#grave of the fireflies au | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sixhours · 15 days ago

Text

bright spots - chapter 13

Series Chapter Index | Read on AO3 | In progress

Rating: Teen Words: 4.3k Series tags: The Last of Us, The Last of Us (HBO), Joel & Ellie, Joel Miller, Ellie Williams, Marlene, canon divergence, hospital AU, medical stuff, blood, hurt/comfort, angst, canon-typical violence, vomiting, implied rape/sexual assault, I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3

Ellie

Ellie used to be brave.

She could spend days in the hole without food or sleep or light and come out on the other side mostly sane and ready for more. She turned a gun on her best friend when she got bit and pulled the trigger without hesitation. She was captured and held hostage by the Fireflies for weeks, and when Marlene dropped a fucking bomb about her mother and handed her off to two strangers in the same day, she sucked it up and went willingly. When Sam and Henry died, she dried her tears on the back of her sleeve and helped dig their graves. When Joel was sick, she stitched him up and found food and bartered for medicine, alone. She survived the–

Don’t think about that.

They made it through the winter. They made it to the Fireflies. She let them take her blood and run their tests and cut her open, and if she cried, she cried to herself because that’s what she’d always done.

She never used to need anyone.

But the horde attack seems to have broken her bravery. It’s so stupid because they were safe the whole time. Mostly. Sure, it was hot and smelly and really fucking miserable but it wasn’t like the infected ever got near them. They’d been surrounded by soldiers, six stories up. She’s lived through so much worse.

And yet, it’s like every terrible thing that’s ever happened to her has come crawling back to haunt her, everything she’s ever lost or feared or ached over was carried on the wave of the horde and dumped in her lap.

The nightmares come back. If she’s not dreaming about–

No, no, not that .

She dreams about the infected. She’s trapped in the hole with their clicking and moaning just outside, slimy, rotten flesh clawing for purchase on the walls. She watches Joel die over and over, from a gunshot, a stab wound, a bite. She watches Marlene inject her and feels herself turn, the cold certainty of the fungus spreading beneath her skin, digging long, tendril-like fingers into her brain. It’s a grab bag of horrors, her own Greatest Hits of misery, and every night she fights sleep until it inevitably claims her, until just the act of closing her eyes is enough to spike her heart rate and shorten her breath.

So she goes to Joel. He doesn’t say anything, even though he’s probably getting sick of being crowded out of his own cot by a kid who’s way too old to be crawling into bed with him every night like a fucking toddler. But he just shoves over and lets her steal his blankets and pretend to sleep, even though it’s mostly impossible. Sometimes he’ll rub her back or her hair or her neck–always asking first, because he knows she’s weird about touch after–

Nope. Fuck off.

Two weeks pass like this before they continue the tests; something about the labs getting put back together, a shortage of staff. Marlene stalks around the hospital barking orders, a bomb waiting to go off, jumpy the way FEDRA soldiers always were when terrorist attacks were up.

They do a bone marrow biopsy. Joel argues with Marlene about it, as usual, and Ellie only half listens as they go back and forth.

“She’s tired, can’t you fuckin’ see that? She needs a damn break.”

“We’ve already lost too much time.”

“That ain’t her problem.”

“I’m well aware–”

On and on. It’s the same old shit. But she knows even before they’re finished that she’ll do it because that’s why they’re here, and Joel will go along because she tells him to; he always does. She doesn’t have the energy to make a big deal about their fighting in the meantime.

But this biopsy is worse than any of the other ones combined. The anesthesia is different, but it still makes her sick. Everything hurts after–her back, her legs, her stomach. Her movements feel slow, like her legs weigh a thousand tons each, like she’s trying to move through quicksand and can’t catch her breath.

She’s so fucking tired, but it’s not the kind of tired sleep can fix–not that she’s not getting much of that, either. More and more, she lets her mind go blank, tuning out the noise until she’s just a body waiting for the next needle, the next surgery, the next scar.

She’s tired of being scared. She’s tired of being brave. She’s just tired.

And then she falls.

It was a stupid accident, she got a little dizzy and fell off the chair and bruised her elbow. But Joel makes a big fucking deal of it by getting Marlene and the doctor involved, and soon they’re all crowded in their room and Joel’s doing that pacing thing and he and Marlene are at each others’ throats and the doctor and the nurse are going back and forth over her file. She’s really fucking tired and they’re talking about her appetite and hormones and cycles and low blood pressure and it starts to make sense and there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

They think she’s…

Fuck.

But that’s not fucking possible. She got her stupid period last month. Admittedly she didn’t have one for a while but it’s always weird when she gets stressed, and she was probably starving, and it’s not like she’s even been with anyone like that , or even been around anyone but Joel unless you count–

Not that, not thinking about that.

“I’m not,” she says, but no one hears her, not even Joel. And they’re all still talking over her and her head is buzzing and it occurs to her that she’s only been around Joel and if they think he’s–if they think he might have–

Oh, shit.

They’ll separate them. They’ll kill him.

She looks up at everyone, the nurse and the doctor and Marlene and Joel and she swallows hard, heart racing, and she says it aloud, louder, loud enough to fill the room.

“I’m not fucking pregnant.”

Joel

Things go downhill after the horde attack.

The nightmares are worse than ever. Ellie has never been what Joel would call clingy, but now she rarely leaves his side. Her eyes are dull, missing that curious spark that practically defined their first several months together. It’s too much like the weeks after Silver Lake, when they’d been forced to hole up and wait out the winter.

At the time, he’d blamed her retreat on the bitter cold weather and the lack of food, but deep down, he knew it was more than that. He figured she’d talk about it when she was ready, and before the horde attacked, he thought she might be getting there…but now it’s everything he can do just to keep her attention.

Then they had to do that stupid fuckin’ biopsy, even though he tried to tell Marlene that she needed rest. It’s clear this one cost her something. She bears it more stoically than he would–the kid’s tough as nails–but she shouldn’t fuckin’ have to .

The Fireflies aren’t having a great time of it, either. Joel doesn’t know how many died during the attack, but he guesses at least half Marlene’s military is gone. She doesn’t offer more than clipped reassurances that everything is under control, but he notices a lot of the same guards on rotation in the following weeks, they’re no longer doubled up at the exits, and several once-familiar faces are missing.

Then one day they’re hanging out in the hall, Joel having nudged Ellie out of bed to take a walk around the loop that makes up the fourth floor. They’ve done two laps at a pace that a snail could put to shame and now Ellie spins lazily in her chair while Joel leans against the windows of their room, chin to his chest, passing time. One minute she’s in the chair, the next, there’s a distinct thud and she’s on the floor.

“Shit, Ellie–!”

Lee, on duty nearby, is helping her into a sitting position when Joel kneels beside her.

“The hell happened, kid?”

“She passed out,” Lee says.

“Did not,” Ellie mumbles. “Just dizzy.”

“You were barely moving,” Lee says.

“M’fine, dude,” she mutters.

“Bed,” Joel orders. “I’m callin’ Marlene.”

“I’ll get her,” Lee says. “You take her back to the room.”

Without waiting for her to protest, Joel lifts her– too easily , he thinks, she’s still so damn small -and walks back to their room. The fact that Ellie doesn’t put up a fight at being carried scares him almost as much as the fall.

The nurse at the desk gets up as they approach.

“Call the doctor,” Joel barks.

He doesn’t wait for a response, just carries Ellie into the room, depositing her carefully on the bed, then goes to the bathroom to fill a cup with water from the sink.

“You hit your head?”

“Don’t think so,” she winces, frowning at her elbow. “Bruised my stupid arm, though.”

“D’you remember what happened?” he asks, handing her the water.

She shrugs but won’t meet his eyes, taking a sip. “Just got dizzy.”

His hand goes to her forehead, checking for a temperature.

“Dude, I’m f–”

The door opens and Marlene walks in with the doctor and the nurse right behind. “The guards said something about a fall?”

“She passed out,” Joel says before Ellie can finish. “Think she’s getting sick.”

“I’m not sick,” Ellie sighs.

The doctor frowns at the chart as the nurse hands it over, then starts taking vitals.

“Been usin’ her like a pincushion,” Joel mutters. Ellie submits to the blood pressure cuff readily enough, but her face is a troubling shade of pale.

Marlene rolls her eyes. “Do you know how much blood we’d have to take to cause something like this?”

“I told you the biopsy was a bad idea. I told you but you don’t fuckin’ listen. She needs rest, not more of your fuckin’ experiments.”

“Jesus Christ, do we have to do this every fucking time? She’s here of her own free will–“

“Because you put all these fuckin’ ideas in her head,” he hisses.

The doctor and nurse are talking between themselves, flipping through the pages of her chart. Joel can’t hear what they’re saying, too incensed at Marlene and her goddamn cure, and then Ellie says something but it’s barely a whisper, and he’s thinking of the MRI scans and the cordyceps vining through her body, the fungus that’s embedded in her fuckin’ brain , too aware of the rush of his own heartbeat in his ears and his voice growing louder. He’s about to bypass Marlene to ask the doctor what the fuck is going on when Ellie speaks up again, this time loud enough to silence everyone else in the room.

“I’m not fucking pregnant.”

Only then does Joel notice she’s gone rigid, curled in on herself, knees drawn up and eyes glazed in a familiar terror.

Joel blinks, barely registering the words, her meaning. “What?”

The doctor remains infuriatingly blasé, speaking to Marlene now. “It’s a possibility. She’s post-pubescent, although we don’t have a record of her cycles–”

“That’s none of your goddamn business,” Joel snaps.

“We’ll do a test to–“

He’s in the doctor’s face before the man can finish, only vaguely aware of Marlene’s hand gripping his arm to hold him back.

“I don’t need a stupid test because I’m not pregnant,” Ellie insists tightly, just as Joel snarls, “Get the fuck out.”

The doctor huffs and looks at Marlene, but for once, there’s no resistance from her.

“Let’s give them a minute,” she sighs.

Joel closes the door behind everyone, wishing he could lock it for good measure. He stays there with his hand on the glass, bracing himself, skin crawling as his anger dissolves into horror. He feels sick. His mind races, thinking of Silver Lake, of all those hours they were separated, of the terrifying possibilities, and she won’t fuckin’ talk to him, she won’t talk about–

“Ellie–”

“I’m not,” she repeats, voice wavering. She’s staring at the foot of the bed, not looking at him, her breath too fast and shallow for his liking. “I–I got my period, like, three weeks ago.”

He turns around slowly. They share a bathroom. He’s not the most observant man, but he’s pretty sure he would have noticed something .

As if reading his mind, she continues, grimacing. “Maria gave me one of those…cup…things.”

He has no idea what that means. He swallows hard, takes a deep breath.

“Kiddo…you can talk to me. ‘Bout anything. I won’t be mad or–or–if somethin’ happened, we can–we can fix it, we can–”

“I know,” she spits. Her whole body is quivering, but her words are tightly controlled. “But I’m telling you the truth.”

“You keep sayin’ that–”

She finally looks at him and he sees angry tears gleaming in her eyes. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“Ellie–I believe you, kiddo, I just–I wasn’t there an’-you won’t…you won’t talk about it.”

At that, she looks away again. “Because I don’t need to.”

“Baby–”

“He didn’t fucking rape me, okay? Is that what you want to hear?”

He flinches, the words landing like a slap. A single tear escapes her lash line, making a wet track down her cheek.

“He tried. He tried and he didn’t–he didn’t get that far. Because I bashed his fucking skull in before he could get his fucking pants off.”

Some dim part of him thinks he should feel relieved, but that’s impossible when her face crumples. He goes to her because he can’t do anything else, sits on the edge of the bed, hand twitching in a vain effort to keep himself from reaching for her.

“Happy now?” she grits out, jaw set.

“No,” he breathes. “I could never be happy about that.”

She’s fully panicking now. Every breath sounds high and pitchy, like she’s sucking air through a straw.

“He’s gone, baby. He’s…it’s done. It’s over, you don’t ever have to go back, okay?”

A shuddering hiccup and she lifts her eyes to his. She nods tightly, tremors rippling across her shoulders as she tries to get her breathing under control.

“It’s over,” he repeats, hoping he sounds more certain than he feels. “You’re safe.”

Another jerky nod.

“And…I’m sorry,” he rasps. He wipes at his face in frustration, surprised when his hand comes back wet.

“Wasn’t your fault,” she mutters thickly.

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry that–I shoulda been there, couldn’t–couldn’t help–”

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispers, eyes red but dry. “Doesn’t change anything…right?”

Shame swirls in his gut. She may be right, but the old saws hound him anyway. It’s not enough, this is your fault, you’re failing her, you were always going to fail her. He tentatively reaches out and puts a hand on her knee, hopeful when she doesn’t flinch or pull away.

“I shoulda believed you. I’m sorry.”

Her jaw ticks at that, and she chews on her lip ‘til it’s red and raw. She’s rocking slightly, probably not even aware she’s doing it. She’s going away, he realizes, withdrawing again.

“Ellie?”

He squeezes her knee gently, trying to bring her back.

“C’mon, kiddo, you gotta…you gotta talk to me. You need to–it’s gotta come out. The only way this gets better is if you let it out, and–”

“I can’t,” she whispers, almost a whine, ducking her head. “I know I have to, but I just–I can’t–okay? Not yet. Please…don’t make me.”

Please don’t make me.

His heart cracks and splinters in his chest. She sounds so small, so exhausted. How many times has she been forced, coerced, manipulated by people who claimed to care for her?

Taking a chance, he clasps one of her hands, cold fingers white as porcelain. He tugs gently, asking a silent question, and she folds forward, pressing herself into his side until he can wrap an arm around her shoulders. He does his best to bundle her into his arms, resting his chin on top of her head.

“Alright. You don’t have to,” he whispers into her hair. “Don’t have to do anythin’ right now, okay? Nothin’ you don’t want.”

She nods, gives a tiny hiccup that might be a sob. It’s a long time before she pulls away, wiping a sleeve over her eyes, looking up at him with her jaw set.

“Tell them they can do the dumb test,” she sniffs. “But I’m not fucking pregnant.”

~*~

“No pregnancy. Her iron and RBCs are low,” the nurse says with finality.

“Told you, fuckers,” Ellie mutters, obviously feeling well enough to snark, although the dark circles under her eyes are even more pronounced than before.

“How the hell did you miss that?” Marlene asks.

The nurse scowls. “Dr. Anderson gets reports with all the lab work, he said nothing to indicate the anemia was a problem.”

“So you’re tellin’ me she’s anemic and your brilliant doctor didn’t think to mention it?” Joel cuts in. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you people–”

“Enough,” Marlene snaps, looking back and forth between them, then settles her gaze on the nurse. “What’s the treatment plan?”

“She needs to eat, rest, keep up her strength. Pause the testing until she’s back in healthy range.”

“How long?”

“I can’t say,” the nurse sighs. “If we can find some supplements, we might be able to speed up the process…but the best way is for her to eat.”

And so, two days later, it’s standoff over dinner.

“I can’t.”

“You have to,” Marlene says cooly. “The only way this works is if you keep up your strength, and the only way for you to stay strong is to eat. We’re using precious rations to keep you fed and your blood counts are low.”

Ellie hunches over her half-full tray of food while Marlene hovers. She’s eaten a few bites of vegetables and a piece of bread, but large chunks of venison remain on the tray. He knows why it turns her stomach, why she sends back her trays without touching the stuff.

But he also watched her pass out two days ago.

“I can’t keep it down, it doesn’t fucking work ,” she hisses.

“Come on, Ellie,” Marlene murmurs. “You owe it to us to try.”

“I am trying,” she says. “But my fucking stomach hurts.”

Marlene sighs. “Just…one bite. Try. Please.”

Ellie lets out a disgusted groan, but she picks up a piece of meat with her fork, grimacing as she puts it in her mouth. She chews and her jaw works and works because the stuff is mostly gristle and it’s cooked to the consistency of leather–Joel struggled to choke down his smaller portion, too. He watches her throat bob in a swallow.

Then she’s gagging, choking, and the contents of her stomach–the venison and everything else along with it–are covering the floor next to her bed. She gags and gags, her face red, tears gathering in her eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” Marlene huffs under her breath and that’s the last fucking straw.

“Outside,” Joel snaps, making for the door without waiting for her to answer. When they’re out in the hall, he faces her, snarling. “You don’t talk to her like that.”

“She needs to eat.”

“She can’t do venison.”

“She’ll have to suck it up,” Marlene says flatly. “Her iron is low and venison is the best source we have at this point–”

“That girl,” he jabs his finger at the window behind her, “is putting her whole fuckin’ life on the line for you. So you can figure out how to get her the stuff she needs without forcin’ it down her fuckin’ throat.”

Her jaw clenches, she blows a hard breath out her nose.

“Fine,” she snaps. “I’ll send a scavenging party out for supplements. God knows how good they’ll be, but–”

“Whatever you gotta do, I don’t give a shit. But don’t you ever–e ver– talk to her like that again,” he says. “She ain’t your puppet.”

She folds her arms, clicking her tongue. “Heard.”

He nods and goes back in, finds Ellie on the floor, attempting to wipe up the vomit. He kneels and gently takes the cloth from her hands to finish the job.

“It’s my mess. I can get it,” Ellie hiccups, cheeks red. He can see her hands shaking as she sits back on her knees.

“Not your fault,” he says. “You can’t eat the meat, you can’t eat it. S’their problem, not yours.”

She sniffs and wipes at her face with her sleeve.

“You brushed your teeth yet?” he asks, standing with a suppressed groan and tossing the soiled towel on the floor outside their room. Let the Fireflies deal with it. “Go on. You’ll feel better if you do.”

Ellie goes to the bathroom and closes the door. He hears the water running. When she returns, her face is damp, cheeks blotchy, eyes red-rimmed. She climbs back into bed still looking defeated.

“I hate to admit it, but Marlene’s right about one thing,” he murmurs. “You gotta eat, kid.”

“I’m trying, asshole,” she spits, chin trembling. “I’m trying but…it’s all…stupid deer meat and I can’t–I can’t. After–”

“Alright,” he soothes, rubbing her back. “I know. Marlene’s gonna try to find…pills or somethin’.”

Her face falls. “That’ll take too long.”

“Hey,” he says, hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. “They’re on your schedule, not the other way around, right?”

She rolls her eyes but nods, teary.

“K. Why don’t you get back in bed and get some rest. We’ll figure it out.”

For once, she doesn’t argue. Part of him wishes she would.

Ellie is sleeping soundly when Marlene comes back later that night. They take the conversation to the hallway, speaking in low voices so as not to wake her.

“Dr. Anderson wants to do a blood transfusion,” she says. “It’ll work faster than any supplements we’d be able to find.”

“S’it safe?”

“No riskier than giving her expired iron pills or letting her stay anemic,” she says.

“An’ you got everythin’ for that?”

“Well, the Red Cross isn’t exactly operational,” she says drily. “We need to find someone with a matching blood type. My staff are being typed as we speak.”

Joel grimaces. “I’m a universal donor. Test mine. If it’ll help her…”

He trails off, glancing through the window where Ellie is still curled up in bed.

“You sure? You’re clean?”

He glares at her.

“Hey, we both know the QZ life wasn’t exactly squeaky,” she says. “But…I’m not going to turn it down if you’re willing. I’ll send the nurse in to get a blood sample so we can screen you.”

~*~

Screened and typed and confirmed a match, Joel finds himself laid up in bed with a needle in his arm a few days later.

“This is sick, dude,” Ellie says, lounging in her bed, watching intently as his blood fills the pint-sized holding bag at his side. Her fascination remains unnerving–especially now that it’s directed at him.

“Don’t you have somethin’ to do?”

“I am doing something, I’m resting like you said,” she says, rolling over to dangle her head off the side of the bed. Then she perks up. “Oh, shit! I know!”

She goes to her bag on the floor and pulls out her pun book, flipping through the pages.

“Aha,” he mutters. “Will Livingston strikes again.”

“Hey, Joel,” she says, grinning. “I know a couple of vampire puns…but they all suck. Get it? They suck? ‘Cause it’s a vampire.”

“I got it,” he mutters, trying and failing to hold back a smile. It’s been weeks since she’s joked around with him like this, weeks since they’ve been able to have more than short, stilted conversations that usually end with her staring off into space.

“Maybe don’t ‘B negative’ about it, then.”

That earns her a groan.

“Ooh, ooh wait! I got a better one–”

“Highly doubt that,” he drawls, but he’s full-on smiling now.

“I wanted to write a blood pun, but it was all ‘in vein’!”

“That’s terrible. Negative six.”

“You can’t do negative numbers, dude,” she says, flopping back down on the bed with her book.

“Can for that joke.”

She snorts. “I’m gonna age, like, fifty years with your old man blood.”

“Better than passin’ out in the fuckin’ hall,” he says pointedly.

“I guess,” she sighs. “Kinda cool you’re, like, a walking blood supply.”

“Don’t get any ideas. It ain’t an infinite supply. You still gotta eat.”

“I just figured with the…y’know,” she says quietly, gesturing to his stomach, where the scar on his abdomen still pulls a little when he stands too quickly. “You lost a lot of blood…before.”

“Still doin’ better than you in the iron department.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she hums, thinking, then stretches out with a sigh. “Hey, Joel,” she murmurs, resting her head on her pillow. She blinks sleepily, probably ready for another nap. God, he hopes like hell this transfusion does what it’s supposed to. “Once they do the transfusion thing…does that make us blood relatives?”

“This one of your jokes?”

“No,” she yawns. “S’just funny, when they say ‘blood relation’, they don't mean you share actual blood. Except…we will, kinda.”

“Yeah, I guess we will.”

“S’pretty cool,” she whispers.

“Uh-huh. You’re s’posed to be resting,” he says, watching with fond exasperation as she struggles to keep her eyes open.

She frowns and wrinkles her nose and suddenly looks five years younger, sporting the kind of pout he remembers seeing on Sarah’s face when she was overtired and fighting sleep. “M’not tired.”

“Nice to meet you, Not Tired. I’m Joel,” he says drily. “Go to sleep, kid. I’ll wake you up when I’m done being bled dry over here.”

She rolls her eyes and grumbles something he can’t quite hear– something something show you bled dry, old man– but she turns over with a huff. She’s fast asleep and snoring before the donation bag is full.

#the last of us fanfic #tlou fanfiction #joel and ellie fanfic #hospital au #joel and ellie

20 notes · View notes

squiddy-god · 3 months ago

Note

I JUST SAW YOU ALSO WRITE FOR HSR and hear me out twst characters interacting with hsr characters. I'm just throwing random ideas

YES SEE BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS FOR SOOOOOO LONG PLEASE IT WOULD BE SO FUNNY EITHER WAY

personally I'm a fan of like an au where the twst cast is a part of the hsr universe because it would be so so so good

Or if the hsr cast got transported into twst- lmao it would be so great

Interactions I would like to see and the reasons why

Idia and silver wolf : I need them to either fight or be gaming buddy's pleaseeeeeeee I need to see the grave yard of keyboards that they would have after interacting with each other

Lilia and jing yuan : the dawn of the :3 generals with adopted sons who like swords

Silver and yanqing because sons who like swords

Everyone and argenti- but specifically vil, malleus, rook, and sebek, because here me out argenti who immediately starts waxing poetry about vil and rook who absolutely joins in, or argenti without fear complementing tf out of malleus meanwhile sebek is absolutely bursting a blood vessel, the thing is argenti is also a knight so it is hilarious

Epel and boothill interaction when,,, "what the fudge pretty boy" "WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU CALLING PRETTY BOY METAL ASSHOLE" they are friends I promise

Aventurine meeting Azul,,, I think it would be hilarious

Sampo meeting Azul is even funnier tho because they are both con men

MALLEUS MEETING BAILU AND SHE THINKS HE'S JUST SO COOL BECAUSE HE'S A BIG DRAGON, malleus loves her because that is now his dragon daughter

Dan heng and malleus meeting, two autism dragons

Riddle and ratio meeting and riddle assumes that ratio is going to be like his mother at first but is soon quickly proven wrong because ratio is like "very accomplished at a young age? Good work however do not forget to take ample breaks" and riddle is like "mom?" (Ratio is giving mother) firefly and kalim interaction 4k picture of the sun

Welt and everyone because now he has more adoptive kids lmao

So many fun interactions please

#hsr #honkai star rail #twst #twisted wonderland #twst x hsr #hsr x twst #squiddy♥︎talks

34 notes · View notes

frenchkisstheabyss · 1 year ago

Text

✧*̥˚ Under the Sky *̥˚✧

✧ Mature Content. Minors DNI. Warnings below the break ✧

✧ Pairing: fairy king!yeosang x chubby!fairy queen!reader

✧ Summary: The night of your wedding you disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Regaining your senses, you set out to return to your true love.

✧ Genre: ateez fairy au, romance, adventure {smutty at the end}

✧ Word Count: 1.9k-ish

✧ Warnings: Mentions of death. Reader has some injuries. Unprotected fairy sex. I'd say "wrap it up" but darling, you're a fairy. Have a ball.

✧ A/N: This is for @anyamaris and her absolute love for fairy Yeosang. Thank you for trusting me to write this. Love you forever, sis!

The fae believe that each soul, upon its entry into the realm of the living, is split in two. It’s said that to find your other half is to find a love so deeply rooted in the land of the fae that, should you ever part, the Fates themselves would shift to reunite you…

Hours have passed since you awakened in a graveyard of sorts. Found in the darkest reaches of the forest, it's desolate. No singing blue birds or fields of which to frolic. Only shallow graves dug in packed dirt and a thick smog that carries the nauseating stench of death. Nothing survives there. You aren’t sure how you did or how you even got there. What you do know is that your wedding dress, spun from the silk of a dozen spiders, clings to you now in tattered strips. A dozen scrapes and bruises adorn your body. None of which you notice in the presence of the sharp pain shooting through your back. Your wings, once grand and glittering, have been stripped from your back. An evil, depraved act that not even the fearsome creatures who you crept past to escape death's valley could bring themselves to do.

Night descends swiftly as you push on, at last reaching a point where the air is crisp and the forest is lush. You stop along the way to drink from sparkling ponds, nibbling on foraged berries for strength. Purple means poisonous but the blue ones are safe. Or was it the other way around? You shake it off. Your thoughts drifting to your husband Yeosang. Please don't think I abandoned you. I'd never. I couldn't. A girl like you from such a humble background marrying the king of the fae had been the talk of the town. People spoke of the riches you’d inherit. The luxury you’d live in. For you, none of that mattered. You'd call home a dry rotted tree stump if it meant having him by your side. You were only wed a few hours before your disappearance. Why? How? You shake yourself for answers only to come up empty-handed.

