#he’s still got the answering machine tape

[the-maladjustedjester]

Something something working through trauma through Richard Maxwell tinted autism

[sardonic-the-writer]

𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬

↳ warnings: none

↳ song: hells greatest dad—various artists

↳ notes: this turned out way longer than expected. reblogs are appreciated

masterlist | commissions | carrd

• What you did with your spare time outside the hotel had never been a problem

• Everyone blew off steam in different ways. Husk gambled is days away at dinghy bars, Vaggie practiced sparing, and Sir Pentious dreamed up designs for his retired war machines. The important thing was that everyone knew better than to ask the other about it

• So your friendship with Lucifer never come up. At least, not until Charlie decided to invite her dad over one day

• You were well aware of the strange relationship you had with the king of hell. He was all powerful ,and technically your ruler, sure, but it was hard to view him that way after you caught him babying a small army of rubber ducks

• It had been such a long time since you’d first met him, honestly you were still surprised you’d remembered it

• Back when you still worked as a part time package deliverer for the UPS equivalent of hell, you’d been tasked with handing off a rather heavy, and rather odd shaped box. The label didn’t give an address, rather a small drawing of an apple with a snake curled around it

• It took you a while, and way too many u-turns, to arrive at a pair of tall metal gates

• An uncertain push of a button had been delivered to a nearby buzzer, and you briefly wondered if you had been sent on a dead end errand. Your boss liked to do that; said it kept his employees on their toes. You just thought that he enjoyed seeing the pissed off looks of returnees

• Nothing longer than a minute passed before you were answered with an overjoyed voice, sounding rushed and getting father away from the mic as he proclaimed ‘I’ll be right down Terrance!!’

• It was only when Lucifer himself had opened the gates to allow you in, that his face fell from an excited grin into one of confusion

• “Oh. You’re not my normal guy.” He frowned, looking up at you slightly. “Are you sure you have my package.”

• You simply showed him the address label’s drawing, and he nodded

• “Yeah that’s it alright.” A little bit of the enthusiasm he had shown at the sight of his delivery reappeared before you. It didn’t take long after that before he remembered that you were both still standing outside the towering stature of his house, and quickly invited you inside so you could help him move the package where he wanted it

• “So! Is Terrance sick or something? I could have sworn it was just yesterday that he was where you are now.  Or a few days. Maybe a few weeks. Alright it’s been a while, but can you blame me. Do you know who I’m talking about? Long horns, red splotches, and a weird amount of hands. He always had the funniest jokes to tell though— “

• The first impression of him you got was weird. For the ruler of hell at least. But as time went on, and you kept delivering packages to his house with each passing month, he just struck you as lonely. His house, while big, was always empty. You would go as far as to say that you were the only steady interaction he had. Even if you were technically required to visit him

• Eventually, you quit your job. It had been a long time coming, and you were looking forward to a different take on life away from packing peanuts and scotch tape. Yet, for some reason, you didn’t stop showing up at Lucifers place. And he didn’t stop letting you in

• “You know—“ The devil approached you one hot afternoon in his work room. It was actually quite cold outside, but the fire breathing duck in his hands had heated up the room something fierce upon demonstration. “If you ever need someplace to stay, my daughter has a passion project that she wont stop talking about. It’s pretty sparse in souls, and I’m sure she’d let you stay there as long as you went along with her plan that she has!”

• You tilted your head with a small hum that day, choosing not to mention the far away look in Lucifers eyes as he talked about his daughter

• “Sounds better than where I’m currently living.” You shrugged, handing him a spare bolt off of the floor when it rolled off his work desk. “Where is the place?”

• So you’d shown up on the Hazbin Hotel’s doorstep, then still known as the Happy Hotel, with a bag or two in had and asking for a room

• You hadn’t told Charlie that Lucifer had mentioned it to you. You didn’t want her to feel like you were only there because he dad had named dropped it, but you guessed that she had her suspicions. You didn’t seem very taken with her title as princess of hell after all

• You were there nearly as long as Angel Dust; the likes of which showed up in the room next to yours a week after the move

• That means you were present for the embarrassing news interview, and in turn, the introduction of Alastor as a new patron

• He had been annoyed by you at first. Unlike Charlie’s slight nervousness at his appearance, or Vaggie’s outright aggression, you practically ignored his spectacular entrance, save for a few quick comments

• That had bugged Alastor. You’d hardly reacted when he’d shown just a sliver of his powers. Your lackluster once over as he pulled the darling Nifty from a fireplace had given him nothing to go on. Nothing!

• “Now what’s your role here, my friend!” The Radio Demon practically sang to you on that same afternoon. He waltzed over to your position in a corner, and his smile thinned slightly as you barely spared a glance at him. You found yourself much more enthralled with the sight of Husk fending off Angel’s advances over at the bar

• “I’m a tenant.” You mumbled, looking right through him. You didn’t miss the way his eyes narrowed down at you in an unreadable emotion that day

• He took to annoying you for the remainder of his stay following his debut. With every day, he increased his pestering, and you continued to remain the same

• Neither of you made a breakthrough with the other for quite a while. Months passed, and he found you looking as disinterested as ever with his display of powers. At this point he was sure you were purposely giving him nothing just to see his smile crack at the edges. And he was getting frustrated, for a lack of better words

• It wasn’t until you’d wandered into his recording studio by mistake that something changed

• Alastor felt a disturbance in the air the moment you stepped foot in his little alcove. Territorial demons such as himself could always tell when somebody was trespassing on their land, especially when having as much power as he did, and you were no exception to this rule

• He materialized behind you almost instantly. His limbs were already beginning to crack and stretch in size, a glowing smile casting wild shadows all throughout the room as he searched for what was sure to be your cowering form as you dropped whatever item you were attempting to steal

• Instead, he found you kneeling to the side of his polished desk, blinking up at him as your hands sat frozen in the motion of flipping through a record basket. His record basket

• “And what, pray tell—” Alastor’s distorted voice sounded like an screeching echo. He wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of the hotel could hear it from downstairs “—are you doing here my dear?”

