#do you guys like the bones i found on the side of the road

[looking-to-rattle-the-stars]

and if i said Harrow making soup in HTN

(i haven’t actually read that part of the book yet only heard about it)

[happy74827]

Joyride

[Wade Wilson x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Remember kids, always look at the road when driving. It can help you avoid certain blabber mouths 🫶

WC: 2556

Category: Fluff, Annoying!Deadpool, 4th Wall Breaks, Insane Amounts of Profanity {TW: Deadpool (for obvious reasons)}

In honor of watching Deadpool 3 (super good btw), enjoy this random chaotic fic I created with the help of @yoursacredqueenmother. This is super chaotic lmfao

『••✎••』

Shit. Shit. Shit. SHIT.

A millisecond ago, you were driving down a street. In the middle of traffic. At a red light. Now, you were panicking, looking over the front of your car for the flash of red you had just seen. It took a couple of seconds for you to realize that there was blood on your car and on the ground—a lot of blood.

"Oh, shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!"

You quickly hopped out of the car, rushing to the spot you thought the person… or thing would be, but… there was nobody. There was blood on the ground but nobody.

Did you hit a deer, and it just… ran off? No, that can't be right. You definitely saw something red, and it most certainly was not a deer.

You looked around, confused. How the hell does something bleed all over the ground and then disappear without a trace?!

You got back in your car, deciding to drive to the closest police station. Maybe they knew something about this.

So, you decided to abandon the shortcut home and drive to the nearest police station, which happened to be just down the road. But as you were minutes into the drive, you felt the sudden urge to look in your rearview mirror.

And there you found your mysterious red-suited victim in the backseat, holding the biggest knife you have ever seen as his white-covered eyes stared at you from behind the mask.

You never hit the brakes faster in your life. The car made an ugly screeching sound, and the sudden force slammed the red-clad man into the back of your seat, making him let out a surprised yelp.

The car finally came to a stop, and the masked man recovered quickly, pushing himself off of your seat and glaring at you.

"Well, aren’t you just a heart break—"

He didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence.

You grabbed your keys from the ignition and popped off the attached pepper spray, turning around and squirting him in the face. He let out a scream, and you quickly got out of the car, shutting the door and running as fast as you could.

Unfortunately, you didn’t get very far. Despite being hit by a car, and subsequently getting pepper sprayed, the man (or what you assume to be) caught up with you and blocked your path, his hands on his hips, his head cocked to the side.

"Alright, lady, what the fuck?" He asked, his voice sounding nasally, most likely because of the spray.

You stared at him, confused. He looked like he was waiting for an explanation.

"W-What the fuck?! What the fuck me? What the fuck you!" You exclaimed, your voice cracking a little. "What the fuck are you doing in my car?!"

"Well, I was trying to hitch a ride! But clearly, that didn't work out. Thanks a lot, by the way, for the pain and suffering. You’ve really opened up my horizons here."

It almost sounded like he was pouting.

"What the—! A ride?! Why in the hell would you just hop into someone's car?!"

"Uhh, because you ran me over, genius! I mean, come on, the least you could do is offer a guy a ride home after that. And then, the cherry on top of the fucking sundae: pepper spray!"

The masked man, so to speak, threw his arms up in the air, and you could almost see him rolling his eyes underneath the mask. Of course, that’s when you noticed the obvious broken bones in his hands. And the blood. There was a lot of blood.

"Look," the guy started, walking closer to you. "I know, I'm a big scary guy with a big scary knife and a bad temper and all, and you’re just… well, I’m sure you have an amazing personality, but how about we put all that aside, and you give me a ride, alright? Just drop me off at the corner of 10th and 55th, and you can forget this ever happened."

"Your arm… your wrist. It's broken," you told him.

"Yeah, no shit," the man scoffed. "Got any Taylor Swift CDs in that car?"

"Uh… no, not really. Why?"

"Cause, baby, I’m Shaking It Off!"

There was a pregnant pause, and you weren't quite sure if he was being serious or not. I mean, surely he wasn’t about to just ignore the fact that his arm was the complete opposite of norm—

But when he shook his arm in a violent manner, and a loud crack followed suit, you realized, with a heavy heart, that yes, this guy was serious.

What you didn’t know until a few seconds later, however, was that he snapped his bones back into place like it was nothing. It took the flexing in his fingers to realize it, too.

"Holy shit." You truly were in awe.

He seemed to find amusement in your expression, tilting his head slightly and giving you a once-over. And, yes, you could feel his eyes on you, and for some reason, it sent a shiver down your spine.

"So… Wendy Torrance, about that ride? Can you give me a lift, or are we gonna start that chick flick moment where your mental breakdown leads to slow-motion running to a Sia song?"

You could only stare.

"Alright, well, if you're going through with the latter, then at least play something that doesn’t involve that little dancing girl who likes to wear potato sacks as clothes."

You couldn’t believe this was happening.

"You are literally insane." You breathed out, shaking your head.

Even if you couldn’t see it, something told you that he made the biggest grin underneath his mask.

"Why, thank you, darling."

Fast forward a couple of minutes, and you found yourself driving towards the address the red-suited stranger had given you. You couldn’t really make conversation. He had his hands in his lap, playing with a knife, and was staring at you, his head tilted.

"You can blink, you know. I'm not a zombie," he informed you, making a gesture to his mask and eyes, which you assumed he was blinking underneath.

"Right," you nodded.

“Well, mostly, at least. I mean, I still have a pulse, but it's kind of irregular, and I think it's because I keep getting shot and stabbed in the heart. Oh, and I guess I'm also pretty much immortal, so that's probably the reason. But I think the whole not-dying thing cancels out the heartbeat thing, right? Like, the more times you get impaled or decapitated or set on fire, the more it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t affect you anymore, am I right?"

You glanced at him. He was staring at you, his hands still and his knife resting on his leg.

"…Do you ever shut up?"

"Woah-hoho, feisty. And here I thought I was going to break the ice with a good ol' fashioned knock knock joke."

"I don’t think that would've been funny."

"That's what the last girl said."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mhm. Except she wasn’t talking about the joke. I made her laugh in a different way."

You glanced at him again, and he was giving you a knowing look.

"I can't decide if you're disgusting or not."

He hummed, shrugging his shoulders. That made him shut his mouth just long enough for you to turn on the radio but not long enough to avoid the inevitable.

"Hey, hey, I got a good one: Knock knock."

You let out a long sigh, closing your eyes. "Who's there?"

"Orange."

"Orange, who?"

"Orange you glad I'm not a serial killer?"

"That wasn’t even good."

"I know. It would've been better if I could've pulled the knife out of my belt. You know, just for show." He twiddled his fingers at you.

"That wouldn’t have helped," you said.

"Nope," he agreed. "But it would've made a great story."

"I suppose."

"Yeah. Hey, hey, I got another one: Knock knock."

"You just—"

"Knock knock."

You let out a huff. This man was the most childish, annoying, idiotic, strange, weird—

"Knock knock."

"Oh, just fucking tell me the joke!"

"No! It doesn't work that way!"

You rolled your eyes, but before you could answer, he beat you to it.

"Okay, okay, how about this: Knock knock."

You didn't say anything.

"Knock knock."

Your eyes flickered over to him for a second.

"Knock knock."

"For fucks sake!" You exclaimed. "Who's there?"

He leaned forward, closer to you, and you could see his mouth moving.

"Deadpool."

You were confused.

"D-Deadpool? Is this a reference to that shitty horror movie? If so, that wasn't even good, and I'm not laughing, and I don't get the joke."

He just gave you a blank look, or at least you thought he did.

"No. My name's Deadpool."

"That’s…" you trailed off. "A pretty dumb name. Like that outfit you're wearing."

"Hey! Diss the name all you want, but don’t you dare diss the suit. It's my trademark. Not everyone can pull off this type of look; it’s a very rare art."

"Whatever. You still haven't told me the punch line to your dumb joke."

"Punch line? I never said there was a punch line. It was a knock knock joke."

"So then… What was the point? To annoy the driver into wanting to run you over again?"

He chuckled, a low, deep sound that vibrated in his throat. That… That was… oh.

He was still close, and now, with the new angle, you could see the small, yet very visible, curve of his lips, and that made you wonder who was actually hiding behind the mask.

"You are seriously the strangest person I've ever met."

"Oh, babe, you don't even know the half of it."

"Please, enlighten me," you replied sarcastically, glancing over at him.

His masked eyes looked into yours, and you knew he was grinning; you could practically feel it.

"What do you wanna know?" He asked.

"Uh, I don't know. Something other than the fact that you're a nutcase. How about your real name? It's obviously not 'Deadpool,' and I doubt anyone actually calls you that. So, what's your actual name?"

"Oh, wow. Right off the bat, huh? You know, the last girl I was with wasn’t nearly as direct. Then again, she never sprayed me like I was a roach in her kitchen."

You didn’t respond. You kept your eyes on the road.

"Fine," he relented. "But don’t expect a happy ending. This isn’t Kanas anymore, Toto."

He leaned back in his seat, his arm hanging off the open window, the wind blowing through his red suit.

"Names Wade, like the boxers, but without the fancy pants."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Wade Winston Wilson, I love long walks on the beach, and a good movie, and tacos, and chimichangas, and guns. Especially guns. Kinky, but not too kinky… and did I mention the tacos? Cause I love fucking love tacos."

Maybe you should start carrying tape around.

"What about you, sugar lips?" He asked, gesturing to you with the hand he wasn’t leaning against. "Got a name, or can I call you mine? Ooh, I should’ve used that before the pepper spray. 'What's your name, or can I call you mine?' Classic, Wade. Well, except for the fact that I forgot the 'I'd like to hit it from the back' part. Damn, should have used that, too. It's a good thing they gave you the lead. Otherwise, the audience would've been confused. They would've been wondering, 'Why did the writer suddenly change the dialogue to be about sex? Wasn’t this supposed to be that pure Notebook love story we all wanted?'"

He paused for a moment.

"Wait a minute. Are we still doing the monologue thing, or is the writer done? Cause, no offense, but that was a shitty transition. And, come on, no one wants a Notebook love story anymore. Who writes those? What we need is a little romance and a whole lotta smut."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Me? Nothing, just giving some feedback. I've always had an open relationship with writers. Some might even call me the next J.K Rowling. Except, instead of a lighting scar and magic, I have an ass load of weapons with an insatiable lust for violence and blood. And tacos."

You decided to ignore him.

"Anyway, back to you. You never answered my question. Do you have a name or not?"

"I can’t believe I actually agreed to give you a ride home."

"Yeah," he said, sounding bored. "Why did you do that?"

"I don’t know. Because I hit you with my car and felt bad? You had a broken arm and were bleeding out all over the ground."

"First sign of insanity."

"What?"

"Nothing," his mask wiggled around the area of his eyebrows. "So, your name? Don’t tell me you’re gonna pull out the classic yes and no abbreviations. You know what? I’m just gonna call you Spidey. It's easier, and it’ll sound sexier when you're screaming it later."

You rolled your eyes, deciding just to ignore his comments for the rest of the drive. You were wishing that you didn't live in a city full of traffic cause, damn, this was taking a while.

"Alright, turn here."

You followed the directions and pulled up in front of an abandoned-looking building. You didn't say anything, but you did raise an eyebrow in question.

"What? A guy like me has to keep his place secret, especially when the fangirls are after him."

"I didn’t ask."

"Yeah, but I saw you wondering."

"Right."

"Hey, Spidey," he said, unbuckling his seat belt. "Thanks for the ride."

"No problem. Just make sure to keep your ass away from car bumpers. And out of my car."

"Awe, come on, baby cakes, don't be like that. You're really missing out. My ass is the finest in the business. Not to mention my package. You should see the reviews I get online."

You snorted. "I'll take your word for it."

"Yeah, you will," he said, leaning over and patting your cheek. "Hey, if you ever get lonely, or bored, or horny, or whatever, just give me a call. Here," he handed you a crumpled piece of paper. "Don't lose it, that's my number. We should totally bang, like, tomorrow, or tonight, or right now."

"Goodbye, Wade," you said, and he took it as his cue to leave. He gave a silly salute and exited the car, but not without giving you a wink first.

"See you soon, Spidey!"

With that, he walked up to the building and disappeared inside. With a sigh, you collapsed into the seat, not even bothering to watch him. You were exhausted, and all you wanted was to go home and sleep.

After a couple of minutes of relishing the nice breeze that came through the open windows, you sat up and un-crinkled the paper.

The only thing written on it was a phone number, with a small, messy, red heart and a few words that honestly had you questioning the sanity of the world:

'If you're lucky, maybe I'll even let you top. ;)'

——

Spoiler alert: it took about a month for the two of you to hook up.

And no, you did not have Domino’s luck.

[brucewaynehater101]

Hello, I am the person from a few days ago that mentioned House MD. .y idea for it is very simple and very funny. Tim ends up in House's hospital with House as his doctor. He was found unconscious on the side of the road with 3 stab wounds, two broken ribs, and a broken leg.

Tim is Knocked Out and in Civilian Clothes with No Wallet. Which means No ID. They call him John Doe for now and move on to stitching him up and doing an xray of his chest so they can fix up his ribs and check for internal bleeding from the stabs. They are having some kind of debate about how the kid has clearly had his ribs shattered many, many times and how they healed when House suddenly stands up and says, "all of you are missing the forest for the tree. Ignore the ribs for a second before the kid dies." He then leaves the room to the confusion of all the assistants. It takes almost ten seconds for one of them to yell, "WHERES HIS SPLEEN"

Within an hour Tim has been put in one if their Anti Germ Bubbles for the Immuno Compromised. Oh the bright side he 100% has a room all to himself! Tim wakes up in the bubble, very confused with House looming over him. Tim is Baffled and says, "who send you? What info are you after?" And House just says, "im your doctor. What's your name so we can stop calling you John Doe The Spleenless Wonder."

Tim and House verbally joust almost constantly for Tim's entire stay and honestly? Most relaxed he's been in *years*. However it takes *days* for them to pry him name out of him and it's not even *from* him. Someone saw his face on a magazine in the grocery store check out and went "that's out John Doe!!" And when Tim tells them that he is Tim Drake he simply says, "I didn't tell you for a very simple reason. If word got out it was The Tim Drake in your hospital, which is outside Gothem, could you imagine the Paparazzi? And what would happen? I can garentee you at least one person would show up trying to kill me. Why do you think I was outside gothem beat up? Assassins, obviously." House's boss is terrified this guy is gunna sue them into the ground for how House has been jabbing at him constantly.

House simply asks why his bones look like Swiss Cheese and Tim simply raises an eyebrow at him and says, "I live in Gothem."

Later on after Tim gets released, he buys the entire hospital, becomes its new boss, goes to House's boss who actually runs the hospital and says, "I do not care about running this hospital. It's all up to you, I want No Power here. I am simply here to triple your budget, no quadruple it. And you remain completely in power on one condition. I want House to be my Primary Doctor. He's fun."

Oh and if you want some Angst, House asking if Tim wants to call someone to pick him up and Tim says, "oh, I have a tracker on me. Someone will show up to check me out once they notice I'm missing." House squinting at him and says, "you've been here two weeks. So I don't believe you." But Tim is telling the truth. His tracker has said he's been at an out of city hospital for weeks and no one really noticed he was even gone.

Fuck yeah. I've seen some clips of House and, despite the large amounts of medical malpractice they should be sued for, Tim would absolutely enjoy House's banter.

Also, I'd so live for House and Tim trying to trick each other. Tim realizes quickly that House doesn't believe a word about what Tim says about how he got his injuries. House keeps trying to pull one over on Tim so that Tim actually receives medical treatment (especially because Tim keeps going back out on field with injuries). It becomes a somewhat friendly game

Fair warning, I'm probably about to butcher House's character. Idk enough about him, but here's what I think. Tim would prefer House as his main doctor for two reasons:

How House cares

House isn't Batman/Bat affiliated

For the first point, House does care but not in the way most others do. I think Tim will eventually start telling House the truth about how he gets his injuries because of how House reacts. House isn't going to be overly sympathetic, pity Tim, or try to mother hen him. Tim will stroll up, say he's been held without food for a week and has 3 broken bones, and House will just banter with Tim.

If Tim's being an idiot (like not resting), House won't try to tell him off. He won't yell or undermine Tim. He'll just point blank tell Tim he deserves whatever injury he got for being an idiot while helping the vigilante treat it.

Tim will never admit to being a cape, but he eventually trusts House enough not to hide it.

Then there's House not being a Bat doctor. Leslie may or may not inform Bruce of any injuries Tim gets that Leslie deems is important for Bruce to know about. Alfred for sure won't hide that shit. Either way, whether founded or not, Tim can't trust those doctors to give away his information "for his own good."

House probably wouldn't go out of his way to inform Bruce (especially if we add on your angst angle).

Probably fucked up House's characterization, but let me know what ya think! Feel free to send another ask or reblog or whatever with changes ya think I need to add

[psychesalcove]

„ i took a little journey into the unknown, come back changed I can feel it in my bones

𝜗𝜚 luke castellan x gn reader

synopsis ; headcanons for going on a quest with our favorite hermes boy, luke castellan!! (not possessed by kronos au!!)

requested: yes, by anon !!

⚠️: not proofread AT ALL, being on a demigod quest, being injured, stealing cars, luke being a lil mean but then apologizing, mentions of eating, joking an British ppl (if you're sensitive to that sorta stuff ig)

💬: thanks for the request babe!! I hope you enjoy — I added a bit of writing at the end that isn't headcanons bc i felt like it so I hope that's okay!! Love you!

⚚ going on a quest with luke will for sure feel like a fever dream

⚚ he tries to act all tough and shit and then he'll randomly turn to you and be like: "I'm kinda scared just so you know"

⚚ he's such a dork omg 😭😭

⚚ BUT he's also really good at combat, so you don't have to worry as much about monsters getting to you when you're with him

⚚ he would probably hot wire a car so the 2 of you had a way of transportation besides walking

⚚ lukes also probably really good at talking with people and making them give him things (being a child of hermes and such)

⚚ he would also make sure beforehand that you had more than enough ambrosia and nectar,

⚚ "just to be safe" he says knowing dam (see what i did there) well he'll probably be the one getting hurt

⚚ also, if he didn't end up getting you guys a car, and you're on the side of the road, he will follow the sidewalk rule and make sure you're never by the road

⚚ I also feel like he would be really good at telling if people are monsters in disguise if he pays attention to them, so you can have a higher chance to avoid them

⚚ luke also def has moodswings of being extremely serious and making sure you are on track and being completely distracted by everything

⚚ if the two of you do come across a monster, he will not hesitate to kill it as long as your safe

⚚ and, if you do ever get hurt, either from a monster or something else, he'll turn into your parent 100%

⚚ "yknow how stupid that was of you to do? Did you like not think about what could happen to you or what could've happened? Do you just not think about that sort of stuff in your head?"

⚚ yeah my guy can be a bit rude

⚚ but lukes just expressing that he loves you and doesn't want anything to happen to you while you're out there

⚚ he would realize later that he was being a dick and would apologize: "I didn't mean what I said, just so yknow, I care about you. i don't want to see you do stupid things without thinking first."

⚚ if the two of you couldn't find a hotel or somewhere to sleep, he would happily give you his sleeping bag if you show any signs that you're cold -> and he would 100% give you his jacket if he noticed you were cold as well!!

⚚ it would probably just end up with the two of you cuddling though lmao

⚚ he's also probably really good at bandaging injuries because of all the times he's hurt himself while training

⚚ so when you do get hurt, he'll bandage it for you (not as good as a child of apollo, but it's the thought that counts)

⚚ I mentioned this in another post, but I feel like luke would absolutely suck at reading or trying to understand any type of map, so do not rely on him for that

⚚ he'll look at the map for a good 10 minutes and then point in a direction saying that's where you need to go and it's the way you just came

⚚ luke: "love, I think that I found the way to the nearest gas station" and you look and where he's saying and you're like: "hon, you know that way is just thick woods for miles, right?"

⚚ and then he'll roll his eyes and get all sassy that he was wrong about it

⚚ jokingly of course

⚚ let's say you hurt your arm or something like that,

⚚ luke will gladly tie your hair up (if it's long enough) or brush it for you if it makes it easier

⚚ like the gentleman he is

⚚ he would also make sure that you got enough food, and will even give you his food if he notices that you're still hungry

⚚ if you guys were far enough from any cities at night, you two will definitely stargaze

⚚ I feel like luke would secretly be such a nerd about space, so he'll start pointing out different constellations, stars, and planets you guys can see

⚚ he'll also be really smart with the money you guys have,and I feel like him being one of the older campers let's him have that maturity over the other campers

༉‧₊˚.

the dimly lit diner casted a yellow glow across both yours and lukes face as you took your seat at a booth. you and like had been on the quest for around a week now, and so far, nothing extreme had happened.

it was a simple quest after all, just retrieving an item that iris had lost. the quest had taken you to a more unpopulated town surrounded by woods. being in a less populated area had its drawbacks, but it also had good qualities.

monsters would be more common and would be able to find you and luke easier, but less mortals saw you two; which meant less police reports and not being a fugitive–which is something both of you were trying to avoid.

"so what do you think you'll get?" luke asked you, snapping you out of your thoughts. he had already looked through the worn down menu, you figured, looking at how it was neatly placed back down on the table and unopened.

"probably just some waffles and hot chocolate," you said, briefly scanning the menu in your hands seeing what was available. luke nodded. "how about you,?" you asked, putting down the menu.

"a burger and some hot tea," he said. you snorted at his response.

"you gonna start speaking in a english accent when you get that tea?" you said jokingly, smiling lightly when you saw him roll his eyes playfully at your statement.

"oh definitely, going to fully embrace that part of me with some tea," he said, continuing the joke. "but, on another note, how do you think we go about handling where to go next?" he asked, motioning his head twords your bag where the map was held: as luke wasn't trusted with it anymore.

"how about we talk about that when my stomach doesn't feel like it's going shrink and die," you said as a waiter; who was probably in her 80s, headed twords your booth.

𖹭 song from title: meet me in the woods – lord Huron 𖹭

[kiddiewrites]

I'll break every bone in your body while naning them pt.1

A story of an army doctor... and how they learn to take your strength into account.

Ok, im so so so sooooo sorry for not updating, life has been chaos lately but but but i bring to you a tiny story about the time someone tried to fuck around and found out.

Platonic!T.F.141 x reader, Minor Injuries , bit of OOC T.F. 141, pining!reader, Sexual Harassment (they get what they deserve), Not proofread

MASTERLIST

So medic!reader who’s all sunshine and cutey and nice, all soft curves and chubby cheeks and soft giggles but… strong. Like FREAKISHLY strong, there’s a reason your threat to Johnny wasn’t taken lightly by the others, they’ve seen you and they KNOW that you absolutely will do it.

What happened? Well it went like this: 

One of the rare night’s out where you’re allowed a tiny leave you went to the pub with the guys, them being a little reluctant to you being there but at the end won over by puppy eyes and a promised first round. 

We ALL know that civilian clothes do wonders for the boys, not really their usual outfits but …

GOOOOOD 

The black jeans hugging Ghost’s powerful thighs and the deep gray loose hoodie (god knows where he got it cause… THAT’S a BIG MAN)covering almost every inch of skin. His blonde hair covered by a black cap with a few tufts peeking out of it, his face covered by a black surgical mask along with his black combat boots already making him look as his usually sexy scary self. Not that you were looking…

Johnny wore khaki shorts and mountain trainers (why? Idk he looks like a guy who would do it uwu specially if it’s cold af) A loose white t-shirt, though “loose” it’s a mild way to put it… The man is built like a tank (he has massive pillowy strong titties, fight me) so the shirt expands across his well formed chest, letting the fabric drop over his stomach. And don’t even get me started on the way the sleeves FIGHT to stay in one piece, his arms are almost the size of your face, his biceps bulging with every flex aaaand maybe stoooop staring.

Kyle decided on a bit more of a soft approach, dark blue jeans that seemed a bit too tight but not as intense as Ghost’s but still it was a nice view from the back, the light brown sweater he had on concealed a bit of the muscles he had built over the years, Key Word: A bit. The sweater bulged over the muscles of his arms and hugged his toned chest in every perfect way. Along with his freshly groomed mustache and beard… Kyle was a vision; the warm energy he exuded was enough to send your head spinning in the most delicious way.

The captain had a navy blue t-shirt, his strong arms making it seem tighter than intended, although not as tight as Johnny’s, the small pudge of belly hanging beautifully over his dark blue jeans, the dark brown belt and trainer boots tying it all together. His mutton chops recently groomed making him look even hotter than he already is (I swear to GOD Price has me on a chokehold 😍 Such a fine MAN 🤤) 

Walking down the road to the jeep issued for your unit, you missed the glances headed your way from the boys, a cute warm baby pink sweater exposing your neckline and some of your shoulders, the cleavage stopping just right above your chest line, sleeves rolled up a bit to prevent them from getting in the way, tight ripped clear blue jeans paired with pink converse make you look even younger than you were, your (h/c) pulled back a bit just enough to get the hair out of your face by pins with a few strands falling from them. The boys knew that you’re a beautiful girl, seeing you in the more laid back outfit without the military issued uniform had them quickly looking away when you turned to look at them.

You took the middle seat with Kyle and Johnny by your sides, Simon climbed in at the copilot seat and the captain was driving. The drive to the pub was calm with a small talk with Kyle about the type of music you both enjoyed, Johnny joined in the conversation every now and then , Price smiled a bit at the sight of you getting along better with the team and even felt his grip on the wheel loosen a bit but he knew it was only temporary. Simon tried really hard to maintain his eyes on the road but his eyes couldn’t help but to deviate to the rear view mirror where he had a perfect view of your jean clad legs, the fat of your thighs relaxing against the hard seat of the jeep making it really hard for him to tear his eyes away.

However Simon was not the only one to notice the soft edges of your body moving and jiggling with the movement of the truck

Johnny had his arm placed around your headrest and everytime he turned to join the conversation he felt his side squishing you and it felt so good, the urge to just hug you by the waist and bury his head in your pretty tummy was…  Intense

He was known to be some sort of a flirt and had a very friendly way with people, but lately he was being a bit short with you. You attributed it to the stress of the missions so when the opportunity came to take some sort of leave you took the chance, much to the starting annoyance of the team. They still treated you kindly but it was kind of disheartening.

When you arrived at the pub Kyle helped you down the van and offered his arm for you to take - Such a gentleman, Sarge.- You smiled up at him and took his arm into yours,  your other hand resting over it. Your chest pressing against his arm was so soft and so warm, he felt himself blush as he smiled back at you.

Once inside it seemed like they had a designated table, the bartender smiled up at them and wave them at a tabla at the back -I’ll be right there boys!- a cute smile adorning his features he seemed well acquainted with them

John thanked him and led the way to the table with Simon and Johnny following behind both you and Kyle announced you were going for the drinks. The guys shouted back at you what they wanted and you headed up to the bar.

As you were walking a sudden slap at your booty had you wiping your head so fast Kyle thought you might snap your neck. It was all so sudden so you didn’t had the chance to pinpoint who the bastard was, but Kyle did.

An older man with obviously a lot to drink laughed loudly at your face along with his friends, Kyle immediately went up to grab him but the friends of the other men had you surrounded in a matter of moments.