A firefly zips past your face, snapping your attention back to the world around you. The energy here, it’s different, familiar. In the distance, you hear music blended with the laughter of mothers and their children. The baritone voices of men sing a song that brings you back to your childhood. Back to…“Home!” you cry, adrenaline coursing through your veins. You race towards the sounds, dodging weeping willows and woodland creatures busy carrying on their own business. Bursting out into a clearing you find yourself at the center of your village. It’s the annual May fair and the streets are so packed that you’re swallowed by the crowd. Your lip quivers, tears flowing, as your attention shifts beyond the extravagant celebration to the castle sitting at the summit of the trees. Through a stained glass window, a single light shines.

“Yeosang!” you shout, shoving your way through the crowd to find a way to him. The villagers begin to notice you. The music gradually dies down to reveal exchanges of “The queen. The queen? Can’t be. It is!” “Yeosang! I’m here!” you’re shouting in every direction, intent on continuing until your throat’s raw. “I’m here, my love! I'm...aah!” What little breath you have left is knocked out of you when you’re swept up into the air. You look down to find the villagers growing smaller and smaller. You’re flying but how? “My queen. My treasure. You’ve returned” Yeosang beams, holding you close. The mere sight of him makes your head spin. The face of your love, heavy with hope and sadness, is the last thing you see before everything around you goes black.

“If anyone steps foot through these doors without my approval kill them!” Yeosang commands the soldiers lined up before him in the throne room. “If I have to do it myself I’ll send you into the afterlife with them!” In all his years as king Yeosang had never so much as raised his voice at his people. Admired for his gentle strength, the loss of you had filled him with a rage that burned wildly enough to destroy everything in his reach. And he'd done so, regrettably. In search of his love. In search of you. Word spread quickly that, in your absence, Yeosang had embarked on a rampage soaked with the blood of his enemies. “The Mad King” they came to call him, not to his face of course but he heard their whispers. “Gone, she is. He needs to accept it. Probably nothing but bone by now.” Yeosang never listened, he refused to. You would be together again. He'd accept nothing else.

The pitter-patter of a maid’s feet against the pearlescent castle floors provides some relief to the soldiers. “My king! My king!” she squeaks, nearly out of breath. Yeosang motions for his men to disperse, “What is it, Fern? The spiders again? I’ve told you, they work here. You must stop being so frightened of them.” “No, it’s the queen. I took her to the bath and she…” She carries on explaining but he’s already whipping through the halls in search of you. Bursting through the doors of the washroom he finds everything as it should be. The only peculiar thing is you, dripping wet before a mirror carved in cherrywood. Bubbles from your bath still gliding down your generous curves. Your back’s turned to the mirror, your attention fixed on the bruised, raised skin where your beautiful wings once were.

“They’ll never come back? Will they?” you say with enough despair to break him. Yeosang plucks a towel from a nearby hook, proceeding to dry you off. “In time” he sighs, working his way up from your feet to your calves, “Until then I’ll carry you wherever your heart desires.” Wrapping his arms around you, he releases the towel to lay his hands upon your wounds. His wings pulse, radiating a soft blue, as he massages the tension from the damaged muscle. “But you are as fierce, as exquisite a woman, as you were with them” he whispers, “And I swear that whoever has done this will feel your pain tenfold.” “When did you become so vengeful? Such a beast you've become” you coo, placing your hands on either side of his cheeks. Yeosang draws you in closer, resting his head on your shoulder.

He breathes you in as you pet wings and you can’t help but giggle at the way they shiver when you touch them. “What’s so funny?” he asks, his head popping up. You do your best to stifle your amusement, “Uhm, nothing. Nothing at all” A seriousness creeps across his handsome face, his lips suddenly meeting yours. “Do it again...” Never one to back down from a dare, you drape both arms over his shoulder, fingers lightly stroking his wings. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?” he asks between passionate kisses. You shake your head, heat rushing down between your legs as he presses his hardening arousal against you. “Show me…” Too entranced by his kiss to watch what you’re doing, you blindly tear at his clothes until not a single shred of garment separates you.

Cradling the back of your neck, he pulls away from your lips, kissing along your collarbone. “As you wish, my love” he hums against your chest, nibbling at your pillowy breasts. Bringing your legs around his waist, he brushes the tip of his cock against your tender bud and it’s your turn to shiver now. To rock back and forth along his length, the slick from your aching pussy soaking him from base to tip. “Yeo…Yeosang…so good” you moan, the friction setting off sparks in your system. Yeosang feverishly laps at your heaving breasts, tasting them as your chest rises and falls, your breaths growing shorter the more you grind down against him. “That’s it, darling. Use me to make yourself…mmm…feel good” he urges, tilting his hips so that his swollen head teases your entrance.

You catch yourself biting down on your own tongue, dragging your clit along his shaft, your walls already pulsing, desperate to be filled. “Inside of me. Please” you whine, hips stuttering, “Need you, Yeo…” He peaks up at you, your eyes glazed over, so needy. How could he refuse you? He raises his hips, fingers reaching between your legs to spread you wide for him, feeding you his cock painfully slow. He has to take his time with you. Feel the way your thighs tremble. The way your core contracts each time he goes the slightest bit deeper. Your low, soft moans in his ear are sweeter to him than his own pleasure. With every stroke your sounds grow fractured, those sparks having grown into full blown fireworks, setting off within your very essence. Yeosang grabs you by the hair, thrusting into you with such force that all thoughts of anything else leave your mind.

Any words you say are incoherent, your limbs moving as they wish. You are in heaven. The pressure builds. Unbearably strong. Dominating your senses. “Fall apart with me” he whispers, lovingly palming your scars, “I will carry you always. I promise.” “Aah…I…I…” Whatever you meant to say escapes you, your high crashing against you like the roaring tides of some vast ocean. The waves are unforgiving, taking more and more of you each time. Steadying your weakened body against his, he buries himself into your depths, your walls clenching around him, hitting just the right spot to trigger his own release. His seed gushes into your womb, warm and sticky, marking you as his own for the first time since your wedding night.

Struggling to catch your breath, you collapse onto his chest, suddenly aware that you’re no longer vertical. You tilt your head to the side to find that the floor might as well be worlds away. You’re…on the ceiling. “You…have to…warn…me…” You attempt to scold him but can’t focus with him still grinding into you the slightest bit, filling you to the point of overflow. “But it’s so much fun not to” he teases, kissing you all over your face. “Cut it out” you giggle, not meaning a single word. “My king! Did you…” Fern starts, fluttering into the bathroom. She scans the washroom for a moment before looking up. “Oh my gods and goddesses!” she screams, startling Yeosang enough that you both fall from the air, his wings stopping you a mere inch from the ground.

Throwing her hands over her eyes, she flees into the hallway shouting “I’ve seen nothing! Carry on!” You move to climb off of him but he won’t let you go, his arms still locked around your waist. “Do you mean to chase her in this state?” “I don’t know! I just…we’ve traumatized the poor thing.” you sigh, burying your face in his chest out of embarrassment. It’s been so long…too long…since he felt you curled up against him this way. “I love you so dearly, Y/N” he sighs, kissing the top of your head. You return the kiss to his shoulder, “And I, you, my king.” You curl up there, floating in the arms of your love. A nightmare behind you and a dream before you. After a long, perilous journey you are, at last, home.

#yeosang x reader #yeosang x y/n #ateez au #ateez x reader #chubby reader #plus size reader #ateez x y/n #yeosang au

230 notes · View notes

missacidburn928s-heathenhideaway · 8 months ago

Text

One day I'll be dancing on your grave...

Summary:

Lucien “Luci” Greco, you’re piece of shit ex, has come to NY looking for you. He's the reason you had to leave everything behind in the first place. Didn't stop him from searching for you though. The long lost mafia princess. He needs you if he is ever to rightfully take over the family from your father Declan. Little does he know you're doing mercenary work for the highest bidder. He still thinks you're some wilting damsel, a spoiled little princess. Your daddy didn't raise you that way though. You've been primed to take over since birth. Too bad he beat the shit out of you so badly you had to run for your safety. Somehow, even trying to stay under the radar you've befriended the damn Avengers family. A misfit mafia if you’ve ever seen one. You’re all after the same enemy afterall. Maybe, it's time to finally let someone or several someones in, so you can live life without constantly looking over your shoulder. Question is, do you even want the crown anymore?

Warnings:

Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blood and Violence, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Past Violence, Mafia Avengers, Mafia AU, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Woman on Top

Notes:

Hello Heathens! Welcome to this dark little mafia world I've created. Please be aware there are dark themes throughout this story so be sure to check the tags with each new chapter just in case there may be something that triggers you. Happy reading! Banner @cafekitsune Divider @firefly-graphics

“Well if it isn't the White Wolf and his Captain.” You deadpan as you enter your living room.

“Jinx.” Bucky speaks from his place on the couch.

“To what do I owe the displeasure of finding you in my home?”

“We came to return this.” Steve places a dagger on the coffee table. “Seems you left it behind.”

“Oh Steven. I don't ‘leave’ anything behind. Every blade has a purpose. You should know that by now. That one was left as a reminder of what happens when people underestimate me.” You start to clean the dirt from under your blood soaked hands with another dagger.

“Now if you're done posturing or whatever it is you came here to do. You can kindly show yourselves out. I have a date with my clawfoot tub, a bottle of 151 and season 2 of the Witcher to get to.”

You turn on your heels and head down the hallway towards your bedroom, undressing and leaving a trail of bloody clothes behind you along the way. You're faithful Doberman Hades on your heels. The pair of enforcers sat on your couch are fixated on the sway of your hips until your form leaves their line of sight.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back. “What do you want to do about this? I’ve never known her to kill just for fun. Clearly someone with deep pockets hired her to take out Sitwell. Not that I’m complaining. That Hydra piece of trash deserved it.”

“Tony is going to want answers. Answers that only she can give.” Steve shrugs.

“If she’s willing. She’s not the biggest fan of Tony.”

“Thankfully she loves Pepper. Let’s see if she’ll come to the compound with us voluntarily first.”

Arching his brow and giving Steve a sly grin. “Afraid to get your hands dirty Stevie.”

“More like I’d prefer to have her tied up in my bed than in the back of my Range Rover.”

“Don’t we all Stevie. Don’t we all?”

You’re staring at yourself in the mirror as your phone begins to vibrate along the counter. You glance down and upon seeing the name flashing across the screen you take a calming breath and answer.

“It’s done. There was no need for you to check in on me.”

“That any way for you to talk to your Da? I know it’s done. I had 100% faith in ya to finish the task. I did raise ya after all. So what if I wanted to check in on ya. You’re so damn far away now. I’m not allowed to call my daughter?” Declan proclaims.

“Da. What do you need? You never call to just check in. We don’t work that way. If you wanted to see how I was doing, you’d fly a goon of yours out and stalk me for a week before deciding if it was worth it to come out here to see me. So what is it? I can’t re kill Sitwell for you.”

“Alright. Alright. I get it." He sighs into the phone. "I have some info I feel ya need to know.”

“And that is?”

“Lucien has been gone for a week. Said he had some business to attend to out of town. I just came to find out from one of his little lackeys that said business seems to be in your neck of the woods. Be careful, petal. Keep your eyes open. He very well may be there for some reason other than to hunt you down and drag you back, but I won't risk it.”

You freeze at the mention of your toxic, waste of space, abusive ex. The reason you had to run away to NY in the first place. You swallow and test the water for your bath.

“Thanks for the heads up. I’ll stay vigilant, as always. Now leave me be so I can enjoy my post kill ritual.”

“Never one to waste words.”

“I got it from you. Night Old Man.”

“Night Petal.”

Placing your phone on the tray next to the tub you proceed to submerge yourself in the steamy water. You tilt your head back and exhale as tortured memories bring themselves to the surface.

“Sunshine” His voice is getting closer to the darkened corner you’re hiding in. “Come out, come out wherever you are.” He throws one of the dining room chairs away from the table. “Come on baby, I won’t hurt you. I promise. I didn't mean to scare you. You know how I get when I have a shit day and your dad calls attention to my fuck ups in front of everyone.”

His steps get closer and the next thing you know his hand is in your hair and he’s pulling you out into the living room. Tossing you harshly on to the coffee table. You barely get your hands out in front of you before your face can connect with the solid wood.

“You know better than to hide from me, Sunshine. For that, I’m gonna deny you the use of my tongue to open you up. Hopefully you’re wet enough cause I’ve got a lot of pent up anger that I need to get rid of. Don’t move if you know what’s good for you and take this dicking I’m so graciously giving you.”

You brace yourself as he slams himself inside you, grabbing a fistful of your hair and craning your neck back so he can wrap his other hand around it. He’s squeezing so tight you know there will be finger shaped bruises left behind.

You find yourself zoning out as you try to preserve your precious air and he continues his brutal pace. It’s the only way to get through it with your mind intact. Your body will heal. It’s the emotional trauma you're most afraid of. Before you get too lost in your head, he speeds up, hips moving erratically until he stills and you feel him empty inside you. Thank the goddess is stamina is so shitty.

“Much better.” He kisses the back of your head. “See how easy that was Sunshine. Go get yourself cleaned up so we can have dinner. I don’t feel like staying in so wear something that’ll help cover those bruises. Don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”

You numbly nod your head and limp off to your ensuite bathroom where you stare at the mottled mess of purple around your neck. You heave a sigh and get to work covering up his handiwork.

Hades emitting a low growl, snaps you out of your daydream when the pair of Super Soldier enforcers saunter into the ensuite to see if they can persuade you to come to the compound of your own freewill. You decide then and there to have a little fun with them first. A sort of quid pro quo if you will. You're keyed up from your kill and want to drown out the memories of your past that seem to want to flood back tonight. What better way than with some orgasms.

“Can I help you? As you can see I’m trying to relax.” You announce to the steam filled room.

“Tony would like to see you. He has some questions pertaining to your last kill.” Steve states.

“And before you give some snarky ass comment, we’re asking if you wouldn’t mind coming in with us of your own accord. Although I’m more than okay tying you up and dragging you in myself.” Bucky wiggles his eyebrows and shoots you wink.

“Okay.” You casually declare.

“What?!” The soldiers stare at each other in shock over how easy that was. Too easy.

“What’s the catch?” Steve asks.

“It’s simple, really. It’s a win/win all around. I’ll go if Bucky uses those metal fingers of his and gets me off, then lets me ride him while I suck on that golden dick of yours Captain.”

“Deal!” Bucky blurts out, making his way over to the tub as he rolls up his left shirt sleeve.

He wastes no time submerging his hand in the hot water and seeking out your folds. He lightly runs his fingers along them and up to your clit where he makes a couple light circles, eliciting a moan from you.

“Fucking soaking and it aint even from the bath water. You’ve thought about this before, haven't you Doll.”

“Wh-what can I say? The metal is sexy. Oh Fuck!” He slides two thick digits knuckle deep inside you and curls them upward. “Yes. Yes. Right there. Right fucking there Wolfie.”

Your head is thrown back in complete pleasure as you give in to the manipulation of Bucky’s metal digits. Steve is off to the side, all of his blood having run to his cock, making his pants extremely uncomfortable, watching you writhe and make the most delicious sounds.

“That’s it. Come on babygirl. I can feel how close you are. Give it to me and then you can take me for a ride. I know you want to be stuffed full.”

His words have the desired effect and your pussy squeezes down on his fingers as you detonate and ride the wave of your orgasm.

Before you fully can come down from your high, you're pulled from the water and impaled on Bucky’s thick girth as he sits on the edge of the tub. The stretch and feeling of being so full almost sets you off once again. You take a moment to let your body accommodate him.

“Thought you wanted to ride me, Doll? So ride. Before I change my mind and bend you over this tub instead.”

Your hips move of their own accord at his threat. Undulating and bouncing to a sensuous rhythm. Losing yourself in the moment.

That is until Steve strolls over and teases your lips with his precome coated tip. “Open up, Doll. Gotta make good on that deal.”

You gaze up at the Golden Adonis standing to your right and give him one sweet kitten lick before you take him down to the root. Hollowing your cheeks, you begin to bob your head along his length, sucking the life out of him. He can’t help the moans and groans slipping out of his mouth as you suck his dick like no one ever has before.

Knowing your mouth is setting the Captain's world upside down, you pick up the pace, grinding and bouncing on the dick splitting you open. You set a tempo that has the room filled with nothing but the wet sounds of skin against skin, moans and language that would make a nun blush.

Bucky has a firm grip on your hips as he pulls you down one final time and erupts inside you, triggering your own orgasm. You come screaming around Steve’s length, setting him off as well. Rope after rope of his hot white seed coats your tongue and throat as you swallow every precious drop.

Releasing him from your mouth you lick any run away drops off your lips and proceed to lift yourself off of Bucky’s lap. “Fuck that was even better than I imagined it’d be. We most certainly need to do that again. Many many times.” You grin devilishly. You are a glutton for sin after all.

You grab a washcloth, dip it into the hot bath and begin to clean up the mess Bucky left behind. Satisfied with the level of cleanliness, you turn towards the out of breath enforcers. “I’m nothing, if not a woman of my word. Grab yourselves a drink and recoup while I throw something presentable on for the big boss man. What are we riding in by the way? Will I need my leathers or are we in a cage tonight?”

“As much as I would love to see you in your leathers, straddling me on the back of my bike.” Bucky bites his lip at the image presented in his mind. “Stevie here, brought his Range. So cage it is tonight, Doll. Gonna have to save that ride for another time.”

“No problem. You’ll just have to enjoy that sight when you're watching me from behind as I sped past you on my Ducati.” You tease.

“You won't be ahead for long, sweetheart. And once I catch you, I’ll gladly bend you over it and fuck you til cant stand, let alone handle you bike and are stuck riding bitch with me.” He cockily proclaims.

“Promises. Promises.” You smugly smile back.

Steve interrupts your moment before it escalates further. “Okay. Enough you two. Although I would love to watch that transpire, we do have somewhere to be. Come on Buck, let our little murder queen get dressed. We’ll be ready when you are Jinx.”

You walk up to Steve and plant a kiss on his cheek. “Always so polite. Even after you just had your massive dick shoved down my throat. Oh you're the best kind of dangerous. I can’t wait to see you unhinged.”

With a whistle to Hades you head back into your room and your walk-in closest to throw on some clothes and be on your way to the Avengers compound.

"There's the woman of the hour. I thought you'd put up more of a fight with the Super Soldiers. Guess I was wrong this time. We were just talking about you." Tony gets up from his chair, grinning.

"We?" You question.

"He'd be talking about me." You gaze down to a blonde head of slick back hair and a voice that haunts your nightmares sitting in front of Tony.

"Jinx, I'd like you to meet…"

"Lucien Greco." You deadpan.

He stands from his seat and turns in your direction. His blue eyes scan you from top to bottom. Cocky smirk plastered on his face. "Hello Sunshine. I was hoping I'd find you here."

"No one calls me that anymore." Another emotionless response from you.

"So I've heard. Jinx. Fitting if I do say so." You barely restrain the growl that wants to emit from your chest.

"You know him?" Bucky asks.

"Yeah. He's the asshole who gave me this.” You lift your shirt and pull up the center of your bralette, showing off the jagged scar in the middle of your sternum. “Right before he left me for dead on the side of the road."

“I didn't leave ya for dead darlin’. I was always coming back. Just needed to teach ya a lesson first.” Lucien imparts.

Before he gets a chance to even take a step, you have him pinned against Tony’s desk. Your favorite dagger, precariously placed under his chin. Blade pressed so close against his throat, a deep breath would break the skin.

“Tony. Please get on with whatever it is you need to discuss with me. Every second that passes I’m one step closer to slitting his throat and that’s just too quick of a death for him in my book. So make it quick and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Tony lets out a sigh. “Unfortunately you’re going to have to deal with him for this discussion. Says he knows who hired you for the hit on Sitwell and that we’re all after the same thing. Revenge.”

“Of course he knows who would have hired me for this hit. He’s been working for him since he was a teenager. Been around him his whole life actually. He is correct about revenge though.” You state a little too calmly.

“Are you implying Declan Scott paid you for killing Sitwell?” Tony questions.

“Never said I got paid for the job.” You shrug your shoulder.

“Why didn't you get paid?” Steve utters.

With a smug little grin Lucien answers for you. “That’s an easy one, boys. He killed her mother. In fact he was the reason she went into labor. Little Sunshine here was born in blood. Taking her first breath as her mother took her last.”

“You’re extra chatty tonight Luci? It’s a pity those words just might be your last.” You look him dead in the eyes, a look of murder in yours.

“Wait. Wasn’t Declan’s wife murdered while pregnant? He has a daughter right? She’s been MIA for the last 3 years.” Bucky adds in.

“That would be, correct gentleman. Although I wouldn't classify her as MIA any longer now would I darlin’.” Lucien chuckles.

You press the dagger in a fraction harder and watch as a trickle of blood begins to slide down his neck.

“Alright. Enough with being vague. Just tell us what you're trying to say, Greco.” Steve growls out.

Smug as ever he lets them know what’s going on. “Alright. Alright. I’ll lay it all out. You’re little Jinx here, is Declan Scott’s one and only daughter. The rightful heir to the Bay Area Mafia. I’ve come to drag her back home where she belongs before Hydra makes good on their threat and ends her fathers life.”

“I’ll be going nowhere with you.” You say through gritted teeth. “You seem to have left out the part where you only want me home so you can lock me up and throw away the key. That way you can run things solo. Not happening. I’d rather bleed out in a ditch again than see you take over for my father. Whatever deal you thought you’d strike here it’s over. Your word is as good as a knife in the back. Your mouth is full of nothing but slick words and a poisonous tongue.”

“You used to love my wicked tongue Sunshine.” You press the dagger in a bit further once again. The tiny river of crimson soothing your raging emotions.

Not wanting to have to clean blood out of the carpets Tony takes charge of the tense situation. “As sexy as it is watching her hold you at knife point, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Seems you are no longer needed for this conversation.”

He presses a button on his desk. “Happy. Would you mind escorting our guest off the premises please. Take him wherever he wants to go, as long as it’s far from here.”

“Will do, Sir.” Happy replies.

“Thanks. Now Jinx. I’m gonna need you to step back from the deadbeat ex so Happy can remove him.”

Bucky comes up behind you and places his flesh hand on your hip and his metal one around the wrist holding the dagger. He whispers in your ear so only can hear. “Let’s make him wish he never stepped foot in here thinking he could get one over on you.” He kisses along your neck as he lowers your hand away from the lowlife's, guiding it down to your thigh, where he helps you return it to its sheath.

“That’s my girl. Head on over to Tony now. Steve and I will be right behind you.” He places a final kiss on your lips and turns you toward is awaiting boss.

You walk over to Tony and he grabs your hand, kissing your knuckles. “We have a lot to discuss, little one. Seems you’ve been holding back on us.”

You laugh. “Don’t say I didn't warn you.”

#poc reader #avengers x reader #avengers smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #mafia au #steve rogers x reader

26 notes · View notes

obsessedtomone · 10 months ago

Text

Unravel Yourself Before Me ⛓️ Chapter 9 - Playing Chess▸Shigaraki x femReader

Chapter Summary:

◤ Seeing you like this feels fucking intimate, and it probably is, but he can’t keep himself from wanting to pry more into your life. To carve himself into it. To force himself in—and he really fucking wants to—despite knowing how much suffering he’d caused you. Despite knowing you’ll try to push him away again.

The floorboard creaks loudly, when he steps towards the frame of your bed, causing your body to jerk softly in your sleep.

He stills, waiting, watching.

Would you be mad if you saw him like this?

Probably. ◢

Setting: University AU - No quirks (unless degenerate personalities count) Tags: Slow burn, Eventual Smut, Unhealthy/Toxic Relationships, Humiliation, Mentally Ill Reader, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to ??? Warning: Dead Dove – Do Not Eat | Mind the tags TW: Implied Su/Self H, Dubcon, Reader has a super shitty past like actually, Shigaraki Tomura is his own warning.

AO3 Crosspost | Chain Divider by firefly-graphics

Chapters: One • Two • Three • Four • Five • Six • Seven • Eight • Nine • Ten(ko) •

Chapter 9 - Playing Chess A waft of old, aged concrete washes over Tomura, making his nose scrunch in displeasure when he opens the door to your building. He walks ahead, crinkling sounds of plastic coming from the dangling grocery bag he holds in his hand. It’s filling the otherwise quiet trip up the stairwell, rustling every time he takes a step and climbs his way up the stairs, on his way to the floor where your apartment is located.

He can’t help but muse at the fact that he had—and only by coincidence this time—found exactly where you live.

Not in the literal sense, of course—he’s already had his hands all over quite a lot of your information, all of it sitting pretty in his documents and all ready to be used against you like he’d prepared for back then, before he had to change his plans—but in the sense that he got to finally see it in person, without having to scope the area first (something he would’ve done eventually) or… walk you home, as he’d put it.

No, no, no. Instead, you’d opened your door for him willingly. You admitted earlier that you weren’t even ‘on friendly terms’ as you’d put it, but he was still allowed to enter your living space, standing right next to your friend that he’d convinced to accompany.

His feet stop right in front of your apartment and his eyes scan your door, noting how easily it could be broken into by someone with even a modicum of experience. With how old-school the lock system was, it probably wouldn’t take him more than five minutes to crack it open and give himself access to your world, whenever the fuck he so pleased.

But that’s cheating, he thought as he ran his thumb along the chipping paint of the wood, pressing the nail in ever so slightly.

Tomura decided earlier today that he’s not going to slip up again. He also knows he has to work you a bit longer until he fully gains some of your trust again, face splitting into a grin at that.

Yeah, he can definitely do that. The best rewards lie behind the biggest challenges, after all.

His knuckles knock on the door as he’s surveying the hallway outside of your apartment, the same fingers reaching his neck only to scratch against it softly.

When the door opens, the first thing he sees is your friend, looking all too smugly at him. It takes him by surprise and his face contorts into a frown, red eyes narrowing.

Tomura scoffs. What the fuck is wrong with them?

They’re a pretty shit friend for forcing you to let him in, even he could recognize as much. It didn’t even take him long to persuade them when he wanted to get your new number. The day you’d missed your third CS class in a row and he realized you wouldn’t come back on your own to finish your… talk with him, Tomura went and found your friend.

