He knew better, but he chose to anyway—damned the fallout, and damn the cost.

It meant he could keep you to himself, just a little while longer.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen @yourgirlfriennd @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles 

[voidcat]

kaiser puts his tattooed hand anywhere on you (your neck especially) and takes pics of it to make it his lockscreen so that everyone can see (<- his own way of paying u back for the marks you left on his neck)

um excuseme??? why are u on my ass??? coming to MY HOUSE and ATTACKING me!??!!!?! do i need to get a restraining order against you two huh is that it....... big sigh uhhh whatever notes: michael kaiser x gn! reader. suggestive content, mdni. what rye has said ig.. i elaborated a little

Michael Kaiser is a man who knows best to get under someone's skin. From countless interactions you've observed over the time be it during matches or behind the scenes- that, you're certain.

And from experience too, much to your chagrin.

A pain in the ass and a walking migraine inducing component as he may be, there is something to him that you always find yourself in the same room, drawn to your demise- not like a moth, no, you'd like to hold hope that whatever runs between the two of you isn't somthing as blinding and vulnerable as that- but you cannot deny there is still an attraction none the less.

Analytical and always knowing where to hit where it hurts most, everything he does is with a purpose. Be it the way he he behaves, speaks with people, which name he uses, whether he gives in to their desperation for a physical connection or remain a cold composure. This, of course, ends with an extremely touchy Kaiser on your side that you've learnt to make peace and live with.

It's almost depressing to think about it, really. How your resolve couldnt hold out any longer and you admited defeat on this front. But what's to follow is somewhat nice, you try to comfort himself. Always a hand around your waist, on your thigh, fingers intervining with yours-- a constant reminder that he is right besides you and he'll never leave you.

Other behaviours though, begin to present after a while- a recent development, you write them off as. Now his hands find your shoulders, kneading into your skin like you're dough for him to shape, placed on your abdomen and rubbing gentle circles, a finger at the nape of your neck, playing with the sensitive skin there; the last one he seems to favor more than the rest. You don't really alert to the action until you catch sight of his phone one day.

For someone who likes to show off, it hadn't even fazed you one bit when you saw a photo album dedicated to the two of you that's not quite safe for public eye. This is Kaiser after all, every oddity he seems to display soon become the new default in your mind- ruining your experience of the world.

So when your thumb scrolls down the numerous photos you don't even recall being taken- mostly without either of your faces but his hand and parts of your body as clear as day- you cannot even find it in you to react.

Your finger comes to a stop as you open a photo in particular. His hand wrapped around your neck, thumb pressing right below your carotis artery, from his rough hold parts of your skin already flushed and his index seeming to be lightly trailing your collarbones with his middle finger to keep company. As you stare at the photograph, you can feel his hand on you again, his digits dancing on your neck, moving up and down slowly, making sure to idle and stroke the areas where you strongly react. Chuckling at the sounds and twitches you make whenever he pinches and presses against a sensitive spot. You'd think maybe this is his payback, or just a preliminary to it.

You've got to admit, from an artist viewpoint, the photos do look.. pleasing to the eye. An aesthetic sense to them, the colorful dark lightning only adding to the atmosphere.

With a sudden shake of your hand, you close the app and put down his phone in a rush but his laughter reaches you before. "What were you staring at so intensely, hm? Found something you like?"

[melanchoire]

stepdaughter chaewon who acts innocent with her stepmom but in reality she is a perv and somehow a dom with her mommy? like she comes back home bc of uni vacations and it’s fascinated by the woman, of course she gets her way with the older woman with the excuse “nobody has to know” or “i just want to make you feel good” while she push down her on the couch to eat her out until she squirts on her pretty face :((, her dad has always been a careless man so he tends to leave both unattended for days so when you both are a whole weekend alone bc he left for some business trip, chaewon would sneak into her mommy’s bedroom and wake her up with sweet kisses on her face and lips and saying “i don’t like mommy being alone” just for the kiss to go down her neck, tits and pussy and of course both end up having a heated night fucking (plsss add scissoring and 69 pose if you can, of course with chaewon on top)

cw: dubcon, scissoring, titsucking.

chaewon returns home from a short college vacation with her friends and finds that her father has started dating a new woman?? after his parents’ divorce a couple of years ago, his father never dared to try to have something with a woman again after being devastated when his ex-lover cheated on him with another man and leave him after a short time, but apparently, he was giving love a new chance and deciding to start a new life from scratch. but of course, chaewon didn’t expect her father to be dating a woman who looked young and like a complete milf...

at first, she was surprised to learn your age because you didn't look like someone in their early thirties. there was obviously some maturity in your features, which looked somewhat marked and serious. but she would never have guessed you were that age! also, chaewon gets a little annoyed at her dad for dating someone and having a certain age difference, i mean, he was in his early forties and you were in your early thirties, but chaewon was a bit of a hypocrite because she was in her early twenties and wouldn't mind dating you despite the age difference of around ten years! after all, who wouldn't want to go out with a hot older woman?

chaewon is playing the role of a sweet and good girl, pretending to be interested in her stepmother just so you will tell her things about your private life so she can get to know you better… she even has the nerve to ask you about your youth, getting you to show her pictures of when you used to be in your twenties, and you hadn’t changed at all! although you didn’t have the same soft, adolescent features and now you looked more mature and like a real woman, her head was spinning just seeing that as time went by you were getting hotter and hotter

she also blackmails you when her father leaves the house for business trips, always being super touchy with you and trying to convince you to let her calm your needs because her father was “too old” to be able to take care of pleasing you as you deserve :( chaewon knows how to fake it very well because at some point you’re considering her proposal no matter how crazy it seems! but you always try to reason with her when chaewon starts wanting to keep her words, trying to convince her that it’s a bad idea and she is just confusing her feelings and thoughts, but she refuses to listen to you! insisting more and more to the point of practically pressuring you to accept her proposal

chaewon sneaking into your room at night, almost drooling at the beautiful silk nightgown you were sleeping in… she would climb into bed, lying down next to you and shamelessly sliding her hands over your body while kissing your lips and starting to leave a trail of kisses all over your neck 😵‍💫 being sleepy at first, you give in to his touch because you think it’s your husband waking you up to let you know he is coming home, but no! you open your eyes to find chaewon on top of you, looking straight into your eyes as she slides her hands under her nightgown and cups your tits 😳

TITSUCKING i’m sorry but chaewon has longed ever since she first saw you to be able to get a real glimpse of your tits because no matter if she was wearing a t-shirt or something more covering like a sweater the curve of your breasts was present in the clothing 🫣 chaewon would always blatantly stare at your chest at every opportunity she could, for example when you were making dinner and putting the dishes on the table; her saying a soft “thank you” as you serve the food on her plate and leave it in front of her, but the moment you lean over to give her the plate, she immediately lowers her gaze to your cleavage because she can see your tits through the neck of your shirt?? it’s a shame that it’s a moment that passes in less than five seconds :(

chaewon degrading you and making you humiliate yourself while she is on top of you fucking you 😩 saying shit like “can daddy fuck you as good as i do?” while she grinds her pussy against yours in a way that has your clit constantly rubbing against hers in a way that makes you writhe on the mattress 😵‍💫 she grins like a maniac when she sees you nodding desperately, your hair scattered on the pillow and your face completely flushed and tears of pleasure running down your cheeks :( she was enjoying having you around like a silly little toy when you were always super sweet to her, treating her like a princess and behaving much better than her mother could in the short time she was present in her life, but she had another vision of you! feeling her panties get soaked every time you called her “sweetheart” or “dear” when they were just sweet terms to address your stepdaughter or someone young you care about! and she was enjoying how the loving and affectionate nicknames came out of your lips every time you begged her to please go faster and stop teasing you

and the moment her father comes home she is helping you prepare dinner! your lover smiling warmly at the loving moment between step mother and step daughter, enjoying how you two have a nice relationship and don’t seem to have a rivalry like other mothers and daughters would have 🥰 giving you a kiss on the lips and announcing that he would go take a shower to relax, only for the moment he left the room, chaewon pushed you against the kitchen counter, getting on her knees and announcing with her eyes that she was “hungry” and she wanted a delicious pre-dinner dish 🤗

[dix0nspretty]

Muddied Waters

Summary: A hit taken during a mission leads to a lapse in memory.

Simon "Ghost" Riley x GN!Reader, 1.1k words.

Era: Post formation of 141

TW: Mentions of head trauma, violent deaths from warfare, descriptions of blood, amnesia. Angst because Simon can't be happy. Retrograde amnesia and concussion.