-What’s tha matta, soldier boy? Yer net gonna tell me that fat ass wasn made to be slap’d aroun’ aren’t ya?-

If the look full of fury didn’t kill the man the right hook to the chin must definitely brought him to the edge of it. Thanks to the booze the friends of the drunk man had little time to react before they realized it wasn’t the man that threw the first punch…

It was you…

The strength of your punch was enough for the man to just fall to the ground with a Thump and gave enough time for the rest of your squad to get to where you were at.

The way you looked at the man had him scared enough to try and run away. Emphasis on "Try"

Simon grabbed the man by his collar and picked him up, you couldn’t really make out what he was saying, given that one of the drunk friends tried to lounge at you.

To their utter surprise they saw you fling that man over your head and into the ground nearly hitting his head against the edge of the table

- By all means, keep doing something stupid. Im begging you to give me the excuse -...

Tag List: @blackhawkfanatic @beebeechaos @d3vils-adv0c8 @azkza @asherwesley @praying-for-the-sun @woodlandgirl22-blog-blog @darling006 @aldis-nuts @theyarereal @thriving-n-jiving @talia-the-gemini @lilynotdilly @neonboy0 @sh4rksandst4rs Please remember to activate your tagging settings :D

[selarina]

This is Part 2 because you guys asked

This florist guy is a peculiar lanky character, who later revealed himself as Gojo Satoru, who is apparently the son of a rich guy, the grandson a rich guy. He descended from a whole lineage of rich men and women, and so, it seemed particularly odd that this scion of affluence was was cooped up in a barely running florist shop.

So, you didn’t end up texting the guy after he cheekily slipped his number on the card but you did get rather… intrigued?

There’s something so strange and unreal about him. Apart from the oddity, the lankiness, the outright boldness that could only be a result of a privileged upbringing, he’s also interested in you — and boldly so. It’s never truly happened to you before, even your current boyfriend took about 6 whole months of weighing out the pros and cons before asking you out. It feels nice, you do suppose.

You’re lounging on your bed, the red roses from the shop lying beside you on your bed table almost dead from the rejection of the apology you gave. And honestly, you thought not to put waste to such pretty flower. You intended to put it into a vase or an empty bottle but you never ended up doing it. It’s funny how you’ve managed to neglect them over the past few days. It seems like a cruelly fitting metaphor of your relationship.

you: remember that florist guy

yue: sighh

yue: yeah you haven’t shut up about him all week if you haven’t noticed

you: shut up i only mentioned him like twice

you: anyway

you: i’m pretty sure he told me he wished my boyfriend died

yue: WHAT

yue: he’s just like me fr <3

You sighed. He is just like her. She’s never liked your boyfriend and saw right through him to be the facade of a temporary high school relationship based on nothing but superficial optics that would hurt at least one of you on the way.

But now, at the very least, she felt safe knowing it won’t be you, regardless of how cruel and selfish that may be. She always prioritised only the people around her. It’s something you admire about her, you wish you could care about the people around you as much as she did.

You mulled over the prospect of texting the florist, Gojo Satoru. For starters, he’s clearly interested in you, and you’re clearly in an odd limbo of a relationship and the ethics of that are well… pretty grey. And also, he came off strong, bold and you’re just meh. The first taste of your bitter sweetness and he’ll run.

A week passes, the withering roses sit comfortably at the bottom of your trash bin, amid ruffled paper, tissues and other junk alike. You stil find yourself thinking about Gojo Satoru, pondering whether you should send him a message.

If he's going to run away, you reasoned, you don't see the harm. Well, you do see the harm for your current relationship but again, he's going to run. So, it doesn't truly matter. So, you text him.

---

A week elapsed, and you received no text back, it started to eat you alive just a bit. The single checkmark next to your message mocked you every time you opened the chat. Did he give you a dead phone number? Was he just being nice?

It's all too odd, and the memory of you meeting the guy starts to feel like something you made up. You try not to dwell on it much, focusing on school, chores, sports, friends. Yet, after exhausting these distractions, you found yourself lying in bed, bones growing drowsy, thinking and dreaming about the man.

So, several days later, you do something slightly insane. Some might argue it was the most sane course of action, namely... Yue. But who cares? You're the only one here to judge.

You really, truly do not have interest in him but you do find yourself slowly taking the long route back home, walking past the flower shop every chance you get this week. But you always made sure to maintain a distance, choosing to walk on the other side of road, because like you said before — you aren't interested, just curious really.

And it would truly insane if this meant anything because he's just some guy you met while buying roses for your boyfriend.

You start to notice the little things about the shop itself — how it seems perpetually quiet, how the flowers displayed outside changing is the only sign of it being active, and then you eventually manage to catch a glimpse of Satoru inside, tending to the blooms like he's a practiced still from a movie.

You started to wonder if he was purposefully ignoring you. His quaint and unpopular shop always seemed devoid of customers. What did he do with all his time? From all the times you have crossed past the shop, not a single one of these instances has had any customers in them.

And one day, you decide to finally go back into the shop. No excuses prepared, you decide to make it all up as you go.

"Thought you'd never come in," he greeted you with a grin, leaning casually against the counter as if posing for a photograph.

You turned to scan every corner of the shop, checking to see if anyone else was present, reluctant to divulge your teenage romantic conundrum to an audience.

But to your relief, the shop was empty, save for the two of you.

You turned back to Satoru, noticing how his signature black sunglasses lay perched on the bridge of his nose. That's another one of those unusual things you've noticed about him, how he's always wearing his glasses.

One day you got late at school, having stayed back to hang some posters, so when you walked back you noticed the man still donning his glasses, even though the night had already set itself in the sky. You didn't understand why he would wear them. Perhaps, he has an eye condition.

"So, you didn't reply to my text," you say, striving for a casual tone as you pocketed your hands and approached the counter. You try to ignore the implications of him knowing you were walking past here all week.

He doesn't say anything, tilting his head, before he startles you by taking off into the backroom.

You wait there, confused, staring at the silent flowers beside you, as you wait and you wait.

He reemerged with a bag, rummaging through it for something? His phone, maybe?

Yes, his phone. "Right! Sorry! Sorry, I had my phone off," he explained, his eyes focused on his loading phone.

"You have one... right here," you remarked, removing your hand from your pocket and pointing at another phone resting on the counter.

He chuckles, "Huh, yeah. I do have another phone, but that's more for business stuff. My personal phone is the one you texted," he clarified, nodding toward the device in his hands.

"I see," you replied plainly, slipping your hand back into your pocket.

"I'm sorry for not responding. How about I make it up to you over some Mochi?" he grins. "Today? Right now?"

"Whoa, hold on. I didn't agree to go on a date with you. Remember, I have a boyfriend," you reminded him.

"Right," he grits with restrained chuckle. "Well, I didn't ask you out on a date. Just Mochi."

You can't help but raise an eyebrow at his response, amused by his persistence.

"Just Mochi, huh? Are you always this forward with all your customers?" you tease, finding yourself intrigued by him and all his boldness and audacity.

"Well, you're not really a customer today. Unless, you want to buy me flowers before our date?" he grins, abandoning his apron, as he comes from behind the counter.

"Hey! I said this wasn't a date," you find yourself yelling back at him, leaving only a slew of chortles as a response from him.

[pricegouge]

Fatted Rabbit, Part Thirteen on AO3

Content

Bearshifter!Price x reader | explicit

"No bones, either. Like a man stripped naked, then got absolutely atomized not ten feet away. Poor bastard, huh? Weirdest part was the way the tracks died. They shouldn't've, you know? Too muddy. So I poked around some more. Found the guy's wallet. Wanna take another guess whose it was?" There's a pit in your stomach but you're not sure why. You know who he's gonna say; know John didn't get eaten by a bear. But you don't know what he's getting at, what he thinks he saw. Distantly, you remember how he talks to himself when he thinks you can't hear. "Was it John's?" Finger gun, pointer finger flush against your temple. "Bingo."

A/N Well I did it. Someone gets eaten this chapter so sayonara if that's not for you. I don't think it's gratuitous, but also I'm a gore hound and my standards aren't normal so proceed with caution if you must. As a heads up, this is the beginning of the end, folks. I think there'll only be two, maybe three chapters after this :(

Simon's resolve finally breaks when John takes a winding corner in the foothills of the bighorns too quick and they nearly roll over the guardrail. His grip on the holy shit handle, white knuckled and muscle bunching as it had been for hours, yanks down hard enough to break it and even he can't play that off casually, although he's sorely tempted to try when he realizes Price is too focused on the road to have noticed. Simon sighs and throws the handle out the window before telling Price to pull over. He's ignored, so he snaps his fingers obnoxiously in John's face and nearly gets them bit off in the process.

"Fuck off, Riley," John growls, shoving the other man's hand away, but Simon persists, shoving right back.

"Pull over now , Price."

"Nearly there," John mutters, accelerator never wavering.

"Roight, but the plan is to get there, yeah?"

John risks taking his eyes off the road for exactly two seconds in order to glare at his passenger. Simon, of course, glares right back, hopefully managing to make it look apathetic despite the fact he'd recently torn a piece of Price's car off. 

"Pull over, cap. I'll drive."

"And what'll I do?"

"Not kill us for a start," Simon grumbles and John snarls but complies anyway. It's a quick exchange, and soon Price is simmering in the passenger seat while Simon tears through the countryside at a slightly less lethal pace. It's bad for him, probably; leaves his mind free to wander and envision worse and worse scenarios. Simon hopes it fuels the fire, leaves the general din of anxiety in his gut roiling. He's been beside himself since he'd heard Graves come through that door, sitting up stiff as a board as he yelled through his earpiece for the bird to wake up. It's not good, but it's useful. Himself, he remains as quiet as ever, content to let John simmer, and by the time they make it to the motel where the bird's phone last pinged from, he's damn near frothing at the bit.

Simon pulls up alongside the Wrangler and John is jumping out before the Suburban is even fully parked. The driver's side door hangs slightly open, battery evidently dead after keeping the dome light on half the night. Simon studies the ground around it while John inspects the car thoroughly. He finds a set of keys not far off, crouches to get them and pops back up in the passenger window, watches as his longtime friend sniffs the driver's seat like a bloodhound. He briefly wonders how well a joke would go over right then, thinks better of it when John snarls something at him that sounds maybe a little like 'What?'

Simon just shakes his head minutely, weighing options he knows Price is too wound up to consider. If the Jeep is left here, someone will eventually come to tow it. And then someone will need to be billed, and cops will get involved. But John's found blood on the door, and Simon very much doubts they'll want cops sniffing around by the end of this.

"Jump it," Simon instructs, dangling the keys at John. I'm gonna go see what the clerk knows."

"I'll come with -."

"You won't. You're too distracted, and I'm scarier. Jump it." He lobs the keys over the roof of the Jeep and Price grumbles but complies, returns to stewing.

The reception area is dim, mildewy, the carpet so thin and threadbare the concrete dust of the subflooring puffs around each of Simon's quiet, careful bootfalls. There's no one at the desk so Simon takes it upon himself to slide behind it and knock the mouse of the computer just to see if it's locked. It is, of course, because nothing can go right anymore, so he thumps the help bell hard enough to break it and sits to await the clerk, for all appearances just as patient as ever.

Simon can hear the clerk muttering to himself about customers as he rounds the door of the office in the back, voice thin and high. He half expects Anthony Perkins, gets frumpy old James Stewart with a hell of a black eye instead. The man stops dead when he spots Simon, takes a half a step back before thinking better of it and trying to square his shoulders up. "You're not s'pposed to be back here," he gripes, thick American accent adding to the vague washed up aura of him.

Simon ignores him. "Where'd you tha' shiner?"

The man falters a bit, squeezes an old-looking ice pack in his fist absently. They both track the movement, and when Simon looks up again, the man - Les, by his nametag - has a grim, resigned look about him. "What d'you want?"

"Wanna know who you lost a fight against, first. Then I wanna see some security footage."

"I can't disclose that to anyone but -."

"No, but you will."

"And why would I do that, now?"

"We'll get there," Simon grumbles, leaning forward in the seat until it creaks ominously under his weight. "Who gave you the beat down, Les?"

The man sighs, gives up pretending he's not in pain and plasters the ice pack back to his face. "Didn't give a name."

"I'd imagine not, but you can do better than that."

"I don't know, man, Jesus. Blond fella. Sharp nose."

Simon leaves a beat of silence where another person would hum contemplatively. "And what did you give 'im?"

Under all the swelling, Les pales. "Nothin'."

It's hard giving a man an unimpressed glare, when you make it a point to look unimpressed every moment of your life. Still, Simon must manage it because the clerk visibly wilts, shuffles. "You a cop?"

Simon nearly laughs. "Do I look like a cop?"

"He wanted a key," Les sighs, "to a tenant's room. I swear I didn't give it to him, just her room number. Figured he'd make a hell of a commotion trying to get in and she'd have time to scram, or call for for help or somethin'. But then he hopped the desk and nabbed it. Shoulda seen that comin'," Les huffs, no humor. "I'm sorry if she's your girl, I just didn't know how to stop him."

"And you didn't think to call the authorities when you 'eard 'im peeling out and saw the Wrangler was left ajar?"

"Didn't notice -." He cuts himself off when Simon raises his eyebrows sharply. "We don't… like cops comin' 'round here, 'specially at night. Figured I'd wait 'til she missed check out and call then."

"Gave 'im a hell of a head start," Simon observes, patience growing thin.

Les shrugs dejectedly. "I panicked, man. Had shit goin' on here last night. It was either she goes missin' or a whole mess of people wind up in jail."

Simon lets him flounder a moment, stands to his full height and watches the effect it has on the clerk. "'ere's what we're gonna do. You're gonna show me that security footage like I asked -" Les attempts to interrupt but Simon carries on right over him, "- because if you don't, I will beat you within an inch of your life, call the authorities and tell them all about what you did - or didn't do -, and I'm gonna get to see the footage anyway when I tell them about my friend. And when they ask about your state, I'm going to blame it on that sharp-nosed fucker, yeah?"

Another nervous squeeze of the ice pack. Les looks around for help, finds none. "And if I let you see it, this all goes away?"

"We'll even take the Wrangler."

Les nods. "Hang on. Gotta find the password, should be in the boss's office." He turns and ducks through the door, closely followed by Simon who does not want to lose him out a back window or something.

"You're not the owner?"

"Night manager," Les grumbles, shuffling through a spiral bound notebook so old and thumbed through, the binding resembles an abused slinky. He briefly compares himself to this sorry old man, wondering if that'll be him some day, second in command of a rapidly sinking ship and makes a note to check on Price's finances. Nothing wrong with being thorough.

"Should be it," Les mutters to himself,  moving past Simon into the lobby again.

Simon watches Price through the bay window while the old man works, grumbling to himself all the while about technology he can barely understand. It takes him a bit, but Simon doesn't mind - just keeps watching as his mate grows more and more irritable. It's a gamble, probably, but Price has always had a short, effective fuse. All he needs to do is find a direction to aim the man and soon they'll all be home in time for dinner.

If Price is still hungry, that is.

He texts Gaz to make sure the man can help him if he gets a plate number, frowns at the emojis he receives in response. A thumbs up and a saluting serious face. Probably an affirmative.

"Here it is," Les finally announces, and turns the screen toward Simon. Must not want the big man coming back behind the desk again, smart lad. He does it anyway, just to be an arse.

"Is that a bloody Escalade?" Simon prides himself on keeping most emotions out of his tone, but he can't help the sneer of disgust the gaudy SUV incites.

Wes nods sympathetically. "A champagne one too, looks like."

"Christ," Simon mutters, watching as Graves drags a concerningly limp bird into the back seat. "Get me a decent shot of the tags." Wes does, eager to please now that he knows his intrusive guest will be clearing out soon. Simon copies the number over to Gaz and asks for a print out of the shot for good measure. He claps his hand on Wes's shoulder when the man produces, squeezes threateningly to gain his attention.

"Wes, you wanna hear my favorite Norman Bates joke?"

"Uh, s-sure," the man agrees, hackles raised.

"It goes like this: if I ever find out you stood idly by while another girl gets abducted, I'll come back here and taxidermy you, yeah?"

"Y-yes, sir." He has the decency to sound shamed, at least.

"Roight. That wasn't very funny, was it?" Simon hums as if in thought, pats Wes on the back too hard again as he straightens out and walks back around the desk. "Tell you what, I ever come back, I'll take another stab at it." Wes doesn't laugh, the tasteless git. Simon nods at him in paying and shuts the door unsettlingly quietly behind himself.

He's halfway across the parking lot when Gaz calls him. 

"You sure that's the right car?" The younger man greets him when Simon answers.

"Quite sure. Saw Graves pull the girl in and everything."

"Strange. It's registered to a Hershel Von Shepherd… the third."

"Two wasn't enough?"

"Apparently not. This guy's like, the real deal, bruv."

Approaching Price now, Simon puts Garrick on speaker. "What d'you mean?"

"Some high ranking general, looks like."

Simon and Price exchange a look. "She said she thought Graves knew someone high up there," Price supplies, and Gaz takes a minute to think it over.

"That shell company we found Graves works for… how likely is it looking that's some paramilitary thing?"

Simon chews that for only a second. "Very."

"Should we -?"

"'M'not worried about it." 

There's very little room for argument in Price's voice, but Gaz tries anyway. "I am. What's the plan when you pull up on a compound, eh? You lot got some Rambo shit going on I don't know about?"

"Are we headed for a compound?" Simon interjects before Price can get too heated. Best to steer clear of discussing the plan, considering the best he thinks they've got is 'sic a werebear or whatever on him and hope for the best,' and he's quite certain Price doesn't want Gaz knowing about that.

Kyle huffs. "No," he allows after a moment. "Shepherd's got a cabin down near Denver, looks like. If Graves is looking to return his buddy's car, my bets on that."

"Send the address," Price barks, already climbing up into the Wrangler. He forgot to slide the seat back first, looks bloody ridiculous, all spitting mad and folded like a paperclip.

"Cap," Garrick hedges, but Price isn't listening so Simon assures Gaz he'll talk to the boss before signing off. "Don't get yourselves killed," Gaz mutters, but hangs up all the same. 

"We need to talk," Simon announces, Captain Morgan-ing his boot into the door jamb so Price can't close it after figuring out the seat.

"Christ, Simon, I am sitting on blood splatter, now really isn't the time," Price seethes, but Simon doesn't so much as flinch.

"Think it's the perfect time, cap. Gotta have a plan." Price rolls his eyes because he's a petulant child, starts the Jeep and shoves at Simon's leg. He's mildly surprised when the old man succeeds in dislodging him but he covers it fine, steps into the way of the door. "Graves knows about you," he announces and finally, Price stills.

"Knows what?" The man growls, and Simon just keeps staring up at him blankly.

Price takes a moment to eye him over, assessing. "And what is it you think you know, Riley?" 

"Know your current plan amounts to 'go all berserker and eat 'im up in one big gulp,' but I'm telling you, if this whole paramilitary shit is true, 'e's gonna 'ave lot worse than some backwoods hunting rifle waiting for you."

There's a tic in Price's jaw as he tries to decide how much of his hand he's willing to show. Simon remains unflinching, letting the other man see exactly how unaffected he is by the truth. He's known for years anyway, plenty of time to grow used to it.

"'e thinks we're both…" Simon waves his hand demonstratively, "furries -."

"- Shifters," Price corrects, long suffering.

"Whatever. Us and Johnny. 'e's an idiot, 'course, but 'e's expecting three bears to show up, if anyone -."

"But he's not expecting anyone. That's what the mace was for." Simon raises an eyebrow in question, and John huffs in frustration. "Can't smell her. I could've tracked her by scent alone if that fucker hadn't sprayed me. I can only assume that's why he wasted time with me before going after her. Thinks he's safe."

"Still leaves me and Johnny."

"Then bluff, Simon. Pretend you got a hell of a trick up your sleeve if you have to."

Simon nods, backs up half a step but holds the door open as another thought occurs. "How'd he know to do that? Get you where it hurts?"

"Because he knows even one singular factoid about bears, I assume?"

"You don't think it's odd how quickly he accepted your fur -."

"-Shifter abilities?" Price eyes Simon over, mustache like to crawl off his face, he's so irritated by this point. "Think it's odd how quick you accepted it."

People usually shrug here, but Simon schools himself into stillness. "Unflappable, me."

"'Course. We're not done talking about this, but I haven't eaten properly since everything started tasting like mucous, and I got big dinner plans." Price plants his boot on Simon's hip and pushes him away, slams the door behind him.

"And what am I supposed to do?" Simon calls through the window glass. There's a speck of blood by the side view mirror which he tries not to think too much about.

"Well, you brought your backwoods hunting rifle, right?"

***

The cabin is nice. Suspiciously nice. Like, 'Has the man you've been committed to for the last several years been secretly married to some successful plastic surgeon this whole time?' kind of nice. But the few pictures that adorn the mantle feature an older, sterner man and his younger, conservative looking wife. No kids from what you can tell, corroborated by the lack of warmth within the walls. It's decorated well enough alright, but in that sterile kind of design you think Joanna Gaines should be brought to the Hague for. You fashion yourself a crutch from a dining chair. It's bulky and awkward, and Phil yells at you whenever you use it while he's inside, but it allows you to take stock of your surroundings, puzzle out places you can hide if need be, or items that could make a decent makeshift weapon. Unfortunately, 'rustic minimalism' leaves you with few options. Less still for a good splint. After close inspection, you'd been relieved to find the break was above your ankle, and probably only restricted to your tibia. You'd found a clothes drying rack the first night at the cabin, broke it apart while Phil slept and used the rods to brace your leg, fashioning it all in place with corded saran wrap. It wasn't great; the plastic itched where it met your skin and it slipped down your leg if you moved too much, but it was better than nothing so you made do despite Phil's mocking laughter when saw it.

Phil's ear oozes blood and pus, marks up all the starched dish towels. He doesn't eat anymore. Well, he might, but you've yet to see it. You'd drifted in and out of wakefulness on the trip down to the cabin and it was easy to assume you'd missed it, or maybe that he'd been running so full tilt that he hadn't stopped at all. It had left you starving, but it wasn't like you were about to ask him to make a special stop for you. It doesn't get better when he stops running. He goes outside a lot, says he's sick of looking at you. Through the window you can see him talking animatedly on a phone he keeps hidden on his person at all times. When he pockets it, the hem of his shirt rides up enough you can see the pistol he keeps in his waistband. You sneak uncooked pasta from the pantry while he's distracted, stay out of his way when he's not. 

He hasn't been terrible, all things considered. He likes to grab his gun through his shirt threateningly, but hasn't pulled it on you yet. You keep your head down, watch him in your periphery. He cleans his ear obsessively, mutters about old werewolf movies when he thinks you're not listening. You worry about this new Phil, this man who seems to be courting madness, and sprinkle powdered bleach on the clean rags when he's not looking, listen to him groan in pain every time he goes to clean his ear. 

The second night in the cabin finds you laid out on the bed next to him, over the blankets. The threat of him makes you physically ill, but he doesn't touch you, just stares at you malevolently in the wan light that filters in through the rough woven curtains. His ear is a pool of tar in the darkness, oily and slick. It stinks, compiling with the lingering nausea of your head wound and the general sickness his presence brings you to have you turning your nose into the pillow. It smells like straight Borax because the lady of the house probably thinks modern cleaning agents will turn her ovaries queer or something, but you breathe deep anyway, which prompts a cruel laugh from Phil.

"Don't like it, darlin'? Me neither. Got your man to thank for that, you know." It's his fighting voice - the one that warns you there is no response that could appease him. You're so tired. 

"Said he bit it off," you chomp illustratively, huff as if it's funny. You hang your finger over his wound suggestively, but your muscles are lax to show him you're no threat. " Holey field indeed."

He snarls, slaps your hand away anyway. "Think it's funny, do you?"

"A little," you admit, brace yourself for a strike that doesn't come. When you can meet his eyes again, Phil looks almost impressed. "What are we doing here, Phil?"

"Hiding out for a bit. Don't know how much you told your man."

"Why?"

"Rather not get mauled in the -."

"No, why are we here? You hate me, Phil. Why not just move on?"

Phil sighs, heavily, plants his open palm on your cheek a little too aggressively and shakes you by your jaw. "So soft, darlin'. So pretty. Simple." He flicks your temple and you flinch, head throbbing, drawing another cruel laugh. When he speaks again, his voice is low and flat. Dark. "I don't share my toys."

You try to drop it, turn back to his ear. "You still got glass in there." He doesn't, it's the bleach drying his flesh out so bad it's turning the cartilage brittle, but he can't see it properly to call you a liar so you'll take your bargaining chips where you can get them. "I'll debride it for you if you get me a splint."

He scoffs. "Glass… ain't worried about the glass, despite your best efforts."

"Human mouths are gross," you agree. "We could both go -."

"Ain't worried about the human part, neither." He sits up with an irritated sound and you keep your lips zipped, the strange stalemate you'd found yourselves in bleeding away and taking your gall with it. "That man of your's… sure know how to pick 'em, don't ya?"

You might tell him he'd left John with little choice, but you know better. Phil continues, "That bear you were friendly with. Never struck you as odd?"

It's hard to speak past the knot that builds in your throat when you realize just how closely Phil must have followed you. You don't remember seeing an Escalade around, which means he followed on foot in some places, skulked through underbrush. It's a miracle (a curse) he himself never got a bit 'friendly' with the animal. You shake your head.

"Not very bright, you. Thought about calling that thing in a few times. It's a damn freak, you know? Huge, too. Woulda made a damn fine trophy. I traced its tracks one time out of curiosity. Wanted to see where something like that kept itself hidden. You know what I found?" At your continued silence, Phil prompts you to guess. "I could give you all fuckin' night and you'd never get it, but I wanna hear you try anyway."

Well, ain't that just like him? You sigh. "I don't know, Phil. Bear shit?"

"Cute. But bears shit in the woods. Got a whole thing about it. Your buddy bear, though, he came from out by the town - manifested in a birch grove far as I could tell. Found a pile of clothes there, blood splatter a few yards off. Thought that was strange."

You do too, unable to keep the confused scowl from your face. What the fuck is he on about?

"No bones, either. Like a man stripped naked, then got absolutely atomized not ten feet away. Poor bastard, huh? Weirdest part was the way the tracks died. They shouldn't've, you know? Too muddy. So I poked around some more. Found the guy's wallet. Wanna take another guess whose it was?"

There's a pit in your stomach but you're not sure why. You know who he's gonna say; know John didn't get eaten by a bear. But you don't know what he's getting at, what he thinks he saw. Distantly, you remember how he talks to himself when he thinks you can't hear. "Was it John's?"

Finger gun, pointer finger flush against your temple. "Bingo. I thought, 'what luck!' Bastard went and took care of himself. Stood there debating whether or not I should call it in, but must've waited too long. Damn bear came back. Remembered they sometimes bury fresh kills so I sat around and watched cause nothing would've pleased me more'n to see your man all tore up. Even started filming for posterity's sake. Didn't quite get that, though," he chuckles darkly. "You wanna see something? Wasn't gonna show you cause I know how you are about gorey movies -," if he was withholding information, it wasn't to spare you. He was probably just trying to keep the upper hand. "- but I can tell already you won't believe me if I don't, so maybe this is best."

Phil digs into his pocket, procures his phone. You sit in apprehensive silence as he flips through it. "Hold my hand if you get scared, darlin'," he drawls, turning the screen towards you and pressing play. 