Instead of fuckin’ defending you, of clawing his eyes out or putting him in his grave for what he’s done to their ‘supposed’ best friend—for what he’s still going to do—they let him in. They let him in because he’d promised he’d wanted to make good with you, that he was worried about you or whatever bullshit he’d said that served him at the time.

Were they that fucking gullible? Or were they that afraid of him? The latter would be the most logical take because fucking everyone is afraid of him—save for maybe your stupid ass. But he senses that there might be something more to it than just that. Something he couldn’t read between the lines.

Something annoying.

In the end, it doesn’t really fucking matter to him. Tomura suspects Taylor is the ticket and the conduit for him to get back into your good graces, so he didn’t have the luxury of time to question their motives. He already decided he’ll use whatever means he can to get you, and if your friend was this fucking stupid to let it happen, well—

“You didn’t fuck off after all, huh?” your bitch of a friend asks him, keeping up the smugness of their smile.

“Get lost,” he replies, walking past them and placing the plastic bag on the counter, as they for some reason start giggling like a fucking moron.

Despite him only being gone for a total of maybe twenty minutes, your friend had admittedly done a neat job at making your apartment look less than the shithole it was before. Most of the garbage you had laying around is now packed into trash bags and propped against the side of the wall.

Not that Tomura could complain, when the person cleaning his own fucking room isn’t even himself.

“Where is she?” he mumbles, red eyes scanning for you but you weren’t in the room anymore.

“Asleep, I think. We’ll wake her up when I’m done with the food. You better have brought something decent, or I swear to god,” Taylor nags, their back turned at him, but Tomura isn’t listening. They peer over their shoulder. “Where are you going?”

Tomura signals them to be quiet, opening the door to your room very carefully.

True to their word, you really are curled up in your sheets and sleeping. He has to bite back a snort when he sees you, your usual rigid bitchiness toned down by forty percent, making you look more like an angry sleeping stray than the girl who fucked him over.

Curiously, your expression is holding a frown even while unconscious.

He steps inside, spreading his presence across the safety of your room, noting how barren it is. White walls, a wardrobe, open or folded cardboard boxes and an old desk and a chair. Barely anything sitting in this room defines it as yours, making it look like you’ve either just moved in, or you’re about to move out at any point in time.

Heaps of disorganized study notes are cluttering your desk among empty forgotten energy drink cans and an ancient looking laptop, the one you always have with you in class. He quickly notes the way you keep your studies and hobbies separate, taking into account how your designated gaming PC is set up in the other room.

Tomura would like to go through it sometime. To see what kind of games you spent your time playing or what kind of channels you were watching. Were you the type to watch streams? He had a thing or two to say about that, but he wouldn’t mind doing it with you. At least occasionally.

Seeing you like this feels fucking intimate, and it probably is, but he can’t keep himself from wanting to pry more into your life. To carve himself into it. To force himself in—and he really fucking wants to—despite knowing how much suffering he’d caused you. Despite knowing you’ll try to push him away again.

The floorboard creaks loudly, when he steps towards the frame of your bed, causing your body to jerk softly in your sleep.

He stills, waiting, watching.

Would you be mad if you saw him like this?

Probably.

Yet he dares to walk closer, squatting next to your sleeping form and observing you further.

Scanning over your face, he wonders what it is about you that pulled him in. There is nothing special about the way you dressed or looked, in fact you’re extremely plain and seemingly unremarkable. Not to mention your god awful personality and the way you never fail to get on his fucking nerves. Yeah, there really was nothing special about you.

But he always found the look in your eyes oddly captivating. When your eyes aren’t filled with doubt or distrust—at him, at the world—they’re determined, angry. You hated the world, hated him and probably also hated yourself.

Not only that, but he’s well aware now that you didn’t get where you are by any stroke of luck.

No, you’re clever. So fucking clever, holding your own, fighting against all odds at the weirdest fucking times. You never back down from him, not at the start, before you knew who he was, not now, after he’s fucked you over. You never take his shit, no matter how many times he’s tried to scare you off. You’re never truly afraid to talk back to him. You played his games. You smelled so good. You felt good against his cock and against his lips and fuck, how he longs he could press himself against you once more, anytime or any place you’d fucking let him.

Tomura wants you, desperately. He wants to crawl inside your body and for him to never fucking leave you again. Like a parasite you’d never be able to get rid of, no matter how hard you try.

You really fucked up crossing his path.

Fucked up by talking to him. Fucked up by being so fucking challenging to him, that he couldn’t help but want to break you. Ruin you. Build you up and make you his. Only his.

His vision re-focuses on your sleeping form, only to realize that you aren’t sleeping anymore. You’re staring back at him, all the while his pale digits are caressing your face. Your eyes look tired as he pulls his hand away, his expression unreadable.

Time stands still for a moment, both of you staring into each other’s eyes. You wonder if this is what a cold war felt like. Two enemies at a stillstand, predicting the other person’s move.

Neither of you could have predicted this next move however, when you subconsciously lean in on your elbow, bed creaking as you reached out with your own hand to feel his snowy white hair.

Is it going to be as soft as it looks?

Shigaraki flinches once your fingertips connect with his head, but he doesn't pull back. You begin sliding the pads against dry creases of his forehead, the ones right under his messy bangs, earning you a frown of insecurity from him. You don’t let it deter you. No, you keep going, keep raking your fingers into the roots of his hair and brushing it backwards. They get caught into a tangled knot, but even that doesn’t convince him to move, letting you work quietly and detangle it.

He closes his own exhausted eyes and actually leans into your touch, letting out a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding back. It fucking looked like no one has ever bothered to show him affection before, or maybe it’s just been a long time since. Like how you were, before you met Taylor.

Tomura waits for you to realize your mistake, to properly wake up from whatever spell is cast over your eyes, to pull back from him like you always do but… that moment never comes.

He shudders when you start petting his head in earnest, unable to help the small groan that escapes his lips.

Why the fuck are you so gentle with him?

His brows knit together and when he opens his eyes again, to glare at you for making him feel this way, his displeasure immediately dissolves into curiosity.

Look at you.

Your cheeks are visibly reddened, pupils slightly dilated and your lip fucking quivers.

You look flustered. Why?

And you’d told yourself he couldn’t possibly read minds, when you couldn’t help but be reminded of the incident before your breakdown, the one in the hallway. Where he laid under you, so vulnerable and pliable to your touch.

He surely couldn’t read minds, yet Shigaraki smirks at you in a way it tells you he just might.

Because he wasn’t only reminded of it, but actually couldn’t get it out of his head ever since it happened. He was ready to fail over and over again, but you’re already giving so much of yourself. Maybe you’ll finally realize that you belong to—

“Aww! Are the two lovebirds done making up? We’ve got a stupid baby to feed,” Taylor teases and Shigaraki is caught off-guard, stumbling backwards with a curse.

You roll your eyes and try to sit up, but dizziness is still weighing you down.

“Help me up.” You reach out to him, but he just stares blankly at your hand and then at you. Taylor clicks their tongue impatiently, grabbing your hand instead and helping you properly sit up.

“Prince charming here brought you food, by the way. Your favorite too,” your friend says, eyeing him and grinning slyly at the way he narrows his eyes at them before continuing, “I warmed it up for you babe, but don’t get up. I’ll bring it to you.”

They turn on their heel and walk away, leaving you alone with him once again. You glance at the boy who didn’t move a fucking inch from the spot he fell against.

“Comfy down there?” you ask with a hint of amusement and that seems to wake him up from his half-lidded trance.

“Huh? Oh.” He quickly gets on his feet. “I… I should leave.”

Your almost-smile falls at that and a deep frown replaces it.

His eyes widen.

Are you disappointed that… he’s leaving?

“Yeah, you really should,” you say, looking away enough that he’s out of your view.

Alright. Not disappointed, then.

“Yeah.” He stares through you for a moment, before turning around and exiting the room as if he was never there. You pick up Taylor shouting a ‘thanks again’ and a ‘bye’ after him, but you couldn’t hear anything in return.

Moments later, your friend comes back to you with a bowl of what smells like your comfort food.

“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t tell him what to buy,” they answer your unasked question with a snort. “You were right though. If he didn’t pull the whole revenge porn bit on you, I might have actually said he’s not that bad as the rumors say. I might almost ship it.”

Your jaw fucking drops seconds before taking your first spoonful and you look at them with pure disbelief.

“I said almost! Eat your fucking meal, bitch.”

You scoff, about to get into another fight, but the food smells too good not to take a bite. Or two. Or to wolf down the whole portion, feeling the warmth flowing through your body and into your stomach for the first time in days.

─────────

It’s Tuesday today.

Slowly but surely, the air is getting colder outside, making you shiver slightly despite the extra layer of clothes you had underneath.

It’s been another week since your little… intervention happened.

You finally decided to get out of your comfort cave and stop missing on important study material that you actually couldn’t afford to miss, spending most of your time catching up with important assignments.

Taylor is still dropping by occasionally to check-up on you and you’ve had to promise to face-time them at least once every 24-hours. You’re hoping they’d drop the worried parent surveillance bit soon, but it seems unlikely after the reckless stunt you’d pulled earlier.

Call it the consequences of your fucking carelessness.

It’s odd, you think, walking down the halls of your university and not catching a single soul glancing your way anymore, or hearing them snicker behind your back.

Quiet. Like you went back in time.

Your first lecture of the day is discrete mathematics.

There’s an idle game playing in the background of your laptop and you can’t help but roll your eyes and yawn. You’re waiting for the professor to finally finish recommending everyone a four hundred dollar textbook, written by himself, one that you’ll totally fucking need in order to pass his stupid class. Fucking asshole.

But it’s not just that.

You’re pretty irritated today, because you still couldn’t figure out why everyone suddenly had a change of heart and decided to move on from treating you like a whore, pushing you around or catcalling you every time you turned a corner.

Was three weeks all it took for everyone to fucking forget? Or was Shigaraki not updating the thread and ultimately removing it from the platform enough for everyone to stop giving a fuck about you?

It’s not like you or Taylor could even check to see if the post was still up. You obviously should, but neither of you can bring yourself to do it, and something told you Shigaraki wasn’t lying to you anyway.

Nevertheless, the air is still weirdly tense. As if something is still going on.

If only you weren’t a fucking social recluse, then at least you could ask some idiot to give you information.

Whatever. You’ll learn to deal with it as it comes.

Time is moving slowly today, so you take a look at your online schedule on your phone to prepare for your next class, when suddenly you… notice something strange.

Your final class of the day has been replaced with a different block. One you dread to see.

Urgent Student Assembly — Gym 3

You raise a brow and pray to the fucking sun that there’s been a murder or the dean had died of a cardiac arrest, and the topic of the assembly will not be about whatever happened between you and Shigaraki. The faculty better not try making an example out of you after they’ve been keeping quiet regarding your situation, letting you deal with everything on your own.

At least their ‘requests’ for you to advertise their programs slowed down, given you’d probably only damage their reputation instead of helping at this point. Maybe they’d let you off the hook completely and you could finish your degree in peace.

You take a screenshot of the block and you text it to Taylor.

You — ^^^ wtf is this?? did you hear anything? It’s not about me is it??? [Sent Now]

They respond pretty fast.

Taytay — Uhhh, no clue babe. I don’t have classes today [Sent Now]

Taytay — I’ll ask around and let you know if I hear anything. Did you finally leave your mancave??? [Sent Now]

You roll your eyes at the stupid texts, but still reply with a smile on your face.

Then, your phone vibrates again.

Psycho — hey [Sent Now]

What the fuck? You feel a lump get stuck in your throat.

What if this is… his doing? Is he gonna pull some shit again? Is he upset you told him to fuck off last time? But why would he go out of his way to help you last week, if that was the case?

You bite your nails and hope your anxiety is as groundless as it usually is. You really hope it is.

You — ? [Sent Now]

If you thought Taylor is quick with their messages, you’re comically wrong.

Psycho — uhh [Sent Now]

You — what?? [Sent Now]

Psycho — didn’t expect you to reply this fast… or at all [Sent Now]

Psycho — u in class? [Sent Now]

Psycho — wait [Sent Now]

Psycho — are u?? [Sent Now]

Your face scrunches at his rapid fire spam.

Psycho — i need 2 know, answer [Sent Now]

You — why? I mean i wouldn’t put stalking beyond you, but still lol [Sent Now]

Psycho — no, wtf relax. its 4 smt else [Sent Now]

You — riiight [Sent Now]

Psycho — omfg stop being annoying and replyyyyy to my question, only askin u 1 fkin question. its not that hard idiot [Sent Now]

The thought of him getting annoyed and impatient over your teasing makes you snort, bringing another smile to your face. And it goes as quickly as it comes, when you realize just who you’re texting with. You’re an idiot.

Three angry dots type and disappear. This repeats two more times before you finally lose your patience and reply to him first.

You — yea i am, why? this related to the ‘urgent study assembly’ by any astronomical chance? :) [Sent Now]

You — part two of the hit job? And making sure i’m there to watch?? I’ll let you sit next to me if you ask nicely, y’know? [Sent Now]

Yeah okay, you’re obviously still really mad at him and are desperately trying to get under his skin, but to be fair to yourself, the two of you haven’t even talked properly yet (would that even be possible?). You still don’t know just what changed his mind about his plan to make you grovel at his feet.

If anything, you’re scared to find out.

Psycho — yes [Sent Now]

Your eyes widen. Of fucking course. What were you expecting?

Motherfucker must’ve gotten all sour again after you’d kicked him out of your house. How fucking stupid of you to believe he’d feel any sort of human empathy—

Psycho — wait fk [Sent Now]

Psycho — no [Sent Now]

Psycho — that won’t happen to u again. i won’t let it happen again [Sent Now]

Psycho — so relax. ur fine [Sent Now]

You raise your brow.

You — okaaay? Then what the fuck is it? get to the point [Sent Now]

Psycho — k, so… can u skip assembly? [Sent Now]

You — why [Sent Now]

Psycho — just skip it [Sent Now]

A loud groan escapes your throat and you only now remember you aren’t alone, catching a few idiots glaring at you and scoffing.

You — you’re like /this/ close to getting blocked, asshole. Tell me what you want right now or im checking the fuck out [Sent Now]

Tomura looks down at his phone and sighs.

Why couldn’t you make it easy for him just one fucking time? Nothing ever comes easy with you.

Except for him, when you were grinding your hips against his in the hallway. Or you, trapped between his arms against the wall, back when he caught those mouthbreathers daring to get close to what’s his.

He almost fucked your brains out that time, with the broken way you were staring back at him. Shaking. Scared. Cute.

Tomura curses under his breath. His pants are starting to get tight again and he slips one hand to adjust himself.

He wonders if this will end up working out in his favor. He’s worked really hard the past few weeks, after all.

Psycho — ok so i mightve done something,, [Sent Now]

Psycho — but dont freak its not abt u… well kinda. I tried to uhh, fix things ok? [Sent Now]

Psycho — shit did it send twicE?? fk [Sent Now]

Psycho — anyway dont go to assembly [Sent Now]

You — I’m going. [Sent Now]

Psycho — ugh fuck fine [Sent Now]

A notification from Taylor pops up and you swipe it away.

Psycho — i warned u so dont block me after idiot [Sent Now]

You huff at his final(?) message.

This cryptic behaviour of his is getting on your fucking nerves, so you open your friend’s chat instead.

Taytay — Ok so… don’t freak out. [Sent Now]

Good start and not you too, you think simultaneously.

The bell rings and your class finally ends. While you were texting with Shigaraki, you’d already packed your things, so you just get up and leave, eyes glued to your phone as you wait for your friend to fucking end your suffering.

Taytay — I found out what the meeting is about ;/ [Sent Now]

You — taylor if you also edge me about this istg [Sent Now]

Taytay — ?? What? [Sent Now]

Taytay — Whatevs anyway. So I don’t mean to trigger you, but can you like… login with my account onto that platform again? 😩 You gotta see this. It’s… not bad…. For you at least. So don’t worry about that, kay? Just log in please. [Sent Now]

Taytay — I think I blocked like 10 mfs from my contacts after what I saw ughhhhhhhhhhhhh 💀 💀 never sleeping with jocks ever again I swear [Sent Now]

Honestly, you think you’ll punch the very next person that you come across today square in the face, but you do as your friend says and you log in.

It’s like the Second Coming of Jesus Christ had arrived early.

You could’ve probably never predicted what you were going to see when you logged in and looked through the front page.

At first, you were admittedly plain confused. But as you kept scrolling down the feed, your brain slowly caught on.

The bell rings again, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move from your spot, so you’re currently standing frozen in place, a deep chill running down your spine.

What seems to be everyone’s dirty fucking laundry, has been readily aired on this stupid platform. Students, professors and members of the faculty, no one was spared from hell, as countless of incriminating posts were spread all across the feed, together with people losing their fucking shit over it.

From simple inappropriate screenshot of student-teacher messages, to blatant sexual harassment, physical altercations, leaked porn accounts, illegal fucking fetishes, literal footage of assault and people committing various crimes at parties or otherwise and all posts seemingly coming from the account owners themselves. All in the same format of your hit thread (minus maybe the creepy threatening puzzle messages, making you that special, you guess) and all individuals related to your university.

The “NexTech Doxxpocalypse” is what people dubbed it.

What an incredible sight.

How the fuck did he pull this off? No wonder it felt like a fucking funeral when you entered the building today. Everyone’s been fucked over. All the stupid motherfuckers that looked at you as if you were beneath them, will now have to face their own disgusting pasts or be anxious they’ll get exposed next.

No one will have time to think about your existence again. Not when they’ve got their own copies of your misery to deal with.

God, it’s fucking genius. Literal four dimensional chess. Shigaraki’s plan is absolutely brilliant.

Your face splits into a grin and you burst out laughing like an unhinged idiot in the empty hallways. What an absolute fucking psychopath!

Unable to hold back from the feelings that overwhelmed you, you pull out your phone and text him.

You — good one [Sent Now]

Psycho — ?? [Sent Now]

Does he live on his fucking phone? How is he so quick to answer?

You — i mean it’s super fucked up, but it works. So thanks I guess? weirdo. [Sent Now]

Psycho — did you fkin hit ur head?? [Sent Now]

You — fuck off, im being thankful. Prolly the first time you ever deserved it too, asshole. They wont catch you for this, right? [Sent Now]

You bite at your nail bed for a second.

They shouldn’t be able to catch him. You doubt he’d engage with this type of criminal activity if there was a chance he’d get in trouble for it, but you did tell the dean about it, back when you felt cornered and alone.

Unfortunately you don’t get the chance to ask for details, because all he sends you is an:

Psycho — oh [Sent Now]

After which he stopped replying.

─────────

The ‘emergency’ assembly went about as well as you expected it to, after the complete shit show you saw. The majority of the students were completely mortified over the massive privacy data breach, and the faculty was trying to damage control, promising to shut it down and find the culprit—genuinely good luck with that, by the way—after which everyone left feeling probably thirty percent more depressed than when they joined.

All in all, a pretty good fucking day for you. Things… might actually go back to normal now.

You — you get to live another day in my friends list asshole [Sent Now]

But he wouldn’t write anything back.

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x y/n #emotional hurt/comfort #shigaraki tomura #unhealthy relationships #dead dove do not eat #trigger warnings #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki fanfiction #shigaraki x you #tenko shimura #tomura shigaraki #college au #reader is female

24 notes · View notes

wtf-is-sleep-even · 4 months ago

Text

MODERN/DND AU

(short thing i wanted to write cause you guys seem to like AU's more than i thought. Human AU, they play DND* *quick note i dont really know exactly how DND or TTRPG's work but i know theres a storyline mechanic and im using that to my advantage)

It really was an accident, truly. Jedediah didnt even know what DND was up until half a year ago, one of his best friends teenaged kid, Nicky, had picked up a kick for table top rpg's, Jed thought it was stupid at first but tagged along just to be sure there was enough players, he did care for the kid, he was like his nephew, he just didnt expect how much fun it would be. An hour and a half in and he was bored out of his mind, another hour in he was coughing up his lungs he was laughing so much! it was nice to spend time with his friends like this, and it made the kid happy, so he kept going.

it's just make-believe, a game of pretend, but the feelings he felt were real, anxious at the next battle, frustrated at the confusing (but clever) puzzles, the surprise and humor at a funny encounter, the second hand embarrassment for when one of his friend's characters made a fool of themself, and, the love. Jed knew that he felt something different for Octavius, at first he thought he hated the guy, but day after day it was made known that he actually loved him.

and of course, he had to be in the same DND group as him, classic, whats even funnier is that in-game, their characters are married, something about appeasing a court in the faewild, it didnt matter much because just a few weeks after that, Octavius asked him out on a date. They've been a couple ever since. But the group doesnt know that, they've made jokes here and there but it never crossed any lines, Jedediah didnt tell anyone out of fear first, Octavius didnt tell anyone because nobody asked much, he told people casually and it wasnt much of a problem after, so they never told the group.

Jed wasnt afraid anymore, so why not take a chance?

it was one of the calmer sessions in the games, still walking carefully in case of any curses that reside in the lands. "Its an awfully inviting clearing, the trees shift and stir, the birds chirp and sing, a foggy mist settles over the sides dimming the lights to reveal fireflies dancing in the air, but hiding any way of escape, what do you do?" Nicky narrates, hes gotten so much better at it, instead of the stumbly, stuttering sections of small text and strained, hidden voices of characters he was trying to play, he was bold and steady, the picture flowing seamlessly into the next "can i look to see if there are any traps or illusions?" Ahkmenrah asks, one of Jed and Larry's best friends from highschool, both of them were happy to see him again

"roll a perception check, add a disadvantage because of the fog" Ahk rolls his D-20 "uh, 17" Nicky nods, looking over to gloss over the page of his notebook "you spot a beartrap at the side of a fallen tree, its clapped around one of its branches, reaching out to touch the outside of the clearing, it seems that its real, but it doesnt feel like wood, it feels like a stone pillar, the area isnt an illusion, but not everything is right" they nod, one of them in the group, a guy named Lance that Ahk dragged along (who Jed totally didnt wanna punch because Octavius remarked on his eyes, no way) advanced forward and saw a shallow grave in the dirt, they all came to see it

"is there anything at the bottom?" Oct asked, Nicky smiled, bad sign "there is! a small wooden chest, there isnt any locks on it, it seems you can just open it like you would with any other box" Octavius hummed, Jed tried to ignore how the sound gave him butterflies "i take the box!" lance announced, Nicky describes how he takes it, opening it up to reveal a bottle with a note in it and a sharp dagger, obsidian blade with a willow wood handle, Octavius opted to inspect the dagger for any inscriptions or engravings

"you take the dagger in your hands, it feels heavier than any steel or even obsidian that you've ever held, in the handle it reads "with love, My dagger" everyone was confused, another puzzle, woo boy. Ahk tried to figure it out but just got nowhere, Octavius asked if there was anywhere you could put a dagger, "the stone alter shines slightly, there seemed to be a slot in it, but the air around it seemed that whoever did this, would pay a price" Octavius debated for a second before saying to insert the dagger, his character was met with a faewild curse

"you fall over, completely unconscious before you even hit the ground, a faewild curse passes over you, you shall be alseep for until you find a kiss of true and pure love, y'know like that one disney princess, sleeping beauty or snow white, i cant remember, but yeah" the group chuckles while Octavius states that this couldnt have ended worse, suddenly Lance pipes up "arent Gaius and Smith married? would Smith be able to wake him up or no?" Nicky passes Jed a D-20 "roll"

Jedediah rolled "12" Nicky laughed "alright yeah, Smith kneels down to check whats wrong, feeling the compelling urge to kiss Gaius, he gives him a kiss on the lips and suddenly Gaius's eyes flicker open, hes awake but has a disadvantage on all persuasion and strength rolls" the two others laugh, not thinking that would actually work when Jed smirked, the fun of DND was mostly that they got to act out what the characters do, right? he shrugged "alright"

Jedediah grabbed Octavius's face, pulling him in for a kiss, Octavius was shocked by the sudden affection but melted into it quickly, closing his eyes and pulling the other by the collar of his shirt. The table went into absolute chaos, they didnt expect THIS, Octavius pulled away with a smile, Jed chased his lips, connecting them again for another kiss "ALRIGHT BREAK IT UP BREAK IT UP!!" Ahkmenrah and Nicky yelled.

yeah, Jedediah likes DND nights

#night at the museum #natm octavius #jedtavius #natm jedediah #au's #dnd #natm ahkmenrah #natm lancelot #natm larry #natm nicky #DM Nicky #based on a youtube channel #legends of avantris #one shot #drabble #they share one braincell #they're gay your honor

18 notes · View notes

skyloftian-nutcase · 5 months ago

Text

Blorbo vibes for everyone since I haven’t updated my long fics in a hot minute sorry

In Breath of the Sky, Champion’s laying awake in the barracks wondering what tomorrow will bring as their journey will begin. Zellie’s zonked out in the royal library, Rhoam is researching about the Triforce (he got Zellie a blanket), Cloud and Zel are stargazing and loving every second of it ❤️, Abel is praying and worrying. It’s a quiet night, with crickets chirping and a cool breeze, and fireflies in the gardens.

In Blood of the Hero, it’s a grey, chilly dawn, Abel is talking gravely to Impa while Tilieth rests. The mood is somber and things are… not going great.

In the healthcare AU, Legend is suffering through a HIPAA compliance video, Hyrule is snoozing in the bunk room on duty, Warriors and Wind are playing video games, Time is in emergency surgery, Malon is watching a movie with Twilight and Wild, Sky is enjoying a glass of wine with chill music, and Four is sleeping in preparation for a day shift. It’s a rainy night, perfect for relaxing.

In Golden Mercy, Ganondorf and Nabooru are getting acquainted while Gan tries to figure out exactly how much time has passed since he got sealed away. The last image he saw was Hemisi, Link, and Zelda using the Triforce against him.

In Chronicles of the Domain, Abel just put Link to bed and is enjoying taking bets with other knights about how well they can dive like the Zora. He won’t dive, of course; he’s scared of heights. But he’ll watch the others do it. Oh, and he’s totally ignoring that tickle in his chest. It’s just the damp, right?