Day 26 of my bastardized version of Russian Roulette Febuwhump/Kinktober for March that I'm affectionately calling Trinket's Cause of Death. It's basically 50/50 whump/kink where I generate a number corresponding to a prompt. This first whump prompt!

Day 26: Amnesia with Ghost (whump) for @isavuu

It was more than just worrying when you suddenly disappeared mid-mission, refusing to answer calls over comms and not in the house you were supposed to be clearing. Here one second and bantering Ghost, telling shitty dad jokes to keep one another grounded and the next just… silent.

There was the briefest moment of sound that your microphone picked up, a heavy thunk and an exhausted sigh from you before it became radio silence. Calling you by callsign and nickname and even your full name did nothing.

It scared the shit out of Ghost. Reminded Simon too much of a couple with a young son, so full of life and easy smiles, just as easily snuffed out. You were the first person to break through the hard shell of his mask and get down to the soft bits, to see the Simon he keeps hidden away from any and everyone.

He can’t lose that; he can’t lose you. He can’t lose the one good fucking thing to happen to him in years. Ghost ignores Price’s orders to stay in position and let the Sergeants find you, instead barreling through hostiles like a bull in a china shop trying to locate you.

The first thing he sees is the blood. Thick, bright arterial spray coating the nicotine-stained wallpaper of the second-story bedroom signaling a fatal injury to the jugular. There’s a darker spot of blood in a circular dent in the wall, as if someone’s head was slammed against it.

The second thing he sees is the bodies. Two lumps on the floor, both in tactical gear. It isn’t hard for Ghost to tell which one is you, he knows you like the back of his hand even without the identifiable markers of 141 gear, the patch stained with red.

Simon prays for the first time in his life that all you have is a head injury- that he won’t have to carry back a cooling body, to take your dog tags for the last time. You won’t be as easily packed away as Tommy and Beth, you could never be. You have woven yourself into each and every strand of DNA in his body.

There is no Simon if there’s no you.

After the most cursory checking of the room to make sure there’s no more surprises waiting around the corner, he drops to his knees behind you. “Love…” His voice is so soft as he hesitantly pushed your shoulder to roll your limp body onto your back, more Simon than Ghost.

There’s a downpour of blood from a gash on your head that’ll undoubtedly leave a scar, but the fact that you’re breathing and alive is more than enough for him.

Simon takes a deep breath before Ghost pats your cheek, gloves velcroing with drying blood as he attempts to rouse you. “Come on love, open those pretty eyes. Wake up.”

It takes several attempts to rouse you before your eyes flutter open, discombobulated and pained. You attempt to sit yourself up but it’s all too easy to keep you on your back. “Easy baby, stay down. You took a bad hit. Can you hear me?”

You make a vaguely agreeing noise, those pretty eyes locking onto his face but not easing the way they normally do when you look at him. Your pupils are too big and your gaze distant. “Who’re you…?”

The doctors on the base diagnose you with a severe concussion and retrograde amnesia when you continue to have no idea who your team is. You can remember the 141 task force, but you can’t access your personal memories and experiences as a member, wiping away the past 3 years of your life with a single slam of your head into a wall.

It could be something as simple as a scent that brings it all back or you could never regain them at all, it’s purely a matter of luck. But for now you can’t remember any stories Gaz and Soap tell you, none of Price’s discussion about prior cases and paperwork making any sense. And you can’t remember Simon.

Ghost exists in your memory as a superior officer and a campfire tale for new recruits but all personal attachment’s been washed away. That doesn’t stop him from being there for you. You might not remember what it was like to be Simon’s, but he reminds you day after day, telling you about how the two of you hated one another when you first joined and how a bullet graze led to your first kiss.

He sits by your hospital bed as you recover your strength and tells you everything you need to know, seamlessly filling in when you hesitate to answer a question you should know the answer to.

It’s odd to be doted on by someone infamous for brutality and being fucking terrifying only for said Ghost to bring you flowers every day and do your skincare every night and day since you’ve added so many steps you can’t remember.

You tell him at one point that trying to get to your memories is like opening your eyes in impure water- muddied and hazy, even though you can sense that something’s there.

Day after day, your health improves, and the concussion slowly heals but your mind stays muddied and memory-free.

“Johnny hates the goldfish joke,” Simon huffs with amusement as he smooths your moisturizer over the apples of your cheeks with the gentlest touch you’ve ever experienced. He’s maskless again, something he seems to do without thinking around you. It’s enough to make you ache for your memories back, to chomp at the bit. How is this man yours? “It’s your favorite, though.”

One good thing about your amnesia is Simon getting to experience your reactions to his jokes all over again. The way your nose wrinkles and your lips twitch as you try to not laugh, now those gorgeous eyes sparkle. “Is that right?”

“I’d never lie about a joke,” He deadpans even as that scarred lip curls up. “Goes like this. Two goldfish are in a tank. One turns to the other and says-”

You butt in before he can finish the joke, an odd sheen to your eyes and your words a quiet whisper. “Do you know how to drive this thing?

He could thank every star in the sky for this interruption. Maybe, just maybe… “Yeah love, how’d you know?”

“I remember you telling us,” You murmur, clearly trying to hold back from forcing your brain to surface more memories. “It’s stupid, but I thought it was hilarious the way you said it, all Ghost-like. Laughed so hard I almost blew my cover... I remember.”

It’s a small joke with little to no relevance outside of your personal lives but you think that maybe the water’s gotten just a little bit clearer.

[envioustorm]

THE WIND RISES

๑ Farmer!Abby x Urbanite!reader

Spanish ver: here

TW: Fluff. (title has nothing to do with Ghibli´s movie, it was not my main source of inspiration.)

Abigail felt weird. How did she get to this point? This feeling was unknown for her. Her cheeks were flushed with a baby pink, but this time, the cause was not the sun, it was true that she exposed herself a lot to it but, the cause was you.

She had always liked the peaceful life that the farm offered. Ever since her father died and she had to take matters in her own hands, she felt that, rather than a new responsability, it was her way of mourning the death of the man she loved the most. She tended to the animals, the cows, the sheep and the pigs, all of them loved every single bit of attention she gave them. She loved giving them attention too.

Even though, she couldn´t lie, it felt lonely sometimes. Apart from her dogs company, in the night, specifically after ten pm, when she looked up from the window to the sky, trying to find stars with shapes she´s never seen before, the only sound was the whistle of the wind and her calm breathing.

That was, of course, until you arrived.

What a pain in the ass, really. She never thought someone like you would change her life.

The morning you arrived was peaceful. She opened her eyes like she normally did. The birds sang happily, as if welcoming the new day. The sun didn´t quite shine as much as it usually did, but it was enough to wake her up.

She was quick to take a shower and put her overalls on, and, how could she ever forget to braid her hair? It was her own signature.

Abby didn´t have a lot of neighbors, she wasn´t a social butterfly either, even though, that doesn´t mean that the few friends she had didn´t like her, quite the opposite, they loved her. And how could the not love her? She was kind, composed and most importantly, you could see the honesty in her eyes from miles away.

But godness, you didn´t need an excellent sight to notice the big truck parked infront of the abandoned farm infront of hers. And that was the moment she saw you, getting out of the car with your brows furrowed and your lips pressed together, holding a few canvases and what seemed to be a box full of acrylic paints.

"A family? Based on the clothing, they come from the city." She remarked, tilting her head curiously as she observed. Even though she couldn´t see much, as soon as the man, who she assumed was your father, opened the door of the old house, you pushed him aside gently, entering the house as if stepping on the grass for a few more seconds would melt your feet. Abby chuckled in amusement and sat down on the table to eat her breakfast.

The first days were... weird, to say the least. Abby was used to only hearing the 'moos' from the cows, but your family? yeah, they were noisy as fuck. It was true that when your mother tecnically screamed at you to ask for a favor she felt a pang of annoyance, but at the same time, watching your family turn the lights on in the kitchen or in the bedroom, and even your father trying his best to fix the doors of the barn made her feel less lonely, even comforted.

"I´m afraid that door needs more than oil." She commented, leaving the buckets full of milk she was carrying on the ground, while she wiped the sweat with her forearm.

"Does it? To be honest, I´ve never done something like this before, I´m an office worker." Your father replied, trying to catch his breath.

"Really? And why move from the big city to a farm?" Abby crossed her arms, a bit confused.

"We needed a change, a big change in the routine. Especially my daughter."

She nodded slowly while she processed the information and then, smiled.

"A friend of mine is very good at fixing this kind of stuff, his name is Owen. I´ll call him later and I know he´ll gladly help." The man smiled at her as Abby carried the buckets of milk, that was the last task of the day.