There's no denying it's your bear, at least. Tall and broad as a shed, strange shaggy quality of his collar that makes him look bearded. He lumbers into frame with his head lowered, snuffles around the pile of clothes Phil had mentioned. His ears pin back at whatever he finds and peers around for a bit, nose held high. But whatever he finds can't be too concerning because he settles back after a moment, shakes his great hairy body. And keeps shaking. 

It sloughs off him in one great pelt, leaving spare few patches to dot the sinewy, thin-skinned freak which stands on its hind legs and stumbles away from its own flesh. You watch in horror as it groans in pain, oddly jointed arms reaching blindly to keep tree limbs from scraping its tender flesh. It looks like raw chicken until it doesn't, flesh bubbling as if being cooked, growing darker and tougher as it reshapes itself. It pants in exhaustion when it finally stops, familiar weathered hand stroking down a broad, inviting chest as if to take inventory of itself.

John pats his hips in satisfaction, points at his discarded clothes as if he'd lost track of them for a second. He dresses himself efficiently and does one more pat down to be sure he hasn't forgotten anything and then walks off, calm as can be. 

You can feel Phil's eyes on you, but it's hard to school your expression into anything other than abject terror. He's smiling when he pulls the phone away from you, your reaction all he needed to know you hadn't been bluffing, that you honestly had no idea what John was capable of.

"Just when you think you know a guy, huh?"

***

Phil brings you outside with him after coffee. You try to demure, hoping to snag some more dry pasta, but he says the sun will do your head some good. You doubt it, even just the threat of it peaking through the tops of the pines enough to lance pain down your optic nerve, but it's not like you can very well fight him on it, so you let him guide you onto the porch and watch while he goes about setting up wood to chop. You wonder if it's a threat tactic and stifle a laugh when his diminished arms struggle with the maul after only a few logs. You tune out after that, unwilling to be caught so much as grinning at his expense, and think about your conversation the night before.

It makes sense, is the biggest problem you're having with the whole thing. 

You' laid awake all night thinking through every interaction you'd ever had with either John or the bear - with him , you suppose, in both cases. It's shocking to say the least, but in a strange way, you're almost relieved. All the fears he'd been keeping tabs on you, all the convenient excuses you'd had to craft to explain them away; all your worries, tied away with one extremely unlikely ribbon. You'd still need to have a talk with him about using his other form to keep tabs on people if you ever got a chance to speak to him again, but somehow it's less malicious this way. It's not his fault you'd decided to use a wild animal as a therapist, after all.

Mostly you're mad he didn't tell you, though you can't really fault him for playing that close to the chest. More than that, you're mad at Phil for taking it upon himself to spread the information around. You watch him as he works, eyeing his ear suspiciously. He'd told you before turning in that he was worried he'd wind up like John. You were worried too. John made for a sweet bear, if a little intimidating. Something tells you Phil would not have the same temperament. 

"Had a dream you were a fox," you call to him after the silence grows too long.

Phil frowns up at you. "A fox?"

"Yeah. Right before you… revealed yourself, back at the motel. Was dreaming about the bear trying to wake me up. And then it was a fox. Looked kinda like you. And then it was you."

He chuckles, hefts the maul a little closer to himself. "A fox, huh? That how it works, you think? What's that make you, big boy? Damn mountain lion?"

You frown in confusion, follow his line of sight off to your right. "Simon!" you gasp, leaping to your feet. You forgot about your leg in your excitement, however, and stumble down the porch steps with a yelp.

"Careful, darlin'. Gonna get yourself hurt," Phil laughs, siddling closer to you. He yanks you to your feet and places you between himself and Simon. It takes you a moment to understand why, eyes taking in the rifle he's got aimed at Phil belatedly.

Simon is silent as he stalks out from behind the cabin, heavy boots never so much as snapping a twig. You wonder how Phil even noticed him, and then wonder if he let himself be noticed. "Olright, pet?" he calls softly, and you nod, eyes scanning the treeline.

Phil brings the business end of the maul to your throat. It's not terribly sharp, but it wouldn't take too much effort to throw you across the steps and split your head open and the threat is clear. You swallow your panic and hang on to his forearm for support. 

"Where're your buddies?" Phil's voice is high with nervous tension. You think your's would be the same if asked to speak.

"'Round," Simon drawls, kicks a rock over when Phil's anxious circling nearly turns you both around.

It works. Phil twists back toward the sound and Simon carries on, nonchalant, making more noise. Your breath comes rapidly, in through your nose, out through your mouth. You think you can smell something musky on the breeze, and your grip slides down your captor's arms, toward his hands.

"Hold still," Phil warns, and Simon draws to a halt. A soft shuffling noise continues despite his stillness and Phil spins to meet it. Your bad leg takes most of your weight and you stumble to the ground. 

A deafening crack echoes in the small clearing and Phil slumps over you, his shoulder a mangled mess. You're still trying to process what happened when an ear splitting roar shakes the very ground and you look up to find the bear thundering at you from the treeline. Phil sees him too, and the two of you scramble for the maul. He kicks you in the shin cause he's a bastard, so you use his leverage to help you push the sledge against his shoulder. He grunts in pain and you wrench it from his grasp, start to roll out of his reach when a lethal click stops you dead.

It's not you he's aiming at, though. 

Two quick, successive shots. You turn in time to see the bear falter, the hump of its back shaking with impact. It doesn't stop for long. A few more steps and the bear's on him. It - John - sinks his teeth into the meat between Phil's scapulas, tries to stop on a dime, can't, goes tumbling over with Phil still clamped in his jaws. Phil gets slammed into the ground with a sickening crunch that turns his screams into silent wheezes. John settles his weight on top of Phil's prone body and holds his head down with a massive paw so he can pull against it, tearing muscle as easily as the thin cotton of his shirt when he shakes his head like a dog.

Phil's screaming again. John doesn't seem inclined to stop it until the breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding whistles out of your chest raggedly. The bear asses you for a moment, chewing contentedly on the scrap of flesh between his teeth like a cow with cud. Your eyes dart from John to the dying man below him rapidly, unsure what you're asking for.

John grumbles, but wraps his maw around the column of Phil's throat and bites down hard enough that Phil's screams turn to gurgles, give way to a sickening crunch. When he pulls away, a fat tongue licks the geyser of blood and finally, your stomach roils.

"Let's get you inside, pet." You wipe your mouth, turn to find Simon crouched next to you. "No need to see this." 

"He's hurt." Simon looks at you like you might be simple so you clarify, "John."

You both glance at the man - bear? - in question, tearing at a scrap of viscera that sounds upsettingly like jerky. He glares at Simon ominously, as if daring him to touch you in any way that could cause offense. There's blood matting the fur of his back and shoulder but he pays it no mind. 

"Think 'e'll be olright." 

You hold a hand out, expecting to have him help you up, but the big man tucks his arms under you instead, lifts you with little more than a huff. 

"Seriously, what are they putting in the water over there?" You mutter. He'd laugh, but he's being careful of your leg. Some jostling is inevitable, though, and he hums deep in his chest in sympathy when you grimace.

He carries you back to the cabin and you watch over his shoulder as the bear turns Phil over onto his back, pawing at clothes to expose his belly.

"Scrawny bastard can't be very tasty," you quip, and here Simon does laugh. 

"You ever listen to someone eat a Slim Jim?"

"Oh god," you grumble, stomach audibly gurgling. This time Simon's laugh is a cruel thing.

He sets you up on the couch with a pillow propping up your leg. He goes back outside and you hear him yelling something about a phone. The bear lowers at him, but the wet squelching of Phil's vulnerable underbelly stops for a moment and soon after comes a dull thunk. When Simon returns, he's got Phil's phone in one hand and a thumb in the other. 

You lip curls, "Is that necessary?"

Simon doesn't even spare you a glance. "Just gotta figure out who he's told what."

"About you and John?"

"Oh, I'm not a furry." It's stupid and unexpected enough to startle a laugh out of you. Simon carries on as if there's nothing wrong with what he's said. "But yes, that. And gotta figure out if anyone's gonna come looking for 'im."

"There's a video in there," you offer, "Of John… changing. Don't know if it's backed up to anything."

"Good bird, I'll check." His eyes meet yours for a moment. "'e showed you then, I'm assuming?"

You nod. "Suppose it was for the best in the end. Would've shit myself if I saw that thing running at me without knowing what was going on." Simon nods exactly once. You take it for agreeance. "How long have you known?"

"Years. But don't tell Price that."

"He didn't tell you?"

"No. Didn't even know I knew until yesterday."

"Well then how'd you find out?"

Simon turns his big apathetic eyes on you. "'e doesn't 'ave a house in Phoenix. Telling you now, in case you're still holding out for the snowbird lifestyle."

This time when you laugh, you think you spot a slight crinkling of Simon's eyes as well.

***

An hour passes mostly in silence. You ask Simon to check on John occasionally, but he only ever says things are unchanged out there so you take that to mean John hasn't died of blood loss. You try to come to terms with everything you just witnessed, but it's still too fresh, your adrenaline too high. Instead, your thoughts circle back to John repeatedly, your fingers itching to inspect his wounds. That's probably not a normal reaction, but nothing about this situation is normal so you give yourself a break.

When John does stumble in, he's naked. Simon squawks, which would be funny to you if John wasn't also covered in blood. You try to climb to your feet to meet him, but he's on you quicker than you can even process, kneeling beside the couch and running sticky hands all over your face.

"Are you okay?" you both ask at the same time, and you nod feverishly, subject yourself to the desperate kiss he plants on you in response.

The taste of him is heavy, seems to coat your tongue. You can't help the full body shudder it elicits and John retracts, brushes wet, whiskery kisses up to your temple instead. He stays there for a moment, just breathing you in. You use it as an opportunity to peer over his shoulder, inspect his back. He's leaning away again before you can make sense of what you see back there.

John holds your face between his massive palms. He looks you over, eyes desperate and wild. You give him a reassuring smile, hold onto his forearms while he tries to wipe some of the blood off you. Smears it, if the way he frowns at his dirty hand is any indication.

"That your blood?"

"I wish," he growls, and uses the hem of your shirt to try wiping it off. 

"You wish?"

"You already smell enough like him." You finch when he presses against your head too hard and his scowl deepens.

"Here." A towel lands over John's head, another on the floor next to him. You grimace at Simon apologetically and try to get John covered while he completely ignores your attempts, focused entirely on cleaning the blood off you, hands much gentler this time. 

"John, I'm fine."

"Not fine, bunny," he seethes. You blink at him, but give him a pass when you realize he's mad at your state. "What happened?"

"How about we get cleaned up first, eh?"

"We have to get you to a hospital."

"Me?" you scoff. "You got shot!"

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about me. Simon, go get the car, yeah? We gotta -."

"Okay everybody hang on. You are naked and covered in a dead guy's blood. Let's deal with that first."

"Bunny -."

"And then I think we should get our story together before we waltz our hot fresh gunshot wound slash old broken leg combo into a hospital." The words are out before you've even thought them through - what it means for you, that you'll be an accomplice to your own ex's… murder? It's not murder if a wild animal kills and eats you. John isn't a wild animal, but it's not like he was all there mentally at the time either. 

You hope.

Well, maybe it would be okay if he knew what he was doing, but you're gonna delicately avoid saying that outloud.

John's mustache twitches irritably, but Simon looks about as supportive of your idea as you think he's capable of appearing. Nodding, John stands and tucks his towel around his waist. His belly is so full it's nearly distended and you try not to think about it too hard. You're not surprised when he picks you up. Simon tactfully turns away in case there's a wardrobe malfunction, but the towel stays firmly in place as John carries you down the hall. You know where he's headed and you point the way to the master bath.

What does surprise you is the way he strips you too, unwinds your makeshift splint so achingly carefully. His palms are impossibly light when they smoothe over the indents the saran wrap has left in your skin and you both frown at the bruising which has pooled under your skin.

"That's gotten worse," you comment, and John presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, breathing in the sweat there deeply.

The shower is blessedly huge. John gets the water to a comfortable temperature before helping to lower you to the tiled floor. He doesn't even bother to wash any blood off before he's plastering himself to your side and burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. Red runoff slips over both of you, swirls in the drain. Your hands are on his scalp, his neck, his shoulders. They trace the rivulets of water down his back and he grunts when you find the first open sore.

"You know they call the police for gunshot wounds."

John shakes his head. It jiggles your tit a bit when he does it, enmeshed as he is with you. "Clean through."

"What?" Pushing him away, you drag a palm over his chest in search of the other wound but he just holds your hand in place over his pec. 

"Through my shoulder hump, sweetheart. In my other form. I'll be fine in a few days."

Confused and unbelieving, you push at him until he turns to show you: a gnarly hole over his lower ribs which bleeds profusely, and a smaller, far less concerning mark up over his scapula which somehow looks already knotted over. It doesn't make sense here, but you suppose if you twisted and contorted his body enough you could draw a straight line between the two. Still, you drag your thumb gingerly under the cleaner of the two wounds, watch the tender skin jump. 

"How is this nearly closed over?"

John shrugs. "Quick healer."

You suppose it makes sense, after the horror you watched his own body inflict upon itself in Phil's video. All that skin remaking itself. "Of course."

"Told you it's you I'm more worried about." He leans back against the wall, cradles your entire face in his palm. 

"I'm good now," you try to convince him, but suddenly your voice is anything but and John crumples.

"Do I scare you?"

Your lip wobbles, unauthorized. You shake your head before you can really think it through, and then sob in relief when he wraps you in an all-consuming hug and you realize it's the truth. He should scare you. He really should. But for better or worse, the only thing you feel wrapped up in his strong arms like this is safe.

It's hard to stop the tears once they start but John holds you all the while, occasionally pulling away just enough to inspect your face and kiss your eyelids, your nose. You hold him back as best you can, but the angle is awkward so you mostly just end up stroking his hairy chest and you both know you've cried yourself out when your fingers get picky, start combing icky bits out of his pelt.

John lets you groom him, scrub away every last trace of Phil. He cleans you too, careful to filter water through his hands when he sees you flinch as the hard water pressure beats against your bruised scalp. You make him rinse his mouth, pick something that looks like bone from his chops and surprise yourself with how well you handle it, watching apathetically as the suds push it along toward the drain. It's possible Phil didn't quite deserve this fate, but you decide it's not your job to determine that; you're just glad to be free of him.

"Gonna remember the way you crushed his throat until the day I die, I think," you murmur, inspecting his nails and hairy knuckles.

John goes still. "I'm sorry you saw that, bun -." 

"Not a bad thing, John." When you risk meeting his eye, you're met with an intense, desperate gaze. 

"Don't leave me again, bunny." 

You feel like an idiot, throwing yet another item onto the pile of forgiven things that would have sent you running even just a few weeks ago. But it's not a threat when John says it; just a raw, honest plea. This man's tracked you across multiple states, revealed his deepest secret for you. Killed for you. And still, he doesn't demand you return with him or hold all these things he's elected to do of his own accord over your head. Just begs you to stay. 

He still tastes like blood when you kiss him, but it's just more fuel for the pyre of forgiven, ignored warnings.

A/N Want you guys to know that I figured out the choreography of this bear attack by wrestling with my infinitely patient dogs, so if you ever need a good pick me up, just imagine looking out your window one day and seeing your fat neighbor putting their 70lb dog through a death roll and pretending to rip its throat out, snarling all the while as if they've gone fucking rabid.

Next>>

[jadeylovesmarvelxo]

Drama abounds when you're attacked by monstrous bats after an argument with Eddie and Steve Harrington comes to your rescue...

Warnings: Complicated feelings, unrequited love, angst, mentions of blood.

❤️

This week had officially sucked.

Eddie was too busy following around his new girlfriend like a lovesick puppy to care what you were up to.

You wish it didn't bother you, but it did. All Eddie talked about was her and it drove you mad, jealously that began as small thing had grown and grown the last week or so. It was an awful feeling.

Shouldn't you be happy Eddie had found someone? Someone kind, pretty and who had so much in common with him. That's what a good friend should feel. Right now, this reaction made you feel guilty as hell.

"I don't know what your problem is. Why can't you just be happy that I'm happy! Maybe if you found someone yourself you wouldn't be like this?" Eddie had snapped at you earlier and the crushing feeling in your chest doubled.

It was dark now in Hawkins, Autumn was in full swing, the chilly wind nipping at you as you walked home.

Technically, you should be at Hellfire but after earlier you were in no mood tonight, you just wanted your bed and maybe a good binge of some of your favorite movies.

Anything that would help you forget about your feelings right now. Maybe scary movie, no romance whatsoever.

It was ironic you spoke about scary movies because the next minute you found yourself in one.

Hawkins was creepy after dark and you had heard enough tales from your relatives about the strange shit that went down here. At first you didn't believe it, Hawkins looked like any other picturesque small town... Well, until you looked closer and discovered the rot underneath the perfect facade.

Your friend Robin told you that spooky monsters roamed the woods, the rumours that freaky bat creatures hid in the shadows looking for prey. Not vampires, no actual bats that would rip you apart.

At first you thought it was some kind of old urban legend, that's until the bodies began the pile up and the legend grew and grew.

Now no one went into the woods, not even in groups. No one would risk it. Even walking past the woods to get home creeped you out, even if someone deep inside you were itching to know more about these bats.

Devil bats people called them. The side of you that was a big fan of mystery and investigating had researched as much as you could about these creatures but most of it was flimsy at best.

You're so lost in your thoughts that you miss the screeching sound the first time. The second time however chills you to the bone.

Screams fill the air, a man shouting for help and you freeze for a second before running to help. It's the stupidest thing you've done going straight into a frenzy of bats, but you can't just leave the guy to die.

When you reach the clearing into the woods you find your too late. The man is dead, blood seeping into the ground and bites on his neck.

Hawkins police station isn't far away. Maybe you could find Sheriff Hopper? You're about to run when you hear that screech again and one of the bats swoop down at you.

The tail is long and sharp and it lashes across your stomach before you can even move. Then the second bat is flying at you and you begin to run back out the forest and through the streets.

The bats are following you, four or them whipped up into a frenzy at the smell of your blood. They're smart to and dive down whipping their tails across your legs so you stumble and fall, your head smacks across the gravel on the road and dizziness makes your head spin.

You kick out at one of the bats and it hits the sucker right in the face, the other one uses its tail to wrap around your legs tightly, so hard that the sharpness of its tail cuts into you.

Two of them then work at ripping open your shirt and sinking their teeth into your side. The scream that leaves you is full of terror and pain, no fucking way are you dying now, theres still so much you want to do in life.

Wriggling around you try to throw one of the bats off you and it works but the second little bastard uses its wings and tiny, fierce claws to pierce into your skin to slow down your moments.

Just when it seems all hope is losr something slams into the bat and knocks it off you, you're so grateful for this and peer up to see Steve Harrington wielding a baseball bat covered in nails.

He slams it down on the bats head that has its tail wrapped around your leg and kills it instantly, freeing you. Dazed you stsnd up and Steve tosses you a crowbar.

"Take their heads off"

You don't have to be told twice and make quick work of the bats as more begin to fly your way. Pissed off, you swing the crowbar and tear off one of their tails.

Steve's hiss of pain captures your attention and you rush towards him and pull it away from Steve by its tail, Steve recovers and smashes the bat into its face.

His shirt is torn and you see a small trickle of blood seep through. The screeching stops as the last creature dies.

Tires squeal on the pavement and you hear your name being shouted. Eddie is running towards you, he looks as pale as a ghost when he reaches you and checks you for wounds.

"Eddie, what are you doing here?" Steve steadies you as you stumble. Eddie is still terribly pale as he answers.

"I heard you screaming, I was out looking for you because you didn't turn up at Hellfire and I felt like shit about earlier and then I heard you scream... I couldn't find you and I was terrified"

He's shaking as he takes in your appearance, his eyes wild.

"What the fuck were those things? Sweetheart?" you smile faintly, the adrenaline from fighting the bats wears off and you wince in pain and your head feels like it's spinning.

"I'm fine Ed's... I, woah" you faint and strong arms catch you before you fall.

❤️

When you come to you're at your house and resting on the sofa. Eddie is beside you looking extremely anxious.

"Thank fuck you're awake" his eyes are red and it looks like he's been crying, he won't admit it but you wonder if he was.

"You could have died... Those bats, shit if Steve hadn't found you when he did" His voice trails off and you gently squeeze his hand.

"I'm okay Ed's. Sore as shit but fine" he nods and kisses your cheek gently, then goes to help Steve with the bandages and antiseptic cream.

Gingerly you lift up your shirt and wince, it's soaked in blood which makes you feel nauseated. Eddie gently cleans the blood away as Steve cuts the bandages.

"Shit, these bastards got you good princess" he whispers worriedly. His nickname makes you ache.

"Don't call me that Ed's. Stacy, she doesn't like it" you whisper and he freezes.

"You're my best friend" he murmurs and the tension in the air deepens.

"Another thing she doesn't like Eddie. Maybe you're right and I should find someone. Would stop all this drama with Stacy" Eddie swallows and Steve steps forward.

"Munson, can you get more bandages incase these get bloodied up quickly" Eddie nods and hurries away.

The tension disappears, Steve gives you a sympathetic smile. Yeah, you were sick of the drama with all of this.

Steve gently patches you up and you feel yourself calm down for the first time tonight as you watch him work.

"Let me do yours, just take your shirt off and I'll help" he looks hesitant but nods and slips off his shirt.

You might have complicated feelings for Eddie but that didn't stop you from admiring Steve, he was handsome and now he was here in your house half naked. Georgia would have a field day if she knew about this.

When did he get so hairy? The thought pops into your head unbidden and it flusters you so much that you almost drop the antiseptic cream.

The bites draw you in again, a fresh one from tonight but also old ones. Bites that have left scars, marks from the bats tails that haven't faded.

You reach out to touch one gently, Steve watches you intently, there's a lot of tension in the air and the fact you could have died has you feeling rattled and in need of comfort.

Steve must be feeling the same thing as he dips his head down and his lips hover over yours.

He hesitates then his lips meet yours before he pulls away again. "Shit, I'm sorry. Shouldn't have done that" he mutters.

"It's okay. It was nice and kinda freeing not to think of Eddie every five minutes" he softens and you patch up the rest of him.

"Tell me about it. Felt the exact same with Nancy, it's better now but I still haven't found the right girl I want to be with, who isn't after me for just sex" you peer up at Steve, eager to say something comforting.

"You're awesome Steve, a badass monster fighter to boot. You'll find someone amazing"

Steve smiles and kisses your cheek, lingering just for a moment.

"Thank you sweetheart"

The door slams shut and you jump apart as Eddie comes in. He looks between the two of you with a blank expression on his face, eyes trailing to Steve who is shirtless and then your flustered look.

"Am I interrupting something here or..." Steve barely looks flustered as he shrugs on his shirt.

"Thanks for helping me patch up honey, call me if you need anything okay?" he smiles and squeezes your hand.

He leaves and your filled with a rush of jumbled feelings.

❤️

Could be an Eddie or Steve story :) Your choice.

❤️

[curiositydooropened]

Wildfire • Combustion

You're in trouble. When Vecna sinks he's claws into you, your friends rally around you to help exorcise your demons.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Chapter Wordcount: 10,887

Warnings: This chapter contains smut. Minor DNI. • enemies/rivals to lovers, second chance romance, slowburn, unrequited love, so much pining, blood, gore, character death, best friend!disabled!Eddie Munson, character injuries, trauma, PTSD, hallucinations, drowning, concussion, hurt/comfort, fire, panic attacks, insomnia

Fic Masterlist • Navigation • Masterlist

Chapter Five: Searing • Chapter Seven: Inferno

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The sun hit the front window and bounced off bright orange, drowning your front yard in an amber glow. It was hot, and your shirt stuck to your skin with summer sweat. The yard was littered in toys, a tractor sprinkler, double bicycles with baskets and tassels on the handlebars. Chalk was strewn across the sidewalk, hopscotch traced in stark whites. Gravel crunched in the drive beneath your feet. 

Your mom called your name from the front door, asked if Vickie was staying for dinner. The girl beside you confirmed with a thumbs up and a wave, limbs longer than she was tall. She grinned at you, two front teeth missing, red hair pulled back into braids. She elbowed at your waist. “Can I stay with you forever?” 

You smiled, excited at the prospect of your best friend moving in, hauling her little rubber suitcase full of dolls and horsies down the road to your house and unloading on your bedroom floor. You would share peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day for the rest of your lives. 

“Till death do you part, right?” A deep voice came from behind you, a chill of breath to the back of your neck. 

You spun and found no one, just a chill on the breeze, the landscape faded to harsh blues and burgundies, everything covered in black ichor and vines. 

Vickie called your name, and when you turned again to face her, she was writhing in agony, skin melting from the bones of her cheeks, collarbone exposed. She reached out, mouth agape, flames that engulfed her the same color as her shock of red hair. Her eyes were pale blue, clouded.

You slammed your eyes closed, and the heat of her was wiped away in an instant. Instead, you were pushed and prodded toward a closed window. A crowd of strangers filed outside around you, staring up at a cloud-filled sky. Particles of grey and white snowed down on the parking lot of the high school gym.

“Is that snow?”

“I think it’s ash.” 

“Like Mount Vesuvius?”

“I didn’t even know Hawkins was on a fault line.”

You looked around for a familiar face, panic crawling up your chest.

Vickie stood an arm’s length away, and you rushed to her side, tugging on her sleeve. “We need to get out of here.” 

“Steve!” A kid with curly hair limped over to the couple posted up beside your best friend. You noticed Vickie was watching a freckled blonde girl exchange concerned looks with the handsome brunette beside her.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” the handsome man copycatted you, tugging on the arm of the blonde girl beside him. 

“Robin, where are you guys going?” Vickie asked, taking the girl’s other hand in her own. A bloom of jealousy radiated through you, of interest, while the panic rose higher behind your sternum. 

Robin made eyes with the two boys beside her, an unspoken conversation between them. 

“Do you know what’s going on?” Vickie prodded, stepping into their little circle to face her friend. 

Once again, the girl made eyes at the boy beside her, and you watched him roll his eyes before grabbing the younger boy and leading him out the door. 

“Come on,” Robin gripped Vickie’s hand tighter and yanked her out across the lot after them. 

“Wait, Vic!” You chased after your best friend, and this crew she’d acquired in the last hour or so since you left her at the sandwich counter. “Where are you going?” 

You all halted at a burgundy BMW, and the driver held a hand up to stop you from joining. He was taller than you, broader, but couldn’t be any older, and something about his air of authority had you prickling.

“This is my best friend,” Vickie introduced, climbing into the car beside Robin. 

The boy ran a hand down his face and opened the back door for you. “Get in.”

You did as instructed, but yanked the door from his grasp to slam it, satisfied at the look of frustration across his pretty boy features. 

“I’m Robin,” the freckled girl reached across Vickie to introduce herself, and you shook her hand before eyeing your best friend. Vickie’s face had nearly turned violet in embarrassment. “This is Steve and Dustin.” 

Steve didn’t have the capacity to greet you properly as he peeled out of his parking spot and sped away from the growing crowd. 

You hung onto the headrest to stop from slamming into your friend beside you, and grit your teeth. “Great, can someone please tell me where we’re going?” 

Dustin turned to face you, black ichor spilling from between braced teeth in a menacing grimace. His eyes were a pale, cloudy blue. “Didn’t you know? This is the road to Hell.” 