#Is that all my long fics #I feel like it is but I’ve had a glass of wine so I can’t be sure #Whatevs feel free to vibe with them #I’m getting ready for bed lol #My baby loftwing is on my shoulder and is very fluffy and soft ❤️#ok I’m gonna shut up now lol

8 notes · View notes

viking-raider · 2 years ago

Text

A Witcher's Legacy - PART FOUR: MUTAGENS

Summary: What should have been a short stay in Beauclair, turns into something much more complicated. Both to your and Geralt's present and future.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Reader

Word Count: 6.6k

Parts: I II III

Warning: PG - Witcher!AU, Dad!Geralt, Protective!Geralt, Sassy!Reader, Language, Nicknames, Medical Experiment, Portals, Monster Fight, Mention of Smut, Fluff, Mention of Grave Robbing, Witcher Mutagens, Bickering, Mage Technology

Inspiration: A subject from my story, A Witcher’s Destiny, Season Two of Netflix’s the Witcher and the quest, Turn and Face the Strange, in The Witcher 3!

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy it! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

If you would like to be added A Witcher’s Legacy Tag List, please message me!

I also have the story on my AO3

If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’

“Who's the letter from, Geralt?” You asked, watching the little carrier boy run off, excited about the ten crowns Geralt had kindly given him.

Frowning, Geralt unfolded the parchment, finding another piece of folded paper inside with a familiar writing in black ink. “Yennefer.” He said softly, casting his eyes up to you for a moment.

“Oh.” You replied, a tight smile pulling across your lips. “A wonder how she found out we were in Toussaint, since we just arrived.” You commented to yourself, moving to a vine covered staircase, with roses the size of your hand, the color of butter and the finest Toussaint Red, making the air so fragrant.

Letting out a humming grunt, Geralt read the letter aloud.

“My dear friend, I've been told you're on a jaunt in Toussaint, with your sweetheart. I've come upon some information which might be of interest to you. While browsing through a colleague's, Tomas Moreau's, book collection, I found mention of him conducting research into mutations.” Geralt scowled at the letter, a troubled feeling brewing in the pit of his stomach. “The details I've come to learn are rather vague and his laboratory's location remains a mystery. Yet his journal should at least provide hints as to both. It is said he was laid to rest with it in his tomb. I enclose a map I found in the tome I happened upon. Though less than completely legible, I trust it will prove useful.”

“Your friend, Yennefer.”

“So, mutations.” You echoed, turning back to Geralt and folding your arms tightly over your chest. “What kind of mutations? Was he trying to mutate the normal stuff or do you think he was trying to fuss around with Witcher mutations?”

“It's hard to tell without finding his laboratory and discovering more about his research.” He replied, pushing his jaw forward has he stared down at the letter, mulling it over in his mind. “I need to look into this. If he was testing mutagens for Witchers, then I have to find it and get it back to Vesemir.”

“Before anyone else finds it.”

“All right then.” You nodded, chewing on your lip, just as concerned. “Where to first?” You asked, wishing to help.

“Yennefer's letter said he was possibly buried with the location of his laboratory.” He said, unfolding the map the Sorceress had enclosed. “So, we go there and find it.” Geralt examined the map for a long moment, his brow twitching in his concentration. “It looks as if he was buried in Orlémurs Cemetery. That's not too far from here.”

“We can walk.”

“Lovely.” You smiled, then glanced about. “Which way, you big grump?” You asked, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Geralt smirked back at you, waving a hand towards the gently sloping, pathway. “This way, Firefly.” He replied, with a cock of his head.

Nodding yours at him, you started down the brick street, Geralt following closely behind you. The Capital city of Toussaint, Beauclair, was gorgeous and it filled you with a light, gaiety that put a skip in your step and a pleased smile on your face. As you looked about. Taking the architecture in, the hot sun beaming down on top of your head and shoulders, reflecting your mood. Geralt smiled at the back of you, seeing and sensing the joyfulness inside of you. He felt it seep into him.

You had an effect on him and his ordinarily sulky moods.

“It's so beautiful here.” You commented, glancing at Geralt over your shoulder.

“That it is.” He agreed, looking about, seeing the bustling stalls and shops, the Toussaintois going about their business and day. “We'll have to make our stay a more serious one.” He said, moving around to your side, his arm wrapping around your waist as you passed through a thick crowd. “I know this is your first time here.” He smiled, dipping his head slightly to press his lips to your temple, in a rare show of public affection.

“Hm.” You hummed, nudging your shoulder into his side. “That would be nice.” You cooed, looking up at him, trusting him to guide you. “You do still have a few injuries to nurse from that Wyvern contract, you took in Caravista.”

He grunted back at you, still smiling as you crossed out of the city gates. “It's settled, then. I'll investigate this matter, and afterwards, we'll find the best room in the best inn, and we won't leave until you wish to.”

“So, until they kick us out?” You quipped, giggling.

“As you wish.” Geralt chuckled, as you both stepped off the paved path of Beauclair and onto the well trod trail to the large, Orlémurs Cemetery.

Making it to the Cemetery, that looked like a manicured set of ruins with grave-sites dotting it, you and Geralt drifted apart, searching the faces of cracked and crooked, tombstones, that had seen many years out in the open weather and tears of loved ones.

“What did Yenn say, this colleague of hers name was?” You called out to Geralt, reading the worn name of Patrick Moulins, who, according to his headstone, had talked himself to death.

“Tomas Moreau.” Geralt returned, walking along a line of graves, before stopping. “Found him!”

You joined him before the overgrown and disheveled grave, the heavy stone that was meant to seal Professor Moreau's coffin in the ground, slightly askew. You looked at Geralt a confused and questioning expression on your face. Frowning back at you, Geralt moved closer to the grave, dropping to a squat to read the mossy etching.

“Typical Mage. It's in Elder Speech.” He huffed, shaking his head. “Ellas k'havani allder aen Dol Naev'de, ellas allder n'corrason. Glorsann a'Aelirenn.” He read aloud, despite it sounding like gibberish to you. “Salvation lies not in Dol Naev'de, but in our hearts. Glory be to Aelirenn.” He translated, as he reached into the grave, through the small opening, feeling around.

“Oh god.” You frowned, biting your lip and imaging his hand touching one of the Professor's bones.

Not the worst thing he's ever touched, honestly. You thought, shaking your head.

“Do you think it has anything do with what you're looking for?” You asked, as he glanced side to side, knowing he was falling into his Witcher seek and find mode.

“Maybe.” He rumbled back. “Someone's robbed the grave, the journal isn't inside.” He said, narrowing his eyes against the bright, cloudless sun and looked around, before standing back up. “The grave won't tell us anything more.” He said, pull Yenn's map from his back pocket.

“A regular ol' treasure hunt.” You quipped, peeking around his arm. “Anything helpful?”

“The map has mention of Aelirenn and Dol Naev'de, also known as Valley of the Nine.” He said, pointing them out on the map for you. “There's a small mark on it. So, it's worth a look. I'll have to grab Roach to make the trip though. It's a long way from here.”

He folded the map up and tucked into his pocket, then turned back towards Beauclair.

“Geralt.” You called out to him, motioning to the grave, when he turned back to face you.

“What?” He frowned, not catching the meaning of your gesture.

“Close it.” You cooed at him, with a somber expression. “It's not right someone disturbed him for a book.”

“We just disturbed him for a book, min minne.” Geralt countered, the corner of his lip twitching.

“Still, Geralt. He deserves his rest, as we all do.” You entreated him.

Drawing a soft sigh, Geralt returned to the grave side and leaned over it, he used the strength of his powerful arms to shove the thick stone slab back into its rightful place over Professor Moreau's coffin. He straightened up and looked at you, lifting a brow, and you nodded at him, satisfied.

“One less dead person risen from the grave you have to deal with.” You commented, sarcastically. patting him on the back and kissing his cheek.

“Funny.” Geralt chuckled, giving your bum a playful smack, making you yip. “You can't come with me.” He said, as you returned to Beauclair and where you had left Roach.

“Why not?” You frowned, a bit disappointed, you enjoyed helping him with his contracts.

“I don't know how dangerous this could be.” He reasoned, grabbing Roach by the reins. “I won't endanger you. So, I'm going to take you to the Rose and Knight inn, in the center of the City, and you'll wait for me there.”

“What if something happens to you?” You argued, following after him, while he led you through the streets.

“What else would be new?” He chuckled at you over his shoulder.

“The new thing is this matter isn't about you going to slay a monster in the countryside.” You huffed, annoyed by how nonchalant he was being. “This professor was mucking about with mutations.”

Geralt's shoulders slumped and he stopped, his head hung for a second, before he finally turned around to look at you. He could see all the concern and fear in your eyes over this task, more so than usual. Which he understood. Considering it for a minute longer, Geralt tugged Roach around and mounted up, then reached down and pulled you up behind him.

“If anything should happen-”

“I know, I know.” You assured him, leaning against his back. “Tuck tail and run.”

The ride through the Toussaint countryside was stunning. The rolling hills of vineyards baking in the cloudless sun, their vines drooping with fat grapes waiting to be picked and turned into area's finest wine. Homey and extravagant villas dotted the landscape as well, abuzz with their daily chores as you Geralt rode by them.

You sighed, pressing your cheek against Geralt's shoulder blade, relaxing. “I could stay here forever.” You cooed, as Geralt guided Roach onto a path that led in a thicket of trees, cooling you with their leaf-y shade, after the unrelenting heat.

“Oh.” Geralt answered, his chuckle rumbling against your cheek. “That's because you haven't seen it in the winters.”

“It can't be much worse than Kaer Morhen.” You commented, smirking.

“Oh, you'd be surprised.”

Coming out of the woods and around the bend of a sloping hill, Geralt pulled Roach to a stop on the shore of a large and startling clear lake, where the two of you got down. Geralt took a sword from a holster that hung the horse's saddle and the pouch of his vials from in the bag, before the two of you started looking for any indication of an entrance to a mysterious laboratory. You walked along the one side of the shore, where the bank was built up, eroded from years of the lake water lapping at, while Geralt check the water.

“What is it with Mages and their mysteries?” You sighed, shaking your head.

“They live too long.” Geralt grunted back. “After so many years on the Continent, they become paranoid and full of themselves.”

“Starting to make a lot of sense.” You agreed, spotting a unique little rock sitting on the edge of the sand and grass. Going for the rock, you noticed a narrow, grassy culvert that went back a good way. You couldn't see where it ended, or if there was an end, with the limbs of several trees flanking the culvert drooping over it, like a leafy curtain.

“Geralt.” You called out, cocking your head and taking a step into the ditch. “What about over here?” You mumbled, inching further.

The Witcher turned, just as you disappeared and called out your name. “She'll be the death of me.” He sighed, hurrying to follow after you. “Wait.” He hissed under his breath, grabbing you by the wrist as he came up behind, pulling you to a halt. “We don't know if the Professor's lab is down here or what is.”

“You need to be careful.” He softly scolded you, protectively.

“Sorry.” You whispered back, but cast your eyes up ahead. “But don't you think we should check it out?”

“I will investigate it. You will stay behind me.” Geralt corrected you, pulling his sword and moving forward.

You stayed on Geralt's heels, while he used the tip of his sword to part the tree branches, the muscles of his body tense and every one of his keen senses on high alert for anything out of the ordinary and wishing ill intent. You jerked and gasped softly at the whoop of a bird in the distance, instinctively grabbing the back of Geralt's black shirt.

Coming out of the other side of the foliage, you and Geralt discovered a decayed stone wall. It was covered in moss and dead, creeping vines, several of its ashy stones laying in the spongy, overgrown grass and mud. You saw nothing special about it and figured Geralt hadn't either, so you started to turn back.

“Fuck.” Geralt growled under his breath, stopping you.

“What's wrong?” You frowned, turning back to him.

“I hate portals.” He scowled, moving closer to stone wall and bent over, picking up what you had figured was just a rock, then slotted it into one of the gaps.

A low hissing, hum filled the space around you and the hair on your forearms stood up as the static from the portal mounted. Geralt stepped back from the wall, took a deep breath, and with a jerk of his arm, produced the Sign of his Aard. The Aard hit the stone, making it wobble in its base, before it started to glow and an arched portal appeared on the face of the wall.

“That's promising.” You commented, looking at Geralt with a lifted brow.

He shot you a dark, narrow eyed look and approached the portal, taking deep slow breaths. “What's wrong with a good, solid locked door?” He complained under his breath, before stepping through.

“Kills giant, poisonous monsters for a living. Terrified of portals.” You grinned, hooting with laughter, and following after him.

You came stumbling out the other side, gasping for air, disoriented and nauseous. But managed to land on your feet and was slowed down by Geralt's strong arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you against his torso. He looked you over, with an expression that wanted to make sure everything was in the right place and you had all the part you were meant to have.

“I'm fine, Geralt.” You cooed at him, gently kissing his stubbly cheek.

Nodding, he let you go and glanced around the cavernous room you had been spit out into. It smelled damp, moldy, airless and like a nest of Kikimore had been using it as a litter box. You could hardly see more than two feet in front of you, but thankfully Geralt had no such issue. His sharp, cat-like eyes could see around you, as if it was a well lit room. So, you made sure to keep near him, putting your feet where his had been.

The place was like Elven ruins that had caved in or been covered over across time. With tall arches and columns. Rubble and rubbish littered the ground, making your footing unsure as you went deeper in. Geralt stopped, causing you to bump him, your lips parting in question of why he had halted, until you saw the spark of his Igni, lighting something you couldn't quite make out in the shadows. Until, it ignited, a iron brazier, casting an amber glow against the wall and a small radius around its base.

“This is a crazy place to have a lab.” You criticized, giving the place a better look, now that the brazier was lit. “I can understand wanting to do your research in peace and privacy. But hiding your portal in such away, then having to navigate through a ruin to get to it.” You shook your head, confused.

“It seems like over kill.”

“It is.” Geralt agreed, lighting another brazier, that revealed a crumbling set of stairs. “It's only making me more suspicious of what type of mutagens he was working with.”

Your eyes shot up to the back of his head, an uneasy feeling filling your stomach at the thought of Professor Moreau testing Witcher mutagens.

Carrying on, you descended the stairs and passed through a narrow hallway, coming out into an elevated cross way, leading off in three directions, one of which was blocked off by a large statue of a panther. Sighing, Geralt moved forward, investigating the other two paths, in doing so, he discovered the body of the grave robber.

“Hm.” He grunted, shaking his head at the poor soul, but nevertheless, he searched his person for the Professor's journal, only finding a few loose pages of it.

“Geralt.” You called out, softly.

“One moment.” He answered, scanning the pages, learning the Professor had become paranoid with someone trying to break into his laboratory, and had installed security measures.

“Geralt.” You called again, a bit more urgently.

“What is it, min minne?” He sighed, turning on his heels to look back at you.

Your eyes were fixated on the panther statue standing menacingly above Geralt. “Is-is that-” You licked your lips, trying to compose yourself. “Is that statue-the panther's eyes—supposed to glow?” You asked, your voice squeaking a bit at the end as your eyes flared.

Geralt's head jerked upward to the statue, just in time to have the creature strike out against him. “Run!” He roared back at you, fumbling for his sword.

Not needing any other prompts, you turned on your heels and bolted down the hallway from where the two of you had just come. The panther knocked Geralt flat onto his back, forcing him to brace his forearm against its throat in prevention of its powerful jaws from biting into anything vital. Unable to grab his sword, Geralt brought up one foot, yanking a dagger from inside his boot and driving the needle thin blade into the snarling animal's neck. The panther gurgled, then dissolved into a pile of ash, revealing itself to be a specter, one of Professor Moreau's security attempts.

Getting up, Geralt searched for you, running almost full speed down the passageway and up the crumbling stairs. But skid to a halt, when he found you by the first brazier, a look of terror and worry on your face. Seeing Geralt was all right, you ran to him, colliding into his chest and locking your arms around his torso, to hide your face in his neck.

“You see now, why I didn't want you to come?” He sighed, resting his head on top of yours.

You nodded, still to overcome to speak for a second. “I do, but I still want to help.”

“I don't know what help you can be.” He countered, tipping your head back, so you looked at him, studying your eyes. “You are the most stubborn woman I've ever met.” He chuckled, shaking his head, knowing he couldn't deter you.

“It's why you fell in love with me.” You quipped back at him.

“One of the reasons.” He teased back, before becoming serious again. “You'll stay in the room I've cleared, before going any farther, do you understand me?”

“Loud and clear, Witcher.” You nodded, pushing up on your toes to kiss him.

Continuing on, You and Geralt navigated through the maze, hoping you were getting closer to the Professor's lab and the answers to your questions. There hadn't been any more specters to jump out and attack either, but there had been a few traps Geralt needed to disarm, before either of you could move forward. Such as a spike trap, that came up out of the floor.

“This place is endless.” You remarked, edging around the disarmed spikes, heart pounding in your chest.

“Seems that way.” Geralt answered, waiting for you, then entered the next room. “The fuck.” He barked, brow wrinkling.

“What?” You called out, staying in the other room, just like he wanted you to. “Is it safe?”

Geralt took a deep breath, studying the creepy Gargoyles that lined alcoves on the main level, with an inactive portal, while the next two levels were lined with inactive portals. “Stay there.” He barked, slowly approaching two pedestals in the center of the room, on either side of a massive statue, and examined them, finding scrap marks on the sides.

Looking at the Gargoyles, he noticed two of them were missing hands. Narrowing his eyes, Geralt approached one and broke the hand off with blast of his Aard. Taking the heavy piece of stone to the pedestal, he rested it on top and a loud clicking noise echoed in the room, followed by the unmistakable whoosh of a portal opening. Turning in a circle and casting his eyes around, Geralt found one of the portals on the upper level active.

“Geralt.” You shouted, planting you hands on your hips.

“Just wait.” He growled, seeing if he could map out a way up to the portal, but wasn't sure where it would take him or if he could get back.

Taking the stone hand off the first pedestal, Geralt shifted it to the other one, gaining the same results he did with the other one, but opening a portal on the middle tier. Humming, he broke off another Gargoyle hand and set it on the other pedestal, activating both portals, but not the portal on the main level.

“What's the issue, Geralt?” You called out to him, growing curious.

“Mage shenanigans.” He growled under his breath, circling the statue and regarding the other gargoyles and inactive portals.

Impatient with waiting for Geralt to tell you the way was safe, you strode into the room, but jerked back a step, surprised by the thick set of grotesque gargoyles. You recovered quickly though, spotting the singing portals and your frustrated Witcher.

“What's the rub?” You asked, lifting a brow at him.

“That portal-” He pointed to the portal in question. “needs to activate. But so far, only these two have.” He explained, motioning to the others.

“Mmhm. Quite the situation.” You nodded, biting your lip.

“Yes.” Geralt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I loathe mages.”

“Didn't you date one?” You inquired, giving him a teasing and sharp gaze.

“Against my better judgment.” He replied, rolling his eyes.

“So, what happens, if you only have one of the pedestals active?” You asked, studying them.

“Only one of the portals open.”

“Have you tried going through one of them?”

“No, not yet, and I'm not really in a rush to.” He answered, pacing. “I don't know where they go, or if once I go through them, that I can get back here.”

“Perhaps, you're right.” You sighed, gazing at the statue. “Mages do live too long.”

That brought a soft chuckle out of Geralt. “They do.”

Seeing no other options, Geralt began climbing towards the portal on the middle tier, just as you noticed a crevice, low in the robe of the statue. Glancing between it and Geralt, you slipped your hand inside of it, praying not to come into contact with any unsavory creatures that could make their home in the small space, and felt around.

“Geralt, wait!” You called out, your fingers coming into contact with something.

“What is it!” He called back, spinning around as he stood before the portal. “What's wrong?”

“I found something! But I can't quite manage it.” You told him, staining.

“Don't touch it!” He warned you, jumping back down and quickly moving to your side. “It might be a trap.” He told you, his breath hot on your neck.

“And if it's not?” You asked, looking up at him.

“Move, I'll do it. Go back into the other room. In case, something happens.” He ordered you, jerking his white head towards the door.

Knowing that arguing with Geralt was useless, you did as he asked of you, but angled yourself so you could see him. Geralt pulled his glove off and wedged his large hand into the crevice, just finding the button that was hidden inside. With a little wiggling, he pressed on the button and yanked his hand back out again, readying himself for the worst.

Several of the gargoyles turned on hidden bases in the floor, all turning to face the statue and the direction of the inactive bottom portal, and a suspenseful moment later, the portal came to life. Geralt let out a huff of amused surprise, looking the portal over.

“It worked!” He called out to you. “And, it's safe.”

You ran into the room and grinned at the portal, proud that you had figured out a Mage's security system, but felt your stomach twist a little bit. “So, do we go through it?” You asked, looking up at Geralt.

“It's through there or back the way we've come.” He replied, pulling his glove back on. “I'll go first, in case there's anything dangerous.”

“Very well, I'll wait a minute, then follow after you.” You nodded, lightly touching his arm.

Nodding, Geralt stepped through the portal with no further ado and you waited anxiously for a minute or two, stomach in knots not knowing if Geralt was in the fight for his life on the other side, wherever it led. Unable to wait any longer, you slipped through the portal after him, coming out the other side gasping and sick to your stomach, but intact.

“Geralt?” You called out, pressing a hand to your tummy.

“Welcome to Professor Moreau's laboratory.” He replied, coming from around a corner.

You looked about the strange and disheveled space with a shake of your head. “I expected more.” You answered, moving down a set of stairs.

Geralt had lit the many braziers and standing candelabras situated around the room, giving the already unsettling room an unsettling feeling. You found cluttered tables, bookcases, tall brass instruments, a Mage communication device, a large, iron cage and a huge and grotesque, glass specimen jar with something black and almost human floating in it.

“Well, have you learned anything yet?” You asked, hugging your arms against your chest, even with the braziers, there was an eerie cold about the place.

“There are Megascope crystals on a pillow next to Moreau's Megascope.” He motioned to them, next to the mage communication system of three stands, that stood in a circle, a loop at the top, where the crystals rested and a powerful piece of glass to project the image magically etched onto the crystal. “I found another on that desk over there.” He added, motioning over to it.

“I'm going to see what our dear Professor has on them.” He said, moving over to the Megascope.

“I can dig around, see if there are anymore.” You said, glancing about. “Or anything else of interest.”

“All right, just don't touch whatever those are.” He said, pointing to the brass instruments, one of which looked like a strange Iron Maiden.

“Don't have any plans to, love.” You gulped, getting goose-bumps as you edged by them.

Geralt picked up the three crystals, slotting them into the Megascope and turned the rune cylinder at the bottom of one of them, activating that specific crystal's information. A bleak image of Professor Moreau, devoid of color, flickered to life in the center of the Megascope stands. Professor Moreau wore typical mage robes, he had a wrinkled face with a pair of pinch glasses perched on his nose, and spoke with a typical Toussaint accent.

“Today, I begin my great life's endeavor, one greater and more significant than any I have thus far undertaken, for it relates to me personally. To me and my son.” He spoke, confessing his son, Jerome, was a Witcher and he made an oath to recover him, his apparition turning in circles as he spoke.

“So, it is Witcher mutagens.” You said, poking around a bookcase.

“Yes.” Geralt nodded, troubled.

The crystal ended with the Professor vowing, Gods being on his side, to reverse the Witcher mutagens in Jerome and make him an ordinary man again.

“I wonder if the Professor managed to do so.” He frowned, turning on the next crystal.

“Observation twenty-two, despite applying a surfeit of toxic substances, significantly more than usual, the subject displayed no symptoms of overdose.” Professor Moreau's reanimated projection explained, as Geralt stroked his scruffy cheek. “This is a minor success. Jerome may be able to tolerate better toxicity.”

The crystal ended with a soft pop and Geralt moved on to the next crystal, explaining how to make the mutagens less taxing and listing the mutagen base. He slotted the last crystal he had in, listening to Moreau speak about how one mutagen could be transmuted into another through the addition of certain ingredients, and of his subject, though on the brink of death, was much stronger than he had been and came back from the edge of death.

“It seems he's enhanced his subject, instead of cured them.” Geralt commented, more to himself than you.

“Have you never met this Jerome?” You asked, coming to stand beside him.

“No.” He shook his head. “But that's not too uncommon. He might be from another Witcher school or dead.”

“Ah. Well, I did find the Professor's journal on Witcher Mutagens.” You informed him, holding up the worn, purple, cloth bound book to him. “I suppose, you want to take it and the Megascope crystals back to Kaer Morhen with us.”

Geralt gave you a golden glance from the corner of his eyes, that told you he did, but not before getting into something you weren't going to be happy about. You sighed at him, letting your hand drop back to your side, eyes falling shut for a moment.

“You want to test this mutagen stuff out, don't you?” You asked, needlessly.

“I do.” Geralt answered, with a short nod.

“Why?” You groaned, looking up at him with a pleading look. “Can't we at least go to Kaer Morhen and do it in a safe environment, with Vesemir? That way, if something happens, we'll have him to revive your stupidity?”

A broad grin passed over his lips. “But all the equipment is already here, min minne.” He cooed at you. “We'd have to build all of it at the Keep.”

“Then, you'd have to fight Eskel and Lambert for first go inside.” You added, knowing that was going to be his next argument. “I thought you were over the whole Trial of the Grasses! You bitch about how hard it was! How much it hurt and blah blah! But you're all pony up to do this?” You scolded him, shaking your head. “Jaskier would be tripping over his lute, if he was here to witness this.”

“What if it fails and you die!” You protested, waving the book in his face.

“I'm sure I'll be fine.” He smiled, kissing you lightly on the forehead.

You rolled your eyes at him. “It's not like I can talk you out of it. So, what do you need me to do?” You sighed, giving in.

“I want you to go through his book and tell me what ingredients I need.” He said, brushing the back of his fingers against your cheek, trying to pacify you.

“Very well.” You glanced around and found a low stool by the table, next to the strange Iron Maiden, and took it up, starting to skim through the book, while Geralt investigated the rest of the laboratory.

“Something about a Pale Widow.” You said aloud, still skimming. “Getting a syringe full of mutated giant centipede albumen from the Pale Widow and the Ashwagandha herb.” You looked up at Geralt.

“That's all it states.”

“Well, he has to have it readily here.” Geralt answered, scanning the room, spotting an opening in the stone wall inside the iron cell and a well used needle on the wooden table you sat beside. “Stay here, I'll be right back.” He said softly, heading that way.

“Ger-” You started to call after him, before giving up and going back to reading the book.