The little chat between your father and her ended the moment she walked away, she ended up calling Owen and he did the job perfectly, just like Abby knew he would do it. She thought that was it until days later, someone knocked timidly on the door. She fixed a few strands of hair and opened the door, finding a sight she had been fantasizing about.

"Um, hello." You told her, holding a casserole wrapped in tinfoil.

"Can I help you?" Abby raised a brow, leaning on the frame of the door, trying to remain cool. But she was overwhelmed by your presence, to say the least. You looked so different compared to her. She could tell just by looking at the clothes you wore, the way you stylized you hair and even the glimmer in your eyes looked like the night lights of the city. She loved that, you were new, and you definitely looked like her next mistake.

"My parents wanted to thank you for calling... Owen?" You paused, furrowing your brows as if trying to remember if that was the correct name. Either way you brushed it off with a smile. "My mother baked this lasagna for you."

Abby smiled slightly, and nodded, receiving the casserole. After an awkward 'good night' she closed the door and sat down on the couch, she had a million questions on her mind, but there was one of them that she really wanted you to answer, was this encounter as pleasant for you as it was for her?

Oh, but of course it was.

You noticed every detail, even if Abigail didn´t.

The morning you arrived, you could not ignore her, standing up in the kitchen counter, cooking. How her muscles flexed whenever she reached for an ingredient, or the way she held that heavy pot filled with whatever she was cooking. You were infatuated.

How could you possibly not be infatuated?

You were there when she left the two buckets on the ground and wiped the sweat off her forehead. The sun hit her face in the most angelic way, her eyes were shining while she chatted with your father. And the way she looked at you when you bumped into each other. And maybe even when she used that kerchief everytime she let her hair down, it looked like it was alive when she rode that beautiful white horse.

You had to give her the lasagna, even though your mother was going to do it. Your hands were shaking as you approached the door, and when you saw her in that tank top, you almost had a heart attack. You tried not to stare but let´s be real, who wouldn't?

The eventual glances, secret smiles and 'accidental' encounters kept going. You looked for each other unconciously. Abby arrived from the local market at times where she knew you´d be outside. And you painted outside whenever you knew she´d be riding her horse.

You gave another brushstroke. The sun was setting and it was your favorite thing to paint. It was something that you knew would turn out great and perhaps you didn´t feel prepared to get out of your comfort zone when it came to your paintings, that could be found in every corner of your house.

"That´s pretty, but have you thought about painting you favorite person?" Her footsteps when approaching were silent, that´s why you flinched when you heard her voice.

"Abby!" You exclaimed, shaking your head and at the same time smiling widely. "Favorite person? You mean my mom?" You played dumb, pretending to be lost in your thoughts.

"Oh, so it´s not me?" Abby feigned offense, pretending to wipe the invisible tears forming on her eyes.

"I struggle with anatomy."

"I don´t see a problem, I´d be your model everytime you need me until you memorize the features you love to stare at when you think nobody´s around." Abby commented, with a playful smile.

You froze for a few seconds before leaving the brush aside, and you turned around to face her.

She looked beautiful when the sun was the only lightining available, but you knew that already. Neither of you broke eye contact, and neither of you spoke with words, since feelings was the option you both chose.

Abby´s dogs ran through the prairie, the grass leaned towards the South and two lovers with a silent pact observed each other while the wind rises.

[daisy-01-blog]

I got a simple request....Death God Toji, and spiking the tea with an aphrodisiac? Cuddling too?

A dance with death (death god Toji x fem! reader) 

A/N: Smut, requested, I don’t have any idea how it’s going to be honestly. 

Death often visits your house, and you always manage to seduce him. Just for another day, you begged. You wish you’re kidding. 

Death comes in the form of a big muscular man who wears a black cloak. You always convince him to eat you out but he never penetrates you. 

“My name is Toji” he said to you when you first met him “I come to take your soul” 

It’s funny and you debate on calling the police on him, but no one can see him but you. 

He kept on staring at your figure, so you coax him to do this next week by letting him suckle your breasts. 

He did while you’re clothed, and you shudder as he suckles your breasts like a man starved. 

“So pretty” he cooed, and for a moment you forgot he’s coming here to kill you. 

He sighed as he took off your clothes and unclasp your bra, suckling it as you panted. 

The other week, he came over again and you smiled “why don’t you drink some tea while you’re at it?” you said, and he would refuse. 

He would eat you up, slurping your pussy as the squelching noises fill the room filthily while you moan in pleasure. His tongue is longer than a normal man and you shake your hips at it. 

It’s the next month, and he seems exhausted. 

“I took someone’s life today” he said as he stared at you “let me take yours” 

You stare at him “can’t you take someone’s life without their permission?” 

He nodded “or else they would stay on this earth forever” 

You huffed “fine” you said “but drink this tea first” 

He reluctantly agreed, he starts to enjoy your company-but this has to end. He chugs it all. 

He paused, “what’s in this?” 

You only grinned. 

He shudders as he feels the warm feeling all over his body “you put-shit” he cursed “aphrodisiac?” he grunts, his cock feels hard. 

“Let me help you” you said tenderly, as if you didn’t put it in there. 

He cursed “I’m leaving” he pants as he feels his body warm all over. 

You rub his arm “let me help you” 

He grunts, nodding reluctantly. 

*

He shudders as you slurped his huge cock, you can’t believe you’re sucking death’s cock. 

He moans “so good, fuck” he cursed as he shakes his hips. His cock is too big for you as you feel it gagging your mouth. 

The slurping noises fill the room as you feel dizzy, his eyes rolled back. 

“Props to you, brat” he pants “you manage to trick death” 

You can’t talk, so you just suck him harder. He grunts at that. 

“Fuck, deeper” he grunts as he shakes his hips. You gag as his huge veiny cock plows your mouth. 

He shudders as he spews jets of cum inside your mouth. 

You swallow it, coughing a bit. After you calm down you ask him “will I be pregnant if you cum inside me?” 

He laughs “come here” 

You come closer as he pulls your skirt up, revealing your soaked panties. He chuckles at that “you’re already soaked” he said softly as you huffed. 

He slowly fingers you as you moan, his finger is long. 

“So wet” he cooed in your ear “so warm too” he kissed your ear as you moaned. 

The slick noise fills the room as he fingers you, making you forget he’s supposed to kill you-and it works on him too. 

He shudders at the noise “so wet” he kisses your ear as you moan in pleasure. 

As he hits your sweet spot, you moan as you spurt, he chuckles as he slurps your juices from his fingers. 

He unzips his pants as he slowly plows your pussy, you shudder at the feeling. He’s bigger than anyone else you ever feel in your pussy. He grins as he slowly plows faster. You moan in pleasure. 

“Don’t stop” you whine needily as he plows even faster, his cock too sensitive as it leaks pre-cum inside you. Doesn’t help that your pussy is so tight. 

“So warm” he grunts as the sloppy noises could be heard as you moan in pleasure “so good” you whine as he grunts in pleasure, his hips coming in contact with yours. 

You pant as he didn’t stop, the feeling in your pussy making you feel fuzzy. 

“Am close” you whine as he grunts, letting you spurt. But he hasn’t even let any cum out as he grins. 

“One more round” 

*

You lay on your bed with him in exhaustion, you let him cuddle you even though he can kill you anytime now. 

“Go to sleep” he said as you stared at his eyes. 

“Do you trust me?” he asked you and you nodded as you close your eyes, and he did too. 

You feel warm around him. 

Permanent taglist: @sayheysaeyoung @go-go-gadget-autism

[thisisjustfanfic]

Cleaning up the Timeline

{Caleb gives you a warning, and you don't listen.}

Read on ao3. Part One.

Tags: Reader/L&DS Men, Romance, Wanderers, Violence, Angst, k!dnapping, bl0od

Chapter 18: Danger

You…you let go. You let go of his hand like water through your fingers not worth holding anymore. If Zayne wasn’t so awestruck by the walking dead before him, he’d be staring at his palm, wondering if there was something there that had pushed you away. 

Xavier shoulders forward, and the movement out of the corner of his eyes prompts Zayne to action. He catches Xavier with a palm flat on his chest, halting the blond’s furious approach. There was fire burning in those blue eyes— low and hot like a dying star. 

You’d slipped out of Zayne’s fingers, and he’d just…let you go. It’d been muscle memory. Some long dormant part of himself that had acquiesced your presence to that of Caleb. 

Caleb. The walking epitome of a leech. Clingy and petulant and always cheating at chess– using his Evol to slide pieces across the board. Zayne would never forget him, just as you would never forget him, but the sentiment burning inside Zayne’s chest was a far cry from yours. 