The landscape around you flickered in greyscale. The crowd disappeared and was replaced by rotting buildings, fallen trees, a city on fire.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the flower-faced panic monster rearing its ugly head, clawed its way through your esophagus, breathing fire and sputtering blood, and you choked on your scream. “Vickie!” 

You climbed the final hill in front of her childhood home. The pale yellow facade had peeling paint, fire having ripped through it months earlier. You were out of breath, had been chasing her for hours according to the watch on your wrist. Sweat clung to the base of your skull, and the straps of your flamethrower pinched at the skin of your shoulders. You cried out for your best friend again. 

Something loud banged on the other side of the garage door, startling you, and you swung your weapon that direction. The door shook on its rails , hinges rattling violently. You sidestepped to see the side door, ready to fire when Vickie appeared in the side yard. 

“Listen!” She called out, waving her arms over her head.

“To what?” You frowned. “Where the Hell have you been?” 

“Bonnie Tyler,” she pointed upward. She seemed rushed, crossing the yard to peel part of the chain link from the fence to block the garage side door. She hummed the tune as she worked, and you took a few steps closer to her before you heard it. 

It was a little distorted, tune a little wonky, a little muted. You looked around for a cassette player, wondered if the car was playing it in the garage. 

“It’s Steve. He’s trying to pull you out of this, and it’s getting harder to fight Vecna off, so I’m going to need you to snap out of it and wake the Hell up.” Vickie stated, irritated as she grabbed a patio chair and dragged it to the door. 

The garage shook again, a pound to the door that had the entire building trembling on its foundations. That spot behind your shoulder blade tickled, a chill down your spine, and the pieces all fell into place. 

“Look,” Vickie pointed to the skyline above the woods, and when you turned, you saw a split in the clouds. Greyscale had poured pale yellow onto the canvas and you were watching yourself, catatonic and limp in the arms of Steve Harrington. Large hands were pressed to your cheeks, wrapped around your waist, his body pressed to yours, warm and hard, and there was panic in his eyes as he shouted words you couldn’t hear over the music. Hopper and Owens stood nearby. Several soldiers and Eddie were behind them. 

“Now wake up, damnit,” Vickie shook your shoulder, shoved you their direction. You stumbled two steps. 

“Wait,” you halted and grabbed her wrist, tiny, pulse warm in your hand. “Not without you.” 

“Yes, without me!” Her body was against the door now, the building rattling at her back. “I’ve spent a year holding him back, I can handle him for a little bit longer.” 

You shook your head, the music growing louder against your skull, somewhere just behind your ears. “I don’t understand.” You shouted over it. 

“I told you I’d never leave you,” she bit down on her bottom lip, eyes fierce. “I’m sorry he piggybacked, but now you know he’s here, and you have to get him out. You have the help I never got. Take advantage of that.” The door banged harder, and she slipped before regaining her strength. “Go.” 

“What am I supposed to do?” You screamed, the music all-encompassing, rhythm of the knocks on the garage against the beat of the track on loop. 

“He’s weak, but he gains strength in your subconscious when you sleep.” She explained, eyes closed in her attempt to keep him out. “Destroy the Ether. I think he - oof -” A particularly large hit sent her flying, and you took her place, holding the handle closed tight as it turned in your hand. 

She stood, knees bloodied, and took it from your hands. “Go! I can’t hold him much longer.” She shoved you back in the direction of the clouds. 

You felt conflicted, rooted to the spot as you watched your best friend struggle.

She made eye contact with you, eyes blurred with tears, and she grit her teeth before she screamed, “GO!” Her visage flashed fiery red, a ghost of her former self, the screaming face of a loved one charred and burned.

You reached out for her before you felt yourself thrust off your feet, yanked backwards by your spine. The forces around you, the pulsating of music in your skull, the scream that ripped from your chest to mirror her own, caught you spiraling into blackness, falling, falling, falling through a never-ending abyss. Arms and legs flailed, and you gained speed as you neared the bottom, music so loud you could no longer make out the words, and then you hit bottom.

Warmth flooded your senses, a stuffy heat that clung the fabric of your clothes to your skin and stifled your lungs which fought to catch a breath. Your eyes flew open to find two big, brown eyes and a crumpled brow. The smell of sweat and steam and cigarette smoke filled your nostrils, and every square inch of you was hyper aware of the hand on your waist, your cheek, the abdomen pressed to your own. 

“Are you here? Are you okay?” Steve’s sweet voice croaked, just under the volume of Bonnie Tyler on overhead speakers, and you crashed into him, burying your face in his throat as reality broke and you realized you were alive, and he was there to keep you safe. 

You felt his arms snake around you while your body wracked with sobs, and lips to your temple as he comforted you with soft hums of reassurance. The sounds of soldiers filing in replaced the music and the ringing in your ears. 

—

The coffee in your cup didn’t stay still long enough to see your reflection. Your hands trembled, or maybe they were jittery, and the glare from the fluorescents stung in your skull like a migraine. You sipped, lukewarm and a bit burnt, and wrapped the blanket tighter around your shoulders. 

“So what? You stay awake forever? This isn’t sustainable,” Steve argued, arms crossed over his chest as he sat propped on the table across from your hospital bed. 

You rolled your eyes and continued to drink.

“No, it isn’t,” Owens agreed, face stuck in the pitying frown you possibly had never seen him without. 

“So we need a solution,” Hopper grumbled. Your nurse pulled his cigarette from between his lips and slipped it back into his pocket before scribbling stats onto her charts. 

“I feel like it’s pretty obvious,” you said, trying to ignore the fear that rocketed through you. “We nuke it all. Ether goes to Hell with me inside.” Destroy the host, destroy the parasite.

“No.” 

“Absolutely not.” Steve and Eddie snapped in unison. Eddie was seated at your bedside, knuckles gripping his walker so hard you thought it might snap.

You closed your eyes, steadied your breath. “I appreciate that you want to protect me, but let’s be realistic here. We don’t have any other plans, and if he latched onto Vickie and then onto me when she died, it seems like I need to take care of this.”

“You’re right,” Nancy said from her seat beside Steve. His jaw ticked, and you avoided his glare. “We don’t have any other plans, but we can’t just nuke the Upside Down.”

“The infrastructure doesn’t support that. We blow the place up, the entire Midwest could crumble into the Earth.” Hopper rubbed at tired eyes.

“We shouldn’t make our plans in front of you,” Eddie grit his teeth, his good leg bouncing. “He can hear and see everything you can. He’s in you, but he’s in all of them too.” 

You could feel them: claws and teeth and bloodlust. A shiver wracked through you, that breath of cold air to the base of your skull.

“He’s right. We can’t risk an ambush walking in there.”

Something firm in Nancy’s voice had your heart pounding, that panic clawing its way up and out. Control was swiftly being removed from your reach, one way or the other. “We don’t know that.”

“That’s what he does,” Eddie’s voice matched Nancy’s. He ran a tired hand down his face. “He listens to you, knows your every thought. He listens to the people you care about the most, and then he hurts them. He makes you hurt them.”

You reached a hand to his, but he recoiled from your grasp. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and you saw fear in those big, brown eyes. Eddie was terrified. You swallowed back the emotion that rose in your chest and replaced your trembling hand to your coffee cup. “If you can’t discuss plans with me in the room, can I be dismissed to my quarters?”

Sighs were exchanged all around you. Owens looked over your vital chart, and you watched him make eyes at Hopper. Hopper scratched the mustache on his upper lip and nodded.

“No leaving the compound, and for now, no sleeping.”

“I’ll go with you,” Steve stood from his lean, arms out to help you off of the hospital bed as a nurse went about unplugging you from the beeping machines.

“Harrington, we’re going to need you and the full Scorch team. Munson, you too.”

“Absolutely not,” Steve gestured your direction. “She wants to nuke the Ether with herself inside it. We can’t trust her to be by herself.” 

His words rang true, but you couldn’t help the sting of betrayal that settled somewhere within you. 

“She won’t be alone.” Hopper said, flashing you a smile that filled your with an equal amount of unease.

—

The steady ba-dunk ba-dunk ba-dunk of a tennis ball against hard wood flooring echoed your heartbeat. Over-caffeinated, the tips of your fingers tingled, and your legs bounced in tandem as you sat cross-legged on the floor.

“Bob Marley, man. One Love.” Argyle slammed the tennis ball against the ground beside you, and it bounced and hit the concrete wall. You caught it on the rebound.

“Solid choice,” you nodded. Your mouth was dry, and the way adrenaline pumped through you felt the exact opposite of Argyle’s chill demeanor in a moment like this. He seemed entirely unbothered by the horrifying aberration attached to your psyche. 

He caught your throw. “Yeah, dude. That’s what it’s all about. We stick together, and he can’t win.”

You glanced up at the man beside you, long hair tucked back beneath a camouflage hat. He’d been dragged from his home, his life, the calm of slinging pizzas, and how he’d maintained the positive look on life, you’d never understand. 

“Did someone call a babysitter?” A voice called from behind you.

“Hey, Buckley, what’s your Vecna song?” Argyle called, tossing the tennis ball in the air a few times.

“Steve Miller Band, Joker, obviously,” Robin responded, shoes clacking against the hard wood upon her approach. You couldn’t face her immediately, catching that bit of flame in your periphery, but eventually she kicked at your knee with her toe, pulling your attention to the sad look in blue eyes. 

“Right on,” Argyle approved of her response. You knew it was a lie.

“You hungry?” Robin asked, extending her hand to help you up. 

With a sigh, you took her grasp and lifted yourself from the ground. Your stomach had growled at the mention of food, unable to keep anything down in the passing days in Quarantine. 

“Wish I could go with you, space cowboys, but I have a Scorch meeting to attend,” Argyle tapped at the watch on his wrist and tossed you the tennis ball. 

You caught the bright green fuzz and squeezed, offering him a wave. “Thanks for watching me.” 

The man crossed to you, enveloping you in a surprise hug, tight and warm. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you, bud.” He muttered into your ear before giving Robin a quick kiss to the forehead and exiting the small court. 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” you finally greeted Robin, adjusting the sweatshirt over your shoulders as you followed Argyle toward the hallway. 

She elbowed your side. “I don’t think you really get a say anymore.” 

You know she was teasing, but you’d been stewing for hours. Your jaw ached from being clenched, and your mind raced with your heartbeat of all the possibilities they could be discussing in their meetings a few floors up. You knew none of them would make the right call. “So I don’t have control over what’s going on in my subconscious, and I’m not allowed to make conscious decisions for myself either? How is that fair, Robin?”

“Sometimes life isn’t fair.” Her tone was ice-cold. The polar opposite of Argyle’s warmth, she stopped you dead in your tracks in the center of a dim hallway.

You half-expected her to grow a long claw, to be a part of this never-ending nightmare, but when you turned to face her, it was just Robin. It was just that beautiful woman that spent two years of her life loving your best friend for you to rip her away. 

“Vickie died for his cause, whether she meant to or not, she didn’t leave us a choice.” She said, fists clenching around the satchel strap across her chest.

Your own hands shook at your sides. 

“So, yes, we have to keep an eye on you, so you don’t run away and do the same thing.”

Light from the adjacent room cast in her soft yellows, the same, sickly pale that clung to the concrete walls of this cold building you’ve called your home for years now. Now it felt like a prison, and Robin a well-dressed guard. 

“Robin…”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The hurt in her eyes struck you like wind on a crisp day, sucking the air from your lungs. 

“What happens if you die like Vickie, huh? Then Steve gets flayed? Eddie? What was your plan?”

You grit your teeth at the accusations, clenched your fists. “You know I’d never hurt them.” 

“I know,” she snapped, like you’d been the insinuator, “but you have to consider the consequences of hiding this from the world until you burst and Vecna himself comes slithering out in the form of a giant flesh monster.”

Another chill wracked through you, familiar, a buzz at the base of your skull. 

Robin took a few uneasy steps toward you. “Can he hear us?”

You swallowed, shrugged, though a tickle above your earlobe said yes, said absolutely, said speak.

Your friend crossed to you, and for a moment you thought she might avoid you, like Eddie had, but instead, she pressed a warm palm to your cheek. Her other hand reached for your fist at your side. Her blue eyes were fierce, steadfast, terrifying. “We are going to burn him out of you, and he’ll have to watch in agony as his world burns around him.”

Fear hung in her chest at your promise, settled right above the rapid beating of your heart, more fear than you’d ever felt in the Ether, staring down the barrel of a flamethrower at a monster, even in your nightmares.

Robin blinked, laughed back the emotion that threatened to spill. “Sorry, I just really love you, and I don’t want to imagine a world without you in it.”

This time, the emotion bubbled up your esophagus because you weren’t sure if she was talking to you or to Vickie.

She waved it off with another laugh, wiping tears from the corner of her eyes. “Let’s go get lunch in the caf exactly like we used to, in a safe space where I don’t have to be the only one to keep my eyes on you. Sound good?”

You wanted to talk, to tell her Vickie loved her, to apologize again for all that you’d done. The feigned smile on her face told you she was done. You nodded.

“Good.” She linked your arms at the elbows and tugged you in the direction of the caf. 

—

Scalding water cascaded over the aches in your shoulders and back. You’d turned the faucet too high, steam enveloping the ladies’ locker room, but you needed it to hurt. You scrubbed yourself raw, wanting to rid yourself of the sweat and grime that had clung to your flesh in quarantine. You needed to wash it all off of you.

You kept your eyes trained on the cold, white tile ahead of you, on the in-laid shiny chrome knobs. If you closed your eyes, you’d see ice cold landscapes full of vines, you’d see the slam of garage door on its hinges, you’d see the terror and fury in Vickie’s eyes.

You grit your teeth and tipped your head back, allowing the water to pummel your brow, your cheeks, that surge ripping through your stomach, begging for air, but you lingered just a second longer, pushing through the guilt and pain and the need to scream. 

A door slammed, followed by the sound of heavy footfall, and you sputtered, stepping out of the spray to catch your breath.

“Where the Hell have you been!?” Harrington’s voice echoed against tile, his head and shoulders visible above the row of tiled stalls. 

Instinctively, you covered yourself and glanced throughout the room to find yourself alone. “Where does it look like I’ve been, Harrington?” You snapped, turning your back to him to rinse your front. 

“Robin said you’d be in your dorm. I’ve been looking for you for an hour.”

“I was taking some gym time. That okay with you, Warden?” You shot over your shoulder. 

His shoulders rose and fell, and he ran both hands through his hair. It stuck up at odd angles like he’d been doing that all day. His eyes were bloodshot, face already shiny from the steam that enveloped the room. “We were worried you ran off and did something stupid.” 

You scoffed. “Good to know I have your confidence.”

The sound of frustration that escaped him roiled in your stomach, unearthed something deep, something familiar. “That’s not…” 

You glanced over your shoulder again to watch him chew on his words. You couldn’t decide if he was searching for another retort or finding a way to hold it back, and it felt good. You delighted in the competition, in catching his tongue. Your friendship used to be this, a playful back-and-forth. 

“No, I get it, Harrington,” you turned under the water again, feeling the pressure weaken from prolonged use. You gargled water and spit it into the drain at your feet. “I can’t be trusted.”

“I didn’t say that.” He huffed.

“No, really,” you bit back the smirk that was beginning to tug at the corners of your mouth. “You never know when I could do something incredibly…” You slapped off the faucet and stepped out of the stall into the aisle to face him. “Foolish.” 

The end of your word fell from your mouth with a whisper when you caught the look on his face.

Harrington’s jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened, though they stay trained on your face. He stood ten, maybe twenty feet from you, hands to his hips, stance wide, shoulders square. 

Your entire body caught ablaze, cooler air pebbling every inch of you, but you couldn’t cower now, couldn’t shield yourself, exposed and raw in front of him. 

After a prolonged silence, the drip of the faucet against tile floors, he moved. With slow, measured strides, the squeak of rubber soles against wet tile, he closed the distance. 

You sucked in a breath and held it, the warmth of him flooding your senses all at once.

Maintaining eye contact, he reached beside you for your government grade towel, and it wasn’t until he held it out for you to take, did you notice the quick sweep of his eyes along your frame.

Your hands shook receiving the towel and covering your front, hoping to hide the burn in your cheeks with dry terry cloth as you dabbed at droplets on your nose. 

Harrington turned his back to you then, and you watched the red that crawled up his neck and to his ears from the collar of his shirt. “When I couldn’t find you,” he cleared his throat, brought his hands up to scratch at that little row of stitches starting to heal, “I panicked.”

You warmed at his confession, the tidal of an adrenaline rush crashing into something softer, waves along a shoreline. You dried your body and reached for the pile of clean clothes, slowly stepping into them. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, pulling the drawstring on your pants.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re in prison,” again, the soft tone to his voice sent a chill through you. 

You pulled a sweatshirt over your head and reached for him, pausing to stare at the back of him for a moment, broad shoulders and shaved neck, hair a mess on top. He seemed taller than you remembered, maybe it was the boots on his feet. Your fingers came into contact with the dip of his tricep, warm under pruned fingertips. 

He turned, and you felt yourself heat again at the quick one-over flick of his eyes before he met your gaze again. The honeyed brown was still dark, that crease in his brow remained, but you perceived the smallest uptick of the corners of his pink lips when he asked, “You hungry?”

—

Loneliness sunk in like a hot blade through butter. You ate dinner surrounded by friends, and you still felt sequestered, miles away. Maybe it was the exchanged looks on their faces, the pitying glances when they thought you weren’t looking or wouldn’t notice. Maybe it was the way they spoke of their shared future when this was all over, the one you weren’t sure you’d be there for. Something sliced right through you and cauterized the wound. 

Even as you climbed the spiral staircase, trailing two steps behind Harrington, the vacuous concrete loomed in ways you’d never experienced until now. The compound felt vast, a labyrinth of memories you’d rather not dwell on lest they be used against you in your subconscious. 

The prospect of stepping into your room and the door closing behind you had your heart racing. So when Steve held his own door open and nodded for you to join him, you didn’t argue. 

His room was warm and tidy and smelled of his aftershave. His sink was void of dishes, the little countertop holding various tubs and tubes of toothpaste and hair product. His bed was unmade, in a way that looked enticing, cozy, a clump of blankets bunched near the foot to expose the indentation of his frame. A few books were stacked on the bedside table near that secret pair of glasses he kept folded beneath a lamp. 

He crossed the room and turned on a little clock radio, shifting through the static until an unfamiliar pop crooner’s voice filled the little space. You wondered if this was a habit he’d always had, or if he thought it’d keep your parasite at bay.

Then, he opened his wardrobe to retrieve a matching sweatshirt to your own, pulling it over his head. He popped from the collar mussy haired and yawning. He caught his yawn in his hand before rubbing at tired eyes. He reached across the bed for his glasses and pushed them up the bridge of his nose, bleary eyed. 

You shifted on the balls of your feet, lingering just inside the threshold. 

He filled up a couple red plastic cups of water, checking the temperature on his hand first. He set them both on the rickety tabletop, gesturing for you to come join him, before he pulled a deck of cards from a nearby drawer full of pens and paper.

“Any - “ He stifled another yawn, shaking it off with a frown. “Sorry. Any good at Slap Jack?”

The circles under his eyes looked darker in this light, accentuating the yellowed bruise on his cheekbone you’d given him nearly a week earlier. His shoulders slumped, and his hair stood on end. He looked ragged, run through. 

You rolled your eyes. “Harrington, go to bed.” 

“What? No. I’m fine,” he shrugged you off, pulling out his seat to dump the deck into one hand. He began to shuffle, and you watched him with crossed arms. “Will you come sit down?” 

“When’s the last time you slept?” You asked, toeing out of your sneakers and leaving them at the door. 

You didn’t like the look he gave you. The last time you’d run into his room in the middle of the night, he was up and reading. That was nearly a month ago. Hairs prickled at the base of your skull.

Caught, he shrugged it off, kept shuffling. “Last night, whenever.” You knew he’d spent last night sneaking in to see you. 

You leaned forward and peeled the cards from his hands, straightening the deck before sliding it back into its box. 

He shot you an irritated look, crossing his arms over his chest.

You challenged his with a look of your own, tossing the cards back to the tabletop. 

Finally, he spoke, voice soft. “I can’t.” 

You swallowed. “Why not?”

He didn’t answer, only traced your frame with big brown eyes. 

Self-conscious, you adjusted your sweatshirt as it fell over your shoulders. The ribbed hems of your sleeves were frayed from use. A big yellow stain splotched the left side of your chest, source unknown and impossible to wash out. Now clean and dry, you were sure you looked only slightly less haggard than the man in front of you. 

“I’ll stay up with you,” he offered, a polite way of saying he was terrified of letting you fall asleep. 

You shook your head. “I won’t fall asleep.” It was a polite way of saying you were terrified too. “Besides, I don’t feel very safe knowing you’re running on fumes.”

You avoided his gaze by looking back around the space, finding some escape, some trick. You spotted the stack of books near his bedside, and crossed the tight space to pull The Shining from the middle of the stack.

Steve grumbled your name, rubbed at tired eyes from beneath the rims of his glasses. 

You lifted his pillow, floppier than your own, and propped it against the radiator he used as a headboard. Holding your breath, you climbed into his space on the bed, folding your legs in front of you and patting your lap. “C’mere.” 

He blinked back at you and didn’t move, sideways in his chair, rooted to the spot. 

You held your book aloft, flipping to a random page. “This book is terrifying. I’ll be too scared to sleep, but if I do…” You feigned sleep, a bit melodramatic, like you were acting a skit to convince a child, and you dropped the book into your lap. “It’ll wake you up.” 

You blinked one eye open to catch the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. He scratched at the back of his neck. “You want me uh…” He pointed at your lap.

You warmed, wondered what the hell you were thinking, and licked your lips before you nodded. “Sure.” The word came out with a tight breath. 

Again, he didn’t move. He stared at his feet for a moment, as if willing them to pick themselves up, and then with a sigh, he reached to untie the laces of his boots before he stepped out of them. 

Your heart began to race, the steady drum behind your sternum that heated your chest, your throat, your cheeks. 

He stood, and took slow strides toward you, stopping at the foot of the bed. He scratched at his jaw again before mumbling, “Are you sure?” 

You nodded and shifted again, a vain attempt to become more comfortable, more accommodating. 

With a series of loud sighs, he fell to the mattress, the whole thing bouncing under his weight until he managed to crawl and roll his head into your lap. He hesitated to rest the full weight of his head on your thigh, so you placed a stiff hand to his shoulder to encourage him to relax. He was warm and heavy, but not uncomfortably so. 

“Want me to put your glasses up?” You asked, suddenly self-conscious about everything at this angle. 

“Hm? Oh.” He pulled the frames from his nose and folded them, placing them in your outstretched hand. 

You replaced them onto the beside table and adjusted your hips with a mumbled apology. 

Steve was too long for the bed, socked ankles and feet dangling off the far end. He still wore his tactical pants, all straps and pockets and buckles, and the collar of his sweatshirt scrunched up around his jaw. He sat up a little to pull his sweatshirt down and tried to settle to a softer part of your leg.

“Do you need a blanket?” You asked, tugging at the army green fleece. You hated how breathy you sounded, how your voice betrayed you every time. 

He shook his head, crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m okay. Are you sure?”

You snorted, lifted the book high enough to hide your face, and said, “Harrington, go to sleep.” 

“Okay,” his skull rumbled against your thigh. “But if anything happens.” 

“I will happily smack you with this book,” you lifted it higher to glance back down at him. 

His eyes were closed, but the corner of his lips quirked upward. His eye lashes were so long, casting shadows on freckled cheeks, pinched rosy in the heat or embarrassment of your positions. 

You swallowed and flipped the book to the front page, lest he open his eyes again and catch you staring. You pretended to read until his head grew heavy, and the steady rise and fall of his chest came out in near imperceptible snores.

Despite the warmth emanating from him, something deep in the recesses of your mind reminded you how alone you now were. 

The radio remained on beside you, pop songs you’d let fade into the background. The clock told you it was late into the night, and the lack of sounds from the hall exemplified that. You wondered if anyone could hear you call for help.

You closed the book and added it to its stack, glancing around the room for signs it was real, that you were there and you weren’t alone. 

Harrington rolled, cheek to your thigh, breath fanned hot and wet against the soft cloth of your sweatpants. His fists unclenched from beneath his biceps, and he stretched one large hand under your calf. He was real, and he was there. 

He always had been, just as he promised. Late nights nose-to-nose, exchanging secrets and promises and breath had all come to this. He’d kept you as safe as he could, and you did the same. Every time you needed him, he’d appeared with strong arms wrapped around you, brow crumpled in concern.

In the past two years, you were sure you’d only seen him this relaxed, this content, once before. Careful not to wake him, you tucked his hair up and out of his face.

—

Eddie frowned over his white ceramic mug while he slurped.

The morning crowd had since dispersed, leaving the caf in silence, but at your over-caffeinated state, your mind was lost in a cacophony of sounds: the squeak of sneakers against the linoleum, the brush of a flat broom into a pile in the corner, the clang of dishes being washed somewhere in the back, the rattle of screws in the table leg as your leg bounced with reckless abandon. 

Eddie set his mug to the tabletop, the silver rings around his finger tinkling the bottom of the cup.

You wrapped your knuckles against the table, unable to stop moving, too overstimulated, too anxious, too much kinetic energy.

Eddie stared at your knuckles for a moment. You watched his jaw tick.

You shuddered and reached for your lukewarm cup of coffee. 

Eddie snatched it out of your fingers, and it tumbled to the table with a surprising bounce, casting brown liquid across orange tabletop. “Shit, sorry,” he grumbled, and stood to grab a wet rag from a nearby table to clean up the mess. 

“Munson, what the hell, dude?” Harrington stood and swiped coffee from the crotch of his pants. His chair groaned against chipped flooring, snagged on a lifted tile.

You reached out to grab the back before it went teetering to the floor.

“She’s tweaking out!” Eddie gestured to you, juices from the wet rag spattering your cheek. “Reminds me of my old man.” 

“Is that why you won’t even look at me?” You snapped, mopping your face with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. 

“No,” he pointed at you. “I won’t look at you because you’ve got a fucking monster living inside of you, and I’m sorry I can’t coddle you like Harrington does.” 

“Hey!” Harrington argued. You noticed his shoulders started to square in defense, stepping between you.

“No, dude, fuck off. I don’t want to hear it. She doesn’t need you to be her knight and shining armor. It’s not that deep.” Eddie waved him off with the shake of his head, curls falling over slumped shoulders. He gripped his walker and looked directly at you. 

“You can’t seem to understand that your shit affects the people around you too. We can talk once you’ve figured that out.” He pushed off from the table, and you heard the squeak of rubber pads against flooring as he left.

Steve opened his mouth to say something, but you tugged on the elbow of his sweatshirt until he stepped aside. He frowned down at you, obstinate, but you placed a hand to his chest, and he seemed to soften.

“He’s right,” you said.

“Doesn’t mean he has to be an asshole about it.” 

You shrugged, catching a snap of anger at unsuspecting recruits in the hallway. “We’re all on edge.” 

After another long moment, the crash of tin cans sounded, followed by a series of shouted curse words. A trash lid rolled by the caf double doors. You took a deep breath. 

“You’re the only one who understands what he’s gone through,” Steve muttered.