Geralt ducked into the opening in the wall, finding a dank and dripping tunnel, following it into a large, cavernous space, the floor deep with stinking mud. He slowly pulled his sword as he dropped into the mud, knowing a space like this was a ripe place for a creature to live and attack. But he only saw the walls lined with eggs, quiet and dormant. His medallion was still, giving no indication of magic or monster wishing ill intent upon him.

Though, he kept a firm grip on the hilt of his sword, approaching one of the eggs. He squatted down and pulled the dagger from his boot, slicing open the egg, to be greeted with a putrid scent, making his nose wrinkle. There was a long dead, juvenile, mutated giant centipede inside. Geralt wouldn't have been surprised if the Professor had been keeping its parent as a pet, breeding it for the eggs in his countless Mutagen experiments, then killed the elder after he gave up, leaving the babies to starve and rot off.

Stuffing his dagger back into his boot, Geralt pricked the curled up corpse with the syringe and drew out what little albumen was left inside of it, getting half a syringe full. He cut open another, until the needle chamber was full, then returned to you.

“All right, Albumen acquired.” He said, holding up the syringe.

“I found the herb, Ashwagandha, in one the chests.” You answered, pointing to where you laid it on the table. “All you have to do, is put them both in that boiler, then get into the machine yourself.” You told him, a hard lump forming in your throat, at the thought of your beloved Wolf getting into the iron maiden contraption.

Nodding, Geralt set the syringe down carefully, along with his sword, before pulling off his boots. He stripped naked and looked at you, seeing the worry and conflict on your face. “I'll be fine, Firefly.” He cooed at you, reaching out to cup your cheek for a moment.

“You best be, or I'll never forgive you.” You whimpered back, turning your head to kiss his palm.

Adding the ingredients and activating it, Geralt stepped into the machine, while you stood there, helplessly. You paced before the machine for several minutes, figuring that's all it would take, listening to it pop, hiss and clank. But ten minutes went by and Geralt didn't step out. Thirty minutes, still Geralt was inside. You grew concerned, debating on whether or not you should open it and check on him.

Perhaps he'd passed out and couldn't open the door himself? Or what if he was-

No, he's fine. You cut off the thought, pressing a fist to your mouth. He knows what he's doing. Geralt knows his limits. You tried reassuring yourself, pacing from the bottom of the stairs to the back of the room, your restless impatience growing as the hour and half mark was passed.

You started at the sound of unoiled hinges opening, lifting your head from the table you had rested yourself on, several hours before. However, seeing the door to the machine open and realizing Geralt was finally coming out, you jumped to your feet and rushed to him, just getting your arms around his torso as his legs gave out from under him.

“Geralt!” You panted, feeling his burning skin through your clothing, his head heavy on your shoulder as you both went down to your knees. “Are you all right?” You inquired, hearing his breathing slightly labored.

You cupped his face in your hands and pushed his head up, shocked to find his eyes glowing, the skin of his face dark and marked with black lines, as if he had taken one of his potions or elixirs. He didn't speak for a long time, just catching his breath and resting against you, his eyes and skin returning to normal.

“I'm all right.” He rasped, gulping thickly, his throat and mouth dry. “I'll be all right.” He groaned, pushing himself up onto his feet, wobbling for a second. “How long was I in there for?”

“Hours.” You replied, standing as well. “I was starting to think you weren't coming back out.”

He nodded, moving around the table for his clothing, which in your anxious impatience, you had folded. “We should go.” He said, sluggishly pulling them on.

“For fuck sake, Geralt, sit down and rest for a moment.” You barked at him, pointing to the stool by his leg.

“I'm fine.” He grunted back at you, bunching up his black shirt to pull it over his head and jamming his feet into his boots.

“All right, fine.” You huffed back. “While you were having a merry jaunt in there, I found a map of this place in the Professor's journal.” You told him, with a lifted brow. “Behind that bookcase is supposed to be a hidden passage out, that's shorter.”

“Good.” He nodded, looking towards the Megascope.

“I have the crystals and the journal.” You assured him, resting your hand on his back, feeling the tense muscles there. “I took care of all that, while waiting for you to finish cooking in your Mutagen steamer.” You quipped, forcing a smirk.

Grunting and nodding again, Geralt continued and shoved the bookcase out of the way, finding a vulnerable wall behind it. Without hesitation, he used his Aard on the loose bricks, blasting them inward and rocking the room around you.

“Gods alive!” You gasped, grasping the back of Geralt's arm.

Geralt chuckled and the two of you followed the low ceiling tunnel, finding another portal, that was simply activated by a crystal that laid on the ground. Stepping through, you found yourselves back on the shore of the lake, but a mile or two down from where you had originally entered. With a shrill whistle, calling Roach, you and Geralt walked along the water, to meet the horse, while also enjoying the fresh and cool air.

“I look forward to that luxurious room at the inn.” You commented, getting up behind Geralt on Roach. “To a nice, hot bath. That experiment has made you a bit-foul.” You chuckled, resting your chin on his shoulder and peeking around at him.

“More than usual?” He asked, cocking a brow at you.

“Just a tad.” You laughed, squeezing your arms around his waist.

He spurred Roach back to Beauclair and got a handsome room for the two of you, at the Rose and Knight Inn, that sported its own tub and a balcony, letting you see the vineyards and apiaries in the rolling hills past the city gates in the distance. You stayed for two weeks, not leaving the room for anything. Having your meals brought up to you. Preferring to stay in bed or the bathtub together. It was romantic and refreshing.

63 notes · View notes

angelpuns · 2 years ago

Text

Official references with colors/age/extra info for Finch in the Window!

This is more or less a master post to keep everything organized!

These are just the rough refs but lined and properly colored, along with one for Splinter that shows him in his suit ( I'll add a ref of him in his naval uniform later ).

Anyway this is gonna be the master post for this au since the comic is coming out soon!

The ROTTMNT rural au is set in 1930s-40s Japan and is essentially just an au about the boys living in the Japanese countryside and dealing with the effects of pre-war ( and then later postwar) Japan. I'm making it in the same vein as Grave of the Fireflies, This Corner of The World and The Wind Rises in that it mostly deals with the effect of the war on citizens and how it upended their lives in the smaller ways ( rationing, losing loved ones, etc )

I'm putting a lot of research into this au, but of course if there as anything that needs to be changed or is wrong please let me know.

Time to ramble about some design choices!

Starting with Splinter: he's totally human in this au, but has much of the same personality as Rise Splinter, save for the movie star thing. He's a lot more contemplative, I think. His first outfit is a simple suit - Japan in the 1920s and 30s was starting to introduce more westernized fashion, at least for the men. Many women still wore kimonos, even in the cities. Since Splinter is a decently high ranked officer as well as moving from the city to the countryside, he would definitely have a suit. I also think that color wise, he has a more subtle blue-grey palette than everyone else. Because I just thought it looked nice. Later on in the au, as he settles into country life, he typically wears a yukata around the house. He also has another outfit, which is essentially just an old naval uniform that er wears to work in the garden. He's 30 at the beginning of the au, in 1932, but since that's when we see him the most I haven't added his later looks just yet.

Raph: so Raph is kind of the main character in this au. He's the eldest and originally he's the only one who really knows what's going on. In my original design he was a bit shorter, but realistically he's probably a lot bigger than all his brothers. Design choices! So, when they were kids Raph typically didn't wear a shirt at all, though sometimes when they went to the village he would wear a yukata and some simple monpe pants. He prefers just wearing an undershirt and the monpe pants, since he's ripped a lot of yukatas with his spikes. He also tends to roll his pants up because he doesn't like when they touch his ankles.

Donnie: so Donnie is the older twin to me always. He's a little taller than Leo, too, but it's barely noticeable. He has super thick glasses that Splinter had to really work to find when he was young , thankfully the prescription was good enough. Nowadays there's a yokai doctor in the village that can help with that stuff. He gets cold easily and tends to bundle up with a more traditional yukata, except he ties the sleeves up to keep them out of the way. He also typically wears monpe pants to do the housework. He does most of the household chores along with Mikey. They're really close due to spending so much time together. He also sucks at sewing.

Leo: Leo is hard of hearing, but usually only has trouble when someone speaks too quietly or there is too much stimuli, like the rain or thunder or things like that. He also has a tendency to wander around their farm at night and frequently falls asleep on the roof. He wears a combination of undershirt + monpe pants and a regular yukata. Typically its the undershirt and pants combo, even when he goes to the village. He also gets cold easily and has a bad immune system, but he still helps Raph with most of the outside labor. Mostly cause he's reckless. He has a long-standing friendship/rivalry with Usagi Yuichi, who I have left out of this post for now since we won't really see him in the comic til later. Leo is great at sewing and has made most of their clothes/patched them up.

Mikey: baby of the group, and spoilt rotten by EVERYONE. Mikey wears mostly a yukata with monpe pants that he rolls waaaaaaay up. Leo keeps telling him to just wear shorts, but Mikey is stubborn asf. He does a lot of the cooking, since Donnie taught him. He is also the closest with their father, if only because he used to spend the most time with him. Yoshi gave him his hat for safekeeping and Mikey has barely taken it off since. His favorite food is watermelon! Mikey is very interested in humans and likes to sneak away to the nearby human village. He also likes to go into the yokai village with Leo when he can.

So that's just me rambling about design choices, clothing things, stuff like that. If anyone has questions I'd be so willing to answer! Keep an eye out for announcements about the comic within the next week or so!

EDIT: here's some helpful links for this au

Finch in the Window comic

Apples Leosagi fanfic

FITW Comic (social media version)

#fanart #rottmnt #rottmnt leo #rottmnt fanart #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt turtle tots #rottmnt comic #rottmnt fanfic #comic #rottmnt art #rottmntruralau

357 notes · View notes

abibliophobiaa · 1 year ago

Text

talking in your sleep

chapter one - burnin’ for you

- eddie munson x afab!reader; 80s summer camp slasher au.

masterlist

🏕️🛶

warnings: (20k words) overall this fic will be dark in tone, though this chapter is mostly light and fluffy; r has a father for the sake of a future conflict, though they are not named; thriller; possession; alcohol and recreational marijuana use; allusions to sex; oral (f receiving); allusion to oral (m receiving); 18+, minors dni.

additionally— while this is technically an au, the upside down does exist here. the original core st crew has experienced the events of seasons 1-3, but in a different capacity that will become clear through the narrative. also a loose loose loose adaption of s4 with a slasher flair

🏕️🛶

There are rumors that Hawkins is cursed.

That there’s a gateway to hell in the town’s epicenter—paved by the blood of innocents.

That there’s a whole world roaming beneath, teeming with monsters who have gaping maws full of endless rows of teeth that walk on twos and fours, screeching bats, and swirling shadow beasts.

But they’re rumors all the same.

Hushes in hallways, within the four walls of homes, by conspiracy theorists trying to strike up their next controversial story.

Stories told around campfires to wide eyed children, fear struck grave and true behind their gazes, or by those wishing to warn others to stay away, to reconsider coming—to turn back while they still have time.

Those same rumors fueled by the terrible murder of the Creel family, a haunting story of a girl who disappeared and was never found again, the impossibility of the zombie boy who was gone from this world one day and alive the next, the devastating fire that burned down the Starcourt Mall and took the lives of many.

Tragedies. All of them. Twisted to fit a narrative. Because Hawkins is safe. Inconspicuous. Boring.

Nothing strange happens there.

Nothing, that is, until the summer of 1986.

——

“Hello campers,” you call out through the megaphone. “Welcome to Camp Firefly for the summer season of 1986. Dustin—please stop pulling on Max’s hair. Max, don’t kick Mike in the shins! Oh, Juliet, honey, please don’t eat the gl—”

The megaphone is snatched from your fingers by none other than Steve Harrington. All long limbs and debonair stature. Dark hair gleams in the sunlight, broad shoulders shifting as he raises the megaphone to his lips and shouts, “Okay, listen up shitheads. Unpacking starts now. In one hour, we’ll be meeting in the mess hall for our welcome dinner. Be there or be square.”

You open your mouth to argue, to yell at him for breaking up your speech, but a pair of arms winds around your waist. Eddie’s form thumps into yours, his tall and gangly body having just rushed out of his parked van to hastily barrel into you. Four weeks; you’d gone four weeks without seeing him, and it had felt like years. Sighing, you lean into his embrace. Steve shakes his head beside the both of you, continuing on with the welcoming speech for the rest of the campers who are paying attention.

You, on the other hand, find yourself preoccupied with the boy insistent upon sliding his palms into the back pockets of your shorts, pulling you flush against him until your noses brush.

A giggle rises from your throat, your face warming. “Eddie,” you gasp out when a hand squeezes on your flesh. There’s a thwack of your hand against his shoulders, arms loosely around his neck, though there’s no true anger to be found there. Only the prickling nervous anticipation over being seen. You drop down into a hushed whisper, “Not in front of the kids!”

“I’ll have you know, my campers know cooties are real. I’d like to think I’m a great teacher.” His forehead presses insistently into yours, breath warm against your bottom lip. He’s so close now you can smell the mint on his tongue, masking the hint of the cigarette he likely smoked minutes ago beneath. “But I myself happen to be up to date on my cootie shots…”

Another thwack to his abdomen this time, but all it does is have him closing the space between you, ignoring the overly exaggerated gagging sounds of his friend Steve to your left. It’s a long, drawn out press of your lips. Weeks of yearning and wishes, pent up desire, pouring out into the spaces between you. A hum spills from you, unwarranted and yet welcomed by Eddie’s firmer embrace.

Those arms around you that drag you close pull you in tighter, insistent on keeping you near. A part of you wants to remain there. Forever, if he would allow it. But you have too much to do. Between welcoming the returning campers, assisting new campers, and making sure all the counselors are in position for their job duties, your schedule is packed.

Full to the brim in your father’s absence.

“As much as I would absolutely love to spend the afternoon doing this, I need to get to work,” you say, sighing breathlessly as your boyfriend separates from you. His nose nudges your cheek, palms brushing along the curve of your jaw. You kiss him once more, grinning. Lowering your voice so no one else can hear, you add, “Meet me in my cabin in fifteen minutes.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetheart,” he says, pressing a final, lingering kiss to your lips, bowing at the waist. He backs away slowly, finger dragging a slow ‘x’ across his heart. You practically glow with it, heart thundering away behind your ribcage.

Steve wrinkles his nose beside you and you tip your head to the sky, ignoring him. Eddie’s form is already retreating to your cabin, broad back swathed in a dark tee shifting as he moves throughout the gaggle of children rushing around him like the parting of the sea.

All around you children giggle. Cars and buses alike weave in and out of the makeshift gravel parking lot. Parents press kisses to their babies' brows and wish their little ones a wonderful month of excitement to come. Wistful gazes meet yours in passing. Friends reunite after months without, hands curling around hands, skipping back to their prospective bunk beds. Girls with friendship bracelets bleached by the sun and time, and boys with their fake swords made of sticks they retrieved in the woods rush along, sights set on their unknown destinations. Your nostrils are filled with the smell of sunblock and the food cooking in the mess hall, the lingering remnants of your boyfriend’s cheap cologne, and the perfume you’d dabbed onto your pulse points earlier that morning for the curly headed metalhead.

You smile to yourself, letting the summer sun warm your cheeks, and think, It’s going to be a good summer.

——

A fan blows in the distance, but it does little to lower the heat in the room. Does little to chill your sweat slick skin, shirt long pushed high on your chest, moisture pooling in the hollow of your throat, along the dip between your breasts. Your thighs lay splayed out around a narrow pair of hips resting against where you crave him most, fingers dragging lines along the slope of his stomach, the trail of hair leading to the part of him seeking your attention, straining through the sun-faded pair of green shorts adorning his legs, lightened from years of use.

“Missed you,” Eddie drawls, lips gliding along the soft of your stomach.

Shivers ripple in their wake, toes curling within the tube socks around your calves, lined with that glaring green stripe that mirrors the green accents on your white Camp Firefly shirt. You rip your hand from his abdomen and curl your fingers around his bicep, gasping into open air as he tugs the cup of your bra down and his tongue lathes over a sensitive nipple.

Somewhere against your thigh you can feel him hot and hard and ready—eager and insistent. The wooden beams of the cabin above you blur around the edges as fingers dip down into the waistband of your shorts, teasing at the slickness he finds there.

“E-Ed,” you rasp, clutching tighter, fingernails digging crescents into his skin at the softest prodding of his middle finger against your center. “Mmm—more.”

That finger dips into the well of slick pooling. Swirls around and around until you’re writhing beneath him, chest rising and falling against his as he leans over to hover above your form, watching the utter bliss sliding over your features.

“Sweetheart,” he says lowly, voice seemingly dropping an octave. His mouth roams over the curve of your hip bone, nipping at delicate flesh until your stomach clenches and you yelp. “Pretty sure you’re not in uniform.”

He’s right. You’re meant to be wearing the standard white shirt with green lettering or ‘Camp Firefly’ across the front and that silly pair of matching green shorts. But you hadn’t had a chance to change your shorts before the kids started pouring in—before Eddie managed to get you alone.

He tuts, and with his other hand, Eddie slowly works the button on your jean shorts free, the zipper following suit. The denim brushes along your thighs as he lowers them down your legs, tossing them into the far corner of the room, toying with lace, wet with your want.

“New?” he murmurs, dipping his middle finger inside you, dragging it in a slow circle that has you clutching at the bed sheets beneath you. At your nod, he grins. “Is this all for me, sweetheart? Should go away on tour more often.”

Eddie’s careful as always as he slides down further toward the foot of the bed, shorts and shirt rumpling. A shudder of breath passes from you as he hikes both your thighs over his shoulders, the balls of your feet resting against the span of his back, as those fingers of his palm at the dough of your thigh. Warm breath skitters across your bare skin, replaced by his mouth a moment later. Warm presses that start at your ankle, dragging up up and up until you’re whimpering, pleading, begging for him without coherent words. Words fail you when he’s like this, intent and amorous, wanting nothing more than to draw out your pleasure, bring you to a peak, have you gasping beneath him in your release, holding you close as you float back to earth with him.

“Please don’t. Missed you too much,” you nearly beg, eyes rolling back into your skull as he tugs the flimsy fabric aside, nearly ripping it in his haste, and parts you with his tongue. Every other word, every statement, the thoughts you might have shared—they all flutter away into the wind, replaced only by this mouth, these fingers, and this man. “Missed you too much. Oh gosh, just like that, please don’t stop Eddie—”

His answer is the curling of his fingers within you. The blinding white light that dances behind your closed eyes as he licks and teases at your center, coaxing you further along that invisible peak. It burns within your gut, a spark fanned into flame, holding bright into a steady inferno, ready to burst behind your eyelids when a knock sounds at the door, shaking you both from your fantastical reverie.

Head rolling back into your pillow with a groan, you cry out forcibly, “Who is it?”

“Chrissy…your roommate.” It’s a hesitant voice that greets you. Soft and quiet, but impossibly sweet. The groan that threatens to spill from your lips is swallowed immediately.

“I totally forgot…” you whisper to Eddie, referring to the girl standing at your doorstep.

In all your years past, you shared with your father. Now, as the manager for the summer, and Chrissy being the newest addition to camp, you had specifically set her up in your cabin so she could gain a grip on things swiftly in her first summer here at Camp Firefly. Head slumping back against your pillow, you dress in haste, brushing your fingers against your hair and under your eyes to make sure you look presentable, and then walk over to the front door.

Eddie clears his throat. “Should I head out?”

You huff a sad sigh, not wanting to see him go. Not after you just got him back. “Rain check?” At his nod, you rush back across the room and press a lingering kiss against his lips. “I’m so happy you’re here. With me.”

“Me too,” he practically purrs, curling a finger in your belt loop, dropping a final kiss at the center of your forehead. Skin warms under his touch. “Now go—Chrissy’s waiting.”

There’s a swift crack of his palm against your ass that has you throbbing down to your core, a mock gasp rounding your lips as you turn your head over your shoulder to playfully admonish him. But without the capabilities of doing anything about it, you instead open the door to reveal your beautiful new roommate.

To say you don’t know Chrissy Cunningham is a lie. Point blank. Everyone at Hawkins High knows her. Recently graduated, incredibly smart, overachiever, and class president. Girlfriend to Jason Carver, and captain of the cheerleading squad. Basically, high school royalty. She’s perfection in a dainty blonde package, with her whimsical laughter and bright eyes, and you can’t help but smile as she pulls you into a hug and excitedly bounces on the balls of her feet.

It reminds you of your first summer here as a camper. Wide-eyed wonder, with all the hope in the world to go along with it, taking in all the sights, the people, the things. Years later, Camp Firefly still holds that incomparable charm. But it’s different now; especially as a counselor, in charge of making sure all these children have fun, are fed, enriched, and remain alive for the four weeks they’re in your care.

Though you don’t press them about it, Chrissy and Eddie are technically late. Most of the staff arrives days prior to the campers arriving to run through protocols, to ensure everyone has their proper safety training, the kayaks are checked over for damage, the craft rooms are stocked, meals are decided for the summer session, lifeguard duty is handled, and the like. But this is Eddie’s third summer, and he knows these woods by heart. Chrissy, on the other hand, is a late addition requested by her boyfriend, Jason. You’d been reluctant at first, but another sports coordinator wouldn’t be the worst thing, so you’d added her to the staff list.

Just as she steps back, you hear the gentle glide of your cabin window shifting upward. A white Reebok covered sneaker presses up to the ledge, drawing Chrissy’s curious gaze from where she stands at your back. Chest burning, you wiggle your fingers at him, his shoulders shrugging.

“Hey, Chrissy,” Eddie says, grinning widely. She mutters a breathless ‘hi’ back. “I don’t usually make it a habit of sneaking through this window. In case you were wondering…”

He does.

“I’ll be out of your hair in two seconds,” he adds, boosting himself up and over the windowsill and onto the grass below. At your slowly arching brow, he laughs, “I could have…used the door.”

“Could have used the door, yeah,” you agree, that increasingly familiar sticky fondness toward him bubbling up within you. “See you in the mess hall.”

He backs up as you say it, keeping his eyes on you, thumping against a tree and getting a bunch of leaves caught up in his wonderfully unruly hair. The tops of his cheeks stain red, visible in the slowly setting sun. Smitten—he’s so damn smitten, and he’ll try to hide it from everyone to keep up that metalhead slash dungeon master persona, but he’s absolutely terrible at it and you love it.

“Bye, Eddie!” Chrissy says gleefully, just as Eddie starts to wave and brush at the leaves poking out haphazardly from dark curls.

Grinning, you waltz over to the bedroom window, leaning your head out to look at your summer boy turned all year boy.

“Bye, Eddie,” you drawl a little teasingly, affection dripping from you, sliding the wooden frame shut.

He pouts and you wave, quick to once more mouth ‘rain check.’ Then, with his form finally retreating to his assigned cabin for the summer, you whirl around to face Chrissy.

“Okay! Sorry about all of that. I’m the…well, I’m your manager this season. Fred Benson will be your assistant manager, should you need me and not be able to find me at any point. Welcome, we’re so happy to have you here. Now how about we get started on a tour of Camp Firefly?”

——

Camp Firefly sits on the outskirts of Hawkins. An outdoor oasis nestled deep within the woods, about an hour and a half from the rest of civilization, and home to many campers when the summer season arrives. Stomping grounds of the counselors who roam their wooden cabins, teaching, mentoring and playing with their bright faced youths.

The sun sits, bright and golden, over the endless sea of emerald green trees. The barest hint of wildflowers and the lake water down the hill hits your nostrils, blown in by the two fans set up around the room to cool the humid summer air. Vaguely, you hear the cicadas bursting into life, the birdsong filtering through the trees kissing heaven, the rush of water in the distance. Beneath it all is the chatter of children, some of the earliest arrivals likely already pestering their counselors about the many activities they’ll be wanting to do, though the first event is always the welcome dinner in the mess hall.

Gesturing for Chrissy to follow, you usher her out the front door and peer out over the front porch, extending your arms to show her the view from just outside your shared bedroom window. Through the lush foliage just outside your bedroom window, you can see the grassy hill, the sparkling blue water down further below, a long wooden dock that’s also home to a storage cabin full of water sports. Kayaks already bob in the water, their bright colors sparking joy. Vibrant yellows, greens, reds and blues—awaiting their eager pilots. The water gleams a gorgeous azure blue, reflecting a cloudless sky above.

Your favorite part of every morning is seeing the kids. All their bright smiles, their shoes kicking dirt up as they skip, run, walk and mill about. Those first day jitters remind you of being a younger girl, still a camper, freshly out of school for the session with summer break standing before you and a summer of endless opportunity ahead. You recall your favorite counselors, the way they made you feel, how loved and special it was to spend every day playing, learning and growing.

And now—now it’s your job. Now you’re in charge of protecting, teaching and encouraging the youth. It’s your job to make sure they never go one day without knowing just how valued, appreciated and loved they are. Seeing their smiling faces, their reception to your encouragement, the way they bloom when exposed to love? It makes all the early morning wake ups, makes every tear shed over a scraped knee or a sprained ankle, all the macaroni necklaces and family portraits, the food fights and arguments between campers, the competitions and music events worth it.

Chrissy seems enraptured with the whole thing as you lead her down the pathway toward the fire pit in the center of camp. Her head turns everywhere you go, waving to little ones as they rush on by, introducing herself to parents, to the campers she’ll be working with for the next month. You watch her confidence spark to life, flourish, and expand with every minute that goes by beside you. Soon enough there’s that eager bounce to her step that catches your eye, the flick of her ponytail as she greets a new camper with a handshake and a cheery ‘hello,’ the way she starts repeating names of kids after they pass, if only so she can start to remember them all.

Trying.

She’s trying, and it’s more than you could ask of her as a new addition to the roster and someone who hasn’t done this before.

“Okay, so let’s start here,” you say, pointing to the fire pit in the center of the camp. On your far right is the ‘Welcome to Camp Firefly’ sign. Stopping in your footsteps, you wait until she’s at your side to proceed. “This is the heart of the camp. We host our campfires here. So that would mean anything from s’mores nights to scary story sessions or icebreaker games. We try to hold them for the kids once a week. Sometimes two, weather permitting. If you’re ever lost, look for the welcome sign.”

“Okay. If I’m ever lost, welcome sign.” She repeats the words slowly, head dipping. Her head whips right and left, peering out against her surroundings. “Got it. We have a lot of kids that come here, don’t we?”

“We definitely get a good crowd. Mostly Hawkins and Christian Academy students,” you tell her, pulling out your whistle and blowing when you catch Lucas racing after Mike. “Boys! Slow the heck down. Wheeler, your shoelace is also untied! Are you trying to go to Nurse Mooney on day one?”