You were crying. Fat tears rolling down your cheeks and dampening Caleb’s shirt, your delicate hands locked onto him so tightly that your knuckles were pale. A churning of grief and utter elation that led you to such overcoming emotion that there was little else you could do but hold on and cry.

Losing to Caleb. Zayne had felt it before. Whether in chess, or in your attention. He’d lost. He’d lost again. 

Caleb didn’t even glance their direction, like the four gentlemen standing stiffly like knocked arrows were simply parts of the scenery. Only Zayne understood the significance of what this reunion meant to you, and so he kept his arm out to halt them.

“H-how?” Your broken voice whispered, reaching up to gingerly hold the sides of Caleb’s face in your decadent palms, “How are you— How are you here ?”

Caleb’s smile is delicate, as thin as a butterfly's wing, as he stares at you with that all-encompassing pinpoint focus, “It’s— oh, it's a long story. And I don’t have long. I just needed— I had to see you, pipsqueak. You’re in danger. So much— so much danger.”

His words are discordant, breathed through chapped lips. Zayne is given the distinct feeling that Caleb wasn’t thinking straight; a man with too many pieces on the board that he's lost track of them. 

You’re grabbing at him, “Come back with me. Come home. If you’re in trouble, I can help you.”

Caleb presses his forehead to yours and inhales like it’s the first breath of fresh air he’s had in weeks, “I can’t stay. Just— throw away your phone. Don’t leave the house, for anything . If you listen to anything I’ve ever told you then please, please listen to this. I’ll contact you when it’s safe, ok?”

Caleb begins to pull away, and a wounded noise leaves your lips, “No! No, Caleb please. Just come with me. I-I can keep us both safe! Please!”

Zayne steps forward, and by the grace of the divine, he’s not followed. Sylus has Xavier and Rafayel by the back of their shirts. Xavier’s light blade is in his hand, a loose grip but no less threatening. Rafayel isn’t pushing to approach, but better to keep him tethered regardless. 

Zayne presses a hand to your back, and you flinch. You whirl to look at him, the tears in your eyes a collection of crimes against him. Zayne’s chest twists painfully, and he only hopes to anchor you.

“Caleb.” Zayne says evenly, unsure of what to say to this man risen from the dead. The puzzle pieces aren’t fitting together, and the doctor can’t help but feel a touch of malice for his once-friend. It was not very long ago that he held you, comforting you through the grief of losing the man who stands unharmed before you. 

“Zayne.” Caleb replies, just as tightly. His violet eye glances to the point of contact between you and the doctor, and Zayne sees that look again. That look he would get, even as children, when someone was holding something that was Caleb’s. 

“Tell him, Zayne!” You cry, one hand gripping onto Caleb’s arm, and the other onto Zayne’s, “Tell him to come with us!”

Zayne’s jaw clenches. The waters here are too muddy, and you’re asking him to jump in. Caleb’s reappearance opens up a can of worms that the rest had thought discarded beneath the heap. Lost in a junkyard somewhere. And it reeks of rot and sickness.

“Keep an eye on her.” Caleb says as he takes a step back, and it takes more than a little effort to detach your hand from him. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

Zayne can only nod, as if he would do anything that puts you in harm's way. For all of Caleb’s faults, that was something Zayne could trust— his complete devotion to you. 

“No!” You screech and try to push away from Zayne, “No, Caleb! Please ! Please don’t leave again! I don’t understand!”

Your breathing is fast and labored, and at this rate you’ll make yourself pass out. 

“I’ll be back, pipsqueak. I promise.” Caleb swears as he turns on his heel, “I just had to warn you. Don’t trust anything. Don’t trust anyone. Just…stay safe. Until I can come back for you.”

Your answer is a series of declining sobs, and Caleb picks up his pace into a hastened walk. He picks up his hood to cover his head, and he walks out of the park and away.

“We can catch up to him,” You say breathlessly. You pull at Zayne’s firm hand across your waist, “Let go, Zayne. I have to go after him.”

“No,” Zayne replies softly, like speaking to a frightened animal, “We need to go home. My love, stop, stop. Breathe, love. Breathe.”

At first, your attention is too torn. He can see your mind spiraling into adapting to this new truth. This adjustment to your world that exists with Caleb alive. You struggle to obey his tender command, but slowly, slowly, you calm down.

“Caleb is alive.” You breathe, like you’re trying to convince yourself of it.

Zayne nods anyway, “It seems he is. He brought you here to warn you. You’re in more danger than we must have realized.”

“Why?” You whisper, looking wide-eyed up at Zayne for answers he doesn’t have. “What did I do?”

“We should head back.” Zayne says, feeling increasingly inefficient. “We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

You hold onto Zayne like a lifeline. Like a buoy in a storm, and you’re one harsh gust from being lost at sea. Oddly, the others don’t intrude. They follow you out of the park and back to the car.

The ride home is silent. Tense . Sylus taps his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, and Rafayel can’t seem to stop fiddling with the hem of your shirt. You want to offer something– anything– to them. To ease the anxiety they’re so clearly trying to hide. 

But where do you even start? You’ve barely gotten your own mind around it, let alone organized enough to explain. 

Caleb. Caleb is alive. You have to keep stating it plainly in your mind. Repeat the mantra and remember the feeling of him solid and alive beneath your fingers. Your mind is too frazzled and it keeps trying to convince you it was all a dream. Another hopeful conjuration of seeing him again. Even for just a moment. 

Only a moment isn’t enough. It would never be enough, and your hands are trembling as you realize you have no idea how to find him again. How to see him again.

Danger. You’re in danger. The sensation wasn’t foreign. You’d always been in danger in one form or another. Your own heart. Wanderers. Criminals. Ever. 

It had to be Ever. There wasn’t any other option that you could think of. The only thing big enough and scary enough that could make Caleb’s death look like an accident, but why kill him anyway? Why kill Gran?

Your head is aching, and your chest feels tight. There’s a stone in your stomach. Your skin is gooseflesh and sensitive. Torn in too many directions like a hide stretched out to be tanned and turned into leather. 

Was Caleb the stalker? Clearly he was able to communicate with you through your phone so…he bugged your phone? How long ago? Had it always been there? Through college and through the Hunter academy had…had Caleb been keeping an eye on you that whole time? 

The questions are still spiraling like the whipping winds of a hurricane then the car stops, and you don’t even notice. You’re so stuck in your own head that you don’t notice when everything around you goes dark as you descend into the garage, or when the car parks, or when Rafayel and Xavier exit on either side of you. You only notice when Xavier reaches for you, gently coaxing you out of the vehicle with a steady hand. 

You come back to yourself just in time to enter the living room, and Sylus is practically pacing with his phone pressed to his ear, “I’ll send you the surveillance footage from Mephisto. I want everything you can find on him. Everything. Name is Caleb. Yeah….yeah same last name. Send everything you find. And call Richards, have him get the safehouses gamma and epsilon ready should we need them.”

Rafayel comes over to place a steadying hand, like he needs to make sure you won’t blow away. “You hungry? Let me make you something.”

You shake your head and find Zayne, shedding his jacket near the entrance.

Xavier rubs your back and brings you over to the couch, letting you sit first before he sits next to you. “It’s alright if you don’t want to talk yet,” He coos too gently, “You’re safe here. It’s alright.”

You stand sharply, with your hands raised. Every touch is suddenly harshly overstimulating. You need a minute. You need so many minutes to process what’s happened today. You need a computer and a gun, and likely someone to talk you down from being utterly stupid. 

“I need–!” You snap, and step away when Xavier reaches back out to you, “I need Zayne. Zayne can we just…can we talk?”

Zayne looks a little like a deer in headlights, and the eyes of the other men in the room fall on him. He clears his throat and nods, “Of course, but maybe we should explain to the others? This has been…It’s quite confusing.”

“ Confusing ?” You scoff and grip at your hair, “This is insane! I can’t even— and then he just leaves!! This is more than just confusing: it's–” You clap your hands together, “I’ll be in my room. Please , Zayne.”

You escape to your bedroom, and leave a vacuum in the space you left. 

Zayne sighs heavily, and wipes a hand across his face. 

“So, care to share with the class?” Rafayel muses mirthlessly, a now useless sandwich on a plate. He flicks a little piece of parsley he’d put on top as garnish in frustration.

“It’s Caleb .” Zayne says like it’s the answer. He crosses his arms and sighs again, “He died, or at least everyone thought he’d died. They grew up together. Practically raised together. It’s…It’s a lot to process. Him being back.”

“That hardly explains the stalking.” Sylus’ voice is brutal, “The cloak and dagger can be fun, believe me I enjoy it well enough. But explain to me why this man thought it acceptable to lure her to her apartment, incite a chase that led to her injury? The phone, the storage unit, the shadowing. Explain it to me, Zayne.”