You hoped he felt the animosity in your expression. You hoped he couldn’t sense how your shoulders relaxed when he tugged at the elbow of your own sweatshirt. 

He nodded toward the hallway. “Go talk to Munson. He’s been really shit in the War Room, and I think it’s because he’s worried about you.” 

You groaned, stamped your feet, but slowly let them carry out away from the smell of stale coffee and cleaning chemicals. 

You found him a few floors up. He’d taken the elevator to the offices, and had settled into a rolling chair behind an oversized desk that would have been reception at a busier time. He looked up as you entered, rolled his eyes, and leaned back with arms crossed over his slender chest. 

“Hey,” you crossed your arms over your own chest, a challenge. You stopped a few feet from the desk. You could hear Hopper’s mumble just beyond a dented steel door down the hall. 

“Hello,” Eddie countered. “What do you want?”

“Apparently my shit affects the people around me.”

He didn’t smile at that. Instead, he sighed and adjusted himself on the chair. The gears squeaked under his weight. 

You grit your teeth through any need to keep pushing his buttons and rubbed at exhausted eyes before you took a few steps forward to the front panel of the desk. You leaned over it, two fists to the tabletop, and muttered. “His plan is to keep reminding me that I’ve murdered everyone who ever loved me. Why perpetuate that by letting me think you hate me too?”

“Shit,” he grumbled and pawed at his own face, scrubbing at the stubble that had grown on his chin. He looked about as rough as you all had, and you knew he hadn’t slept the night before either. “I don’t hate you,” he hissed, though he did back the chair up a few more feet until he hit the wall. 

“I know,” you stood back up. “I just wanted to make you feel shitty for ignoring me for the past two days. You know, I’d feel a lot less hopeless about my fate if the one person who knew what I was going through wasn’t, I don’t know, terrified of me?” 

His gaze softened, big brown eyes turned downward as he gnawed on the cuticle of a nail that you’re sure had been shredded. “It’s not you,” he said through his teeth. “It’s the other dickhead.” He gestured toward your head, but his eyes went somewhere far-off, somewhere full of beasts and burned woods and horror.

“He can’t get you, Eds,” you shrugged off the sharp pain in your shoulder, the gnawing at your spinal cord.

“You don’t know that,” he whispered.

Another sting strung through you, like fingers plucking your strings, and you closed your eyes through the pain, pushed through. “How did you get out of it before? This… mindfuck, how did you escape it?”

Eddie shrugged, shook out his curls. “I don’t know.”

Panic at the familiarity of having questions unanswered began to claw at your insides, and you snapped, slamming your hands back down onto the table. “Don’t bullshit me, Munson. You guys are plotting how to get this parasite out of me. You won’t let me sleep. I need to be babysat at all times by people who are afraid of me. I’m not a child! Teach me how to defend myself against this.”

“What in the Hell is going on out here?” A gruff shout preceded the creak of a door on its hinges, the stomping of boots from down the hall. When Hopper caught sight of you both, his shoulders relaxed in a sigh.

“We’re just screaming about our impending doom,” Eddie explained, that sardonic grin spreading across his features. 

Hopper made eye contact with you and cocked a brow, frown-unmoved by Munson’s sarcasm. “You okay?” 

You shrugged, shoved your hands in your pants pockets. “You guys figure out how to get this asshole out of me yet?” 

Hop made eyes at your best friend, and the two of them exchanged cryptic glances before he said, “Working on it. Is there a reason you’re fighting outside my office?” 

Eddie looked at you, and you thought he was expecting an answer until his smile fell, and you watched the sadness pierce his brown eyes. “No, sir,” he said, “I was just coming to ask how soon we could get back into the War Room.” 

The old man looked between you two again. “Twenty minutes sound good?” 

Eddie sighed, rubbing at tired eyes. “Better make it thirty.”

With a salute, Hopper turned and walked back to his office, floor squeaking beneath his feet. 

Eddie pulled himself off his chair and started making his way back toward the elevators. You gave him a wide berth, until he gestured for you to catch up, and you did so tentatively. 

The doors buzzed open when the lift arrived, and you both stepped inside. It quaked a little under your combined weight, but managed to start its ascent the moment the doors closed again. The mechanics whirred a little, and the little box smelled of hot metal. 

“Dustin sang to me.” Munson broke the silence. His hand was trembling, rings clanging against the metal hand-hold of his walker. “I beat the ever-loving shit out of him. He almost died at my hands, and he was laying there, bloodied, face-swollen, and he started singing.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You remembered seeing Henderson afterward. You remember visiting him in the Med Bay, of seeing the pain everyone had suffered at the hands of this monster. “What did he sing?” 

Eddie snorted, rolled his eyes. “The Never-Ending Story theme.” 

The halt of the elevator stifled the chuckle you emitted at the image, and you reached a hand to hold the door open for your friend while he exited into a dark hallway.

“Yeah, it was so stupid, but all those little shits were there, and they were telling me stories about Hellfire,” he continued, pushing forward toward mid-morning light cast across pale yellow walls. “They remembered shit I’d forgotten about, and they talked about these characters like we were all there living it. Like we’d destroyed Lord Vecna with swords and axes and a slingshot.”

The mention of his name brought ice-cold to the warmth of your chest.

“So I think it was all of those memories. That’s what snapped me out of it: those weird ass kids and the stupid tabletop game we played after school.”

The idea itself was heartwarming, wholesome, and you ought to be inspired, happy even, that these kids managed to rescue your best friend from the brink. Somehow, the only thing that came to mind was a shock of red hair, black smoke, ash and char and agonizing screams.

“Stop,” Eddie stopped and reached out to grab your hand. “I know you’re thinking about Vickie right now, and you couldn’t have saved her. You didn’t know, and she didn’t know.”

His hand was warm, and a bit damp, and his eyes were fierce. 

“Think about all of the good times you had with her. Think about all the times I knocked on your door to find you two whispering and cackling. Think about all the fights we’ve gotten into about music. Think about Robin’s horrible taste in ice cream. Think about how good it feels to kiss Harrington. Think about how stupid Hopper looks without a mustache.” 

You laughed, a barked thing that stung at emotional-filled vocal chords, and batted at the grin that formed on his stupid face.

“Ow,” he chuckled, shoving you back, hard enough to have you stumbling backwards slightly, and he zoomed around a corner before you scrambled to catch-up, still chuckling.

Light poured in from adjacent windows, across the common area. The soft curls atop his head glowed in sunlight and warmth, and before you could stop yourself, you swung your arms tight around his slender waist and buried your face into the sweet sting of marijuana that lingered in his t-shirt.

He stumbled a little, tensed, but quickly relaxed into the embrace, folding his arms around you too. “We’re not going to let him win, damnit. Fucking promise me.” 

You grit your teeth and nodded, that uneasy pull settling into your shoulders like wings. “Promise.” 

—

Day slipped to night, and you watched pale yellow hallways burn orange and peach with the setting sun. Teams took turns chauffeuring you around the compound, keeping you company and keeping you caffeinated. You tried to keep Eddie’s words at heart, lingering on the smiles and laughter, and you were bid goodnight with hugs and high-fives in the common room just as Scorch was making their way to their respective dorms for the night.

You heard the whispers first, pulling yourself off a barstool to greet everyone with a smile that fell the moment you caught their gazes, their judgment, their disdain. 

Panic dug its claws into your chest. Each of your teammates passed with terror in their eyes until the last two squeezed themselves through the stairwell doorway. Harrington held the heavy steel door open to let Wheeler through.

She spotted you as the others had, jaw clenched, blue eyes fierce. Unlike the others, she crossed right to you. “We’re getting it figured out. You’ll be out of the dark soon, I promise. How’re you feeling?” 

“F-fine,” you swallowed, glanced over her shoulder at Harrington. He was staring at his feet, scratching that scar at the back of his skull. “Tired.” 

Nancy nodded, and glanced over her shoulder before dipping her own gaze to the ground. “Listen, I know I’ve never told you this, but I really admire you.”

Her words stirred something within you, that panic kicking back up again, all claws and teeth and gaping mouth. “What?” Your mouth felt dry. 

She looked up at you then, shrugged, the softest smile quirking at the corner of her bow lips. “You were an amazing team lead, and you had to make some horrific decisions, I can’t imagine…” She cut herself off, cleared her throat. “I just think you’re really brave.”

You managed to thank her, somehow, though you were stunned, and she bid you both a goodnight.

You stared at her back as she retreated, curly hair cascading over her petite shoulders. Even now, in the glow of an Exit sign, she stood tall, proud.

“C’,mon,” Harrington gestured for you to follow him, hands shoved into his pockets. He still hadn’t made eye contact with you, and the panic crawled on all-fours up your esophagus.

“Harrington,” you hissed, pulling your keys and lanyard from your pocket as he stopped beside you dorm room door.

“Can I come in?”

Your hands trembled unlocking your door. You room was stale, cold. You kicked off your shoes near the door and hung your key on its hook by the door. Harrington crossed to your radio to flick it on, static breaking through tracks until he found a station he was satisfied with.

“Harrington,” you hated the way your voice wavered, fear chattering your teeth. “You have to tell me if I’m going to die.” 

He looked up at you then, brow crumpled. “You know I won’t let that happen.” 

“You might not have a choice!”

“Stop saying that!” His volume matched yours, and his own fists shook at his sides, and his tone warmed you. 

That same excitement, the familiarity of a fight kicked up in your chest. You rolled your eyes. “Harrington…”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’m sick of you saying you’re going to give up on me. I’ve put everything into keeping you alive, and you go and say shit like that and make it all feel meaningless?”

The excitement fluttered, wavered, burned out, a flame doused with water to drown it with reality. You swallowed, frowned, ground your molars until something ached in your jaw.

“I promised - ” 

“Cut the bullshit,” you snapped. “We all made promises to her, but she’s dead now, okay?” 

“I’m not talking about Vickie.” He cut you off again. 

Your ears rang in the silence of the room, the steady thump of your heartbeat, the in-and-out of your breath.

“I promised you,” his jaw tightened, “that night, in my room, when we fell asleep, you told me you were scared of all this, and that you couldn’t tell Vickie how scared you were because you had to be brave for her. Do you remember that?”

Secrets were exchanged nose-to-nose, mixing breath warm, gentle circles drawn with thumbs on bare thighs, promises made. 

“I told you I’d be brave for you. I promised I’d keep you safe.”

He had muttered the words to your forehead, soft lips to your brow as you dozed off, dreaming only of fire and ash. 

“I’m trying so hard to be brave here,” he stepped toward you painfully slow, the creak of boots against linoleum. “But it’s hard when I don’t know if I can keep you safe, and that scares me because I love you, and I’m not letting you go that easily.” 

The table separated you, a rickety excuse for a boundary that teetered under your touch. This was entirely new territory, an attack you hadn’t expected, were unsure how to navigate. You resorted to comfort.

“I didn’t ask you to be brave for me,” you scoffed, hand trembling against the back of a chair.

Harrington’s eyes remained on you, brow crumpled, less in anger now than something more fragile. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I said I’m in love with you.”

Your stomach swooped, heart clawing to get out with rapid beats, screaming in your ears. “I-I know.” You stammered.

“Do you…” He cleared his throat, fingertips tracing the tabletop dangerously close to your own. He licked his lips and watched you carefully, eyes hopeful. “How do you… I mean?” He gestured wildly, mouth quirking upward in panic.

You chewed back a laugh, something warm and familiar kicking back up. You managed to roll your eyes. “Yeah, Harrington, yes. You can calm down. I’ve been in love with you since I got into your stupid car.” 

“It’s not a competition,” he grumbled, stepping around the table to approach you. He was warm, brown eyes and upturned pink lips. 

“I’m not competing with you, I’m just telling you how I feel. I’m starting to think you’re the one obsessed with competition.” You were rambling, a nervous habit you must’ve picked up from your best friend, tongue running while your heart raced. 

“Will you shut up and let me kiss you?” He mumbled, lashes long and eyes dark. He cupped your face with one strong hand, tracing the curves of your face with his thumb. 

“Okay,” you breathed. Your eyes sunk closed at the pull of his nose against your own, the dip of his cupid’s bow to your own, and when his lips met yours, you could have melted into the floor.

His kiss was sweet, soft, the gentle press of his lips to your own while he cradled your face. When you separated, eyes fluttering open to see him hovering over you, that smile across his features, you found yourself hungry for more.

Gripping the shoulder seams of his t-shirt, you pulled him in for another go, took his gasp for air as an invitation to deepen the kiss. You tasted him, all tongues and teeth as you vied for dominance, and his free hand gripped the elastic waistband at your hip until the material was taut.

He kissed better than you remembered, a wash of warm and safety and heat and passion, but memory still begged for the feeling of your hands in his hair and his large, warm hands on you. 

He sucked in a breath when you scratched at his scalp, gently passing by the healing scar on your way to bury your fingers in the thick of his hair. He hummed into your lips, dropping his hand from your cheek to grip the other side of your sweatpants.

You groaned, tilting your head sideways to allow him to place damp kisses along the column of your throat. “Harrington, put your hands on me.”

He groaned, a rumble deep in his chest that coursed another wave of need through you. “You can use my first name, you know.” He nosed at your earlobe, smile evident in his voice.

“You have to earn it,” you bit back a smile, and yelped when his hands found your ribcage and pushed you up against your cabinets and countertop. The linoleum was cold against the small of your back, and your arms raised above your head for him to pull your sweatshirt up and over. 

He cupped your face again, crowding you with his oversized frame as he pressed himself into you. His lips were soft against yours, soft enough to make you feel vulnerable, taken off-guard. He kissed your cheek where it met your lips and the tip of your chin. He trailed warm, breathy kisses along the curve of your jaw, moving his hands to your shoulders until his lips met them there. 

You watched him, breathless, as his fingers pushed one strap of your tank top down, and you bit back a whimper as his lips replaced the strap at the juncture of your clavicle. 

His hands clutched at your waist band again, and he rocked his hips into yours, and you gasped at the friction of yourself against his hard length.

He pulled back, eyes dark, chest rising and falling rapidly, to gauge your reaction, and it was enough to have you clawing at his t-shirt again. He reached to pull it from the back of its collar, and you shrugged yourself out of your sweatpants, allowing the comfortable fabric to pool at the floor.

You lifted yourself onto the countertop and embraced the heat of his bare abdomen against you as he dove in for another passionate kiss. You clutched at the meat between his shoulder blades, delighting in the rumble of a groan as you dug your nails in and dragged to the base of his skull.

His hands were on you, finally, warm and strong and dexterous, worshiping your waist, your ribcage, your breasts.

You arched into his touch, gasping into his mouth, and he gripped your hips with one hand to pull you to the counter’s edge to grind himself into you again. Your body responded in kind to his touch, pliable.

You leaned your head against the upper cabinets, what few possessions that lived inside rattled.

He kissed your neck and chest, thumb pebbling your nipple, while his other hand massaged from your hip crease to your knee.

You clawed at the expanse of his chest, desperate for him to get closer, but delighting in the feel of his tongue against you until he stopped.

He pulled back, pulling his hand from beneath your shirt to rest on your hip while his other continued slow ministrations along your thigh. You watched as his fingertips ghosted the thick scarring there, five distinct claw marks from ribcage to knee, a part of you now you’d nearly forgotten, invisible under your own gaze. 

You swallowed, suddenly too warm, exposed. You ducked your head, eyeing the curves of him instead, the breadth of his chest, smattering of hair that covered his sternum and trailed down past his navel to disappear beneath his waistband. On either side of his ribs were scars that matched yours, purple and puckered and violent.

“You are brave,” he said, recapturing your focus, voice syrupy sweet, gaze dangerous. “You are beautiful.”

You sucked in a breath as his fingertips ghosted your inner thigh, a trickle of ticklish touches against the softest bits of you until you felt the sweet press of fingertips to your center. 

“Can I touch you?” He muttered. He licked his lips, eyes cast downward. 

“Yes,” you whined, gripping the countertop’s edge, “please.”

His forearm flexed as he moved your underwear to the side, and his thick fingers gathered the slick at your core to coat your folds. “Please who?” He asked.

You almost didn’t catch it, lost in the ecstasy of his touch, but you blinked to the forefront of your consciousness to see the cocky smirk stretched across his features. You bit back a smile and managed half an eye roll before he sunk two fingers into you, the perfect stretch. Your eyes slid closed, and you clung to his forearm, gasping his name. “Steve.”

“Uh uh,” he tutted, “don’t go away. Open your eyes, beautiful. Want to watch you.” 

Your eyes snapped back open, and his cheeks flushed in a wide smile.

“Good girl,” he nodded, and proceeded to take you apart with nimble fingers, watching you ride the wave until you came crashing down, digging your nails into his arms and stars scattered in your eyesight. 

He caught your lips in a sweet kiss, dropping your thigh from his hip with a squeeze. He chuckled as you caught your breath against his chest, spent, and nosed at your earlobe, planting a sweet kiss there too. 

“I hate you,” you grumbled, nipping at his clavicle to hide the smile stretched across your features. 

“Liar,” he countered, rumbling in a hearty laugh. 

“You’re awfully cocky,” you countered, reaching your hand to palm at his hardened length through his pants. 

He groaned and ground against your hand until your mouth watered. 

You gestured behind him, shoving at his shoulders until he gave you enough space to hop off the counter. The linoleum tiles were freezing beneath the balls of your feet. “Get on the bed.”

He stumbled backwards, the grin across his face possibly the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. 

You pulled your tank top from your head and tossed it to the growing clothes pile. “Take off your pants, boots too.” You stepped out of your underwear. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he sat on the foot of your bed to unlace his boots, before standing to frantically paw at the buckle of his belts before he worked his pants down his thick thighs. 

His movements were eager, and you couldn’t help but laugh as you met him where he stood. “Can I help?” You dipped your hand into the waistband of his underwear. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, arms stretched over his head before he pulled you in tight. “Full disclosure?” 

You hummed, wrapping your fingers around him.

He squeezed his eyes shut and grabbed your arm to stop your movements. When he looked at you again, he seemed scared. “It’s been like two years…”

You smiled, pulling your hand from his boxers before tugging them all the way down, cock springing free. With his pants around his ankles, you shoved your partner to the mattress, springs groaning under his weight, and you carefully climbed on top. 

“C’mere,” he grumbled, pulling you down to meet his lips in a warm kiss. He snaked his arms around you, large hands running over the curves of your back. “You’re perfect,” he said, squeezing the dips of your hips, rolling you into him. 

You shared lazy kisses and appreciated one another’s bodies with wandering hands and lips. You sat up, hands extended to his shoulders, his pecs, the ripple of abs that twitched with laughter under your fingertips. “Steve,” you whispered, an unfamiliar emotion sticking to your vocal cords.

He hummed, tilting his head to catch your gaze. His brow crumpled in concern. You felt so blessed to see him relaxed, comfortable, safe. 

“I love you.” The tears threatened to spill, and you held them back, holding his hands against your hip creases. “I love you, and I’m…” Scared, guilty, sad, grateful, heartbroken, fulfilled, home.

“Hey,” he reached a hand to catch your cheek. “I love you, and I promise I’m going to keep you safe.” 

You nodded, kissed the palm of his hand. You maintained his gaze, kissing his wrist, the tips of his fingers, before you centered yourself over him. 

He tangled his fingers in your own and nodded, biting down on his lower lip as you sunk down onto him. 

If you were fire, Steve was water, the sweet swell of calm emotions and tranquility. For every push, he offered soft kisses, for every pull, he hummed praises. You rode the wave through peaks and valleys, and he worshipped your peaks and valleys. He rolled you over, pressing you into the warm woolen fabric of your blanket, and washed over your in warmth and love and devotion. He was all hands and protection and licked kisses, the snap of hips and sweet confessions of love. 

Your body buzzed with overstimulation, aching muscles stretched taut and plied soft again, and you stared up at water-stained ceilings, your surroundings coming quickly back into focus. 

Steve kissed you, mouth sweet with you, and eyes heavy with exhaustion, both satisfied and well-spent. He moved the hair from his eyes, pushing it up and back until it stood on end, and he leaned on one arm to trace circle into your chest, pulling the covers up higher to cover his waist. “Hey,” he whispered, cupping your cheek in his face. “Where’d you go?” 

You blinked back at him, feigning a smile to quell the worry on his face. “You should get some sleep.” 

His face fell, and he glanced over your shoulder at the clock radio. The late night advertisements buzzed back into your periphery.

He rolled onto his back beside you, pulling you into his chest with an arm around you. He squeezed you in tight, pressing his lips to your hairline again and again and again. He felt stiff, the easiness of the last few hours wiped away with one question. 

Anxiety bloomed in your chest, flower-faced with rows and rows of razor sharp teeth, claws at the flesh that hid your sternum. 

Harrington cleared his throat, kissing you one last time before he muttered, “We should get dressed.”

---

[A/N: They're in love!? Who knew!? This chapter was really a labor of love for me, and I'm getting very emotional knowing the next chapter is the last one. This story has honestly meant so much to me. Thank you so much for reading xo]

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Chapter Five: Searing • Chapter Seven: Inferno

[sminiac]

౨ৎ⋆˚｡ — Damage To Me ! Pt.2

⋆ Kim Jongseob + Reader

♫ — P1Harmony ‘Late Night Calls’

Pt.1

The light of his circumstances made him flourish at a rate that not many other people could achieve, or at the very least mimic. Jongseob used to think highly of himself because of this, I mean, how lucky is he? To have that something etched into his being, inwardly shaping him for greatness, whether he wanted it or not.

Except, now that he’s found solidity in this revelation, the arduous roads he’s travelled in hindsight look so smooth under his feet only now that they’ve been walked.

He can be destined for something, sure, but some selfish part of him— even if just a fragment, will always want something else.

“I think I know why you’re like this,” he places his thoughts down gently, in fear of scaring you off his hand moves to hold the side of your face, but you only look confused hearing this.

“—sorry,” he interrupts himself, softening the blunt blow to your chest. “why we, are like this.”

Your fingers still brush gently against the skin of his forehead, even if he’s gutting you from the inside out he’s so beautiful while doing it, you’d admire him even in death, moving the blonde hair out of the way of his eyes makes his nose twitch, allowing him a better view of your shredded state in his lap. “What are we like?” You lure out, your voice soft, welcoming of whatever he has to say.

At the ready he replies “Motionless.” With the release of a caged breath, his eyes flitting down to trace the outline of your lips, “We’re motionless.” He says again, the warmth of an apology ghosting at his words, ‘and I’m sorry for it’ he wants to add, unsurprisingly it doesn’t follow. It isn’t a secret, you know it’s also not profound or anything, but the acknowledgment makes it viscerally apparent that there’s a stagnancy that’s both keeping you together, but still so far apart.

His thumb nudges at your lip bottom, a place among multiple that only he has the unspoken permission to feel. “You’re getting tired of it?” You ask through the pressure of his finger, it prompts a stillness to rest on his bones, a sour feeling in your gut buds with a nauseating speed from how he dithers. He doesn’t physically pull away but you can feel that he’s put himself at a distance, “‘Seob?” You ask, watching as he focuses on the drag of his finger.

“I should be.” He voices in a brittle tone. “I want to be.”

The feeling of him on your skin disappears, a sigh as he leans back onto his bed. “But at the same time I know you aren’t.” He adds.

His forearms keep him slightly propped up as his cheek rests against his shoulder with a roll of his head, he looks devastatingly handsome like this, his hair a mess, his lips still wet. Yeah, you think, absolutely even In death.

You lick at your lips, tasting the remnants of what his touch leaves behind. “Why does that matter?” You manage to ask, hands pressing flat against his rib cage.

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you? Sitting on me because you know I wanna kiss you, make up for lost time.. you have a stronger resolve than I ever will you know this.” It’s terribly bold of him to insinuate you have even a sliver of the strength it’ll take to pick yourself up and walk out the door when still more than your body continues to occupy his room. It makes you laugh now, the stupidity of it all— the keychains hanging off of your bag that he gifted to you, his name saved in your contacts barren of any affections, how he continues to watch your private stories just to keep tabs on what you’re doing while you’re away, even if he has to suffer from the jealousy of other guys hanging around you.

It’s all just, stupid, for a lack of better understanding- the multitude of struggles you impose on yourselves, and so willingly too. Down right stupid.

Jongseob has books, pages, filled with things he wants to say to you, the fact that he likes the way you have yourself on him right now is only archived to it, he thinks that if every convulsing ache of his heart meant he could have you like this again and again he could tough it out, always, just for you. “You still didn’t tell me why.” You prod, entertaining him with a smile as you follow him down, choosing to ignore the flood causing downpour that looms overhead.

“Mmh.. ’s because I don’t know how to be just friends with you.” He explains, his pitchy laugh contrasts from the familiar expression that seeps into his features, eyes lidded, struggling to pay attention to just one part of you, how could he when every piece of you is being drawn to the palm of his hands like a fragile winged moth to light?

“You don’t?” You ask airily, landing, equally as distracted as him, his hands never were rough to the touch, he was always gentle, kind in just the right amounts.

“Never. Why would I ever want to be friends now that I’ve experienced you in ways no one but me has?”

It’s late, 11 pm to be exact, and any anxiety driven thought in that pretty head of his is inexplicably quelled by your presence alone.

“Stay with me.” He urges, sudden and excited even with the sleep clouding thickly in his voice. “You can leave in the morning, as early as you want. Just.. stay in my bed, with me, for tonight.”

You couldn’t find yourself making a viable argument to get you out of here even if you needed to. How much harm could it really do? You question, nodding your agreement before pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

The harm will absolutely be irreparable, in a plethora of ways, that’s the real kicker, but the feeling of his fingers running up the slope of your neck and into your hair so he can pull you closer clashes with any and all common sense.

Every part of him you’ve felt has been soft, but his tongue is like no other.

ᰔ sminiac’s P1Harmony M.list

[strawberryblue-blog]

It's about fate —Jude Bellingham

Summary: destiny brings you together with Jude (with a furry helping hand).

Warning: none. Soft/cute.

Words: 2.5k+

#SEXYNOTE: English is not my first language.

The wind blew through your limbs as you walked through the park full of people around you.

Today was a nice winter day and thanks to the bright sunshine this morning, together with Boo, your dog, you had decided to go for a walk. The children were running and playing with each other, their parents were chatting and watching them, it was a great day you thought as you petted your dog animatedly. Boo admired the children and you knew he loved playing with them.

"Do you want to run, little guy?" you asked stroking his ears, Boo seemed to understand you and started wagging his tail in approval.

You removed the latch from his leash and when you indicated he could run, the canine began to walk away from you happily running between people. You smiled as you sat back down on the empty bench watching the children play with him, petting him and tugging at him with their toys.

You took the opportunity to grab your cell phone, checking notifications and answering some of them while enjoying the warmth of the morning sun.

When you finished you looked back at the children, but you were surprised not to see your dog among them. You turned your head a little, thinking maybe he was running, but he wasn't there either. You got up from your spot walking quickly into the crowd looking for Boo.

"Boo!" you yelled calling out to him. Your feet were heading mindlessly towards the other side of the park. "Boo!" you yelled again in desperation.

A tap on your foot made you turn quickly, seeing your dog's toy bone, you tried to grab it but a white dog jumped towards you starting to lick your face happily.

"Hello... beautiful Lola" you greeted petting her as you read her collar. "Have you seen Boo?" you asked showing her the toy. The dog started wagging her tail, wagging her ears as you heard footsteps behind you.