“Sorry!” They both cry out at the same time, heads bent low as they slow down long enough until they think they’re out of view, and then continue running as quickly as they came, both yours and Chrissy’s heads shaking in laughter.

“So we passed our cabin, the lake. Over there is the mess hall. We’ll be meeting there at around six for the welcome dinner for the campers and counselors. It’s a good opportunity to meet some of the kids, catch up with friends, and all of that,” you tell her, pointing to the larger building. Pausing, you shift just a bit, where another wooden building looms, doors open to display a stray soccer ball and basketball here and there within. “Over there would be our gymnasium. Obviously we try to do most things outside, but on days it rains that’s our alternative. You’ll find a lot in storage for activities. Steve will show you around there. We also host dances there for the kids. We make a little pizza and ice cream party out of it. Snacks galore, all of that good stuff.”

You lead her through the back of both buildings, coming up on a pathway that leads to a trail. “Down this trail right here are the girls and boys cabins. Kids are obviously kept separate, but you’ll find that the prank wars start almost immediately. I can always tell by all the shrieking,” you tell her, laughing to yourself at the fondness of the memories that flit through your mind, a kaleidoscope of color and splashes of joy. “Last year the kids got Eddie good. Shouted that Max had skinned her knee—he loves that kid, so he ran to see if she was okay—and he got a bucket of water tossed on him.”

“So we allow the prank wars?”

“Yeah.” Your feet shift in the dirt. “They’re kids, they’re going to be rowdy, and we encourage it. Some of these kids have a rough go of it during the school year, and this is a sort of escape for them. It’s what I love most about Camp Firefly. Just watching them play, learn…explore. It’s really rewarding. I know it’s only four weeks, but you’ll miss these guys once they’re back on the buses and headed home with their families.”

“Makes you really appreciate the place. I, ah, know sometimes how hard people might have it at home and school, so this place probably means the world to them.” Chrissy stares up at the pathway. At the wooden cabins with their bright, colorful hammocks dancing in the wind on their porches. You wonder briefly what she’s thinking, but she only smiles softly to herself, saying, “Thanks again. For letting me work here.”

——

“Well look what the cat dragged in!” Dustin calls from beside Eddie, just as you and Chrissy finally wander into the mess hall.

Eddie barely even has a chance to raise his hand in greeting when the curly haired brunette comes rushing forward into your awaiting arms. Another pair greets you next, long and gangly, with dark hair that definitely looks different than it did last summer.

Will.

“I was so excited when I saw you and El on the sign up list,” you tell him, rustling the hairs on his head. His head tips up, leaning into the weight of your hand atop. “So happy you’re all back from California. Did you get a new haircut? Maybe grow a few inches as well?”

Will merely blushes, stepping back, shoulders brushing with Dustin’s. “Eddie said you’re manager this year,” Dustin starts, but Mike tosses a bread roll at his head and the boy is whirling on the heel and flipping his friend off.

“Your crush is showing, dipshit,” Mike teases, voice bored and lofty.

“Be nice,” El grumbles, waving your way.

Chrissy shifts awkwardly at your side, taking in the numerous pairs of eyes also sitting at the table. From where you’re standing, looking over Dustin and Will’s heads, you can see Max, Lucas and his little sister Erica. All of which are bright eyed and happy to see you, practically bouncing with energy where they sit between Eddie and Steve. Some of the other counselors are at other tables, chatting with their kids and one another. Jason, Chance and Andy are rough housing in the distance with some of the older boys. And you can make out Jonathan and Argyle with Nancy and Robin at the table just beside the one Eddie and Steve sit at.

Your heart swells over being reunited with everyone. Even if you’d seen them at school only a few weeks ago now. Tugging Chrissy to your side, you clear your throat, drawing the attention of the kids. “This is Chrissy. I’m sure some of you already knew that, but this is her first summer as a counselor.”

Eyes all over turn to gauge the newest addition to Camp Firefly. Careful perusals, questioning stares, that all eventually melt into curiosity and hopefulness. Before long the kids are ready to bombard her with endless questions as soon as you two find spots to sit down on the mess hall benches. Asking her what it’s like on her first day at camp, if being a cheerleader is fun, what her favorite movies and colors are, what ice cream she likes, what she’d want to be if she woke up as an animal one day. Silly, simple icebreaker things. Small talk that has her loosening as time goes on, easing into a familiar banter that makes your muscles loosen, Eddie’s hand seeking your knee under the table.

“You’re doing well,” he reassures you, and you cover his palm with your own, because, as usual, he knows exactly what you need at the moment. And maybe you are—doing well, that is. It’s the first day of camp, everyone is happy, and things are running smoothly.

Releasing an exhale, you gesture for Chrissy to follow you toward the buffet line, full to the brim with various easily accessible meals. Chicken nuggets, pizza slices, macaroni and cheese, sandwiches, and the like. One thing you’ve always prided the camp in is the ability to go above and beyond making sure each camper’s needs are met—counselors, too. Together you load your plates, recounting the tour around camp, Chrissy regaling you with the names she’s already starting to learn.

“The redhead is…Max, right?” she asks, and you nod, thinking of your favorite little redheaded youth.

“That would be her. She’s a toughie, but she means well.”

She’s also had a rough go as of late, though you don’t tell Chrissy that. Her step-brother, Billy, had been one of the many lost in the fire at Starcourt Mall. It had been a grave loss—all of those lives gone in an instant. It hadn’t mattered how terrible he’s been when alive, it still crushed her all the same. And with her having started high school this year, you can’t even begin to understand the hardships she’s been going through. As often as you could throughout the school year you’ve checked up on her, offered to spend time with her after class, to sit with her in the cafeteria during lunches, but she’s always pushed you aside. Brushed you off, away, out of sight. And you understand—you really do. Seeing her at camp, trying and open to the next four weeks, however, has your chest burning with hope.

“Then there’s…Will and El. They’re step-siblings. Dustin, he’s Eddie and Steve’s friend. Erica and Lucas…siblings. And Mike.”

“You’re getting it.” You place your macaroni and cheese on your plate and toss on a bread roll, watching as Chrissy shovels a slice of pizza onto hers. “It’ll take some time. But it’s your first day. Trust me, you're doing great.”

——

The welcome dinner passes as usual. Kids and counselors alike catch up and recall their memories from all the months spent apart. You prattle on with your kids and watch Eddie out of the corner of your eye as he talks with Dustin and Mike about whatever fantastical campaign he’s planning for their first DND session on the campgrounds.

It splits your heart. Makes it swell three sizes. On your right, Chrissy and Erica are caught up in a duel. Whoever breaks first in a staring contest loses, prompted by none other than Lucas himself. Suggesting since it’s Chrissy’s first day, she’s in need of a little ‘initiation ceremony.’

You and Robin make light of Steve’s present dating life. Laughing when he expresses he’s not actually on the market because he’s interested in an older woman, but he won’t exactly tell you who. Although, when a certain Miss Mooney walks in, you can’t help but to notice the way his eyes catch her across the room. How he quite literally goes white as a sheet and gulps loud enough the two of you can hear him.

And maybe your brow arches high on your forehead, and maybe he grumbles for you to mind your damn business, but Robin and you burst into giggles all the same, grinning bright for the boy with hearts quite literally dancing in his eyes for the newest nurse to work the medical cabin for the summer session.

“Should I invite her over?”

“Eddie, tell your girlfriend to stop—”

“My girlfriend does whatever she wants,” Eddie chuckles, leaning onto his elbows. “What are you doing now?”

“Steve is hopelessly in love with Nurse Mooney,” you tease, wiggling your shoulders, grinning widely.

“Who knows?” Robin bumps her shoulder against his. Steve lets out a sound that resembles a whimper and you can’t help but let out a little snort. Eddie elbows him roughly in the ribs, telling him to ‘look alive’ when Nurse Mooney walks by and settles down at a nearby table. “Maybe this will be the beginning of something beautiful?”

“Should I start singing?” you ask.

“Summer Nights?” Robin winks, earning a loud groan.

“On three. One, two—”

“You’re all the worst, okay?!” Steve grumbles, resting his head on the table. “I’m disowning all of you as my friends. I’m not even joking.”

Summer is officially here.

——

The first few days of summer pass in the familiar Hawkins heat. Every morning you rise to the sound of your alarm clock and announce over the speakers it’s time for the kids to wake up. Immediately, you’re dressing and preparing yourself for the day. Bright white shirt, green lettering, green shorts.

Chrissy rolls out of bed yawning and quiet, tiredness clinging to her form, slowly adjusting to the rigid schedule you try to maintain at Camp Firefly. Seven thirty rise, eight in the morning breakfast in the mess hall, and then groups are split into their respective activities for the day.

You merely observe on those initial days, taking in the energetic buzz that seems to linger over the air as counselor and camper alike get back into the groove of sleep away summer camp. Heat slicks your skin as you traipse through the forest floor, waving as you go.

Steve and Chrissy teach archery one day, bows drawn back, kids lined up across a strip of targets set up far away in the distance.

On another, you manage to pass the arts and crafts cabin, watching as Robin and Nancy cheer on campers for drawing their bright rainbows, caricatures of their families, replicas of their homes.

One evening you stumble upon Jonathan and Argyle after a particularly eventful hike, wherein some of the kids came back with various herbs and mushrooms you weren’t exactly sure were safe and up to code.

Another, you manage to find Eddie bent over, cheering on a little one as they strum carefully on an acoustic guitar, eliciting the proper chords he’d been trying to teach.

At the lake, you wave and grin as campers paddle across the water in their brightly colored kayaks, cheering on their friends for making it across the way, high-fiving Jason and Andy when they happen to do something especially noteworthy.

Your phone calls to your father are breezy. The children’s echoing laughter is a backdrop to your conversation. And he only praises you for the job well done, warming you from the inside out.

I can do this, you think, hanging up the phone and glancing out the window to see a bunch of children running by with colorful pool floats, headed in the direction of the lake. I can actually do this.

Before long it’s the first Saturday of the summer in the mess hall. Which means the traditional food fight. The rules are simple enough. Every year, a kid is chosen from a hat, and they’re the instigator. The person who throws the first spoonful, handful, whatever they choose. But no one knows who that person is. Attack is imminent, and everyone around is a sitting duck, praying they make it out without a bowl full of mashed potato on their head (like last summer, when Erica had very excitedly tossed it right onto Steve Harrington’s perfectly coiffed hair).

The room is quiet now. Camper and counselor alike seated at wooden tables, glancing about, trying to see who their betrayer will be. Friendship doesn’t matter on ‘Food Fight Day.’ It’s a tradition. Traditions, apparently, trump friendship. One could hear a pin drop, could cut the tension with a knife, trying to see if anyone drops their facade and gives a hint of what is to come.

And for who.

Across from you, there’s movement. A spoon rises from beneath the table, poised at the ready within Max’s hands. Your breath hitches as her eyes fall onto yours, spoon scooping up a helping of gravy. Stomach turning, you watch as kids snicker about the table. As Eddie nudges Steve with an elbow, pointing your way.

“Max, please,” you start, holding up your hands in surrender, “you don’t have to do this.”

“Oh—” She releases her spoon and gravy splatters across your face. You blink once, trying to hold back your disgust and laughter. “But I do.”

After that, it’s a cacophony of joyous giggling in the hall as campters gather around the tables, hands inching closer to the endless rows of food across the tables, preparing themselves for war. Condiments, ranch, ketchups and mustards. Spaghetti noodles and pizza slices. Hamburgers and hotdog buns at the ready, drenched in whatever mystery sauce the children had soaked them in.

There’s a moment, however brief, where the gravy drips down onto your cheek, glides down your skin, and dances along your upper lip. A moment where there’s a respite in the building of anticipation. Kids all glance around at one another, a silent conversation left to linger in the air. And then, with her spoon filled with macaroni and cheese at the ready, Erica Sinclair stands up on top of the table.

And screams, “FOOD FIGHT!”

Battle cries echo around the mess hall, and the food fight commences. The air crackles and roars with excitement as fingers smash and push into their respective bowls, projectiles soaring through the air like torpedos and landing on their assigned targets. Casualties are in the midst, children in the way, those unsuspecting, ending up with splashes of red tomato sauce on their faces, crimson splatters like little flowers across their shirts. Lettuce flutters in the air, like confetti exploding into the atmosphere, falling down onto heads and shoulders and the floor.

You’re running around the table with a handful of macaroni and cheese as Robin tosses a slice of cheese at the back of your head. A frisbee of yellow that lingers against your hair for a moment before falling to the ground. Dustin screams on your right, yelling he’s been hit as a spoonful of mayo hits him right in the eye, body falling to the ground into a dramatic heap. Max screams as Lucas pulls out a slingshot, shouting that he’s using an illegal weapon as he loads brussel sprouts onto the contraption and pulverizes Mike with the projectile.

Dropping down onto your knees, you army crawl underneath the tables, avoiding oncoming ammunition and the shrieks of children as you make your way over to your target. Every year, without fail, it’s Steve “the Hair” Harrington. Doesn’t matter he wasn’t the chosen first target this year. It’s just as much of a tradition as the food fight in and of itself. And, out of the corner of your eye, you catch your comrade in food arms. Eddie crawls as well, hand covered in a ketchup, using his elbows to leverage himself across the floor. Nearly even gets hit with a potato bun from friendly fire (Argyle, who apologizes profusely when he realizes what he’s done).

You meet with him in the center, ducking out of the way of a stray cube of cheese, shoulders bumping. “If I don’t make it,” you begin, but Eddie cuts you off.

“You will make it, you will.” He’s shaking with laughter, covered from head to toe in a mess of various ingredients, but still as handsome as the first day you saw him at summer camp two seasons ago now. “Our target is about seven feet away. You take him from the left, and I’ll hit him from above. Do you hear me?”

“I do.” You lean over and peck his cheek. “Also, I missed you.”

“Eyes on the target,” he says, trying to maintain your foolish facade. His features crack, corners of his mouth twitching with his boisterous laughter. “But…I missed you too.”

“Alright.” You nod, training your gaze ahead where Steve is currently defending himself from an onslaught of pickles. “I’m going in for the kill.”

It happens in what feels like slow motion. It’s a perfect plan. A great one, really. One you and your friends have been plotting since before the summer season started. Get close enough, hit the target, and call it a game. But as you slide out from beneath your table and rush forward to an unsuspecting Steve Harrington, Chrissy Cunningham barrels through with a squeeze bottle of ketchup. You’re hit. Square in the chest. In your shock and distraction, Eddie fails to notice his comrade is down. Slips out from beneath his hiding space with his handful of ketchup, just as El appears holding aloft two mustard bottles.

You’ve both been caught.

Steve saunters forward, throwing his arms up to deflect incoming projectiles, glancing down at the two of you. Eddie throws his hands up in the air in surrender, swallowing at the red streaks across your chest. Obliterated—you’ve been obliterated by the presently grinning Chrissy, her hair full of stray macaroni salad pieces, chest streaked with other unmentionable condiments and food items, a little piece of lettuce stuck in her shoelaces.

“Well, well, well. You two really thought you were getting away with a repeat of last year. Surprising, coming from two of my best friends. But a little birdie told me what was to come, so I had time to collect some reinforcements.” He gestures to Chrissy and El, still standing before you determinedly. “Any last words?”

You’ve prepared for this moment. Prepared for the chance you might be intercepted before you could take down the intended target.

Eddie glances at you. You look back, head dipping. Eddie trains his eyes ahead, tipping his chin upward. “Look up, big boy.”

Steve pauses, brows furrowing high on his forehead. “Look up?” He does, and out rushes none other than Robin and Nancy themselves, with a bucket of cold tomato sauce in hand. In his distraction, he doesn't see them coming. In his distraction, he fails to prepare himself for the two of them appearing from behind, pouring the contents over his head, drenching him from the fullness of his hair all the way down to his toes.

Kids are shrieking in their delight all around you, but as Steve wipes eyes free of tomato sauce, you clasp your hand in Eddie’s.

Because you know in that instant, you’ve won the war.

——

The key jangles in your pocket as the two of you stumble into the private showers. He’s everywhere. Fingers digging into your hips, lips against yours, pulling you close. Tugging you forward, craving nearness. Wanting to be close, and then even closer still. Always closer.

As the children continue their food fight across the camp grounds, you slip into the shower facilities you know are typically vacant during the evening hours. Undisturbed, you close the door behind you, prying yourself away from Eddie’s wandering hands long enough to jimmy the sliding lock into place, grinning when the sound of metal signals peace and quiet once and for all.

“You’re disgusting,” you chuckle, and he knows you don’t mean it. Not really.

In a crowded room of thousands, you’d choose him every time. Even like this, with ketchup and mustard across his shirt. Mayo across his proud cheekbones. Macaroni in those dark curls you could spend the rest of your days toying with. He’s still everything you could ever hope for—and he looks at you like he thinks the same. Like even with your shirt covered in ketchup, streaks of red across your chest, the likely remnants of the cheese frisbee at the back of your head, and the rice clinging to that coagulated patch of mayo on the leg of your shorts, he would still think you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on.

Eyes that roam over your form even now. Dark in the growing moonlight. In here, where there’s nothing but quiet. The chaos of the campers long gone, leaving you alone in the sanctuary of togetherness. Tentative feet carry you closer, hands trailing the sides of Eddie’s right arm, running over the short sleeve that covers the wyvern tattoo you know rests high along his tricep, trailing lower still down to his wrist, his hand. With trembling fingers, you grip his palm in hand and raise it up, over your hips, over your sides, curling over your breast. Gasp into his opened mouth just millimeters from yours as his fingers knead the sensitive flesh, his husky voice whispering your name into the empty vestibule.

In here, you are merely two people, still exploring the newness of your relationship. There are no responsibilities, no children calling your name, no one there to remind you of your job duties. Here you can lean in and press your mouth to his, swallow the groan that falls from his lips as your hips press flush against his, the growl that echoes as you glide your hand over the patch of hair above his waistband, trailing lower, and then lower still where you find him half-hard in his shorts already and curl your fingers around the fullness of him.

“You’re kind of gross yourself,” he teases against your mouth, smirking into the skin of your lips as his palm slides down around your back and cups your rear, kneading the flesh until you yelp into him. “We smell like the mess hall.”

The words are a bucket of ice water thrown onto you. A realization that, yes, you do smell absolutely putrid. A conglomerate of more things strewn about your bodies than you can count on one hand has now had time to sit and attract the summer humidity. Lingers in the air, even as your mouth moves slowly over his, drawing those lovely sounds from him you’ll never tire of. With a reluctant sigh, you part from his embrace, taking a step back to watch as he reaches down and tugs his shirt free from his form. There’s a new tattoo across his ribs. A coiling snake that curves up his side, black and white linework immediately drawing the eye to the forefront. Curiosity beckons you forward, fingers brushing along skin, along the lines, Eddie’s dark gaze following yours.

“Got this while you were on tour?” you ask.

“Figured it would be a surprise,” he says, smoothing a palm over the side of your face. “Do you like it?”

“I do.” And it’s not a lie. Not as you brush along his ribcage, grinning to yourself as he tenses and twitches under your ministrations, teeth pressing into his bottom lip to keep quiet.

Exhaling, you take a step back and tug your shirt off, rubbing at your bicep as his chocolate brown eyes run along your silhouette. Sensing your hesitance, he whispers, “You’re beautiful, you know that, right?”

“Never hurts when you remind me.”

“You are.”

It continues like that. He tugs his shorts off and kicks them into the far corner. You remove yours and place them on a towel rack. His socks become a pile on the floor with yours. His boxers are thrown haphazardly, and your underwear follow the same, becoming a heap alongside your bra. The water itself is luxuriously warm. The spray coasts along your skin, warming you from head to toe. With a hum, you turn around to face away from Eddie, letting the steady stream run along your face, washing you clean. A broad pair of arms circle low around your hips, his chin tucking over your shoulder, mouth at your ear. And you linger like that, with the steady flow of water washing away the remnants of your food fight, his body warm against yours, and the rest of the world fading into the background. For a moment, time slows. There’s nothing but you and Eddie, your private oasis, and the love shared between the two of you, full to the brim, threatening to burst at the seams.

The two of you take turns cleaning one another. He glides a bar of soap gently over your skin, and you do the same for him. Shampoo is built into a lather and rubbed into scalp, mouths meet in the middle to kiss away the sting when suds manage their way in sensitive eyes, and hearts hammer faster as the bar is tossed out of the shower curtain and mouths become fervent, needy, persistent.

Outside, campers and counselors alike are shrieking and giggling, but inside there’s only this moment.

This man.

“What are you—” It’s a question broken off into a huff of breath. A gasp as your knees hit the shower floor, eyes round as they seek his face. “You don’t have t—”

“I want to.”

And soon, your oasis becomes your own symphony. A melody only the two of you know. Kisses along his thighs. The tender presses of your mouth over the sensitive flesh of his abdomen. Nips laid into skin, utterances of his praises. Pleas of ‘like that’ and ‘good girl’ as you finally take him into your mouth. Grunts and groans. Whimpers and moans. Fingers that cradle the back of your hand, but never push. It builds, grows, bursts behind his eyes. Hits a peak, reaches a crescendo, and those final lingering notes where he lifts you back to your feet, himself boneless and tired, eyes hazy as he leans down and captures his mouth with yours.

And you return with equal fervor, happy to please, hopeless when it comes to the man.

But there’s a knock at the door, and you know the food fight will have been finished by now. Accept the fact you can't stay hidden away from society forever. There’s a final brush of your lips over his, and the acceptance of responsibilities, but those memories of stolen moments remain all the same. Even as you dress in tandem. Even as you slip your shorts back on, your socks, your shoes. As he shakes his wet hair out, letting the curls fall as they will, his mouth roving over your shoulders, eliciting a peal of laughter from you. Even as you scrunch your nose when he blows a raspberry into your neck, if only so you'll smile at him.

You bite your lip and ignore Robin’s curious gaze as the two of you slip out one after the other. As Steve tuts mockingly, appraising both your forms with weary eyes. Even as you slip back into your cabin after one final lingering kiss on the front steps, Eddie’s hands cradling your face, and your arms around his shoulders. And especially as Chrissy greets you in the doorway, her own blonde hair freshly washed, an oversized hoodie falling freely over her form. You dress quickly in the bathroom, tossing your dirty clothes into a hamper and pulling on a comfortable pair of shorts and a ratty old tee shirt that has one too many holes in it. Your feet slide into a pair of slippers and you walk back into the main room. You don’t question where she’s been, nor do you tease for the bruise you spot on her collarbone. And she doesn't prod or pry over the one that must have slipped away, left to linger on your neck.

Instead you curl onto your sides, away from one another. She kicks her socks off at the foot of her bed, and you throw your slippers into a heap on the floor. You reach over and tug on the pull cord of the lamp. The room descends into darkness. There’s only the sounds of your breathing, the hammer of your heart, and the memories of kisses in dark shower stalls, Eddie’s mouth on yours, yours on his, and hands on bodies.

You call Chrissy’s name hesitantly into the darkness of the room. Wanting to ask her about the day. Wondering if she enjoyed it, if she was enjoying her time thus far. But you’re only met with the sound of her quiet breathing. Gentle inhalations and exhalations of your reluctant roommate.

Tomorrow—you’ll ask her tomorrow.

——

It’s not intentional—the way it all starts that second summer you share with Eddie.

Eddie’s loud and boisterous. Rowdy. Charismatic, frenetic, energetic. He’s different, unique, atypical. Stands outside of societal norms and has no qualms about it. Lives in the spotlight, if only to keep those nearest to him safe.

He’s also a worker at your father’s camp. Has been for two years now as a favor to his Uncle Wayne. For years, his uncle and your father work at the same power plant when your father isn’t directing the summer program at Camp Firefly.

Eddie and you aren’t friends. Haven’t been. He’s the kind of person you pass in the hall. Maybe you wave, maybe you give him a smile, a curt nod. But you’re most certainly not friends. And over the summer you’re often on opposite sides of the camp. Eddie usually goes to the music and arts cabin, while you remain on the lake as a lifeguard or helping around wherever else help may be needed.

It’s that second summer something changes. Eddie’s…well, he’s always been attractive. Dark hair, dark eyes, those tattoos lining his arms. He smiles more your way, interjects in your conversations with your friends, opens up more. You start to hang out. Alone. Away from the prying eyes of your friends, talking about everything and nothing. Learning, growing, enjoying merely sharing space with one another.

And it’s one day, while you’re both assigned cleaning duty after your father had caught the two of you smoking on camp grounds that it really starts. The two of you sit in the gymnasium, mops and brushes in hand, sweeping and disinfecting the surfaces. It reeks of sweat and dirty tube socks, like teenagers and food thrown away and forgotten in the garbage, and yet nothing prevents the way your heart thumps a little swiftly, how you’re aware of every inch of your body around him, the way he regards you as you work.

“Thanks,” he says out of the blue, wringing out the mop, draping it in the wheeling cart.

Your brow arches and he drops down beside you, extending a hand to you. Passing over your brush, he scrubs at a particularly dirty patch you’ve been working at for the better part of ten minutes.

“For, uh, taking the blame.”

As your father had marched over to where you and Eddie had sat smoking in the woods earlier, you snatched the joint from Eddie’s fingers and stamped it out quickly. Kept it tucked away, though there had been no avoiding he’d seen it. It was inevitable. His face had grown severe, brows narrowed, wondering when his ‘little girl’ had taken up the habit. And you’d shrugged, pretended it meant nothing, unaffected. As a result, both of you were banished for the afternoon to cleaning duties, making sure the place was scrubbed from top to bottom.

A punishment that felt a little like fate, if you were honest with yourself.

“It’s no problem—”

“I just—you didn’t have to do that,” he says, tossing the brush into the bucket on his left. Drops down onto his knees, staining the green of his shorts darker in the sudsy puddle below. “I need this job, believe it or not, and my uncle would have killed me if I fucked things up with your dad.”

“Eddie, it’s fine. I…I wanted to,” you remind him. “I like spending time with you.”

He glances down at the floor, hair spilling about his shoulders. For a moment, your lips part, afraid you might have said too much—might have made him uncomfortable. But his ringed fingers reach across and twine loosely around yours, testing the weight of them within his fingers, gauging your reaction. Dark, chocolate brown eyes rise to yours, your palm shifting his hand to face upward within your own. Gentle touches glide over the curve of his hand, the lines and creases there, the calluses from guitar strings.