“I’d like to know as well,” Rafayel adds, gliding into the living room like a shark cutting through water. His shoulders are firm and he glowers at Zayne with sweltering fire that rivals his Evol. “I’d like to know why he showed up just to make our girl upset, and then skips away? Unscathed?”

Xavier’s on his feet, “She’s mentioned him before. She values him. Highly . If he’s behind the stalking, I’m sure there's a good reason.”

“Of all of us I would’ve thought you’d have the biggest issue with this!” Rafayel snaps, “Did you see the way he held her? That’s not brotherly love, I’ll tell you that much.”

“I don’t have any more answers than you do,” Zayne murmurs as he pinches the bridge of his nose, “Caleb has always been protective of her. If he says she’s in danger, then it’s best to believe him. I’m going to go up with her, help her…sort things out for herself.”

“Why you though?” Xavier asks, a little harshly. 

“Because I knew him.” Zayne offers, “I knew him when we were children. The three of us were friends.”

“Ugh, again with this.” Rafayel groans, throwing his hands in the air, “If you remind me of your childhood bond again I’m gonna commit arson.”

Zayne rubs at his wrists– his evol reacting to the rise in his emotional state, but he pushes it down. He can’t handle an outburst right now. You need him. He gives them one last apologetic look before retreating to your room. 

The three that remain are silent for a moment, until Rafayel breaks the silence. “Did you recognize him?”

The meaning of such an inquiry is not lost on the others. The previous god of the tides is not asking whether they’ve seen Caleb before in this life, but in the last. The air around them buzzes with the potential energy of violence– seductive with malcontent and heavy with uncertainty. 

“No,” Xavier responds sternly, “He seemed familiar though. It’s not Astra or any of his agents that I know of.”

“Astra was not our only foe,” Sylus hums, his arms crossed tightly, “There were others. Or he could be new. An anomaly only present in this timeline.”

“Are we willing to bet on that?” Rafayel is pacing now, “If he is somehow attached to our other life, if he had something to do with–”

“It’s unlikely.” Xavier tries to reason, “The story doesn’t match.”

“ The story.” Rafayel hisses through sharp teeth. He’s teetering on the edge of madness right now. The house he’d built here with stone and mortar suddenly feels like a house of cards, tumbling down around him. The sight of you running from them has left him feeling vacuous. Terrified . “We don’t know what was written! And we’ll never know! This is– We should kill him. Take him out here and now. She thought he was dead before, we’ll just make it true.”

Sylus exhales through his nose and grabs Rafayel’s shoulder, gripping the tendons that are straining near his neck and squeezing, “Take a breath. She’s not going anywhere. Nothing has happened yet.”

“It only took two days for it all to come crumbling!” Rafayel barks out, shrugging Sylus’ hold off of him and leveling him with a vicious blue-tinged glare. “Two days for everything to unravel. We have to be smarter this time. We need to prepare.”

Xavier clicks his tongue, and rests his hands on his hips, “Prepare for what? For war ? We’re not sure what this man’s motives are. Zayne assures us he seeks her protection, and we should believe him. There’s another enemy at work here. We need to focus on that.”

“Unfortunately, dearest Caleb did not grant us any clues as to who is after our kitten.” Sylus pulls out his phone again, connecting to Mephisto and going through the surveillance footage again, “If push comes to shove, we take her to a safe house.”

You and Zayne sit on your bed, knees touching. You're holding onto his hands, and his thumbs draw circles over your knuckles. Anger is the poor man’s replacement for sorrow, filling up all those nooks and crannies that feel so horribly empty. Rage is easy to feel, but all you feel is lost. 

“I can’t believe he’s alive.” You whisper for the umpteenth time. “Did you…did you know?”

Zayne leans forward, shaking his head, “Of course not. I would not have kept that from you.”

You take in a shaky breath, “He seemed scared. I think…I think he’s trying to keep me safe, like when we were kids. But why– why won’t he let me help him?”

Zayne makes a thoughtful noise and shrugs slightly, “He’s always been…focused, when it comes to you. Perhaps there is more going on than we can see. He’s intelligent– at least he was. He must have taken great risk to meet.”

You wipe away a tear before it can fall, “What if he gets hurt? What if he dies? For real this time?”

“We won’t sit idly by.” Zayne assures, squeezing your hands. “If someone is after you, we’ll keep you safe. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried about me!” You shout, pushing his hands away from you. “I’m a Hunter. I’m strong, I’m trained. I can protect myself ,and I won’t let you or Caleb or anyone else put yourselves in harm’s way because of me!”

Zayne’s expression falls and guilt immediately bites at you, digging into your raw flesh and grinding. 

“Sorry…” You whisper, “I’m just confused.”

Zayne reaches back out. Slowly, tenderly taking your hands into his own, “What do you need?”

Your eyes narrow, “What?”

“What do you need?” He asks again, “Do you need to fight? To cry? Do you need to go out hunting for Caleb? Tell me what it is that you need, and I’ll make it happen.”

The momentary anger dissolves, and you deflate like a untied balloon, the hot air of misplaced ire escaping through the holes in your chest. “I…I don’t know. I just…I want Caleb back. I want things to be normal. I just…I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

Zayne reaches out to brush some hair away from your face, “Then we’ll see to it that no one does. No one goes looking for trouble. No one goes anywhere alone. We’ll have Sylus use every tool in his arsenal to find Caleb, and we’ll bring him here.”

“Really?” You whisper, sounding pathetically infantile. 

Zayne nods. “If that’s what you need. It’s done.”

You spend the rest of that afternoon in your room with Zayne. You discuss the possibilities of Ever or some other criminal organization being after you. Concluding after only a little debate that it must be Ever. No one else has the power and reach to pose such a threat. Enough control over other organizations to make an explosion look happenstance, or certificates of death be forged. 

Therein lies the problem. Ever isn’t a person. It’s not a man you can place a bullet between his eyes and be done with it. A multi headed hydra embedded in the fabric of other organizations to cover itself– the snake in the garden. Wait no. Even a snake has a place in the garden, in the cycle of death and rebirth. Ever is an invasive fungus. The parasitic spore that clings to other plants and leeches from them. 

When you’re gathered your senses enough that you’re not actively spiraling, you take Zayne’s hand and go back downstairs. The three other men having waited less than paitently and are in various states of tension. 

Sylus is still working with Mephisto, scanning through street cams and outdoor security footage. The faster-than-light facial recognition software blinking across each and every pedestrian with flashing neon squares. Mephisto squawks when he sees you. 

Rafayel is pacing. The blade in his hand flickering with the edges of flames as he twirls in his fingers. An elegant dance of sharp steel trimmed with the spars of his Evol. 

Xavier is…asleep. Head reclining back on the couch, but his lightblade sits at his side, hand loosely cupped around the handle. 

Yikes, you think. They really do look like they’re ready for battle, and you’re not even sure if they’re wrong to do so. 

“I’m sorry.” You say firstly, drawing all eyes to you. You let go of Zayne’s hand, wanting to face all four of them. “I didn’t expect it to be Caleb.”

“Who is Caleb?” Rafayel asks with his arms crossed, blade tucked against his side. “You didn’t bother to explain that to us at all.”

Xavier’s up and standing like he hadn’t been quietly snoring less than ten seconds ago, “Let her speak.”

“No, Rafayel’s right. I should have explained…” You’re not sure what to do with your hands right now, and so you pick at your nails. It feels like you’re being put on trial, and you now have to answer for your crimes of omission. 

“A little over a year ago, I was visiting my Gran. She raised me, and Caleb.” You explain, looking down at the floor because meeting their eyes might very well break you. You’re not sure which is worse– the worry, the pity, or the anger. “There was an explosion. Gran died. Caleb…died. I didn’t– I didn’t really cope well with it, and it led me to be suspended from the Hunters. I got kicked out of my apartment and then I came here.

“When we went to that park, I was expecting some crime syndicate I’ve run into in the past. Or one of Ever’s goons, but  it was Caleb. I don’t know how he’s alive, or why he’s being so secretive. All I know is that he told me to be careful, and that means something big is happening.”

“Does Caleb have connections that might help him?” Xavier asks methodically, “Groups he could turn to for aid?”

“He was a pilot. He had friends, but as far as I know…ahg! I don’t know! As far as I knew Caleb was a fighter pilot for the Deepspace Aviation Administration! He wasn’t tangled all up in this! He was— I don’t know how he–”

Your choke on your words, and when Zayne’s tries to enter back into your sphere you step away. “I have to help him. I need you to let me help him. Help me…help him. If he’s in danger because of me, I’ll never– I have to know what’s going on. I can’t just sit idly by.”