"Looks like we found your owner, Boo" you heard said, you quickly rejoined turning around.

Your eyes darted to the person speaking and you jumped up to hug your dog when he ran up to you. Your heart was beating steadily again and joy flooded your chest.

"We were looking for you," he smiled.

You quickly raised your head to him, smiling at him in appreciation. The young man looked at you smiling and he was so handsome that your cheeks turned reddish.

"Thank you so much for taking care of him" you thanked sincerely, hiding your nervousness at his cute smile. The young man nodded, smiling at you again.

It was probably one of the most beautiful smiles you had ever seen. His face had particular proportions and that made him so handsome. Suddenly you felt like a teenager in front of his crush and you didn't even know him. But you weren't going to lie, you felt anxious to know everything about him.

"I'm Jude" he stretched out his hand. Without waiting, you held it intertwining them. A small shiver ran down your back as their fingers touched and Jude, seemed to notice it too, smiling a little shyly.

"T/n" you said at his trapping look.

You were both surprised with barking while still holding hands, your dogs were playing so happily, they began to bark playfully at each other. Your smile was greatly marked when you saw the little dog lick your dog, inviting him to follow her and starting to run across the lawn playing with each other, leaving the two of you alone in the middle of the road.

"Do you want to sit for a while?" he asked scratching the back of his neck a little, as if he was nervous. "I mean... looks like we'll be around for a while longer" he gestured with his hand.

You turned your gaze to where he pointed and saw their dogs playing, running and petting each other as if they were kindred spirits. You were happy to see your little baby with Lola. But you were even happier that you could meet the boy who had stolen your heart at first sight.

"Sure" you smiled. Jude walked over to one of the nearest benches and gave you the place to sit first.

He really was a gentleman.

"Do you live in the neighborhood?" he asked. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to..."

"Yes. two blocks back" you pointed out showing him.

You were both nervous but somehow it felt warm, no pressure.

Jude grimaced. "Near the flower shop?" he continued.

"That's right, in the building next door" you commented. Jude was surprised, his eyes widening.

"I live there too" he said laughing. "Twenty-fifth floor."

You lived in the same place and you had never seen your neighbor so handsome?

"Floor 13" you smiled, unable to believe it. "It's weird we never saw each other before" arranging a lock of hair behind your ear.

"Maybe fate had other plans for us" he pleaded looking at you.

Your stomach churned with happiness. His smile was so bright it made you smile. Barking could be heard closer to you but you were caught up in your love bubble that you didn't notice your dogs starting to approach. Jude couldn't stop looking at you and your heart skipped a beat every time he did.

Paws on your legs brought you back to reality, taking your dog who was jumping on you to be petted.

Fate? Fate had definitely played out for you. But so had your pets. If it wasn't for Boo you probably would never have met Jude, your neighbor, whom you had never seen before.

If this was fate's chance, you were going to take it.

"Would you like to walk home with me?" you dared to ask. Jude was petting Lola and smiled broadly as he listened to you.

"I'd love to." he said.

thank you very much for all the love 🩵

[fanficshiddles]

Eternally Mine, Chapter 50

As soon as Loki turned down a side road, the SUV behind them followed and stopped behind them when Loki parked the car in at the edge of the track.

Nobody moved for a minute, then Chris took a deep breath. ‘Time to get this shit done.’ He put his hand at the back of Louise’s head, and pulled her in to kiss her forehead before getting out of the car and stalking towards the SUV.

Loki was nervous as he turned around to watch with the girls. Louise was too, she was so worried about Chris getting hurt.

Two people jumped out of the SUV, they were wearing all black and had balaclavas on, so Chris couldn’t get a good look at them.

One of them instantly ran towards Chris and aimed their gun at him and fired. Chris brought his arm up quickly to protect his face, the silver bullet went straight into his forearm. He hissed in pain but clenched his jaw as he focused on the task at hand.

‘What the…’ The hunter muttered in shock, Chris heard his voice and could tell it was a man.

Chris chuckled as his eyes turned red, his fangs emerged too. He leapt into the air and landed swiftly on the first hunter, he had planned to tear into him with his fangs, but ended up opting to snap his neck instead with his bare hands, with a quick jolt of his head right back. The cracking of his bones evident to even humans.

Just as Chris stood up, the second hunter took aim at him with a gun, but the back door of the SUV opened and out got a third hunter.

‘Shit, there’s another one. Lock the doors!’ Loki said firmly to Claire as he rushed out of the car.

The hunter that had just emerged from the car was about to aim at Chris too, but Loki turned into a bat and raced over, he turned back just as he landed on the hunter. He knocked them down and broke his arm as he tugged it backwards, then he leaned down and started feeding from their neck, draining them of blood.

While Loki dealt with the third hunter, Chris almost ran for the second, but when said hunter, with a steady hand and steady heartbeat, fired their gun and the bullet went whizzing right past Chris’ ear, he paused and raised an eyebrow at them.

The second hunter looked over at their fellow hunter that was being killed by Loki, they looked back at Chris and started to retreat.

When Loki finished with his feast, he stood up straight. His chin dripped with blood as he walked closer to Chris. Loki was about to lunge for the remaining hunter when he noticed Chris wasn’t doing anything, but Chris grabbed his arm to stop him.

‘Don’t.’ He said firmly.

Loki was confused, though the hunter walked quickly back to the SUV, jumped in and drove off.

‘Why did we just let them go like that?’ Loki yelled at Chris.

‘She missed her shot, it went right past my ear.’ Chris said.

‘So? Just because you got lucky with a miss, that means we should spare them? How do you know it was a she, anyway?’ Loki frowned as they headed back to the car.

‘Could tell by her figure, couldn’t you? You really need to be more observant, bro.’ Chris said as he got in the back seat with Louise, who instantly started fussing over him and checking he was ok, she screeched in horror when she saw the bullet in his arm.

‘It’s fine, pumpkin, don’t worry. I’m not effected by silver. It’ll pop right out soon and heal over, I promise. No need to worry.’ Chris assured her.

Claire did the same with Loki, and peppered his face with kisses once she found he was unharmed, making him chuckle.

‘I think that was Toshi’s inside guy… well, girl.’ Chris hummed.

Loki suddenly had a lightbulb moment. ‘Her inside person always misses when she’s hunting with others, unless there’s bad vampires to take out…’

‘Exactly. Though her aim wasn’t off, she meant to skim past my ear. It was a warning shot. She’s not got bad aim at all, I’m almost certain that’s Toshi’s insider.’

‘So… maybe the vampires at the café are bad?’ Louise asked, hopeful.

‘Maybe. Or maybe she’s been dragged along on this mission anyway. We won’t know for sure. Though we’ve had a lucky escape. Now let’s get going.’ Loki said as he tried to get focused on driving again.

‘Are you alright to drive?’ Chris asked.

‘Yeah. I didn’t get hit at all.’ Loki nodded.

‘Lucky you.’ Chris huffed as he looked at his forearm, though his body was already healing fast and pushing the bullet out.

‘I certainly hope that meeting my partners parents won’t be as eventful as this day has been already.’ Chris said with a little smirk as he looked at Louise.

‘No, it’ll be much scarier.’ Louise giggled.

‘Yeah, if you think your stress levels are high now, wait until you’ve been there ten minutes.’ Claire grinned.

‘That’s so gross, ewww!’ Louise gagged when suddenly the bullet popped out of Chris’ forearm, his skin then began to heal over and it was like nothing had ever happened. Even his tattoos were un-damaged. It was cool, but gross too.

Loki and Chris laughed at her reaction.

‘You don’t want to keep the bullet as a souvenir?’ Chris teased as he rolled it around in his palm.

‘God, no.’ Louise scrunched her nose up.

Chris wound the window down and tossed it out onto the roadside. He didn’t want to keep it either.

-

‘Do you think your mum’s baked any goodies?’ Loki asked excitedly when they arrived in the town where they lived.

‘More than likely. She adores you.’ Claire smiled.

‘I know.’ Loki smiled. ‘Can’t beat her baking.’

‘I can’t believe you’re thinking about your stomach already after that lunch we just had. Plus, the eventful drive.’ Claire laughed.

‘You should know by now, love. I’m always thinking about my stomach.’

‘Don’t you think we should stop somewhere before getting there?’ Chris suggested.

‘Why?’ Loki asked.

‘You are covered in blood. I don’t think seeing your girls parents in that state would be ideal. Do you?’ Chris pointed out.

Loki glanced down at his shirt. ‘Shit. I didn’t even realise.’

Chris rolled his eyes.

‘Have to admit, I didn’t either.’ Claire muttered as she looked at his blood-stained t-shirt. Then she looked round at Chris and frowned. ‘Hey, why are you not covered in blood?’

Chris smirked. ‘Because I used my noodle, unlike my brother, and didn’t want to have to change beforehand. So I opted out of feasting on the hunter...’ Chris looked at Louise, who was leaning into his side. ‘Besides, I can always get a much better feast tonight.’ He growled and wiggled his eyebrows.

Louise giggled and felt her stomach flip. Though she then put on a serious face. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you… My parents are very… prude… We won’t be able to share a room. It’ll be me and Claire bunking together, you and Loki will need to fight it out for the spare room or sofa. Plus, displays affection will need to be on the low down while we are there.’

Chris’ eyes widened. He looked at Loki and Claire, though could tell by Claire’s face she was trying not to laugh. He looked back at Louise and glared at her. ‘You’re pulling my leg!’

‘I’m absolutely serious.’ Louise tried, but she couldn’t keep her composure. Especially when he put his arms around her and tickled her.

‘Nice try.’ He growled at her.

They pulled into the car park at the local park, Chris and Louise hopped out of the car to go for a little walk around, to stretch their legs, while Loki got changed in the car.

‘That was hot as hell, by the way.’ Claire said as she bit her lip.

‘I figured you found it arousing… I could smell you as soon as I got back in the car.’ Loki growled and winked at her as he shrugged off his shirt.

Claire’s face turned red. ‘Couldn’t help it. Just… seeing you let yourself go like that. I don’t know why it turns me on so much.’ Claire admitted.

Loki smirked and reached over to slide his hand into her hair. He leaned in and kissed her, their tongues quickly found one another as they got more heated.

‘Mmm.’ Loki hummed against her lips. He slid his hand down her front and gave her breasts a cheeky squeeze, making her whimper and she pushed into his hand more.

Chris knocked on the car window abruptly, making them both jump and pull away.

‘Knock it off guys. Not the time, nor the place. Loki, get a damn shirt on and let’s go.’

[boosoonhao]

even death (bows before my feet)

vernon x reader 11k words supernatural au violence and death warning

You sigh, the puff of air visible as it leaves your mouth in the chill evening. The sun hangs low on the sky, a burning, orange orb hiding behind vibrant, green trees. Your heels clack against the concrete beneath your feet. Had your body been able to still feel the bites and nips of cold, you’re sure you would be freezing right now. As it is, it doesn’t matter. It’s only a matter of time before the boy is bound to show up. 

Infamous softie Joshua Hong shows up in a loud car and with a jacket he almost seems to drown in. He stops a few feet away from where you’re standing, closes his car door with a lot more force than necessary when he exits his vehicle. You’ve heard rumors about him, about the man who rescues people and demons alike, who only kills in self-defense. Even your people hold some distant, quiet sort of respect for him. Leaving him alone is an unwritten rule. 

Not so much for his companion. There’s not a lot of softness left on Joshua’s face now. 

“You want to resurrect your friend,” you say by way of greeting. Small talk doesn’t seem like much of a necessity. You both know the purpose of your meeting. You both know how many rules you’re breaking. 

“Can you do it?” He asks, sees as little a point in dawdling as you do. His hands are clenched at his sides, the syllables that drift out of his mouth stiff and tense. It’s a wonder, really, how much humans seem to care about mortality, considering their short, insignificant lives. 

“No,” you tell him earnestly. Well– mostly earnestly. You can, of course, if you pull the right strings and make the right deals. You’ve made some sort of preparations, so to speak; found the dead boy’s location and made sure the wrong creatures do not sink their claws in him. You’d rather leave the rest up to someone else. Joshua opens his mouth, probably to complain about deceit and waste of time, but you silence him with a swift palm raised in his direction. “But I know someone who can.”

~~

“And you’re sure this Hoseok guy is going to help?” Joshua asks, for the third time in as many hours. You tap a long finger impatiently against the fogged up window to you right, try not to let it show that you’re uncomfortable in your seat. You can’t really remember the last time you rode in a car, but you remember – quite vividly – where your reluctance to do so came from. Your whole body feels off-kilter, shaken and rattled by every hole in the road and by the ever present thrum of the motor. 

“I’ve already told you,” you mutter, struggle with how thick and clumsy your own tongue feels in your mouth; nausea pushing at the back of your throat. The man’s fast and careless driving does little to alleviate your motion sickness. “He owes me one. He’s going to help.” The memory of a city in flames drift to the forefront of your mind, an unwanted sort of nostalgia tickling at your bones and pulling the edges of your lips down just a fraction.

Joshua hums. There’s something discordant and unpleasant about the sound, despite the man’s soft, low tones. “And you demons sure do love your debts, huh.” 

There’s a sort of bite to his words that you deem wholly unnecessary, that makes you want to bite right back. For centuries, you’ve been content with letting the war between demons and hunters wage on without getting involved, only stepping in when it was asked of you and retreating as soon as your tasks were done. Somehow, you had not imagined that your re-entering into that feud would be on the side of the weak, temperamental humans. 

“You should be grateful,” you tell him, try to keep the poison out of your tone. You might not be human, might not be bound by the same emotional whims as the man next to you in the car, but you still remember the sting off losses of your own, and despite your reputation you’re not an emotionless, unsympathetic creature. To some extent, you do feel sorry for the guy. “Our love of debts is in your favor this time, after all.” You hope the air-quotes you can’t find the energy to physically make is visible enough in your voice. 

Joshua doesn’t respond, but when he glances over at your stiff form, his gaze has softened. You smooth your thumb over the scar along your thigh, and you swear you can feel the bumps of hastily done stitches that left protruding, circular scars on both sides of a thick, ugly line even through the fabric of your pants.

“We’ll see,” Joshua says, and you suppose you will.

~~

“Well, isn’t this an unlikely duo?” 

There’s something about Hoseok that never fails to make the back of your neck tingle. His voice might be pleasant and his expression might be bright, but there’s a distinct sense of mockery that never strays too far away from his lines and his octaves, and even as far as crossroad demons go, he might be the one who makes you the most uneasy. 

The demon in question claps his hands together over his chest, red eyes glowing almost ominously in the pale light of the morning. The hints of a sunrise peeking through the trees gives his tangerine hair a glow that reminds you, uncomfortably, of flames.

“It’s been a while, Hoseok,” you curtly reply, keep your distance as you step out of the car on wobbly legs. Joshua follows suit, stands at your side. You wonder how the demon-friendly boy is feeling now, stuck between two red-eyed monsters. “I hear you’ve been keeping yourself busy.” 

A grin spreads on Hoseok’s lips, slowly and sharply and with the distinct feel of threat reflected in his sparkling row of teeth. You remember when Hoseok was nothing but a simple deal-maker, when his antics were limited to fooling desperate humans. It’s apparent, by his square shoulders and his confident stance, that he enjoys his newfound infamy. 

He waves his hand in your direction, a low, rolling chuckle slipping past his lips. “Oh please,” he says, without an ounce of humility. “We’re not here to talk about me, I hope.” Joshua shifts, takes a step forward. You quickly put a hand on his shoulder, try not to cringe at the way his entire body seems to stiffen. You can’t really blame him, you suppose. 

“I’m here to cash in on that favor you owe me,” you tell the crossroad demon, taking great care not to let the uncertainty slip through your teeth and into the tones of your voice. Hoseok’s eyes seem to grow in intensity, and the air seems to crack as he disappears, reappearing right in front of you. His breaths fall against your nose, and somehow the demon smells like death. 

“Ain’t that interesting,” he tall man whispers, leveling you with a searching gaze that feels heavy against your skin. “I don’t suppose that favor has anything to do with this charming young man’s deceased companion?” There’s a glowing glint to his eyes that makes it blatantly obvious that Hoseok already knows about your recent visits to the underworld. Your jaw tightens, and you have to force yourself not to fold under his glare. 

“How do you know about that?” Joshua pipes up from your side, suspicion dripping from his soft voice. Your hand is still on his shoulder, fingernails digging into the fabric of his thick jacket. You hope he doesn’t notice the way your fingers twitch. 

“He’s got his fingers in a lot of pies,” you mutter, not without disdain. Hoseok takes it in stride, of course, a sort of wicked pride tugging at the edges of his mouth. 

“I do love pie,” he supplies with a jovial shrug. He takes a step back, and your stance relaxes a fraction. You never liked Hoseok much, even before he got chummy with the scum of the underworld. “I’m surprised, though,” he continues, tilting his head to the side. “That you’d use your get out of jail free-card on this human boy.” 

He’s fishing, you know, trying to dig into your head in that twisted way he does. Hoseok doesn’t just peddle in deals, and he is not above using your secrets against you if need be. You’re not about to give him any freebies, so you keep your mouth shut and in a thin line. 

“But then,” he murmurs, his voice gentle in a way that makes you feel profoundly uncomfortable. “You always had an affinity for humans, didn’t you?” 

You feel Joshua’s eyes on you. You ignore it. There’s complete silence dominates Hoseok’s crossroad, and it feels like the loudest thing you’ve ever heard. The crossroad demon’s lip twitches. 

“Not in the mood for catching up, I see,” he says with a sort of sharp intake of breath through his teeth, as if to just accentuate the awkwardness of the silence. With a crack, he’s disappeared and reappeared back in the middle of his crossroad. A waterfall of flow-y smoke falls from between his long, pale fingers, and he produces an intimidating silver knife. He drags the steel across his own palm, flicks dark, almost black blood in your direction. It splatters across the ground, sizzles and burns holes in the asphalt. 

“Twenty-four hours,” he tells you, dropping all of his playful pretenses and letting his true, low tones slip through his teeth instead. Somehow, Hoseok scares you less like this; seems far less threatening in his husky voice than in his fake pleasantries. “I hope you know what you’re doing, sweetheart.” 

And, well– that makes two of you.

~~

“I told you,” you sigh, breath fogging up the window as you lean your forehead against it, hands gripping at the plush of the passenger seat. “Twenty-three hours and you’ll have your boy back.” Joshua breathes harshly through his nose, keeps his eyes on the road. His hands grip at the steering wheel. 

“Yes,” he observes, with considerably less enthusiasm than you’d expected. “You’ve certainly made some powerful friends since the last time I saw you.” 

He addresses you as if he’s your father; as if he’s disapproving of your boyfriend or your new circle of friends. It’s strangely intimate for acquaintances, and you don’t really know how to respond to the accusation, such as it is. “I wouldn’t go that far,” you settle on, shifting your legs awkwardly in the cramped space of the car. “Anyways, I hope you didn’t have your friend cremated, otherwise this trip is completely wasted.” 

You think about the few hunter customs that you know of, of funeral pyres and of drowning your sorrows in revenge and booze. Joshua seems to have forgone all of that, but then, he’s not really a hunter, is he? He taps his fingers along the rubber of the steering wheel, eyes squinting as if he’s looking beyond the landscape rushing by and into some distant memory. 

“It was my fault we were at that river in the first place,” he says, as if he totally missed your jokey comment about cremation (which, to be fair, might have been for the best). You feel an emotional story coming, and you brace yourself. Joshua Hong might not be your least favorite human, but this trait that humans seem to all possess, this need to share, you could be without. “We were on our way to visit his sister, and I just had to stop and look for fucking rocks.” 

You blink at that, mystified by the nonsensical notion of stopping by a river to look for rocks, until you remember that the boy had, the last time the two of you met, had a collection of small, colorful stones in the pocket of his jacket. He had told you at the time, with a needle sticking into the skin of your thigh and a bottle of vodka on the ground next to him, that he needed something to collect, something to keep him grounded in all the crazy he was surrounded by. 

“He was gone before I even managed to pull him out of the water,” he says it with the sort of detachment that only someone who has spent too much time agonizing over a tragedy can manage. No wonder he looks like he hasn’t slept since; you’ve seen river spirits before, know how violent and ravenous they can get. People give demons and vampires flack for killing without a reason; water spirits kill for sport, feed on the look of pain and fear in their victims eyes. 

Truth be told, you’re not sure what to say. You’re not sure why you’re even still with the  boy, why you’re enduring yet another horrid ride in his vehicle from hell. The young man had given you a sort of glare that seemed to tell you to get in the car when Hoseok had disappeared from the crossroad, and for some reason you’d just followed along. He’s lonely, you figure; desperate for interaction after the loss of his friend. 

“There’s no use in obsessing over it now,” you tell him, for lack of a more comforting thing to say. Joshua hums, as if that’s just what he expected you to say. His hands grip a bit tighter around the wheel, but his face remains unchanged. “It’s fixed now anyways, isn’t it? You corrected whatever mistake you think you made.” 

Joshua hesitates, looks like he wants to argue, but ultimately he settles on chewing on his bottom lip and muttering a sort of quiet and demure ‘thank you’, and the rest of the ride passes in silence.

You’ve never seen anyone awaken from the dead before, though you have heard the horror stories. Most of the time, they involve vampires, and their semi-barbaric ritual of making their ‘newborns’ claw themselves out of their graves as sort of a test to see if they’re strong enough to be accepted into the coven. 

The graveyard is quiet, bathed in a soft, orange light that illuminates on top of shimmering gravestones. Birds hum in the distance and despite your inability to feel cold, goosebumps erupt along your forearms. Then again, maybe that’s just the tension from what’s about to happen.

‘Hansol Vernon Chwe’ the gravestone reads; elegant, golden letters against smooth, grey stone. The sound of dirt being shoveled distracts you from being too caught up in the solemn mood of the place, and when you level your eyes squarely on the growing hole in front of you, you see that Joshua seems to have finally hit the casket. 

“Fancy funeral for a hunter,” you remark, forget to even take into consideration that humans tend to be a lot touchier about death than demons are. Joshua stops digging, gazes up at you from his deep hole. It’s actually a bit impressive, how competent of a grave robber the pretty boy would’ve been, had he not had such a spotless moral compass. He squints up at you, and you grimace. “Sorry. Graveyards make me uncomfortable.”

“His parents didn’t know,” he supplies, kneeling down to dust dirt and pebbles off of the surface of the casket. You take a step closer to the edge of the hole to look down. Even the wood of the casket looks expensive, you muse. “They think it was some freak accident.” 

You wonder if that’s really true, or if it’s just another case of humans pretending to believe things because it’s more convenient. Whatever the case, you choose not to voice that suspicion, deciding to instead address an equally important question. “What’re you gonna tell ‘em now, then?”

Joshua exhales through his nose. It’s a long and exhausted sound, the kind of elongated sigh that sounds like it strains the lungs. When he looks up at you, a thin layer of sweat covers his forehead. “Well, you’re called the memory stealer, aren’t you?”

A muscle in your jaw twitches, and you have to fight back the urge to bite your own tongue just to keep yourself from coming with a scathing remark. You hate that name, hate the implications of it, hate that someone as soft and careful as Joshua Hong knows about it. Most of all, you hate that you can’t deny it. You don’t respond. It seems he doesn’t need you to. He pushes back up into a standing position, massages his own neck with a dirty hand and glances at the watch strapped around his wrist. It looks almost like he’s regained some gusto you didn’t know he possessed, his movements more energized, more confident. 

Humans tend to need some sort of purpose, you suppose, some goal to work towards. No wonder he’s been so obsessive in his quest to revive this ‘Hansol’. 

“I need you to help me open up the casket.”

~~

A lot of things seem to happen at once. You take hold of the roof of the casket, feel the wood resist against your pull. The clock is ticking, and by the time you get the top of the casket off, the wood creaking in pain at the forceful handling, twenty-four hours have passed. 

The boy emerges from the soft, plush inside of his not-so-final resting bed like an abused animal from a cage that’s just been opened. He flings himself over you with a force you’d be impressed with had you not been so caught surprised by it. He brings his fingers – bony and stiff with inactivity – around your neck, knocks his long, skinny body against you and makes you fall over against the walls of the hole. Dirt and grime drizzles down your face, your body, and once you’ve got your head straight again, you raise your hand to blast him back. 

“Vernon,” Joshua half-whispers, half-yells from somewhere in front of you, his voice coated in something that sounds like a bizarre mix of relief and panic. You spot the man as he puts his hands on your attacker’s shoulders, his knuckles whitening with the forcefulness of his grip. “Stop, you’re safe. You’re back.”

His grip loosens, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, fingertips still digging into the base of your neck. That, at least, is a good sign; that he at least still have some semblance of sanity left. He stares you down, breathes so rapidly and loudly that it sounds like it must hurt his throat. Recognition flashes in his eyes. His hair falls down his forehead, pale brown and greasy against his skin. 

“I know you,” he says, and his voice feels like being hit in the face; too low for his pretty face and too raspy for his smooth features. He lets his arms fall from your neck to hang stiffly at his sides. Joshua shoots you a suspicious glare. “You were there.” 

He doesn’t even call it by name, doesn’t need to. The mere mention is enough to send shivers down your spine. It runs through your body, makes you feel the flames lick at your skin and the screams of pain echo in your head. At least he doesn’t look as ragged as he had done down there. You wonder if that sense of victory that blooms in the pit of your stomach is anything like whatever possesses Joshua to keep doing what he does. 

“What the fuck is going on, Josh?” Vernon twists his head and upper body to face his friend, the detached, almost angry tone of his voice making the other man frown. There’s a stiffness to his body that you don’t think comes from having been dead, and you think back to the stories you’ve been told about people being brought back to life. About the man who lost his daughter, who sold his soul to get her back, only to discover it had been to late, that her sanity had been broken months ago and all that was left was a body. Not even a demon, or a ‘zombie’. Just a rabid, scared little girl. 

Hansol – or Vernon, as Joshua had called him – doesn’t seem to be quite there, but he does seem to have lost something, still. There’s a lack of an inflection when he speaks, a robotic sort of tenseness to his movements, small as they are. You wonder if, if you strip him of his black blazer and his neat, white shirt, you can still make out the wounds and scars from the razor sharp, metallic whip that the demons of the underworld seem to favor. 

“I’ll explain everything,” Joshua promises, puts his hand securely around Vernon’s upper arm. “But not here. Not right now.” His voice is hard, echoes with authority. You’re starting to realize that Joshua’s reputation as a soft, peace loving pacifist might not be completely accurate. 

He did, after all, just disobey one of the most basic laws of nature. 

Joshua clumsily helps Vernon out of the hole, both of their outfits getting smeared in filth in the process. The sun is starting to rise dangerously, and the time until they’re undoubtedly caught digging up graves is closing in on you all. Usually, you’d take this risk as your cue to leave, but somehow the blank, disinterested look on Vernon’s face and the low, terrified tones of Joshua’s voice has you hesitating. 

“Go back to the car,” you tell them both, cracking the muscles in your fingers as if to warm yourself up. The art of manipulating time and space is not an easy thing, never a pleasant experience even for you, who has all the practice in the world at it. “I’ll take care of this mess.”

It seems to dawn on Joshua, then, that he had not thought things completely through, that he didn’t really have a plan for covering up this particular mess. You try not to roll your eyes, settle instead for a raised brow and a knowing look. Cleaning up after humans seems to be a byproduct of dealing with the species. Joshua nods, and you turn back to look at the mess. You inhale. And then you work.