“This okay?” you ask, finally lacing your fingers with his to linger in the gap between the two of you.

He nods, shifting closer. Closer and closer until your knees brush. “Yeah—yeah, it’s perfect.”

He shifts closer again, head dipping a little. You’ve kissed other people before. Small things, never serious. A game of truth or dare around the campfire only after a couple beers, after a date once or twice, but never like this. Never with a boy you’d liked for the better part of the summer. Never someone like Eddie, who made butterflies erupt in your belly, made you feel all those silly emotions in all the movies you’d seen where a guy meets a girl and they fall in love.

This is different. Feels different. There’s a weight and importance to it. A desire to get it right. So you shift closer, soaking the bottom of your shorts, but you don’t find it in yourself to care. Not when his nose brushes your cheek, not when you can feel his breath on your bottom lip, can smell the stick of gum he’d been chewing on, can nearly taste the cinnamon you’ll find there if you do.

“This okay?” he asks this time, bringing his right palm up to curl around your cheek, warming your skin.

It’s brief. It’s so brief after you nod. The softest caress of his mouth along yours, a whisper of skin touching skin, before your father’s gruff voice breaks the silence with a harsh reminder from the upstairs storage room, “Doesn't sound like a lot of work is getting done in here!”

Bodies jolt apart, cheeks burning hot, hearts burning brighter.

But it marks a newness. A beginning that builds and grows as you explore the start of ‘togetherness’ those last days of summer at Camp Firefly. It’s kissing behind the gym when no one is around and he can sneak you away, it’s Eddie helping you out and into bedroom windows after hours, spending time together tangled under the stars.

Later, in those last weeks of summer camp, it’s exploring hands in the dark, over clothes and under. It’s quiet whispers of ‘are you sure’ and eyes that bore into your soul, his mouth inches from yours. It’s your words of consent, it’s his reciprocation. It’s giving yourselves to one another on that last day of packing up camp. Standing before one another in your now abandoned cabin you generally share with your father. Eddie’s hands rest on your hips, and yours toy with the curls brushing his shoulders. Your noses dip together, mouths mingling in the center, bodies crushing in close. His hips press into yours and you feel him hot there, unbearably so.

And you grow eager, fingers curling in the leather of his jacket, pushing it free from his shoulders, nails raking along the skin that lingers beneath his ratty old tee shirt. You tug that free and he helps you out of your shirt. An awkward gaggle of limbs and tear stained, giggle kissed cheeks. It’s a silent perusal of eyes as you slip off layers of clothing. Your bra, his pants, your underwear, and his boxers. They become heaps in the corners of the room as you touch each other, letting fingers rove in places you’d only ventured alone within the privacy of your bedrooms. It’s sharing that newfound intimacy with another person, for the both of you.

And yeah, Camp Firefly might have been where it all begins, but it only just starts the summer of 1985.

——

Every summer, staff rotates the weekends some of the counselors get a night off. It’s always one day where everyone can take a night to relax. That day just so happens to be the first Saturday at camp wherein you’re able to stretch your legs in front of you, donning an oversized Camp Firefly hoodie with your name stitched over your heart, sandaled feet warming by the fire.

The orange glow crackles and dances before your eyes. Sparks jolting onto the wood below, embers dimming as quickly as they come. Warmth heats your cheeks, draws you closer to the comfortable slumber you can’t wait to take advantage of later. For now, you reach over onto your left and slide your fingers over Eddie’s. His head turns your way, dark eyes clashing with yours as those ringed fingers lace with your own, giving you a quick squeeze.

Robin and Steve sit nearby on a pair of chairs. Heads bent low, voices quiet in the midst of a private conversation. On their left are Argyle, Jonathan and Nancy. Argyle works on rolling a couple joints as the trio chats, his head bobbing often, silky hair catching and gleaming in the moonlight. Jason and Chrissy recount tales about their kids—Jason with the ones on the lake, teaching them to kayak, showing them proper swimming form and the like; whereas Chrissy explains how her kids learned how to play soccer with Steve’s help.

Somewhere in the distance you can hear Fred practically fretting himself half to death. Questioning how it is all of you can be spending time away, while the rest of the staff lingers behind. And Chance promptly tells him to ‘shut the fuck up,’ just as he takes a sip of his own beer.

With a sigh, your head leans back against the fabric of your chair, the can of beer in your hand already lukewarm. You’ve barely sipped any—mind still faraway, recalling the day, making note of what worked and what didn’t that week, trying to keep up with inventory, already planning on your phone call with your father.

Noticing your daze, Eddie’s thumb brushes along the inside of your wrist. Warm and welcoming. Soothing in a way that has your head rolling a bit, fingers wanting nothing more than to push into those dark curls and remain there, the rest of those around you falling away, leaving you alone with your favorite guy.

“I’ll still never get over it,” Andy drawls, leaning back against his chair. Tina shifts on his lap, a beer bottle hanging loosely in her hand. You arch a brow in curiosity, and maybe a bit of warning. “The Freak and the Princess. Who would have thought?”

You tense beside Eddie, and he tips his head up to Andy. “Seriously man, get fucked.”

“Testy, testy.” At your glower, he continues, "I'm just joking with you and our Princess here.”

The man in question rises from his chair, nearly sending Tina falling to the floor in his haste. His fist thumps down on the shoddy radio perched on a wooden stump. “Pass the Dutchie” spills out, the joyful tune breaking up the hoots of owls, the frogs bellowing in the lake, and the gentle night song of grasshoppers. His zip up jacket shifts as he moves, dark hair unkempt still from spending most of the day in the hot sun, jumping in and out of the lake.

“I think we need to liven this party up,” he says, tipping his head back, guzzling down the rest of his beer. Tina giggles airily from her chair, hair twirling around her index finger. Andy shoots a sly grin her way, brows waggling. You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Anyway, I heard this really interesting story recently.”

“Oh?” Chance asks, looping an arm around Fred’s shoulder, dragging him nearer to the fire and shoving him down into a chair. “Come on Benson. It’s not going to kill you to enjoy one night out—”

“Actually it’s imperative that—”

“Benson,” Jason warns. “It’s one of our only days off. Give it a rest.”

“Jason,” Chrissy sighs, nudging his shin with her shoe. “Be nice.”

“Anyone got a light handy?” Argyle calls from the other side of the fire, finally done rolling. “Enjoy, brochachos. Some good shit we got today.”

He’s referring to his and Eddie’s side business, the two having become fast friends since he moved to Hawkins only a few months ago now from California with Jonathan and the rest of the Byers family. Your father definitely doesn’t know about it, and you intend to keep it that way.

Fred’s already been threatened if he knows what’s good for him, and if he wants a chance at a second summer as assistant manager, he’ll shut his trap and avert his eyes. The slow hesitance of him presently reaching for his beer tab and popping his can open reassures you that the breath you’re holding can release into open air, lungs expelling gratefully.

The joints are passed around the fire, split with those wanting to participate.

“Sweetheart?” Eddie asks, quietly so no one hears. You find you prefer it that way—the fondness of the nickname from his lips like a secret meant only for your ears.

Normally you’d say yes, having spent many nights at Lover’s Lake in the early weeks of your relationship smoking by the water, basking in the newness of your romance, talking about life and the twinkling constellations above. But at your hesitation and the soft shake of your head ‘no,’ Eddie lights his own, his thumb grazing the inside of your wrist once more.

The group descends into a semblance of quiet, broken up by the exhales of smoke into the air, the scent swirling in your nostrils. Andy drops back down into his chair, done with his gallant twirl in a slow circle, garnering the attention of his mostly involuntary crowd.

“Have any of you heard of…the realm that lives beneath Hawkins?”

Your group lets out a round of frustrated sighs and groans, all of you having heard the tales told by the investigative programs, your bored neighbors. Hawkins, your gateway to hell town, harbinger of death and blah blah blah bullshit. For years, it’s been idle chatter, told by those looking for controversy. Conspiracies.

But there are realities to every story. Newspaper articles conveying the events that happened, television programs documenting the tragedies that befall every town. Tragedies. Unfortunate circumstances that led to lives lost. And yet there are those who would dig up those graves for a sordid story. For their own entertainment.

“Monsters that crawl on twos and fours—”

“With claws and rows and rows of teeth,” Steve finishes, rolling his eyes, sighing exasperatedly. “We’ve all heard the stories, Andy.”

“Yeah, but what about the stories where they literally strip the flesh from a human body?” He whirls his face closer to you and Eddie and you jolt in your chair. “Rows of teeth that can skin a human. Made to be an apex predator.”

“Andy,” Nancy warns with the roll of her eyes.

“Have you heard the story of Henry Creel, though? The guy who killed his family in 1959?” he asks. The group settles into an eerie silence, bodies shifting around the fire to attention. “Mom and sister, bodies unrecognizable. Mangled. Dad’s locked away. In Pennhurst.”

“Andy…” you cry, breath hitching at the brutality of it.

There were stories, yes. You’d heard of the Creel family. No one ever ventured to their abandoned home in the woods. No one dared. You weren’t one to believe in those stories. They were stories, after all. Stories people have been telling for decades, meant for entertainment and to elicit terror.

“It’s that abandoned house in these very woods,” he says, opening another beer. “They say he died too. That he’s some sort of spirit now that haunts the halls of that home. That he feeds off of grief and guilt and trauma, claiming souls for him to open the gate beneath Hawkins. For every person he kills, he gets closer to literally making Hawkins hell on earth. I'm convinced the tragedies we keep hearing about…I think they’re part of some sort of ritual of his. He’s been getting stronger all this time, just waiting for the perfect moment.”

“Andy, that’s absurd,” Robin splutters, glancing amongst Nancy, Steve and Jonathan. Each wears a look of varying degrees of concern. Steve’s brows knit together, Jonathan shifting wearily to look at Nancy, Nancy staring off into the distance. There’s no time to dawdle on what those expressions mean as Robin opens her mouth again, prattling, “You can’t honestly believe that a dead guy is doing all of this.”

“Just give it a rest, will you, man,” Steve adds, another roll of his eyes that’s so obvious you wonder if everyone just shuts up for a moment you'll hear it. “There’s no…other dimension of monsters and no dead dude sacrificing the souls of Hawkins to open some gates.”

Andy shrugs. “You scared, Harrington.”

“Horrified,” he drawls, and you snort. At that, his lips twitch. “Now can we move on since I’m shaking like a leaf out here in my terror?”

“Yeah, dude, pretty sure you talking about dead people is killing our high,” Argyle agrees, passing off his joint to Jonathan.

The song shifts to “Hungry Like the Wolf” and the conversation changes as well. To lighter topics now, things that don’t make nervous jitters crawl up your spine, don’t make you want to sleep with one eye open at night. Argyle is fully transitioning into life here in Hawkins, and plans on staying for the foreseeable future. Steve and Robin are working harder than ever at Family Video, with Steve being promoted to manager since Keith was moved to another location. Nancy and Jonathan plan on signing a lease to an apartment some time later this year, and when everyone turns to you and Eddie all you can do is express that you’re both doing well. Eddie’s just gotten off of a small, local tour, you’re planning on business college in the fall to eventually help your father run the camp permanently.

It’s not before long that the gentle hum of music, the smell of the crackling fire mixed with the weed, the tang of beer on your tongue, and the quiet conversation lures you into a warm embrace. Eyes fluttering, you cup the bottom of your jaw within your palm, elbow propped up on the fabric of your camping chair. You doze off for minutes, maybe hours, you’re uncertain, before you feel the gentle glide of Eddie’s finger along the line of your temple, the top of your cheek. A low hum spills from your lips, and you wake to find the guys pouring water on the remnants of the fire, while others pack away the snacks and alcohol. The camping chairs are loaded into their respective bags and slung over shoulders, and it’s time to head to bed, the first staff part of the summer a success.

Forest floor crackling and rustling beneath your feet, you follow beside Chrissy while Steve, Eddie and Jonathan chat with Argyle up ahead. Nancy and Robin have locked arms with one another, bodies swaying likely from alcohol and weed still buzzing in their system and you trail to your left where Chrissy is watching them and glancing your way every so often. Her teeth worry her bottom lip, like she wants to say something, like she doesn’t know exactly what that even may be.

“Tonight was fun,” Chrissy says, body nearly brushing yours. You reach across your chest to cup your biceps, hugging yourself. There’s a pause. A momentary hesitation that has your skin prickling with awareness. “Did you have fun?”

“I did,” you admit, allowing yourself the unfamiliar comfort of her heat against you.

This seems to be suitable for your cabin mate, light eyes darting to yours in the moonlight, crinkling around the edges in glee. Not a friendship, not just yet, but something. An olive branch.

“Look—I know we didn’t—”

“Watch out, it’s Henry Creel coming to steal your soul!”

A pair of hands clutch at your shoulders, jostling you wildly in a pair of unwanted arms. The shriek that spills with you slices the air, heads turning immediately to the source. Heart hammering, you’re hardly aware of your surroundings as Steve and Eddie barrel forward, shoving Andy away from you and threatening him to never put his hands on you again. Andy hits the ground with a loud thud, Eddie’s chest rising and falling rapidly in his exertion as he stares down at him. The man on the forest floor cackles, chest shaking with the throes of his entertainment, palms already visibly torn up from where he swiftly tried to break his fall. Vaguely you recognize Fred’s worried voice, trying to ease up the tension—and failing—thin and wobbly, as though at any moment your father will burst into the clearing and banish you all to your cabins.

Eddie whirls around to rush by your side, but Chrissy’s already tugging you into the cradle of her arms, reassuring him that she’s got you. “You guys go finish up, I’ll take her back to the cabin,” Chrissy explains, running a hand over the back of your head. Your body shakes, heart still pounding away from the suddenness of his antagonizing. “Andy, do you have to be such an asshole all the time? Grow up!”

His reply is the wiggle of his fingers and a mocking, drawn out ‘boo’ that has Eddie nearly lunging forward again to shove him back into the ground, before Steve draws him back and reminds him he needs the job, that Andy isn’t worth it, that Eddie will meet up at your cabin later.

——

The two of you dress in silence. The wood of your shared cabin creaks from ages of wear and tear as you mill about, shifting around one another, gathering your things. You manage a pair of shorts and a long tee shirt, one of the Corroded Coffin ones Eddie had made, and settle down at the foot of your bed with a pillow pressed tight to your chest.

Chrissy does more or less the same. Brushes her hair at the small wooden vanity in the corner, washes off the little makeup she’s worn that evening, and hurried into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Upon return you’ve found she’s slipped on a pair of silky pajama shorts and a ratty old tee with the Hawkins High logo on it from when you both were still in high school.

It’s funny to think a month ago you walked across that graduation stage. Had collected your diploma, cheered on Eddie for finally receiving his after hard work and dedication to see it come to fruition, and started the beginning of a new season in your life. Endless opportunity awaited the both of you—all of you here at the camp, really. Recent graduates, those trying to figure out their path, trying to determine what they want to do.

It’s funny to think Chrissy and some of the others on the basketball team had always been strangers to you. Coworkers during the summer, but otherwise people you generally avoided. Ignored. Head down, eyes ahead—it always worked best that way. Your eyes travel down to the neck of your shirt where it falls down a bit around your shoulder, skin still prickling from where Andy had grabbed at you.

Chrissy catches the movement, brows knitting together on her forehead. “I don’t know why you just sit back and let him act like that toward you. He’s an asshole.”

“He’s an employee,” you remind her, toying with the frayed edge of your shorts. A string dances beneath your fingertip; you wind it around the first indent in your skin, twirling, tugging. “I’m…my dad left me in charge, but I’m not used to this. Any of this. It’s easy for you.”

“What do you mean?” She scoots closer to the edge of her bed.

“You’re Chrissy Cunningham. People listen to you. At school, they’d part like the Red Sea for you,” you tell her coolly, shrugging. “It’s different for people like me.”

People who walk the halls for years at school, flying under the radar. No one knows you, no one talks to you—not really, at least. You never minded it. Hadn't then, and still do not now. It might have made it easier having someone in your corner, someone to take you under their wing, push you to fly. And sure you had your friends, a small circle, but you preferred the safety in solitude.

Then there were those like Chrissy, Jason and their friends. Those who shone in the light. Shiny, sparkly things. The kinds of people others were drawn to. Those who people naturally gravitate towards, if only for a chance under the sun. A moment in the spotlight. And you know they’re not perfect. Everyone has their own stories to tell, struggles ahead of them, trials they’ve faced.

But in high school, in life thus far where you’re either in or you’re out based on what those around you can see and perceive on the superficial exterior alone, you’ve always been out.

And that’s all you know.

“Look—it doesn’t matter regardless,” Chrissy says, pinching lip between her teeth, releasing it in a frustrated huff. “Has he always been like that toward you?”

There’s always been an antagonistic relationship between the two of you. Started back in sophomore year when you’d caught him cheating off of your test in math class, and had told your teacher. After that, and a failing grade on his part, he’d been nothing but persistent in reminding you you’d been the reason he’d failed that class and needed to remain in summer school that year.

The downside also being that you were both still campers at sleep away camp by that point, and would argue over every little competition Camp Firefly hosted. And when he’d applied to be a counselor once old enough, you’d nearly begged your dad to not hire him, but couldn’t bring yourself to explain why.

Seemed so silly at the time. Still does. Being unable to bring yourself to just plant your feet around him and take no shit from him.

You grimace. “Yeah.”

“I wish you would say something then. People like that keep doing that because they think it’s okay. They see that you’re not going to say anything and they take advantage of it,” she says, shifting up and off of her bed and onto yours. “I, uh…my mom is kind of like an ‘Andy’ in my life. And for a really long time I just let her…talk to me like that. But no one should berate you, make you question yourself, wonder if you’re good enough.”

Her hand rests lightly against your bare kneecap. Your eyes trail there, and hers meet yours hesitantly, but you cover the weight of her skin with your own palm and feel the corners of your lips upturn.

“You know, you’re different than I thought you would be,” you murmur thoughtfully, eyes darting up to light ones. Her head tips to her side and you continue, “I thought you might be…scary.”

Your eyes pinch shut in embarrassment and she bubbles with side shaking laughter. “You thought I was scary? I thought you would be the scary one.”

“Me?” Your finger presses to your sternum.

“You were always so involved in school, good grades, on the yearbook committee, a scholarship student for your business school. And now you’re my boss, which is pretty awesome at nineteen years old,” she tells you, shoulder bumping against yours.

“Just for the summer,” you remind her. “My dad is still the director, just managing from home.”

“Even so. Looks like we both misjudged one another.”

She nods. “Looks like it.”

With a sigh, you shift down onto your back, not minding at all when Chrissy arranges herself comfortably at your side, her arm slung over her waist, eyes trained on the wooden ceiling. The gentle inhalations and exhalations from both of you intermingle in the humid summer air, the gentle hum of your fan blowing a backdrop alongside the chirp of crickets and bellows of bullfrogs straying from the lake.

“Hey…” Chrissy breaks the silence, and your head turns on the pillow to look at her. “If we’re going to be cabin mates for the next month or so, I think it would be nice if we were, you know, friends.”

“I’d like that,” you admit, and it comes easily.

Easy like breathing, what with the way she grins at you like you’ve ignited new hope within her soul. Mouth opening to speak, you’re interrupted by the swift raps of knuckles on a door, and without even asking her to, Chrissy hops up off the bed and flounces over to the door, hair swishing as she goes.

The door opens and you really shouldn’t be surprised to see Eddie. Eddie’s standing there in a Metallica tank top, the sides cut for a larger hole, revealing the smattering of ink across his form. Heart clenching, you rise to your feet as Chrissy opens the door further and urges him into the open space, arms circling his waist as he draws you flush against his chest. A hand rests on the nape of your neck, the other rubbing a slow circle between your shoulder blades.

Chrissy whistles a tune unfamiliar as she makes her way back to her bed, kicking her feet up on a pillow. Feeling your cheeks warm, you step back, mindful of your company. Circling your palm in his own, you drag him onto the front step of your cabin, taking in the glow of the moonlight up above. Wings of fireflies bat around you, their glowing bulbs flickering around the lamp hanging on the porch, a moonlit song only they know.

“I wanted to check up on you,” he says once the screen door is shut behind him, palm coming to rest on your cheek. “He’s an asshole. That whole Henry Creel bullshit.”

“I’m okay,” you promise, leaning up to press your lips to his. “Don’t wanna talk about him.”

“Think Chrissy will let me stay tonight?” he murmurs, forehead pressing to yours. His nose slides down the bridge of yours, prods at your cheek until your lips twitch into a smile. His teeth flash with his grin at that. “There she is.”

“You're on duty,” you remind him, though the idea is tempting.

Summer before being Eddie’s girlfriend was one thing, your first summer as his girlfriend is another. Separation feels daunting. The craving to be near is stronger now than ever before.

“The little gremlins can survive one night with Steve.”

“Eddie…” He buries his face against your shoulder, swaying you left to right in his arms. “Thanks for coming. But I promise I’m fine. Plus, I think I actually made a new friend tonight.”

“You and Cunningham, hmm?”

“She’s…she’s actually really nice.”

“I’m glad.” His head shifts, lips pressing into your neck until you wriggle and writhe in his arms, earning a chuckle out of the man. “I’ll miss you. Maybe you’ll come visit me in my dreams.”

“You’re such a sap, Munson.” Nose wrinkling, you reach up to comb at the curls tickling your cheek. “Who knew?”

“There are exceptions to every rule.”

You grin, heart fluttering away in your chest as he takes a step back and makes his way down the stairs leading to your cabin. There are three words that bubble on your lips, three words you’ve never shared with anyone before. And it’s fitting they form for this man, this person.

But it’s not time. Not yet. So instead you lean your elbows onto the railing and blow him a kiss, snorting as he dramatically smacks it against his chest and falls backward into a heap on the forest floor below.

“Go, shoo,” you tease, giggling as he rolls over and pushes himself onto all fours, shaking out his hair.

“You wound me, sweetheart.”

Three words.

Not now.

“Goodnight, Ed.”

He grins. Waves.

Three beautiful words.

But you have all the time in the world anyway; there’s no rush.

“Goodnight.”

——

It’s an accident that causes you to end up in Nurse Mooney’s cabin. She’s one of the newest additions to the camp. A highly educated individual, with years of nursing experience under her belt, and exceptional with the children. It’s one thing you’ve heard over and over again from the kids after every scape, fall, and tumble. There’s also the increasingly curious fact that Steve Harrington himself seems to be enamored with the woman, having been found already on more than one occasion visiting the medical cabin.

You find yourself there presently. A hike with Jonathan and Argyle turned sour when a tree branch whipped you in the face, slicing at the sensitive flesh of your cheek. The kids had screamed, jolting on the spot when you hissed and pressed a hand to your bleeding skin, fingers pulling back soaked in scarlet red. Will had nearly passed out and Max cursed. Dustin called for Argyle, nearly blowing your eardrum in the process. And Mike and Lucas shoved you along the path back to camp, leaving El behind to help make sure her step-brother would make it back okay.

Which is how you find yourself now, slipping into the cabin and calling out her name, only to find Steve himself sitting atop an examination table, smiling softly at the woman who presses a bandaid with numerous breakfast foods in a cartoonish style on them to his bloodied knee cap. The two whirl your way, Steve’s cheeks burning hot as you approach, while Nurse Mooney tips her head up to the sky before noticing your bloodied cheek, urging you forward with the wave of her hand.

“What happened to you?” Steve breathes out, rushing over to tip your chin up with an index finger. “It’s not—”

“No, no. I got in a fight with a tree and it won. No need to worry Eddie,” you tell him, curling your fingers around his wrist and shoving it away gently from your face. “Seriously. Don’t worry him over this. He’s busy with the kids.”

Nurse Mooney shuffles about in the distance, setting up what you assume to be the things she’ll need to patch you up. Your eyes flicker upward to Steve’s, mirth bubbling in your gut. “Why are you here?”

“Mind your business,” he warns, voice dropping into a gravelly grumble.

“It’s just curious.”

“She’s a good nurse.”

“I’m sure,” you tease, grinning widely. “She’s also really pretty, intelligent, talented and—”

“Shhh. Will you stop it? Next time you and Eddie want me to cover so you can canoodle in the woods I’ll just so happen to be busy.”

You pout. “No fun, Harrington.”

“You two will be having no fun if you keep it up.” He glances over his shoulder, earning a smile from the woman. “I don’t want to mess this one up, okay?”

The seriousness in his tone gives you pause. Swallowing, you nod. Steve’s love life has been a bit of an…interesting tale as of late. He chalks it up to losing his dating “mojo,” but you know Steve. Steve with his heart full of love ready to be given, an immeasurable kindness, and a tenacity that always surprises you. He’s also a wonderful friend, ‘mother’ to the children, and sacrificial for those he loves. Anyone Steve Harrington loves will be a lucky partner. The thought alone sobers you, mouth setting into a firm line.

“Just…protect your heart, okay?” You wiggle his arm with your hand. His lips curl upward into a dopey grin. “I care about you, you know? Seeing as you’re in a semi-questionably romantic relationship with my boyfriend.”

“Shut up,” he laughs, but there’s no malice there. “You look a mess.”

“You’re an idiot.”

But he’s grinning. A wide smile that makes your heart clench as he runs a hand down the side of your arm and waves Nurse Mooney goodbye. As soon as the screen door shuts, you’re ordered to jump up onto the examination table, wincing as Nurse Mooney leans forward to assess the damage to your cheek. She winces as you do, mouth turning downward, a soft exhale of breath falling from her softly parted lips.

“Going to need some steri strips.” At your grimace, she continues, “It’ll need to be cleaned first. Tree really got you good, did it?”

You laugh, but it only brings a new wave of pain to the wound. “Ouch, please don’t make me laugh.”

She works in silence. Gathering the things she needs on a rolling table, getting to work on cleaning out your wound, apologizing every time a blinding flash of pain hits. Once the wound has been washed, she pulls over a rolling chair and starts to apply the strips, brows drawn into a furrow, attention fully dedicated to your cheek.

“So your first time working at a summer camp, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you enjoying it?”

Her mouth twitches upward. “It’s different than what I’m used to, but I’m enjoying myself, yeah.”

“What were you doing before this?” you wonder out loud, gasping as her gloved finger accidentally brushes the sensitive flesh around your wound.

“Sorry.” She exhales, grabbing another strip and pressing it into place. “I worked in trauma for two years.”

“So this is a lot slower?”