Sylus’ rubine eyes look to Zayne and then they fall on you, “I have every camera in the city scanning for his face. We’ll find him.”

“We can inform Captain Jenna of the circumstances.” Xavier adds on, letting his Lightblade shimmer out of existence, “That you’re in danger and need time to investigate. Perhaps she may be able to help as well.”

Rafayel scoffs, “I’d just like to add that I’m not a fan of this whole thing. This…cold war between us and this unknow foe. We need to know what we’re dealing with first. Are you certain this Caleb isn’t working for them?”

Your face scrunches, “I trust Caleb entirely. He’d never betray me.”

“You say that…” Rafayel sighs, unconvinced but the tension in his body eases slightly. “If you say so, cutie. We’ll see how it goes.”

You’re given the impression that Rafayel is just appeasing you. Humoring you and your long kindled affection for the boy you were raised with. You don’t blame him for being frustrated and you make a point to say, “If you don’t want to get involved, I understand. This could get messy.”

Rafayel chuckles and raises his chin, “Don’t threaten me with a good time, princess. Else I might be disappointed.”

Informing Captain Jenna is an endeavor in discomfort you’d like not to repeat. She’s incredulous, and then worried. She insists on a larger response than just letting you and Xavier handle it, but you’re able to talk her down. 

Sylus’ sleeping schedule shifts a little. You see him more in the house, and half of your kitchen counter is covered in laptops and screens. A little perch for Mephisto nearby where he sits the majority of the day, cable plugged into him underneath cobalt feathers. 

You destroy your old phone, just as instructed. You stomp on it until it's nothing but little pieces of glass and silicon, and then Sylus lets you use a blowtorch to turn it into a puddle of nothing. Rafayel, humorously, attaches a magnet to the back of it when it cools, and places it on the fridge.

You learn everything you can about Ever. On the outside they’re just a biotechnology company. Branching out into aerospace, Evol research, and trade. They have an optimistic mission statement on their website with happy stock photos of people in white coats. 

But even before the explosion, you’d known they were shady. Their work with the radio-frequency chips that attract wanderers was enough to make you blacklist them in your head. Not to mention the mere sound of their name put you on edge. 

Two weeks pass with nothing. Nothing but dead ends and partial matches on facial recognition. Ever is silent, not a peep besides their usual announcements of quarterly reports for shareholders and the occasional pandering social media post reporting to the masses of their good works. 

You had hoped, in true villain fashion, that they’d release some big announcement for some new technology. Some radar dish that actually controls minds, or medicine that actually makes people docile. Some classic act of villainy that you could bring to Jenna and start a proper investigation. 

But no. You’ve got your anecdotal evidence of stalking– which very well might just be Caleb. And some bugs in your apartment– which also might be stalking. Beyond Caleb’s warnings there’s nothing to show for this. No reason to believe that anything is amiss.

And that makes it all the more terrifying. 

You and Xavier take minimal patrols. The mid-morning shifts are quiet and easy. Enough to keep you active in the Hunter’s association, but not too much that you’re being sent here and there and everywhere for missions. Can’t be too far from home– just in case. Suddenly stopping Hunter work would arouse suspicion from your pursuers– is what you argue, and you can’t let them know you’re onto them

You always liked the city center. The Linkon City council had commissioned a fountain a few years ago and it was designed to catch the beaming rays of the morning sun that cascaded in between the tall buildings of the city. The glassy centerpiece scattered rainbows across the stone square. The stalls of food, flowers, and souvenirs alight with the colors of spring and adorned with the divine light of refracted rays. 

Which made it suck even worse to see it destroyed. 

A Wanderer– manifesting through a fissure of devastating energy directing through the delicate glass of the fountain. Sundering its foundation and spraying water high into the air. The blasphemous creature crawled its way into the world violently, its roar shattering windows and the weight of its body fracturing the stone beneath it. A wyrmlord, fierce and devastating– a creature that looks more mythical than celestial. 

Xavier is just as surprised as you are. There hasn’t been a Wanderer this deep in the city in decades, and so it can’t be assumed to be a coincidence until proven so. 

You fight alongside Xavier like synchronized dancers. There’s no time to discuss strategy. Only send a desperate call for backup and try to preserve the lives of the many, many bystanders who scurry like mice away from the beast. 

Of course the massive monstrosity isn’t alone. It tore open a hole in the fabric of reality so big that six more smaller Wanderers followed after it. The stench of Deepspace permeating over what had been soft flowers and the scent of street food. 

“ Ahh!” You hear a high pitch scream and see a mother and child crouched beneath an overturned souvenir stand. The woman has her body covering the small child, trembling with terror and determination. 

Xavier sees it just as you do, and a shared look between you has you running over to them. You fire a barrage of bullets at the knave that approaches them, breaking its concentration and then ending its false life with a final blow to its chest. The knave dissolves into shimmery cosmic energy while you crouch down to the overturned stand and lift it as best as you can.

“Go!” You shout insistently, no time for compassion or gentleness, “Run now!”

The woman is weeping as she sweeps her child up into her arms and sprints away. A look of relief breaking across her face, and it’s more than enough thanks that you need. 

You let the stand fall and it crumbles into nothing. Turning back towards the wyrmlord you see Xavier has it facing him on the other side of the square, and you’re able to spy his dirtied head of starry blond hair before the tale of the wyrm sweeps across you. 

Its massive tail boulders into your chest, lifting you off your feet as it lunges at Xavier. You’re thrown across the square, and the sensation of flying is momentary before you slam into something hard. 

That surface beneath you shatters. The sound of breaking glass a deafening blow in your ears. Thrown through the window of a flower shop you roll onto a bed of shards and tiny pebbles of glass and stop with a thud as you hit the counter. 

The smell of flowers is strong, and it's the only thing you can perceive for a moment. Eyes clenched tightly and your body screaming in pain, you lie for a moment in utter shock. 

When the stupefaction of being thrown like a ragdoll subsides, you take in an experimental breath. It hurts, but only because you’re bruised. No broken rib this time. No punctured lung. You’d remember that sensation forever, you’re sure. 

Lifting up onto your hands, the glass beneath cuts into the exposed skin of your fingers and digs into the harsh material of your gloves. 

A groan leaves your lips, and it's drowned out by the sound of the Wanderer’s roar. Lifting your head, part of your vision is red, and with a touch to your face you realize it’s blood. A small piece of glass embedded in your forehead dripping down into your eye. 

You wipe it away and force yourself to your feet. You don’t have time to be hurt. Xavier needs you. You’re a hunter, and there are still people at risk. Taking a step, your boot crunches on the mixture of glass and stems. 

Another crunch behind you has you turn, but it’s too late. 

What a good plan, you think as you struggle against hands grabbing you. A cord pulled around your neck and hauled you backwards. You stumble over your own feet as another pair of hands grab your legs and pick you up. And another stuffs a foul tasting cloth into your mouth, widening your jaw to it’s limits to muffle your scream. Three guys. Just enough to catch you when you weren’t aware. 

It’s a good plan. You think again, as you're tied with self-adjusting restraints and dragged roughly behind the counter of the flower shop. Eyes covered, arms and legs bound. They waited for Xavier to be preoccupied with a threat he couldn’t ignore. It was likely that summoned the wanderer in the first place. 

Smart, whoever planned it. But these guys are dumb. Goons and lemmings only here to enact orders from someone else. They have their directive and they follow it. 

Efficient, you think as you're hauled out the back of the flower shop and into the alley behind it. You’d laugh if you could around the gag. Laugh at the utter absurdity of it. You’d expected to be nabbed in your sleep. Dragged out of bed like a damsel in a movie. 

You crash against the metal floor of what you can only assume is a van, and you think– wow, at least this part is cliche. Something must have broken in your brain because this time you are laughing, and you hear the utter disgust from one of the men that grabbed you. 

“Quiet!” He barks, and a boot kicks you in the back. Bad dog. He may as well have said. 

“Where’s the spray?” Another one asks. The voices aren’t familiar, and you can hear them being muffled behind masks, so even if you did get a look at them you wouldn’t see their faces. 

Dammit. Hopefully Mephisto is nearby. He usually is. These guys are screwed. So screwed. 

A cold, minty-smelling spray is doused across your face, and in one surprise inhaled– you’re out. 

<- Previous Next ->

[yandere-fics]

♡ Someone Else Kidnaps You ♡

(Veronia and Ainsley are excluded cause Veronia wouldn't let anyone get inside her land and Ainsley has a spell on you so if anyone tries to hurt you or take you, they explode.)