Getting the dirt and the soil back in it’s original place is no task at all, truly. Just a matter of some levitation and a bit of willpower; even the newest, less experienced demons with an ambition in time and memory work could do something as simple, something that basically comes down to gardening. The fact that the grave was new, fresh to begin with works to your advantage, no need for grass to sprout on top of the soil once it’s put back in it’s spot. 

Changing the inscriptions on the tombstone is a bit harder, makes the back of your eyes prickle as if someone’s poking you with needles. You replace the name with the first name that comes to mind, a name that never got a proper tombstone or a proper burial. You pretend to convince yourself that the sting in your chest comes from exhaustion. 

The last part of the spell – as people has called it – the part that fills your mouth with a coppery taste and that has blood dripping out of your mouth, is the lingering, long lasting field of manipulation around the grave. You can’t completely erase Vernon’s existence, nor the actuality of his death, but you can confuse people coming to his grave enough to distract from it.

“Neat trick,” you hear from behind you, the voice so unexpected it makes you jump. You’re faced, unsurprisingly, with Vernon’s distinct features and tired eyes, his gaze not focused on you but on the tombstone behind you. “So do I just not exist anymore or what?” 

You frown, twist your hands around to loosen the tension in your wrists. “Don’t be silly,” you tell him, more than a little bit uncomfortable with being alone with the dead boy walking. “For that I’d have to eat the heart of a newborn.”

Vernon blinks, but his face remains otherwise blank. For a moment you’re not even sure that he’s caught on to the fact that you were joking, and you suppose that’s on you for trying to crack jokes over the grave of a boy who’s been alive again for a whopping ten minutes. “Funny,” he supplies at last, but his voice is devoid of emotion. He shifts on his feet in clunky steps, looks back as if to make sure no one’s listening in on your conversation. 

“Are you going to do that to my family as well?” He asks, and normally you’d be able to gauge what response someone was looking for by the way they asked the question. Having lived as long as you have, human behavior becomes sort of predictable, after all, but Vernon doesn’t move, doesn’t raise his voice, and all you really manage to do is nod. “Good,” he mutters, and that’s that. You wonder if he’ll have the same opinion on the matter once his emotions return – if they ever do. 

“Did you tell Joshua? About Hell, I mean,” He goes on, surprisingly talkative for someone so dull and rough around the edges. There’s a raspy quality to his voice that you doubt is supposed to be there, and when you tell him that no, you haven’t talked to Joshua about Hell at all, Vernon looks the most relieved that he’s done since coming back to life. “Don’t. He doesn’t need to know.”

You don’t tell Vernon that you hadn’t intended to anyways, that you’d rather not talk or think about the underworld ever again. That’s not their business, just like Vernon’s decision is not yours. Vernon turns back to retreat towards Joshua’s car, and after one lingering glance back at the masked tombstone, you follow. You swipe your hand at the drying blood right above your lip, and you brace yourself for phase two.

(The mind is a fragile thing, vulnerable to impressions and attacks in all forms. This is true for all sentient beings, even those who dabble in memory curses and manipulation. For as easy it is to shape the mind as you want with your skills, it’s dangerous, not to mention draining, taking much more energy out of you than connecting made up memories to a place or an object. It’s a risk every time you do it, and you suppose that is how it has to be. 

Which is why you tell Joshua to join you as you stop the car in front of Vernon’s parents’ house, why reluctance bites at your skin as you get out of the car. When you turn to look back, Vernon himself is staring unblinkingly at you from his seat. 

His family is just what you’d expect from someone with such a bright and warm home, from someone who cared enough to put so much money into their son’s funeral. They greet Joshua like he’s one of their own, gentle hands and tight hugs making the both of you uncomfortable. They do not ask questions, do not put you on the spot, and for the first time in many years, you feel a pang of genuine guilt at what you’re about to do. 

Stealing memories from a person feels sort of like sucking all of the air out of the room and into your own mouth. There’s a taste to it, in a way, a flavor of longing and love and pain tickling the roof of your mouth with each emotion, each thought that fills your body and occupies the space in your head. You can’t remove Vernon’s existence completely, not when there are so many objects that tell of his presence in his family’s life, but you can remove the hurt, the death and the funeral. That doesn’t make it un-happen, doesn’t make the pain erased from the world, only moves it somewhere else.

Your heart is heavy with each thought, with the memories of black clothes and high pitches crying that forces itself into your mind, and though you do not know the boy more than you know of his presence in the car right outside, you mourn his passing as if you’ve known him since birth. You want to cry, you want to yell and throw things around, and distantly you feel a sort of self-loathing for things unsaid, words that aren’t even your own but that feels undeniably true in your heart.

The last thing you recall before the spell is complete and you fade into unconsciousness is a strong, overwhelming thought of ‘why couldn’t it have been me instead’. And then everything goes black.)

~~

When you wake up, you’re in an unfamiliar room, lying in an unfamiliar bed. The remnants of emotions and memories that aren’t yours linger in the back of your mind, makes the hair at the back of your neck stand. Your vision is foggy, your body hot and cold all at once.

”You’re awake,” comes the easily recognizable, raspy sound of Vernon’s voice from next to you, and when you twist your body around to follow the sound, you’re met with red cheeks and plump lips, pale brown curls that look a lot less lifeless after – you assume – a thorough shower. He looks down at you, looks considerable more alive than he did when you first un-buried him, but his gaze is still, for the most part, blank. That much is to be expected, but somehow, with the new surge of memories connected to the boy, it hurts to look at him. 

”Joshua’s grocery shopping,” he explains, rolls his shoulders almost as if he’s uncomfortable. You hum, let your gaze follow the lines of his face and the arch of his neck before you sit up and stretch. Outside, the sun is high on the sky; you must have been out for at least a few hours. “We’re at a motel. He said you needed rest.” 

”So you’ve just been creepily staring at me while I was sleeping, then?” you mutter, fingers clutching at your tense shoulder, nails digging into skin. Vernon exhales through his nose, drags a hand through his hair. He leans back in his chair, head slightly tilted as he watches your movements. 

”Joshua’s acting like I’m gonna burst into flames any moment,” Vernon says without really looking at you, seems to fall further into the plush of his chair. “It’s driving me crazy.” Somehow, you’re not sure if he really understands how unsettling that sentence is, considering. “Besides,” he continues, leaning a fraction closer to your spot on the bed. You feel strangely exposed, put on the spot by the sudden closeness. “I feel less dead when you’re here. Why is that?”

The confession, blunt and careless as it is, sends a shiver through your body, makes you feel off-kilter in a way that’s both completely too familiar and strange all at once. It makes you mourn for him, in a sense, to know that he still feels dead after being resurrected. It’s one of the prices you have to pay, you suppose, when you play around with something as important as life and death. It’s unfair, really, that he had to pay it, as little as he had to do with the resurrection itself. 

”I don’t know,” you tell him, leaning back on your arms for support. Your shoulders feel heavy, weighed down by the intensity of Vernon’s glare. It’s apparent that the boy’s not as easily swayed and endeared to dark creatures as his companion is. “I’m sure it’ll pass.” 

Vernon hums, a surprisingly soft sound that vibrates through his closed lips as he turns his gaze to the open window at the end of the tiny bedroom. “Isn’t it kind of funny? You’re the demon, but I’m the one who seems less human.” 

He doesn’t sound like he finds it funny at all. The inexplicable need to ease up the lines of tension in the lines of his face makes your fingers itch. 

”If it makes you feel any better,” you start with uncertainty coating your tongue and making it feel awkward in your mouth. You’ve never really been good at comfort, never been put in a position where you’ve felt like you have to consider your words and mind your tones. Vernon looks fierce, looks strong; his jawline sharp and his features more defined with the hours he’s spent back above the earth, but somehow his presence feels fragile, like a string pulled too thin. “I ripped open a casket and defiled a tombstone. As far as humanity goes, I think you’re still in the lead.”

Vernon’s lip twitches, tells in low whispers of a secret sort of smile that almost breaks out on his face. It’s a start, if nothing else. “It doesn’t,” he murmurs, with a distant sort of warmth to his low tones. “But thank you for trying.” 

The floorboards creak in the hallway, and when you snap your gaze in the direction of the barely open door, you see the flash of a figure disappearing from the opening. 

It’s hard to care about the fact that Joshua’s been eavesdropping when Vernon’s eyes shine as bright as you’ve seen them.

(The third night of your stay at the motel, you hear a garbled sort of scream coming from one of the connecting rooms. You jolt up in your own bed, sit up with your hands clutching at the sheets and your eyes squinted in an attempt at looking around the room. Your first thought is that someone’s found you, someone who does not approve of Joshua’s attempts at playing God. 

The aforementioned man himself appears in the doorway to your room, hair sticking out in every direction and face coated in a mixture of sleep and panic. 

“He’s having a nightmare,” he explains, and the organ in your chest relaxes a fraction; at least that means no demons or monsters are knocking down your doors yet. “I can’t–” he cuts himself off, a layer of shame taking over his expression. “I can’t wake him up.” 

There’s a tinge of resentment there, but underneath it you can hear the underlying tint of a question he’s reluctant to ask. You inhale, drag yourself out of the bed. Inexplicably, embarrassment burns at the back of your throat as you follow Joshua out into the hallway, the screams increasing in volume, it seems, with every step you take. Joshua pushes open the door to what you assume to be Vernon’s bedroom. 

The boy lies in his bed, knuckles as white as the sheets his fists are clutching to, and his skin shimmers brightly with a thin layer of sweat. You shoot Joshua an uncertain look, only moving into the bedroom when the man nods, presses a gentle hand to your shoulder blade. You chew on your bottom lip, approach the screaming boy and put your hands on his face. His skin feels like fire. 

“Vernon,” you murmur, realizing only after the fact that it’s the first time you’ve said his name out loud. He tries to wrestle his face out of your grip, but even in his sleeping panic, he’s got nothing on your inhuman strength. You dig your fingernails into his cheeks, force his face in your direction. You repeat his name, louder this time, more authoritative and with the barest tint of persuasive power slipping through your lips. “Wake up,” you tell him, more a command than anything else. 

When he obeys, it’s with a sharp intake of breath and a jolt as if he’s been struck by lightning. He stares at you as if he doesn’t quite recognize you, and for a moment you worry he’s about to start hyperventilating; his chest rising and falling a tad too rapidly. When at last he murmurs your name, it’s with a softness that makes you feel off-kilter and strange; not entirely an unpleasant feeling. You hear the door close behind you, and then it’s just the two of you in the darkness. 

“It was just a nightmare,” you tell him. A presumptuous statement, considering you know first hand how real dreams can turn out to be. Vernon grimaces, and when you make a move to remove your hands from his face, he moves quickly, hand coming up to grip at your wrist, keep your hand there.

“Was it, though?” He asks, eyes hooded. You feel the vibrations of his voice against your palm, and it almost makes your breath hitch. 

An affinity for humans, Hoseok had said. You thought you’d ridden yourself of that quality ages ago. The warmth that spreads through your body as Vernon sleepily leans against your palm tells another story. 

“You should sleep more,” you tell him, opting to ignore his question. He lets the hand that’s holding onto you fall, but does not loosen his grip, making your own arm fall against the mattress with it. “It’s still dark outside.” You hope he doesn’t notice the uneven quality of your voice. He falls back against his pillow. When you try to push yourself back up from your kneeling position next to the bed, his grasp around your wrist tightens, nails digging crescents into your skin. 

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t say anything, but somehow his eyes tell you everything you need to know; fear and shame battling for domination in his expression. You sit back down against the cold floor, lean your back against the side of the bed, and only then does he let go of your wrist.

You spend the rest of the night listening to the discordant song of your heart beating in your chest, almost, sort of in tune with Vernon’s breath as it evens out and he falls back asleep.)

~~

A long time ago, when you had a companion of your own, you were often told of how you carried yourself as if you were a cold, cynic being of the underworld, but that underneath you hid a myriad of too strong emotions. You used to vehemently deny this accusation, scrunch up your nose and make some sort of scathing remark.

But now, weeks into your new companionship with a makeshift doctor for demons and humans alike and a recently dead boy, you can’t really find it in you to deny it anymore. 

Vernon is starting to act more like a human being again, chuckles at your throwaway jokes and chides Joshua for his hovering with true emotion coated in his voice. He still has nightmares, still clutches at your skin after every one of them. You’ve started renting only two bedrooms at the motels you stay at. Joshua looks at you with suspicion in his otherwise gentle face, but he says nothing.

“Sometimes I still feel the lashes across my back,” Vernon whispers, his breaths hitting your face with each syllable. Joshua might keep quiet, might keep his emotions masked and his true thoughts unheard, but Vernon– Vernon talks like he’ll cease to exist if he doesn’t. He tells you about his nightmares, about how he can’t be sure whether they’re just that– dreams, or if they’re suppressed memories from his time in the underworld. You want to assure him that they’re the former, want to reach out and smooth out the wrinkles of stress on his face, but somehow the sight of him steals away your ability to move and all you can do is listen. 

You’re not sure if he even notices how touchy he becomes once he’s grown used to your presence next to him; his fingers running absentminded lines and shapes over your exposed skin, pressing into your flesh when he recalls something especially uncomfortable. It’s a strange shift, when he goes from that unintentionally restrained nonchalance that drifts over him sometimes during the day, emotions seemingly not the default setting in his brain, to that wide open, vulnerable and genuine being he is when the sun disappears behind the trees. 

You think Joshua might be jealous that Vernon somehow feels more comfortable opening up to you than he feels towards his oldest friend. You want to tell him it’s just because he wants to spare him of the gruesome details. It’s easy to think, with just one glance, that Joshua is the protective one out of the two; the truth is that the boys seem to share a bond that’s so genuine and so fiercely loyal that nothing even comes close, least of all you, the newcomer. 

So maybe, then, you’re the jealous one. 

“I want to try something,” Vernon says quietly, voice barely above a whisper and almost not loud enough to pull you out of your train of thought. When you focus your gaze back up at his face, there’s open hesitation visible in the soft lines of his face. His fingers stop at the edge of your shoulder, plays with the hem of your t-shirt. You can’t be sure if the way his gaze drops for a moment, seemingly lingering at the bottom of your face, is a trick of the light or an actual thing. Whatever the case, it makes you heart do a weird sort of jump in your chest. “If that’s okay with you.” 

“Sure,” you whisper, try to keep your voice steady. The exhale that leaves Vernon’s mouth if nothing if not relieved. And then he’s shifting on the bed, his hands coming up to rest against your cheekbones in a scene at almost perfectly mirrors the one that had started your shared living situation in the first place. At first you think that might be all he wants to do, to press his fingertips into the flesh of your cheeks and rub his fingers along the edges of your lips, but then he’s leaning closer, his eyes falling shut, and you forget how to breathe.

You’ve been kissed before, of course; by multiple people and in multiple circumstances. Some of them were slow and meaningful, others just a means to seal a deal. None of them felt quite like this. Vernon clutches at your face as if his own actions terrifies him, as if he’s not wholly sure that he should be doing what he’s doing. He breathes through his nose, sharp huffs of air against your skin, and for a moment all there is to it is a press of lips against lips. It’s nothing, all things considered, but somehow it feels like it’s everything. His pulse feels like a drum against your skin.

Somewhere between the tenth and the fifteenth beat of your heart, he seems to gain confidence, pulling at your face as if he wants to consume you, lips moving just enough to make your own hands grasp at the front of his shirt. Every inch of your body feels like it’s on fire; the feeling too much, too overwhelming, too pleasant for you even to consider what that means. When Vernon pulls his face away from yours, something that sounds partly like an exhale and partly like a giggle escapes his mouth, and your heart literally soars.

“Did you figure it out?” you ask breathlessly, head swimming and skin itching. Your lips feel cold, wet without his own pressed against them, and an impulse you barely manage to fight back urges you to lean after him. Vernon swallows thickly, his hands not leaving your face.

“I’m not sure,” he says with a sort of wonder coating the tones of his voice. He sounds more like himself, like the image of him that you stole from his parents, than he has ever done before. His gaze falls back down to your lips and he murmurs, “I think I should try again.” 

You put your fingers gingerly at the back of his ears and you pull. You let him try again. And again. And again and again until you can’t even remember what the purpose of it all was in the first place.

~~

More weeks pass, and somehow you fall into a routine. The routine consists of you telling yourself to withdraw yourself from the previous duo of two human boys, to leave before things get messy, followed by doing the exact opposite. You let Vernon tangle his fingers with your own in quiet, unnoticed moments, let him trail kisses along your jawline and press his fingernails into your hips, and you pretend that you’re not getting completely swallowed up by a boy who’s still learning how to feel again.

(Joshua, on the other hand, does not pretend not to notice, though that would’ve been the – in your opinion – more polite, less annoying thing to do.)

When two weeks pass without incident, without nightmares, you tell yourself you’re going to stop sleeping in the same bed as him. Joshua squints, glares intensely at you when you interrupt him at the counter of the next motel and tell the manager that you’ll need three bedrooms rather than two. Vernon almost doesn’t look nonchalant. 

He comes into your room later that night, whispered words of apologies and worries eager to tumble out of his mouth. Has he done something wrong, he wonders. Has he made you uncomfortable, forced his intimacy on you without caring about your wishes? He’s careful not to speak of feelings, but there’s a distinct undercurrent of the thing, nonetheless. 

(”Listen,” Joshua says, pulling you out of your clouded mind and troubled thoughts. When you look up to meet his gaze, there’s a sort of hardness to his expression that makes you feel oddly put in place, even before he’s opened his mouth. “We need to talk about you and Vernon.”)

“No,” you tell him, truthfully, with a heart that hammers too hard, feels to exposed. “I just thought, you haven’t had any nightmares lately. Figured you’d want to try sleeping on your own again.” You’re careful not to talk about your own wants, or your own wishes, scared of something you’re not ready to voice slipping through your gritted teeth. 

“And if I don’t?” He asks, as if it’s a challenge, as if he’s revealing his cards just by virtue of the question. “Will you keep sleeping with me, then?” The phrasing catches you off guard, makes your skin feel hot and your palms sweaty. His own eyes widen, his face clearly reddened even in the darkness. He mutters, almost reluctantly, “You know what I mean.” 

(”What about me and Vernon?” You ask, as if the notion of the two of you put together in a sentence is absolutely ludicrous. Joshua’s gaze sharpens, and somehow you think you’ve said the wrong thing. Unfortunately for you both, you’re not known for folding against a challenge. You put your chin in the palm of your hand, stare back at him with venom that mirrors his own harsh expression.

“Vernon’s still learning how to be alive again, he doesn’t need you confusing him,” Joshua says, and at least you can give him credit for putting it bluntly and not beating around the bush. The accusation stings, more than you expected it to, and for a moment you can’t muster up any sort of response. “I don’t mind having you here, but if you’re just playing games, you should leave.”

There’s finality in his tone, and for a second you entertain the idea. He’s right, of course, in that you should leave. Hanging around humans clearly isn’t good for your mental health, and certainly not for your reputation. But the sight of Vernon’s smile, still awkward and kind of uncertain, drifts to the forefront of your mind, and makes your breath come out as a shudder.

“You have to stop babying him, Joshua,” you murmur, attempt to make your voice as soft and smooth as possible. “Vernon’s more resilient than you think.”)

The smart thing to do, you think, is to tell Vernon to go back to his room, to get used to sleeping alone. There’s no need, really, for the two of you to share quarters anymore, and you’re sure that the reason he’s so reluctant to do so is that he’s gotten used to the shared warmth of two bodies in one bed. You tell yourself this, force yourself to believe it, because any other line of thinking undoubtedly only leads to heartbreak. But the mind; the mind is such a treacherous thing, and the thing that comes out of your mouth instead is: 

“Of course.”

You move over, make space from him on the mattress, and when Vernon climbs in with something that sounds too much like a relieved sigh, lies down and pulls you against his chest, you can’t do anything but chastise yourself for letting yourself so wrapped up in the boy that refusing him seems like such an impossibility. His arm feels heavy over your waist, his feet cold as they tangle up in your own, but somehow, sleep has never come more easily.

~~

The first time you sleep with Vernon, it’s an accident. Sort of.

You’re both more than a little buzzed, empty cans of beer littered over the floor and air hot with tension. Joshua has disappeared off to god knows where – something, you notice, he seems to do a lot these days – and the two of you are, more than ever, alone.

Vernon’s eyes are hooded, but his gaze is full of intent as he stares in you direction on the other side of the table. You try not to feel scrutinized, busy yourself with finishing off your beer. He reaches for your free hand where it lies with fingers spread over the brown wood of the table, intertwines his digits with your own and pulls. “Come here,” he murmurs, voice laced with the uneven notes of someone who’s had a tad too much to drink to be completely sharp in their pronunciations. 

You comply, pushing yourself to your feet and walking around the small table to stand in front of his own seated form. He stares up at you with a sort of twinkle you can’t be sure if comes from the dim lights in the roof of the room or from something else entirely. He snakes an arm around your waist and pulls, wraps his legs around yours and presses the side of his face to your stomach. 

It’s somehow both an oddly innocent and intimate action all at once, his fingertips slipping past the hem of your shirt to lightly skim over the skin of your back. He exhales, the sound stutter-y. When he speaks, the words vibrate against your stomach and you place your hands at his shoulders, if only because you think your feet might give out if you don’t. 

“I somehow imagined a demon to have cold skin,” he tells you, affection blatantly present in his voice as he presses his fingertips along your spine. He twists his head, his nose poking against your ribcage. The feeling makes you squirm, but it’s not wholly unpleasant. “You’re warm,” he whispers, voice muffled by the fabric of your shirt. “You have a heartbeat, too.”

You clutch at his sweater, try to stop yourself from shivering as you look down into his mess of curls. You could tell yourself it’s the alcohol that makes your heart rate speed up, that makes you want to press your thumb against the pulse in his neck and lean down to hide your face in his hair. But in this; in this honest and semi-drunken moment of intimacy, you allow yourself to be candid, if only to yourself. 

You really are falling for this silly, strange human.

“It’s just the benefits of a human host,” you murmur, not without humor, tangle your fingers into his hair, massaging his scalp in a show of affection you’ll probably berate yourself for later. Vernon hums, and you feel the upwards curve of his lips against your stomach even with the layer of fabric between your skin and his mouth. You wonder how it looks, feels a bizarre need to see how each and every sort of smile paints his face. “There’s still a scary, dark creature hiding underneath my skin.”

“Interesting,” he muses. Then he’s staring up at you, chin pressing into your stomach. His fingers inches upwards along your back, scrunching up your shirt as he goes. 

“Sometimes I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” he confesses, cheeks red with more than just alcohol. The moment feels heavy, life-changing, somehow. His fingers inch higher, plays with the strap of your bra. “Like you’re just indulging me because of the whole… being dead thing.” 

You feel like if you were ever going to admit that you often feel the same way, that you fear that you’re abusing the soothing effect your presence seems to have on him, it would be now. That if you were going to confess that your heart seems to skip a beat every time he as much as looked your way, this would be the opportune moment.

But you never were the most courageous of demons, so instead you tell him; 

“As if a weak human boy could take advantage of a powerful demon like me.” 

Vernon laughs at that; a true laugh, a laugh that starts in his stomach and erupts out of his mouth as if it can’t help itself. It makes his mouth spread in a smile that is too wide, that makes his upper lip nothing but a thin line and that shows off a beautiful row of white teeth. That makes your heart do a strange wallop and that makes unbidden words curl your tongue in your mouth. 

Vernon stands up, his face light with humor and your shirt inch even further up your body. He takes a few steps, his face tilting slightly to angle itself against yours. “Is this okay?” He asks, pulls at your shirt as if to emphasize. You take hold of the bottom of your own shirt, pull it off in one swift movement, and once the garment is discarded, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into perhaps the first kiss between the two of you that you’ve initiated. 

He exhales through his nose, digs his fingers into your skin and blindly guides you in the general direction of the bed in the other end of the room. You both fall down on the hard mattress, the air knocked out of you for more reasons than the impact, and when Vernon situates himself between your legs, grounds his pelvis against yours in such a forceful, needy motion that it makes your breath catch, you can’t even muster up the will to feel bad about your choices.

(The pendant you always wear around your neck – a gift from a friend from a long, long time ago – is nowhere to be seen when you wake up to an empty bed the next day. It reappears, though, around Vernon’s neck when you find him outside chatting with Joshua. He looks at you like you’ve hung the bright, yellow sun in the sky and you can’t make yourself ask for the piece of jewelry back.)

~~

“I want to apologize to you,” Joshua says, seemingly out of nowhere, while the two of you raid the dairy aisle at the local 24 hours mart near the newest motel. The sincerity in his voice makes you pause, squinting in his direction as if you could decipher what he’s talking about if only you stared hard enough. 

“What for?” you relent at last, unable to summon up some sort of mind reader abilities out of nowhere. Joshua shrugs, grabs a carton of milk from the nearest shelf, looks around as if he’s  about to reveal some big secret. 

“For what I said about your thing with Vernon,” he tells you, and the mere mention of your… ‘thing with Vernon’ makes your face heat up. Suddenly, the laces on your shoes become intensely interesting, and you can’t quite look up from the floor. 

“Yes,” you reply, dragging out the vowel and making your tone carefully blank. You take care not to play into the confession you can tell he’s trying to drag out of you, responding instead with your natural instinct; to make a joke out of it. “I was sort of offended that you doubted my nanny-ing abilities.” Even to your own ears, the quip falls flat, and you grimace, grateful that you can’t see the look on the man’s face. Joshua hums, as he so often does whenever you’ve said something he finds interesting or telling for some reason.

“If that’s what you want to call it,” he allows, a sort of playful edge to his voice letting you know that he does not fall for your attempts at dodging the subject. He clears his throat, shuffles on his feet, and you can tell, without even looking at him, that he’s about to spout some typical human sincerities at you. “I see how the two of you look at each other. I’m sorry for misjudging you, that’s all.”

You’re about to reply, to follow up with another obviously dodgy joke, when Vernon appears from somewhere behind you, carrying a basket full of beer and snacks. He stops just a step too close for comfort following the conversation you’ve just had with Joshua, and when he presses a hand to the small of your back your neck tingles almost uncomfortably. “What’re you guys talking about?”

Joshua, to his credit, seems to catch quite quickly that you’re not wholly inclined to indulge more into the subject and lifts up the carton of milk instead, shaking it lightly with a pleasant smile on his face. “Milk,” he says, his tone so ridiculously bright that it must be the most obvious lie in the world. 

“Riveting,” Vernon replies, his thumb traveling along your spine in a slow, almost tantalizing line. Joshua rolls his eyes, strides past the both of you with a knowing look sent in your direction.

“Let’s get back to the motel,” he says, and then he’s walking towards the cashier as if he can’t get out of the store quickly enough. Once he’s out of sight, Vernon stares you down for a moment, before pressing a quick, casual kiss to your lips. It’s the sort of kiss you imagine couples must share; an afterthought more than a statement, but meaningful nonetheless. It makes you think about Vernon’s worries about taking advantage, about your own thoughts in that direction. 

You’ve dawdled too long, you conclude, watching the two men’s backs as you all retreat out of the store and back to the car. You barely even feel sick when you ride it anymore. Unease grips at your bones as you make a decision. 