“Definitely. Scraped knees are a relief compared to some of the things I’ve seen at the hospital,” she admits, leaning back onto the chair and stripping her gloves off. “A walk in the park compared to car accidents, stab wounds and all of that.”

Stomach dropping, you swallow. “Well, we’re happy to have you. Now you can put bandaids on paper cuts for days on end.” You let out an uneasy laugh.

“You’ll keep those on for ten days. Just to be safe. Shouldn’t leave a scar.”

“Thank you.” You hop off of the table, making your way over to the cabin door. “The kids love you. Everyone does…actually.”

“Glad I can be of help. And…try to keep away from low hanging branches, will you?”

“Will do.”

——

About a week after the campfire debacle, you find yourself sitting in the craft cabin with Robin and Nancy and some of the girls, fashioning friendship bracelets with colorful threads. Your fingers work meticulously, winding together the colors, bottom lip pinched between your teeth.

Your table is presently occupied by Max Mayfield, her own eyes trained on her bracelet in front of her, though she’s been silent for some time now. Exhaling, you finish off the line you’re working on and cup the bottom of your jaw in your palm, watching as the younger girl continues with her crafting, paying you no attention.

Outside, you can hear the gentle breeze rustling the leaves. The cicadas that sing their morning song. The laughter of children faraway on the lake. Within, you can hear Nancy praising her kids for making the “most beautiful macaroni art” and Robin exclaiming she’s never seen a more beautiful “caterpillar egg carton.” But Max remains quiet and stoic, focused on her task at hand, not uttering a word.

“Do you think Eddie will like this?” you ask, trying to stir up conversation.

Nimble fingers raise the red, white and black presently half made friendship bracelet in the air. Some of his favorite colors are thrown into one. Max lifts her head, eyes running over it appraisingly. Cold—though not directed at you—empty blue. She continues to work on hers. Green, blue, and white.

“Do you ever just…feel like…” She stops herself. Screws her face into a grimace and adds a few more lines to her bracelet as you ruminate in silence.

“Like…?”

“It sounds crazy.”

“You know you can always talk to me. Right, Max?”

She swallows. “Do you ever just have a feeling that something bad is going to happen? I don’t know how to explain it, but I’ve been having these nightmares and I—” Another pause, her mouth setting into a firm line.

Hesitantly, you reach across the table and slide your hand over her forearm. “You’re safe here. I can assure you that.”

“I know. I know,” she sighs, “it’s probably nothing.”

“Max, if it’s worrying you that much, do you want me to talk to your mom? Have her come pick you—”

“No. No, please don’t call my mom. Ever since Billy…and then Neil…”

You’ve heard the stories. The whispers around town by those who spewed rumor and vitriol for the game of it—for their own personal enjoyment. Had heard Neil Hargrove left her, abandoned her after his son had died, how they’d been left and moved into the trailer park. It’s how her and Eddie became so close. A brotherly figure to his “Red,” as he always affectionately calls her, even despite her grumbling that he annoys her. It’s all bark no bite, though.

But you’ve also heard about her mom. About the hardships she’s been facing. About how Max has been struggling in school, with her relationships. It drives you up and out of your chair, shuffling to the other side of the wooden table to settle down on the bench beside her.

“You know you can always come to me. For anything, right?”

She nods, eyes downcast.

“I won’t call your mom,” you promise her, hand resting against her shoulder. “But if you keep having these nightmares, or if they get worse, please tell one of us. Eddie, Steve, myself—anyone, okay?”

“Okay,” she agrees. She waits a moment and lifts your bracelet between her fingers. “He’ll like it.”

“Think so?”

She wiggles her brows and shoulders, that fleeting grin of hers like sunshine piercing the clouds on a rainy day. “It’s coming from you, he’ll like it.”

You continue on in silence until the sun starts to set over Camp Firefly. You work on your bracelet for Eddie, and hers for Lucas (though she’ll never admit to that). It’s not until you hear the dinner bell from the mess hall that you extract yourselves from the tables, sliding away from the wooden benches with your colorful strands finally finished in hand.

She walks ahead of you, footsteps eager, slipping into the open wooden doors and making her way over to her friends. Whereas you wander up behind the man you’ve been looking for, in quiet conversation with Dustin, and clap your hands over his eyes. Fingers curl around your wrists like bracelets, a low rumble of laughter shaking the shoulders pressing lightly against your hips.

“Who is it?” you muse.

“Gag me,” Mike groans, earning a harsh slap from El.

“Hmm, I wonder. The options are so vast, you know?”

Without another word, he’s climbing up and off the wooden bench, dragging you out of the mess hall with a quick nod in Steve’s direction. Once you’re outside, he rushes you around the back of the building and presses your back up against the wall, pinning you in place.

“Oh, hey.”

“Hey,” you murmur, mouth millimeters from his.

He tastes like his usual cinnamon gum and a hint of smoke as he kisses you, lips soft and yielding beneath your own. It’s a gentle give and take, your fingers sliding beneath the fabric of his camp issued shirt, scratching along the hair disappearing beneath his green shorts. Breath fans along your lips, his body coming in closer, the fullness of high thigh between yours.

“We can’t,” you whine, forehead dropping against his.

“I know. I know.”

Another kiss. Those lips drop lower, pressing to the hinge of your jaw. The curve beneath your ear, the side of your neck, until you’re giggling and squirming beneath him, clutching at the sides of his waist, panting for air. His palms glide along your hips, pausing at the strip of string hanging outside of the pocket. Curious, he snatches it free and lifts it in the air between the two of you.

“You made this for me?” The corners of his mouth twitch gleefully. Dimple popping in his cheek.

“No.” Your tennis shoe digs into the ground beneath you, forest floor crunching under your toes, head down, cheeks burning.

“These are my favorite colors, though.”

“Yeah well…uh…”

“Tie it on me,” he says abruptly, drawing your gaze to his left wrist he’s draped the bracelet over.

“You really don’t have to wear it. It’s silly. I just spent the day in the craft cabin and I thought—”

He smacks a kiss to your cheek, silencing you. “Please. Humor me.”

He draws you in closer with a hand circling your waist. You step into the cradle of his arms and grip the two ends of the bracelet, pulling them taut enough around his wrist where he’ll have some room, but it won’t slide off of him. Once satisfied, you fasten it and step back, admiring your work. Eddie wiggles his wrist in the air, admiring the red, white and black stitching. Eyes dart to yours.

“I love it,” he says, swooping down to kiss you soundly. Until your lips tingle and your belly bursts to life with butterflies. “Come on. Before all the good food is gone.”

——

He doesn’t know why…or really how…he ends up here. His feet crunch against gravel as he opens the door to his car, peering up at the building.

Before him is a home.

Set back against a driveway, stain glass windows caked in endless layers of dust. His heart pitter patters in his chest, unaware of what is to come. All he knows is there’s a sense of foreboding. A curiosity that he doesn’t wish to follow through with, and yet feels compelled all the same.

The Creel house, where those murders heard only in newspapers happened. A family, here one moment in Hawkins and gone the next. Brutally murdered, bones broken, eyes ripped from skulls.

Dead.

Gone.

Lives put to a halt.

The voice in his mind calls his name again. Has been for some time now. Days, weeks, he’s not sure. But it’s a gentle caress in his mind all the same. A quiet whisper of ‘Andy’—a siren’s call that has him in its grasp.

‘Andy’ as he brushes his fingers across dust dirtied shelves and bookcases in the home awash with moonlight, peering at various trinkets and once well-loved furnishings. The dust shifts and stirs around him. A halo of sparkling debris that flutters and flits around him as he peruses the interior of the home, taking in all it has to otter. Beautifully vaulted ceilings, sprawling staircases, lovely kitchen, dining room and sitting area.

He tries to picture the home when they move in. Hopes settled on their shoulders, new keys tossed into their hands, ready to start anew as a family. Now, he stands in a barren wasteland. A place where everything comes to die.

His feet carry him up the staircase, eyes roving the pictures on the walls, flashlight catching on the dust particles shifting as he moves. There’s a picture of what he assumes is the family hanging on the wall. A beautiful wife, doting father, a golden haired little girl, and a straight faced boy. Henry. His mind fills in the name, and now it settles on a face. Dark hair, severe blue eyes.

He wonders how a boy, how a young boy like this, could ruin a whole family. How he could look at them, intent on killing, and follow through with it all.

That compulsion to learn, the compulsion to simply be here, drives Andy further upward, pausing on a room. Inside he finds a wooden panel on the floor that doesn’t quite sit flush. It creaks and groans as he steps on it, edge popping upward. Curious, Andy sets his flashlight down onto the dusty floorboards and pushes up at the broken piece. Within lies a jar, covered like every other inch of this home in a thick layer of dirt and dust. Blowing out a breath, the dust swirls upward, revealing endless black widow spiders within.

Fear chokes him. Causes him to stumble back, tossing the jar onto the bed above, clutching at his flashlight like it’s a lifeline. Shallow breaths puff in and out of his lungs. Gasps that rattle deep within. And then he sees it. The edge of a book, just above where the jar had been beneath the floorboards. A leather bound cover, smooth to the touch when he grows the nerve to pluck it out and brush along the edges, the binding.

Etched into the corner is ‘Henry Creel.’ Crude in nature, no more than scratches in the front covering. His fingers brush along the letters, opening the first page to the doodles within. Images of spiders. Long limbs, cruel fangs, beady eyes. Smoky dark drawings, splashed with red streaks. On the next page are bunnies. Long ears, fluffy tails, wide eyes. But it’s the eyes that have his chest rising and falling faster. Eyes that should be bright and warm are crossed out with painted red x marks, slashes on a page, deep as blood.

Gashes.

Streaks of anger.

He swallows. Bile rises in his throat.

He should leave the book. He knows he should. But he tucks it away in his backpack. Tucks it away to let it sit there for a rainy day as he clambers up to his feet, rushing back down the stairs from where he came, neatly stumbling on the bottom step in his haste.

The front door beckons him forth. Glass panel gleaming in the moonlight, casting a glow along the far wall. Against the fall wall is a clock, a gorgeous grandfather clock that seems to call his name.

Whispers to him.

Sings to him.

Urges him onward.

He obeys the call, carried over by what feels like a tether, an invisible string.

There’s a ringing in his ears.

A probing at the base of his skull.

“Touch it…”

His fingers prickle in anticipation. Hover over the face, worn by years and broken now.

Silenced by time.

He hears a voice again.

A phantom in his ear. A caress against his spine.

A push.

His toes brush the edge of the clock, fingers inching closer.

Tugs the sleeve of his hoodie up around his hand and wipes the back of it across the face of the clock. Exposes the numbers and arms within.

“What the…” His voice echoes in the home, drowned out by the beat of his heart, when the arms start to move.

Slow, swirling circles.

Arms that twirl around and around. Around and around and they don’t stop.

He hears it then.

The slow tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

A clanging chime, a reverberating gong.

Loud.

It’s so damn loud.

He staggers backwards, the floor shaking beneath him.

Rattling, tearing, ripping.

Red illuminates a crack that inches before the clock, the earth pulling at the seams.

Opening.

“What th—”

It’s a cry. Cut off and broken as a vine whips up and curls around his ankle.

Tugs him.

Drags him.

He falls onto his stomach. Screams and claws at the ground. At the rug that betrays him, body sliding closer and closer to the rip.

He screams for someone who never hears. Screams until the walls rattle, hands clutching for purchase on anything, nails skidding on wood.

Begs for mercy. For death. For a savior. For the reaper.

He screams until his throat rubs raw, until he’s pleading.

Anything.

A sacrifice.

A deal with God.

Or the devil.

“I’ll do anything!”

And then, out of the ground, out of the opening to hell itself, a single word in a voice that sounds nothing of this world.

The vine around his ankle slackens.

“Andy…”

——

Two weeks into camp, and everything is running smoothly. You’ve had no major issues, only minor squabbles sorted in your office between campers, and your counselors have been on their best behavior. Sure, there’s the occasional slip up here and there, but that’s to be expected.

It’s on that second week you find yourself helping put chairs out around a campfire, a projection screen stretched wide across the lawn. All around you kids buzz with anticipation, eagerly looking on to catch a glimpse of what you’ll be playing. For the children it’s “Never Ending Story,” and for the counselors off duty for the night (being you, Chrissy, Steve, Eddie, Jason and Andy) you’ve decided on your own movie night within the gymnasium once you finish setting up for the counselors who are working that evening as a compromise.

By popular demand it’s “Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter,” and though you hate the idea of playing a movie such as that while quite literally at a sleep away camp, there’s no arguing the decision once it’s made.

“It’ll be fun,” your coworkers remind you when they let you know what they’ve decided on; however, you find it anything but.

“Relax, baby,” Eddie coos, fingers curling around the widest part of your hips, tugging you close. The chair he’s holding drops with a clatter onto the forest floor, dark eyes boring into your own. “It’s a movie. It’ll be okay, I promise. And if you get really scared…well, you can always hold my hand.”

“Gonna be my knight in shining armor, huh?” you ask jovially, taking a step closer to him. “Chase away Jason for me?”

“I would run so far away from Jason with you,” he says, and you snort. “I’m not fucking with him. Are you kidding? We’re camp counselors, which makes us Jason’s prey. Our best bet is mad dashing through the woods holding hands.”

“I feel like that’s what you’re not meant to do in these movies. Look at Halloween.”

At your pout, he continues, “The kids are going to have so much fun. It’s a night off for us. You’ve been working so hard and you deserve to relax a little bit. Want me to go grab you a bowl of M&Ms later? I’ll even take out the ones you don’t like.”

“You mean eat the ones I don’t like,” you tease, fingers sliding down his forearm, along his Wayne tattoo, newly added on the inside of his left bicep, and toy with the threads of the bracelet you made him tied around his left wrist.

“It’s what any good boyfriend would do. Or at least I think. Haven’t really had much experience with it.”

“You’re doing great,” you reassure him, looping the thread of his bracelet around your index finger. “You kept it.”

“‘Course I did. A pretty girl made it for me. Gonna keep that forever.” His arms loop lower around your waist, edging along the lowest part of your spine, verging on slightly inappropriate with the kids coming down at any moment, but you don’t shove him away this time.

Your breath mingles for a moment, lips inches apart, before Steve’s breaking you apart, uttering you’re on a time crunch and shouldn’t be canoodling. You don’t argue. In fact, the remainder of the setup moves swiftly. Bodies weave in and out of one another, prepping chairs and tables for snacks, as well as sticks for the campfire s’mores. As a tradition, movie nights are also party nights. Nights where the kids can have all the sugary treats they wish, and will never have to tell a soul about it.

It’s not long before rows of chairs are set and readily available for campers and the multiple tables are full of various snacks, treats and offerings. Groups of children trickle out from their respective cabins all dressed in their comfiest clothes, some donning slippers, others with blankets tucked within their arms. Each gathers their movie snacks before choosing a seat. You, on the other hand, stand faraway in the back, watching as the kids treat each other with candor and kindness, offering open spaces to their fellow campers, eager anticipation for the movie buzzing in their sugar enhanced systems.

“It’s a shame,” Andy says from behind you. Jolting on the spot, you whirl around, hand over your heart because you hadn’t seen him there.

It’s a shame.

Your mind hitches at his words, at the peculiarity of them given the tone of the evening, head shifting enough to eye him precariously through your lashes. “What is?”

He pauses. Stares off into space for a moment. Eyes on nothing in particular as Eddie works on setting up the projector with Steve, handing out hugs like they’re candies when little ones run up to thump against their thighs. A chuckle spills from him, head shaking.

There’s a choke of breath at your side. The frantic brush of his fingers along a bicep, sweat slicking his brow. “I, ah, I’m not feeling well. Do you think I can just head to my cabin?”

You stiffen, head nodding. “Yeah, sure. Do you need to get checked out by Nurse Mooney?”

“N-no,” he says, chest rising and falling rapidly. “I—I’ll be fine.”

Without another word, he’s rushing off toward the cabins, rubbing at the back of his neck with his head down.

“What was that about?” Chrissy asks, appearing at your side in a pair of her camp shorts and a hoodie. She’s put french braids in her hair today, eyes bright in the moonlight. Even dressed down like this, she’s impossibly charming.

“Has Andy been acting odd lately?” Your words are quiet. Slow.

“Like odder than usual?” She laughs, but the look on your face has her pause. Lips turning downward, she probes, “What’s wrong?”

“He just seemed on edge all of a sudden. I mean he’s an asshole, but he’s always confident. This felt…different. He seemed nervous. Uncertain or worried about something.”

“I mean…maybe he has been? Yesterday Jason said while they were on lifeguard duty Andy just sort of stared off into space. Like he was there…but not.”

“That’s how he’d just been with me.”

Frozen in space and time, looking out into nothingness, and then snapping into reality. What had he been looking at?

“He’s probably just in his head about something. Or trying to sneak off with Tina again,” she says, scrunching her nose and looping her arm through yours. She hugs it tight to her body and you melt a little into her embrace. She gives a little wiggle, pulling you from your silent reverie. “Wanna go watch the movie now? Looks like the guys just finished setting up, so we can start heading to the gym. I’ll probably watch it through my fingers, though. I hate slashers.”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, still watching the space between the tree line where Andy had walked through. Can still picture the sweat on his brow, the furrow of them, the downturn of his lips that you’ve always been convinced are permanently set into a sneer. “Sure. Me too.”

——

“So everything is going well?”

“Amazingly, really,” you reassure him, glancing out of the office, capturing Chrissy’s gaze as she and Steve teach the kids proper form on archery. There’s a line of them, arms stretched back, arrows poised at the ready, waiting for Steve’s whistle to blare out. “Kids are great. Counselors are fine. No one has been seriously injured. Nothing has been destroyed—well, minus the one basketball that popped. But other than that, nothing to report here.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” you laugh airily, twining the phone cord around your fingertip. “I promise, dad. You just focus on getting better. How are you feeling?”

“Good,” he says gruffly, shifting where he must be laying on the couch, maybe the bed. “Femur is healing just fine, doc says.”

“I’m glad.” Your exhale is one of relief, shoulders slouching comfortably.

“How’s my boy?”

His boy.

Eddie.

You’d been worried when you first started dating. Especially after the weed mishap during one of those first few times you and Eddie had spent time together. But he’d always loved the guy, especially knowing Wayne for so long, and accepted him into the fold right away. It had been oddly seamless, and ever since he'd taken up calling Eddie ‘his boy.’ Your heart always burns with it, even now, knowing Eddie’s in the music cabin, likely strumming away on a guitar or teaching someone how to play an instrument. Knowing that Eddie’s loved by Wayne, but also by your own family. Fiercely, in a way that sometimes scares you, even.

“He’s good,” you say softly, back pressing against the wall. “He’s really good.”

“I’m glad, honey. Never seen you light up like you do with that boy. He better be treating you right.”

“Always.”

And it’s not a lie. Eddie’s been perfect in the past year. Ever respectful, kind, caring and affectionate. No squabbles, not even a minor tiff. Sometimes you question if that’s normal—if two people can get along so well there’s no reason for them to argue. Friends have commented it’s coming, to just wait. But you’ve yet to see it. You’ve seen him get angry, sure, but never directed at you.

There’s a pause and a swallow on the other end, the smacking of lips after taking a gulp of whatever drink he’s likely got next to him. “Good. Good. I really miss you, hon. Just hope you know.”

“I miss you, too, dad.” There’s a crack at the end of your words, a choke around a muffled sob. Your nose wrinkles, eyes burning with unshed tears. “This was always our thing.”

“I’m not checking out just yet, baby girl. Just a surgery, and just this summer, you hear me?” At your watery laugh, he continues, “You’ll be home before you know it. Bet you grew another inch taller while you’ve been gone.”

“Dad,” you bemoan, rolling your eyes, dragging your forearm across moist lashes. “Two more weeks, and then you’ll see me every day for the rest of the summer. Bet you’ll even get sick of me.”

There’s an incredulous splutter at that. A guffaw that follows, your lips twitching upward. “Never, baby girl. Always and forever, right?”

Always and forever.

It’s what you have said ever since you were a little girl and mom had left. Ever since he sat you down on that couch in your old living room, spoke to you softly and gently—like one would speak to a baby doe—and explained all the reasons why it wasn’t your fault. All the reasons it would never be your fault. Ever since it had just been the two of you and dad had to learn how to be both roles in your life without any sort of warning. Ever since he tried his hardest, worked extra hours, and still managed to attend every school or extracurricular function you partook in, while also driving you around to friend’s houses, making sure you were fed and always had everything you’d ever need. Ever since you decided for the rest of your life, it was the two of you against the world.

You’d never been left wanting for anything.

Never gone without anything.

Your best friend. Confidant. The first love of your life.

Eddie might be the second; in fact, he is the second.

But before that, it’s always been you and dad.

Always and forever.

Something no outside source, no distance, no circumstance could ever take away. You’d do anything for him. Make mountains move, try and part the sea, uproot heaven and hell. So you grin. And you press a hand to your heart, smiling to yourself. A secret thing, meant for him and you. Stolen away from the world. Precious.

“Always and forever,” you promise.

——

Music blares from a shoddy speaker in the dimly lit cabin, illuminated by the sun rising through the trees, leaves swaying and shifting in the gentle breeze outside the softly parted window. The same crappy, hand-me-down, camp issued one that Andy needs to thump with the side of his fist every so often to keep the music playing.

Most of the campers and counselors have already made their way to the mess hall for breakfast. He’s stayed behind, finishing up a morning run and not quite hungry at all. He hasn’t been in a couple days—figures it’s the giant dinner he had the night before. The cafeteria staff had made their signature baked macaroni and cheese.

No one stops at just one bowl of that.

He’s warm. Unbearably so. And it feels harsher than the weather outside. This tangible heat that crawls beneath his skin, skitters along like thousands of tiny spiders on his flesh—in his flesh. Fingers reach up to scratch at nothing; gouge scratches into tanned skin, darkened from hours spent sitting on the dock, watching children in the lake day in and day out.

Ice water does the trick. If only for a moment. He gulps down his first cup and pours another, leaving the refrigerator and freezer door open, despite the fact he can hear the camp princess shouting at him from across the way if she knew what he was doing now with her father’s precious electric bill.

Someone needs to show her a damn lesson, he thinks.

“We can…”

The voice startles him. He whirls on the balls of his feet, neck straining toward the open closet, wondering where the voice came from. He calls out into nothingness and is greeted with silence. Long, lingering, languishing silence.

The glass thuds into the bottom of the kitchenette sink. Shatters against the strainer at the bottom. Andy reaches forward to grasp the shards, wincing as blood pools along the inside of his thumb and index finger, gliding down the inside of his wrist. Trembling, he makes his way to the bathroom, catching the sight of himself in the mirror.

Dark circles sink into his under eyes. Purple lines that tell a tale of a man who hasn’t slept in days. He cringes at the sight, nearly throws his fist into the glass to eradicate the image of his own self, and flips the knob on the sink. His blood spills down the drain, a fresh bandage put into place as he sits down on the toilet seat.

Hot.

He’s still so damn hot. Scalding. Burning. Reeling from it. Eyes dart to the bathroom shower, to the tub there. A thought surfaces, swift and unprovoked. Unprompted, and yet it feels right. The water runs, knob pushed as far as it can go into the cold setting. As it fills the tub, he walks back into the kitchenette and pulls the few ice trays from the freezer. They fall one by one into the tub, dipping below the surface momentarily, and then bobbing at the top. Tiny little blessings that chill his skin upon reaching in to touch—ease the brewing ache in his bones.

In silence, he strips out of his clothes. Catches on the streaks of black along the inside of his elbows, the curves of his skin. Like ink or spider webs injected into his veins, staining them. He touches them in the mirror, chest rising and falling rapidly, tracing the lines. He can feel them pulse beneath, blood pumping through the darkness; part of him wonders if it’ll only spread this—if it’ll only progress whatever is spilling throughout his system.

Nurse Mooney will know, he rationalizes, kicking his green shorts off into the corner of the bathroom. He bobs his head for a moment in front of the mirror, brushing his teeth and humming along to the song, trying to distract.

To deflect.

To pretend.

The brush clatters into the cup holder, plastic skittering across the counter in his over exertion. He tosses his baseball hat onto the toilet seat, cards his fingers through his hair, strands falling in disarray about his head. Sinks down into the ice bath, expecting the familiar burn to settle in like the many times his coaches would have him do after a particularly grueling basketball game. Only this time it’s different; this time it feels like an inferno hitting water, creating steam. An instantaneous relief washes over him, eyes shutting against the yellowy lights flickering in the ceiling above.

“Andy…”

Ice. Cold dread slides down his spine, curls around him, steals his breath. Arms press along the sides of the tub, fingers clutching the edges, knuckles straining white. He calls for Chance to no avail. Only silence greets him—silence and the taunting of the radio in the next room.

“I will have you, yes I will have you. I will find a way, and I will have you...”

“Hello?” He cries, clutching the shower curtain, sliding it closed. As if that’ll do anything. As if it’ll protect him. His head drops against bent knees, hands on his ears. “Anyone?”

“Like a butterfly, a wild butterfly...”

“This isn’t fucking funny anymore!”

His voice cracks. Strains. Swallows around the edges of the sob crawling up his throat. He rocks. Back and forth, back and forth, fingers digging into his ears. The chatter of his teeth is harsh enough he feels like it knocks his brain around within his skull. Eighteen. He’s fucking eighteen and he whimpers, a broken thing, a plea for his mom. The utterance of her name through his shuddering lips. Thin and tight, echoing in the four walls of the bathroom, falling on deaf ears.

It’s a prank.

Some dumb prank one of the kids or the other counselors are playing on him.

It has to be.

Has to be.

“I will collect you and capture you...”

“I’m going to kick the living shit out of you!” Andy screams.

The radio grows silent.

His heart pounds in his chest.

Sweat prickles on his forehead, drips down the side of his face.

Every inch of his body, the dark swirls on the inside of his elbows, his wrists…they seem to pulse. To elongate beneath his skin, little tendrils that ebb and flow, reaching for something.

Reaching, reaching, reaching.

And then.

Like spiders crawling across his skin, a chill spreads along the back of his neck. The eerie, grating voice of that thing he heard only once before in the Creel house whispers, “Andy…”

——

If you made it all the way here, please let me know if you enjoyed. Thank you so, so much. Love, Luna 💌

#lunaloveseddie #Eddie munson x reader #Eddie munson x you #eddie munson x afab!reader #Eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson au

442 notes · View notes