♡ Theanna always has at least five spies near you at all times so getting to you would be quite a challenge with just that alone, not even factoring in all the security around the palace to make sure the future queen doesn't so much as trip and the court members looking for brownie points who would definitely step in to try to stop it to earn more things. With all that considered the most likely place for someone to take you would either be your own personal bedroom during a time the spies are switching out, they stay under your window and in the servants passageways, never in your room and Theanna is underneath the garden but a situation where all the circumstances are aligned for that are uncommon. More likely the lake house, you go to rest and while Theanna was supposed to come quick some emergency happened and delayed her arrival by a few hours. You would obviously have several guards around and her spies but the lake house has less places to hide thus if you wanted to attack it you would know where all the people you need to take out first are located. Either way it would most likely have to be a group that decides to take you. ♡

♡ Theanna is the one of the first to know you've been kidnapped and one of the first to get you back. The kidnappers wouldn't be stupid enough to hurt you, that would get all of them killed, they know what happened in the succession war. They're more likely demanding ransom which of course Theanna will pay because not paying it might aggravate them and she can't do that while you're still in their hands. Afterwards the others in her spy network will track down the group and capture them so she can personally torture them. She obviously can't just do away with the spies because despite them failing her queen, they are needed for other tasks, but from now on you'll be with her at all times because she clearly can't have other people watching you. You're not supposed to enter the garden undergrounds with her until marriage but she'll make an exception until you finally get married. ♡

♡ Elisha doesn't always have the most time to be watching you nor can she travel with others who can watch you. She's also opposed to leaving you behind for the temple to guard unless you get sick and she has no other option so out of all of the yans, you're most likely to get kidnapped under her watch. Of course she's the chosen one though so it wouldn't take her very long to find you and no one who did take you would be crazy enough to leave a scratch on you, at least not till she gets there. Once she gets there even they'd probably only threaten to hurt you to get her to back off, actually hurting you would just be asking to die. You'll probably get kidnapped once or twice at first when she's still barely learning to balance her hero duties and watch you at the same time but once she gets a rhythm down basically no one stands a chance at taking you from her. ♡

♡ She's a bit slower to get to you than others, not that she isn't trying but most likely she was focused on killing a dragon so when she arrives back to camp expecting to find you, you're already gone. Depending on the challenge of the hunt to it could be even longer that she has to focus on her task. Of course she's worried about leaving you alone so long but when hunting a beast she has to focus on the beast otherwise if she lets it go, it could come back around and try to hurt you. Usually when she leaves you at base camp it's perfectly safe, you and her are always on the move and she's very aware of her surroundings so it's not like anyone could trail you unnoticed. For someone to kidnap you in the first place they'd likely have to have a hatred for her and stumble upon you through sheer luck. It's not impossible but the odds of it happening are pretty rare. Of course though after those first couple times she does develop a "someone is near our camp" sense and come rushing back before they can even form a plan. ♡

♡ Pauline has separation anxiety that she won't admit to but still exists so you are very very rarely EVER away from her. Even when she inherits the academy she usually drags you with her to sit in her office and then you just sleep in a bedroom she installed there if she working longer than usual. She only really leaves you behind when you really seem to need rest and even then she's agitated the whole day until she finally gets back to you. Even from the start of your relationship when it's supposed to be fake, she doesn't like letting you out of her side because her parents are evil harpies who will jump at the chance to try to discipline you their own way an obviously since she asked you for this fake relationship, she needs to take responsibility. If someone were to take you though, it would likely be at the start of that relationship where she has less protections on you to make sure anyone who tries to take or hurt you just can't breathe until they leave your range and it would probably be under her parents watch. Maybe she slipped up and had to take care of an emergency so they were watching over you, in which case she would lose her goddamn mind and of course, kill them as soon as she got you back. ♡

♡ Pauline also is late to notice you're missing for multiple reasons. One, if you were to be taken she would have to be very very busy, and two, she doesn't trust her parents. Even if they say someone kidnapped you she isn't sure where to start in her hunt because for all she knows they could have placed you somewhere else in the house so they could get their discipline in or just be testing her to see her reaction to her darling going missing. She knows you didn't try to run away, there's already a curse on you to stop that so someone had to have taken you from her actively. Her network is smaller too than other yans but rest assured, she will still have you back in her arms by the end of the day and you will never be separated from her again. If you get sick she simply won't be going to work so don't worry. For every wound the kidnappers left on you and every hour you were gone, she will hurt her parents twice that before she lets them die too. ♡

♡ Abigail has her own personal squad just for you when she can't escort you, it's five of her most elite knights and it is a special privilege to be on your squad. She would have given you more but it felt like it would intrude on your ability to walk around normally. One knight that you can send on errands that require strength like carrying bags or really anything you need, and four to keep you surrounded at all times so for someone to kidnap you, you would have either had to have ditched your knights entirely which is a hard task to do because they really don't want to die just because they lost you, or have a day where you were out with just Abigail and you ditched her which is also not an easy task but slightly more feasible. Perhaps at a ball you just managed to drift into the crowd, went somewhere private and someone took the chance to snatch you. They'd have to be a moron though. While the others there's benefits to gain like ransom, Abigail is a known tracker and would destroy you entirely so no group would want to target you, more likely one or two people who are dumb. ♡

♡ Abigail knows the moment you're out of her sight or her knights sight, they report it to her even though they're terrified of death because they don't want their fellow knights to also be punished for not watching out. She might even grant them leniency if their story of how you escaped from their sight seems reasonable but most likely they'll still be ousted from her platoon and if it's really egregious she'll duel them later on. She also finds you very fast. She'd find you quicker whether or not professionals took you but considering how unskilled the people who took you were, she'll get there almost immediately and before they can even think to threaten her to stay back, they're dead and she's holding you in her arms again. She's leaving the capital after that though, while her platoon is well trained, it would be easier to keep watch on you if she were in her home with her family of knights also around to watch you. ♡

♡ Rayna usually has her eye on her sister especially with how before the bond happened you went off into the forest and could have seriously died out there. Even when she's in her office and you're in the garden she's generally well aware of where you are. Whether this is from the bond you two share or just her being a massive siscon with magic sister finding powers, you can't be sure. Either way it's difficult for anyone to try to sneak in and take you and because you're a lower mage most people would be scared to take you because your magic is more likely to grow volatile and explode if you're away from your knight for too long so most just don't think the risk is worth it. If someone were to kidnap you though they'd probably try to stay in the same area so you don't explode on them while they make their demands and they'd have to knock you out so Rayna's ability to magically know where you are is dampened. ♡

♡ She knows something is off instantly and whenever something is off she leaves work to go find you right away so imagine your kidnappers shock when before they can make their demands she wakes into their lair and smashed their heads in when she sees her little sister unconscious in their arms. You're not getting out of her sight again and you're definitely never leaving the house without her ever again. She knows it's boring for you to sit in her office while she woks but she'll get some activities in there for you so don't worry. ♡

♡ Rapahel has duties she has to attend to sadly so you're not always in her sight and due to her insistence that only she should serve you, you only have a few maids and knights in your manor at all. It doesn't mean you have absolutely no protection though, while she dislikes Ainsley, she can certainly acknowledge that she can be helpful on occasion like with warding spells so no one Raphael doesn't approve of can enter her manor. So if you were going to be kidnapped you'd have to walk out on your own first, likely trying to get fresh air without your vampire finding out about it and bandits take you. They don't rally know who you are, you were just out walking and looked well off, if they had known they probably wouldn't have taken you. Despite her only having received her title and manor a few years ago to make her darling happy, there's already a lot of people in that area who fear her and know she shouldn't be fucked with. ♡

♡ She won't know until she gets home because the servants in your manor would likely flee knowing you're gone because they are completely screwed. When she does get home and finds you gone though she is able to track you down pretty quick and once she has you back and has killed all bandits in that area she'll probably leave the council as a permanent councilor only advising in letters now because she has to be there to take care of her precious sunflower, she wouldn't know what she would do it you really had just been gone. If she were still alive she'd feel like her heart had stopped entirely. ♡

♡ Bibi usually keeps her darling with her for most occasions. Really there's just not a lot of reasons why you would have to be away from her, you can attend all of her events and no one in court would want to mess with her darling because she's the literal executioner so it's really highly unlikely you would get kidnapped. Most likely if someone were to take you, it would be a prisoner set to die trying to hide with you in a closet so they can use it to try to negotiate freedom but it would be more of a temporary thing and she'd find you quickly then they would be hurt pretty badly for fuckign with her pookie. ♡

♡ She'd know if you were out of her sight pretty quickly and go looking for you thinking you're playing hide and seek or playing a joke on her. She's preparing to laugh at you and make fun of you for not knowing how to tell a joke that's actually funny because she really doesn't like this joke but she finds you pretty quickly because she's very determined to make this joke end now. Most likely would trip and just bump into where the kidnapper took you, finding you by complete accident and then beating the kidnapper to death when she notices their knife which fell out of their hand when she bumped into them. ♡

[dandylion240]

Jonah shuffled his way to his car. The embarrassment he felt over being demoted in the orchestra line up was only slightly less awful knowing once he got his act together he could have his position back. He’d known his performance was sub par but he hadn’t realized it was that bad.