It’s time to go back to your job as the memory stealer. Somehow you didn’t imagine you’d ever be your own client.

~~

You find Vernon at the top of a hill a few days later, head tilted back and with a beer in his hand. Once you step closer, you see stars reflected in his wide open eyes, his expression relaxed and neutral as he taps absentmindedly against the metal of the beer can. Your heart feels heavy, head buzzing with exhaustion and pulling at the frayed edges of reality; it’s already hard to distinguish what is real and what isn’t.

“I need to tell you something,” you say by way of greeting, stopping right next to him and making yourself comfortable on the grass. The vibrant, green strands tickle against your skin, but somehow the feeling just makes you heavier. Vernon turns his head to the side, looks at you with worry in the creases between his brows. 

“Something wrong?” he asks, and not for the first time you’re impressed with how far he’s come in terms of reading the mood. It’s easy to forget that just a mere two months ago, he barely even knew what a joke was, could not sleep without being overwhelmed by night terrors. You shrug. 

“There was a boy once,” you start, deciding to just jump right into it. You try remembering when you told this story last, when you muttered the name that now resides on a gravestone that used to read ‘Hansol Vernon Chwe’, but you come up empty. “His name was Jihoon. He was a human, too.” 

Vernon watches, his mouth pulled into a tight, carefully blank line. He does not speak. 

“We were kinda like you and Joshua, I guess; companions on the road. He hated me at first,” there’s some nostalgia there, some fondness hidden beneath all the hurt. It had been an unfortunate – not to mention ridiculous – curse that had brought you together at first, that had forced you and the temperamental, small human to travel together. By the time you found the cause of it, a bond had already formed. You tell Vernon this, explain your whole history in short, stunted sentences.

Your words start cracking once you get to the part with the vampires, with Jihoon begging you to let him die, to make sure he didn’t turn. To the part where you disregarded your friend’s – because you do not call Jihoon your lover, even if that might have been the more accurate term – wishes out of your own selfishness. “I haven’t seen him since.” 

“Sounds like you cared about him a lot,” Vernon says, his voice somewhere between understanding and something far less pleasant. He brushes his fingers along your knuckles, seems to hesitate with really touching you. “Where’s this going?” You frown, take a deep breath. No point in stalling the inevitable, you suppose. 

“I’m a curse,” you tell him, fingers grasping for strands of grass as if you need something to keep you grounded. Vernon makes a joke about being surprised that demons are superstitious, and had the mood not been so somber, you might have been proud that he seems to have adopted your penchant for cracking jokes when things get too serious. You take hold of his face, make sure to keep eye contact. “I’ll just get to the point. I’ve made Joshua forget about me.”

Vernon’s already large eyes widen almost comically. He tries to wrestle his face out from between your hands. It’s a futile attempt, of course, but you applaud him for his effort. “What the fuck?” He sputters, his fingernails digging into your wrists forcefully enough to hurt. You wince. 

“You don’t need me anymore,” you tell him, and suddenly you wish you had some sort of pre-rehearsed speech ready. The absolutely horrified look on Vernon’s face makes you feel sick, makes you want to disappear. “And I wasn’t supposed to stick around this long in the first place.” 

It’s a lie, of course; nothing but a shallow, selfish excuse. The truth is that you’re scared. That you haven’t felt something as strong as whatever it is you’re feeling for Vernon since Jihoon, decades and decades ago. And at this point, you’re not sure if it would be worse if he reciprocated those feelings, or if he didn’t.

“What the fuck does need matter?” Vernon hisses, his voice almost poisonous in his growing anger. He tries, once again, to force your hands away from their steel grip on his face. “I want you here. Joshua wanted you here. You have no right to fuck with our memories.” Your eyes feel wet, and you ponder at how long it has been since you last cried. This part, you prepared for; this part you have a response to, cruel as it might be.

“Just like I had no right to fuck with your parents’ memories?” you bite back, every word feeling like a dagger to your own chest. The scandalized look on Vernon’s face does little to help the situation. But still, you keep going. “There’s no moral high ground in these matters. This is my job.” There’s heartbreak open and visible in the lines of Vernon’s face, so genuine and so real that you almost believe in it. 

“I’m so stupidly, irrationally in love with you,” you tell him, press a dry, simple but undoubtedly meaningful kiss to his down-turned lips. You feel a strip of something wet run down your cheeks, feel the taste of salt at your bottom lip. “And I can’t stand it. I have to go.”

Vernon’s eyes turn blank, and you know that the continuous force of energy you’ve forced upon him has finally taken effect. You give him simple instructions, enough to make him get back to Joshua and the motel, but not enough to make his brain go haywire. 

And then you leave, disappearing in a cloud of smoke. For the first time in decades, you feel the taste of ashes on your tongue.

(The necklace Jihoon gave you used to be that one thing that anchored you, that made you feel real when memories tried to overtake you. The only thing you feel now when you put your hand up towards your neck is the bone at your collar and the distinct feel of loss. I love you I love you I love you echoes in your head, forceful as a punch to the face. 

It doesn’t echo in your own tone of voice.)

~~

Six months later, you get your first customer since your prolonged leave of absence.

At least, you assume it’s a customer, because only someone who comes to your new house with the right code in the form of four precise presses of the doorbell knows who you really are; The Memory Stealer. 

You’re sleepy, dizzy as you push yourself off of the couch and take the mandatory steps towards the front door. Your back complains in the form of a stinging pain with the less than ideal position you’ve been sleeping in these past few months; somehow you can’t quite get yourself to sleep in a bed.

All of that is completely forgotten when you open up the door, a familiar face greeting you on the porch. There’s something more human about his features than you’ve ever seen before, something more innocent and questioning, but the person standing in front of you is undoubtedly, heartbreakingly none other than Vernon Hansol Chwe. 

“Hiya,” he says, his voice light and airy and unlike anything you’ve ever heard before. He smiles in that way you’ve preferred to remember him; his lips stretched too thin and his teeth almost blinding. For a moment, you falter, stuck in your own lingering emotions. But then he says; “You’re the one they call the memory stealer, right?” and the bile in your throat seems to soothe, the pain in your chest lingering, but not overwhelming. ‘Right’ you murmur in response, and then he’s pushing past you, entering your home with all the gusto of someone who doesn’t know what fear feels like. It’s as heartwarming as it it frustrating.

Vernon twists his head from side to side, takes in the empty walls and the non-decorated home you live in. He turns back to look at you, tilts his head in a way that reminds you of precise kisses and whispered words.

“You sure took a long way to track down,” he tells you, fiddling with the hem of his own jacket. You try not to lean into the pleasant tones of his voice, try not to remember how much you’ve missed Vernon and his soft, plump mouth. 

“Is that so?” you reply, the question detached and not really a question. “What did you come for?”

Vernon stares at you, sizes you up and down as if he wants to fight. Then he’s grasping at a thread around his neck, and a pendant you recognize all to well appears from underneath the neck of his sweater. “Do your recognize this?” he asks, and all at once your body seems to shut down; your legs wobbling and your breath hitching so loudly and so quickly it rasps against the walls of your throat. 

“I’m so mad at you,” he says, taking a few measured steps to end up right in front of you, staring you down. He cups your face, and only then do you realize that your cheeks are wet. Vernon’s thumbs rub against the innermost parts of your cheekbones, and you feel so holy, so heavenly that you fear you might actually burst into flames.

“You’re lucky I’m so stupidly, irrationally in love with you,” Vernon says, and his smile is wide enough, bright enough to put the sun itself to shame.

[mama-qwerty]

WIP Wednesday

This is something that came to mind a while back, and is in my Knuckles MacPherson au. I don't see Knux being all mama's boy with Callie right away, it'll take some time for both of them to really realize how much they care about the other. And thus, this was born.

This takes place after Lost & Found, where he agrees to stay with her.

~~~~~

The truck rocked as it traveled down the side roads of Green Hills, heading for Callie’s house. Tom drove, while Maddie held Tails tightly in the passenger seat. Callie sat in the backseat, bookended by Sonic on her right, and Wade on her left.

She was sore. And dirty. And shaking slightly from the adrenaline still coursing through her from her and Maddie’s weekend of terror. They weren’t quite sure who had grabbed them right off the street a few days ago, but the intention was clear—to force their alien children to come. This organization had big plans for the kids, and they figured kidnapping the mother figures would give them an easy capture.

They were mistaken.

What happened instead was an all out war, complete with explosions (courtesy of Tails), electric shockwaves (Sonic), and a whole bunch of destroyed walls and equipment, with a number of broken bones for good measure (Knuckles). The boys had been scarily focused and determined, Sonic barely made any comments at all, and took down the secretive group in record time.

After the dust settled, the remaining baddies had run for the hills while Sonic and Tails rushed forward to leap into Maddie’s waiting arms. Tom and Wade hurried in after, and the sheriff joined his family in a tight group hug.

And Knuckles stood off to the side. Hands curled into tight fists, brow deeply furrowed, and gaze turned away from Callie.

Wade came over, giving her a hug that was a little too tight for what best friends should probably share, but then again, maybe it wasn’t. She didn’t exactly have any experience to know. And her mind was still kind of reeling from everything that had happened, so she wasn’t really in any condition to determine what was ‘friend appropriate’.

Not that she had cared in that moment. She’d wrapped her own arms around him, relishing the warmth and comfort he offered.

Now Callie turned her head, getting a peek out the back window at the echidna sitting in the truck bed. He sat with his back to her, legs pulled up and arms resting on his knees.

He hadn’t said a word to her since the rescue.

Tom turned down Mockingbird Lane, bringing the truck to a slow stop in front of her house. He threw it in park, and turned to give her a little smile.

“Here you go,” he said, his voice soft and tired. She imagined he and Wade didn’t get much sleep while she and Maddie were missing. “You gonna be okay?”

Callie let the question settle for a moment, before pushing a tired smile to her lips.

“Sure. I’m just gonna go in, eat something sugary and fattening, then get a long, hot shower before falling asleep for two days.”

His smile stretched a little, and he gave a nod. “Sounds like a plan. You call if you need anything, okay?”

“I’ll be fine.” The words were out of her mouth before she was even aware she’d spoken. Old habits and all that. She turned to Sonic. “You and your brother were so brave. Maddie knew you’d come.”

Sonic pushed his chest out, a little smirk on his lips. “’Course! That’s what heroes do!” He quieted slightly. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks to you guys,” she said, and the truck rocked as Knuckles hopped out of the back. He walked toward the house, stopping halfway to the porch. Callie let out a soft sigh, as Wade slid out his side to let her out. “I’ll let you get home. Thanks again, guys.”

The Wachowskis gave her a little wave as she slid out of the truck and moved to her front walk. Wade came closer, stopping in front of her.

“I’m glad you’re okay, too,” he said, his voice soft. “I knew the boys would save you, but I was so worried about you.”

Callie gave him a little smile, casting a glance to the echidna, still stubbornly avoiding her gaze.

“Glad someone was,” she said, almost to herself.

Wade seemed to catch her meaning, because he moved to hug her again.

“He was worried, he just doesn’t like to show those kind of things,” he said softly. “You know that.”

She did. Knuckles’ picture was practically in the dictionary under the word “stoic”. He wasn’t a hugger. He wasn’t a worrier. He didn’t express things like fear or concern or affection or love. She’d known him for months and knew all that about him.

A soft laugh caught her ear and she turned to watch as Sonic reached around the seat to hug Maddie from behind. Tails was still in her lap, and the fox wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck.

Callie turned the other way and watched as Knuckles crossed his arms over his chest.

She knew how the echidna was. Their little arrangement as kinda-sorta child and if-you-squint-and-tilt-your-head-a-certain-way guardian wasn’t exactly mother and son territory. He was an independent kid, on his own since he was practically a kindergartener. He could take care of himself. He didn’t need a mother. She knew that.

But that didn’t mean his lack of relief that she was safe didn’t hurt.

[darksigns-exe]

Sweet Like Honey - Secrets I Have Held

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of infidelity Word Count: 2.7 k Note: I wanted you to have both sides of the story. This is Noah's side of To Be Caught Adrift.

Read on AO3

Noah shouldn’t have picked up the phone in the first place. Her name on the screen should have been enough of an indicator for him to just throw the damn thing out of the window. But no. Like the damn fool he was, he’d picked it up, answered the call and listened to her excuses. Vic’s honeyed words had wrapped around his mind, and he’d almost agreed to see her again. 

Almost. 

This wasn’t the first time, either. She’d called the week before as well, had texted in between. Noah knew what he had seen. The image had burned itself into his brain. The writhing bodies on top of his bed were a near-permanent fixture of his sleeping hours now. He tries to bury it beneath the excitement for the tour, but then she texts him again, and it’s all he can think about again. 

It hadn’t been just bad. When they were good, they were really good. Was it love? In retrospect, he wasn’t so sure any more. They’d been more fast and loose than he would have liked, but as far as he’d been aware they were exclusive. Obviously, she’d seen that a little differently. He tries to count his losses and tally them up against the good things that’ll wait for him up the road. Emphasis on trying because he’s only moderately successful with it. They’ll be going on tour, the biggest one to date, the album is selling well, people love it. There isn’t a lot more than he could ask for. 

But that doesn’t stop him from wanting more. It’s a little selfish because he’s only met Bee once, but he can’t stop thinking about how easy those few hours had felt. He wants to learn all of her secrets, understand every furrow of her brow and how to undo it. It’s a little stupid because Noah doesn’t know a whole lot about her, but what he knows is already enough to have him running after her like a lovesick puppy. 

He doesn’t know what it is about this girl, but in the brief time they’d spent together, she’d managed to worm her way into his thoughts like nothing else. It doesn’t matter how hard he tries not to think about it, she always finds her way back — Nick and Tasha certainly don’t help when they talk about her. 

It's a welcomed distraction. He’d rather think about the pretty girl with her big ideas than whatever had happened in his bedroom. Maybe that’s why he keeps coming back to it. If she’d at least had the decency to fuck that other guy in her own home, maybe he’d be able to get over it already. But what kind of person do you have to be to cheat on your partner in their bed in a house that you don’t live in? 

Noah finally forces himself out of the studio in the back of the house and up the stairs. Thankfully, neither Nick nor Mari comment on his sudden appearance when he passes by them in the living room. Although, Mari gives him that look she’d thrown his way a few times. Thinly veiled pity and that even less veiled distaste for his ex. In a way, he was glad that Mari hadn’t been here when he’d found out.

He strips the bed down to its barest bones. If he washes it again, maybe it’ll go away this time. 

He passes the time until the washing machine is done, scrolling through his phone. A day-old picture of Nick, Mari, Tash and her follows some band's tour announcement. 

They’d been down at the beach, Nick looking more displeased than the girls to be out in the sun like that, but they seemed to be having a good time. Noah faintly remembers Nick asking him if he’d want to come with them. If he’d known that she’d be there, maybe he’d come — not that he doesn’t want to spend time with his friends, but sometimes he can’t quiet the voice in the back of his mind that keeps him inside. 

Noah taps the screen to see who is tagged in the picture. To his luck, Tasha is very diligent about this and three little name bubbles pop up on the screen. He easily recognises Nick and Maris’ usernames. The third one is a new. 

lisbethsander

It’s right there, hovering above her head. It feels a little invasive, even though her profile is public, and he’s friends with her friends, so really why shouldn’t he. A lot of the pictures of her profile seem to be of her research, with ones of friends, her cat and the odd vinyl record scattered in between them. There are places he has never heard of that she talks about with so much passion. Ruined remnants of things at surely were impressive at some point – not that they’re not impressive now. Some of it he can piece together, but a lot of it just flies right above his head. 

Lisbeth Sander.

He rolls the name around his mind for a while. It suits her. 

Finding her name like this feels a little odd, though. It feels as if he’s invading her privacy in some way. The longer he scrolls through her posts, the more he feels as if he’s gaining, at least, a little bit of an insight into her life. He finds a video of when she got a tattoo from Tasha, they’re laughing, singing along so poorly to the song playing over the sound system. Whenever the camera catches a glimpse of her, his chest feels that little bit tighter. 

He doesn’t know why he feels so hesitant. They got along well, she’s friends with his friends. It wouldn’t be weird if he would follow her. 

Vic hadn’t liked it when he’d spent time with other women. Tasha had rarely been over while they were together, and Mari had a very clear stance on the woman from the moment they’d met for the first time. 

That should have been enough of a sign. 

He taps the button before he can change his mind and tosses his phone onto the desk. 

Sometimes the voice in his head still sounds a little like Vic. It’s an awful, demanding thing. Maybe it had been just bad. Maybe the good had been the bits he had filled on his own. 

She’d been the one to ruin it, he tells himself. No matter how unapproachable he might have been at certain points during their stint, none of it justified fucking a shared friend in his bed. 

By the time he has dressed the bed again, it’s almost five. Nick had informed him at some point that most of them would head out for a couple of drinks later, which Noah had politely declined. Now that he’s alone in the house, he thinks that he should have gone with them. Maybe the distraction would have been good for him. They always go to the same place, so really there’s nothing stopping him from just joining the rest. The drive isn’t too long. 

He has to park a bit away from the bar. It is the middle of the week, but the place is usually packed. The campus isn’t too far from here either, so he figures that a lot of them will pile into the local bars as well, regardless of the weekday. Noah briefly wonders if Bee comes here sometimes. He’s never seen her when they go, maybe she’s not one for bars. 

The walk isn’t too bad. The air isn’t fresh, but it still feels good to not be cooped up inside for once. It’s starting to get really dark when he reaches the building. The light inside pours out onto the street. And he finds himself stuck in his tracks in front of the large window.

He watches the group — his group. He finds her almost immediately. She’s sitting between Tasha and Jolly. The latter has her wrapped up in a conversation about god knows what. For a brief moment, he feels like an outsider, like he doesn’t belong in there with the rest of them. It clutches at his chest, threatens to burrow itself back into the marrow of his bones. 

But the feeling quickly develops into something warmer. They’re all in there, the whole lot of them. Everyone he holds dear is gathered in one place. He tries not to let himself believe that they’re having a good time because isn’t there, that the laughter would still be there if he was in there with them. 

His eyes find Bee once again. The last time he had seen her, he had been too close to take it all in properly. It’s almost like he’s viewing a painting from the proper distance now, instead of standing right in front of it with his nose pressed up against the glass. He wonders if she's even aware of the magnetism she possesses, how people flock around her when she talks with that bright, burning passion. He hasn’t met a lot of people who manage to draw in crowds like that and still remain likeable enough for him to want to spend time with them. But then there’s Bee and that —

He’s fucked. 

Completely. 

Surely this is just a way for his brain to distract itself from the actual emotions that still mess with his sleep schedule. And even if this is something else, he’s hardly in the position to get involved with someone again. 

He watches as she detaches herself from the group and heads towards the counter for another drink. 

Noah slips into the door before she notices him lingering outside like some kind of creep. Instead of heading to the back to the rest of them, he sidles up next to Bee at the bar. 

“Who do we have here?”

Her head whips around, loose strands of hair falling from that already too loose ponytail. A range of emotions races across her face, and for a second he thinks that the surprise on her face is of the bad kind. 

“Didn’t know that you’d be here.” 

They talk for a while, and it’s just as easy as the first time. He wants to ask so many things. Burning questions that suddenly feel too invasive to ask now that they’re not really alone. It’s wrong, but he wants to keep her secluded to that quiet place where it’s just them, where he’s the only one that gets to listen to her. 

They do eventually join the rest at the back of the bar. He doesn’t miss the look Jolly throws him, but he tries not to think about it. He knows that he has to be careful. The feeling that is growing in his chest could easily turn bitter again. Noah is aware that the wound Vic has left behind in his chest is still too fresh to let someone else in. 

It doesn’t matter how long he tries to deny it. 

The damage is done, and now he has to deal with the fallout of it. 

Noah forces himself out of his thoughts. 

He’s surrounded by friends, if he keeps himself here, maybe he won’t drift back into that headspace. He listens to the stories people share, the jokes they’re telling, and he lets himself enjoy it. It doesn’t fix everything immediately, but it takes away some of the ache. He feels a little bit warmer, a little less caged in. 

The warmth rises further when he feels a set of eyes bore into him. Across from him, Bee seems to be entirely narrowed in on him. She stares – unblinkingly – for a little moment longer before her focus breaks and her cheeks turn bright pink. The brief trace of embarrassment dissipates quickly. She looks so awfully caught and – 

He knows the look her face devolves into.

Noah pushes himself up from the sofa he has sunk into. He stops by the armchair Bee is placed in “I’m getting more drinks, coming with?” 

She blinks up at him a few times before following him. 

He heads straight towards the far end of the counter, that so far is still empty. 

“What —”

“I know that look.” he tries to convey a sense of calm, “You don’t have to explain it.” 

Instead of the drinks he said he’d get, he orders a glass of water, the rest of them can wait. 

“This isn’t for you, huh?” he takes a look around the somewhat crowded room. 

They’d had this talk before, but he needs her to know that he understands the feeling that clutches at her. 

“Just a bad day.” 

Noah has used that same excuse often enough to know that this isn’t just a bad day. But he won’t pry, if she wants to share she will. 

“If it makes you feel better, I’m glad you came.” 

He doesn’t miss the little smile on her face. 

Noah watches as she downs most of her water in one go. He wants to ask how her week has been, if she’d thought about them as much as he had, but if he lets himself indulge in this feeling he runs the risk of either of them getting hurt. 

“I still have your sweater.” she says quietly. 

“Oh?”

He’d hardly thought about anything else. 

“I can go get it. My place isn’t too far from here.” 

The words are so rushed that he almost thinks that she’s trying to get rid of it. But with the way her fingers prick at the skin of her palm, he’s sure that it’s just nerves. 

“You really don’t have to.” 

“I wasn’t going to stay that long anyway. I have to work tomorrow, and I’ve already had a long day.” 

It’s adorable, he has to admit that. She’s trying so hard not to be a burden, not to be a cause for disruption when he wants nothing else. 

And worst of all, he doesn’t want her to go just yet. 

“I can walk you home.” he offers instead. 

It’s a two-in-one deal, really. He’ll get to be around her for a moment longer and maybe if he plays his cards right, he can get his hands on her number. 

She really doesn’t live too far from the bar. It’s just a short and sweet ten-minute walk before she stops in front of an older, multi-story building. 

“This is me.” She says, fishing a clunky set of keys from her back, “I’ll just pop upstairs and get the sweater.”

Noah gathers his wits. It’s not as if he hasn’t practised the line the entire way here.

“How about this…how about instead of that sweater you just give me your number, and we call it even?” 

It still comes out a little shakier than he had hoped. 

“You don’t want that back?” 

“Keep it. It looked good on you.” 

Her eyes find the ground in a futile attempt to hide the flush of her cheeks. She takes the phone from his hand anyway. Noah keeps his eyes trained on her while she types her number into it. 

He could watch her for hours. 

Their goodbyes are brief, but Noah waits until a light upstairs flicks on. Before he leaves, he snaps an admittedly dumb picture of himself and sends it to her. It’s easier than the words he wants to say. It’s still too tender. He doesn’t even know if she’d want him like that. 

Noah doesn’t go back to the bar, instead he takes the long route home. He values the company of his friends, but right now he needs the silence. He doesn’t know if he needs time to think or shut his brain off entirely. Neither option sounds like the best right now. 

He trots up the stairs and finds his way into his bedroom. Noah lets himself sink into the mattress of his bed. He lies in the silence for a while. It should feel bad to put Vic behind him so quickly. She made it easy, though. There’s no coming back from that. Even if it turns out that Bee isn’t interested in him after all, he needs to get over this mess, for his own sake. The tour will help, he’s sure of that, if anything it’ll take his mind off of it. 

When he picks up his phone to text Nick that he has gone back home, there’s a reply from Bee. A picture of her in the hoodie, the hood pulled up over her head and half of her face hidden behind her fingers. 

And wishes that it wouldn’t make him feel inside as warm as it does. 

[awakened-omen-art]

Okay so... I've gotten into a little thing called "Clan Gen" which is a warrior cats generator game and a modded version of it called "Life Gen" which is basically the same but lets you follow a specific cat as a main character of sorts.

Long ass ramble under the cut:

I have quite a few Clan Gens and a few Life Gens but none of them have stuck with me quite as hard as Wolfpaw of Spiderclan has.

He's my second Life Gen, the first one I was doing a project on in obsidian and decided to make a side one for fun.

This save file is so beautifully cursed and I'm only on Moon 13

Wolfkit's story starts out on Moon 1 as a newborn orphaned kit on the side of a road. His parents were tragically killed by a monster and then he was found and taken into Spiderclan by the deputy Blotchminnow and her mate Rookpelt alongside their adopted daughter Condorkit

Condorkit doesn't really like to share the spotlight with Wolfkit and is often mean to him and it sucks but his new parents are wonderful to him. Literally, Rookpelt and Blotchminnow take care of him so well. Whenever Blotchminnow is too busy, Rookpelt steps in, but she always tries to make time for her kits. A very sweet working mom.

As he grows up he finds a fascination with the three medicine cats Icicledart, Robinpelt, and Spotfade. Especially when one of the patrols brings home a poisoned rabbit and many cats get VERY sick, including both Icicledart and Spotfade AND Rookpelt.

Wolfkit is constantly underfoot trying to help Robinpelt and he promises his dad that when he's old enough he'll train to be a medicine cat and make him all better.

Rookpelt gets worse. He starts coughing up blood and is asleep more than he's awake. Wolfkit is anxiously awaiting his apprentice ceremony and when the day finally comes he races to the medicine den to tell his dad only to find him completely unresponsive. The others seem to be getting better but his dad won't wake up.

Wolfpaw was too late. He was too late and he blames himself.

Completely overcome with grief Wolfpaw shuts down for several moons, unable to leave his nest to train or learn. At one point he starts getting near constant nightmares and can't sleep.

On moon 10, at 9 moons old, Wolfpaw looks to silverpelt and finally comes to terms with the fact that Rookpelt is gone. The morning after on patrol he senses a presence nearby and is overwhelmed by the scent of his dad. If he concentrates hard enough he can almost see a starry outline.

Things are finally okay.

Until the next moon when he climbs onto a branch of a tree to help Robinpelt collect some leaves, he slips on a patch of ice and plummets, breaking his jaw in the process and leaving him nestbound... AGAIN

Even though he can't go out on patrol to train, Wolfpaw tries his hardest. He's exhausted and in pain but he doesn't want to lose any more time.

He works himself to the bone, so much in fact that Icicledart comments on his tiredness and offers him sleeping herbs, and one of the kits begs him to take a break and play with them.

Even though he has so many cats looking out for him, Wolfpaw still struggles.

On moon 13 he's 12 moons old now, an adult, the age most cats earn their full name. His sister has been a full warrior for several moons since she even got her name earlier than expected at only 10 moons old.

A part of him wonders why his life has panned out this way, worried about what will happen if his jaw doesn't heal properly. He wants to prove himself, he doesn't want to let anyone else down.

Another part wonders if the darkness in his life has something to do with the dark forest. If someone is messing with him, making him miserable for some unknown reason.

All he hopes for in the future is for him to get his full name one day, he doesn't want to remain a 'paw forever.

...

So yeah that's his story so far. He's my tragic little guy and i love him so much.

There is a ton more I left out like the whole war thing that was going on between Spiderclan and Oddclan but that's a tale for another time <3