Sitting inside his car he decided he’d put off confirming his suspicions long enough. He drove to a drugstore. His phone rang as he was getting out. “Hey Courtney, how are you?” he smiled into the phone. Courtney had become one of his closest friends. She’d come to him with the idea of entering her dad in a bachelor contest. He’d been all for it hoping it would somehow make amends for him choosing Ethan over him. It hadn’t worked out the way they’d hoped.

“Hey what’s up” her cheery voice brought a smile to is face “are you coming to visit this weekend?”

He stared at the ground as he made up his mind. “Yeah sure. Ethan and I would love to come.”

“Is something wrong” her concern something he could feel even over the phone. “Is Ethan jealous of you and my dad?”

“What? No” he shook his head “of course not.”

“You sure” she pressed.

“Positive.”

“Alright” she hesitated “I’ll let him know you’re coming. He has a new recipe he wants to try.”

“Great” he forced himself to sound cheery “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Hey if you need to talk” she offered “I’m always here for you. I might not have wanted you as a step dad but I hope we’re still friends.”

A faint smile brightened is eyes “I could use a friend.” His voice quivered.

“Jonah what’s wrong” she snapped “I know you’re not right.”

“I’ll tell you later” he sighed wishing he wasn’t such an open book.

“This weekend we’ll talk” she told him firmly. “Then we’ll decide if I’ll be killing someone or not.”

“Okay fine” he sighed staring at his phone. It would be good to talk to someone about his fears, someone who had been there through his darkest moments.

“How’s my boy” he asked standing in the doorway of his son’s room.

“Daddy” Eli’s clear happy voice brought a smile to his face.

Stooping he hugged his son close as soon as he launched himself into is arms. “Did you miss me that much” he asked ruffling his son’s soft blond hair.

“Yes” he nodded his head vigorously “come play.”

“I will in a minute” he hugged him a second time at the disappointment in his son’s green eyes. “I promise.” Standing with a sigh thinking of the package waiting for him on the counter of his bathroom. He’d do just about anything to avoid confirming his suspicions.

He only had about an hour before Ethan got home and Brendan came to get Eli for the night. It was now or never, at least for the evening.

Walking into the bathroom with a feeling of dread he opened the small brown bag. The contents rattled with the shaking of his hands. Setting it down he leaned on the sink breathing deeply. Lifting his head he gazed into the reflection. “Coward” he mumbled grabbing the box and tearing it open.

With fumbling fingers he held the test in his hands. Once again he felt he was standing on the precipice of change.

Pushing his thoughts way he forced his mind on reading the directions. Not too different from the first test he took when Eli was little more than an idea.

Following the directions he leaned on the wall waiting for the results. Closing his eyes he tried to imagine what it’d be like with another baby in the house.

“Daddy” the click of the bathroom door opening brought him to his feet “you promised.”

Looking into his sons earnest eyes he smiled. “I did.” Washing his hands in the sink he asked “what do you want to play?”

“Cars” he giggled “vroom vroom.”

“Why don’t you go pick out a car for me and I’ll be right there,” he suggested.

Eli did a little jig before running from the room. Stopping he turned “you promise?”

“Yes” he nodded “I promise.” Eli clapped his hands giving him a happy smile before leaving the room.

Shaking his head half wondering where his son got all his energy. He glanced at the test results. Positive. It was undeniable. “Pregnant” he mumbled tossing the test in the trash careful to make sure it wasn’t obvious at a glance. He’d throw it away in the kitchen so that Ethan wouldn’t find it before he had the chance to tell him.

Previous/Next

[tallinsomniacs]

okay but i genuinely cannot take people that surf seriously. like your ass is NOT a part of hydra fc 😪

[thechy-fychannel]

y'all ever think abt how it was julie having the affair and it is even said multiple times that she was the one who left him, yet wilson was still the one who left their home and moved in with house. like. he couldn't bear to stay in their home alone. he immediately ran to house and stayed on his couch for weeks. suffered through his pranks and his laziness and his manipulation. telling him he wants him gone while sabotaging his attempts to leave. and he only left once he got a girlfriend again.

[nabaath-areng]

Been impossible to take photos of these nails due to horrible weather lighting, but since it was specifically inspired by Ieeha I needed to figure out a way... thank you closet for having surprisingly decent lighting and dresses for being a surprisingly decent backdrop!!!

[yujeong]

Time was at a standstill. Vegas was holding his breath without noticing, and continued to hold it when he did - he was afraid of what would happen if he exhaled loudly enough to draw attention to himself. His gaze was shifting between Pete and the man who was standing before them in the doorway, blocking their entrance. Vegas had never seen him before, but even so, he recognized Pete in him enough to know who he was. A dangerous aura surrounded him. There was an edge to his presence that Vegas would only come across people of certain circles. He was a fighter. A muay khao. Pete's father. Shame coursed through Vegas' body, smearing his skin, settling in his lungs, rendering him speechless. I thought he was dead, he wanted to tell Pete if he could. He wanted to scream at him, I thought you killed him. Pete was the one who broke the stillness. As if awakened by something, he took a half-step back and made a motion with his arms, almost raising them to his chest, but not quite. In an instant, Pete reverted into the pet Vegas had been keeping at the safehouse, bound by handcuffs and afraid of his belt hitting flesh and drawing blood. A lump formed in Vegas' throat. "Have you stopped practicing? Your form is off." The uncanny similarities between Pete and his father appearance-wise didn't mean a thing when it came to their voices. Vegas shivered. Was this what Pete would sound like in a few decades? (Were these the condescending words he'd choose to spew? Was Pete going to embody his father? Was Vegas embodying his?) "What are you doing here?" Pete whispered. "They let me out for a few days, so I came here to collect some money. Imagine my surprise when I found out my offspring left the job someone found him worthy enough of doing to... do what exactly? Yaai didn't want to tell me." He crossed his arms, waiting for an answer. Vegas didn't know what he was allowed to say. If he was allowed to say anything at all. "It's none of your business." "I'd say it very much is my business, as well as yaai's business who was dependent on the money you were making being some rich asshole's human shield." A choked sound scratched Vegas' throat. He didn't like getting reminded of Pete being the main family's bodyguard, even though he stopped being one mere months ago. Especially like this. That was the first time Pete's father stopped looking at his son and turned his head to look at Vegas. For a moment, there seemed to be recognition in his eyes. Did he know who Vegas was? Did he care? A snort came out of his mouth. He leaned on the door. "Oh, I see how it is." He laughed, scratched his neck. "I never expected you to whore yourself out for money. Tell me, is it preferable to the path I carved out for you?" Vegas could sense the disgust in his voice. He could also see it on Pete's face. He was too astonished to share it, but not enough to be unable to speak. "Khun, there has been some misunderstanding-" "Don't bother. I can recognize a faggot when I see one." Pete's movements were too fast for Vegas to stop him. A direct jab to the nose; his father fell like a pack of cards, groaning like a wounded animal. Surprisingly, no blood - Pete held back. Vegas didn't know what to think about that. "That was a pathetic attack, even for you." "Get up." "We're not in the ring, son." Pete growled. Vegas could see his hands trembling as he was keeping them in the air, maintaining an offensive stance. "That never stopped you before." "You were too young to understand what I was doing back then. What I was preparing you for." Pete was silent. "The world isn't kind. It'll fuck you over one way or another." He got up, spat on the ground. "You still haven't learned a thing. You're too old to afford being naive." He turned around, and without sparing a look at Pete again, said: "Now get the fuck out of my house." (For @musictooth, whose posts about Pete's father have reignited my passion for this specific concept and for @wretchedamaranth, whose comments on my writing are always lovely and precious ❤️)

[sskk-manifesto]

Ep 5!!!

[b-blushes]

So bonkers how my general ability to do tasks has changed since new playlist and tv show. No longer pulled into spending one million hours stuck on The Apps either, I’m doing things. The power of feeling happy and excited…….

​silly. but I’ll take it!!!!!!!!!!