• You didn’t say anything for a moment. He watched as your eyes flickered to this symbols floating around him, then back down to his face

• “I was looking for some good music. Sorry to intrude” You eventually pull out of your weird staring match with him. Dusting the seat of your pants off, you rise to walk past him and towards the door

• Alastor’s mouth opens to say something, but stops when you pause in the doorframe

• “Nice antlers by the way.” You shrug. He doesn’t have to look up to know your talking about the honey structures protruding from his forehead. They really only come out when he starts to take on his true demonic form, and never before has he had someone compliment them

• Before he can get a better read on you, you’re gone

• Turns out, you weren’t exactly unimpressed with him. Just wary in your own way. It was a slight hit to the overlords ego that he hadn’t been able to pick up on that so quick, but he’d never admit it. Instead he took to your new attitude with rigorous mischief 

• Music and murder had been the thing to bridge the gap between the two of you. When Alastor discovered you were particularly fascinated by his time period, he laughed heartily

• “Why my dear, you should have told me you had such good taste!” He wrapped a tight arm around your shoulders. “What is it you wish to know about the darling 1920’s?”

• “Did you really feed your victims to alligators?”

• “Hah! That’s for me to know, and you to find out,” He said while flicking your nose. You just hummed with a scrunch of your eyebrows and wriggled out of his grip. Alastor laughed at that

• You wouldn’t classify the two of you as friends necessarily, but Husk did mention one day that the fact he didn’t kill you that day in his recording studio stood for something

• “He’s murdered demons for less.” The grumpy cat told you. You chose not to respond

• Everything came to a head the day Lucifer showed up at the request of his daughter

• He didn’t notice you right away, instead doing a little dance with Razzle and Dazzle as the rest of the hotel watched on confused. Angel tossed you a look and you just shrugged

• Lucifer eventually spotted you standing by the scrappy welcome table. With the same exuberance that you'd seen time and time again before, he hugged you almost immediately

• “Good to see you again too, Luce. Heard you were coming over.” You exhaled after he set you down. You chose to ignore Alastor as he stepped out of his shadows and stood behind you ominously. You could almost feel his gaze burning a hole in the back of your head

• “Ah so this is his majesty! You’re a bit shorter than I expected.” Alastor’s voice was a bit more grating than you recalled. His grip on his cane tightened as you raised your eyebrow at him

• “Uh, excuse me. Exactly who are you? Lucifer gave the overlord a once over, looking very bored as he did so

• An eye twitch

• “Why the Radio Demon of course! Manager to this very fine establishment, and a—!” 

• “Nope. Never heard of you. Sorry.” Lucifer cut Alastor off and smiled tensely from next to you, not sounding sorry at all

• It became apparent very quickly that the two of them didn’t mix. If a competitive musical number didn’t convince you of that, the way the both of them wouldn’t let go of your arms sure did. By the end point of Lucifer’s visit, you were sure a bruise or two had formed on your forearms

• “You know you should really come visit me more!” Lucifer adjusted his hat as he spoke, sending you a sharp toothed smile as he prepared to step out the door. “I’m sure you get tired of this hotel sometimes. Or at least the people—“

• “I’m sure you’ll find they are perfectly happy with their arrangement!” Alastor didn’t let Lucifer finish his thought. His shadows were getting restless at this point, stretching in the three of yours direction as if attempting to push Lucifer out. At this point Charlie and Vaggie had stopped paying attention to the weird power play between the two of them, instead talking about their upcoming trip to heaven together, so you were all alone. Save for two of your friends that were acting really weird

• "You know maybe the two of you shouldn't hang out."

• "Agreed."

[jenosbigtoe]

NEED NEED NEED another one shot with jeno and dumb sluts 🥹🥹

mdni. nsfw 18+ (read part 1)

pairing: lee jeno x reader x na jaemin

warnings: everyone here is still a freak, recording of sexual activities, so much sex, nomin are kinda sleazy and reader is kinda slutty so match made in heaven

jeno has your contact name saved as “slut❤️” and jaemin has it under “SLUT🙇‍♂️”, without even knowing what the other already put. when they saw what the other had your contact saved as, they gave each other a high five.

jeno and jaemin are so competitive and possessive over you. jeno is the only one allowed to call you his baby, and if jaemin calls you baby it turns into (another) big argument. and jaemin is the only one allowed to call you princess, or else it will, again, lead to another argument. however, they have an unspoken agreement to both call you babygirl because you’re their babygirl duh.

they make it competition to see who can make plans with you first before the other one can.

jeno: baby come over tonight.

you: sry jen

you: jaem invited me over first

jeno was punching the air after that.

or jaemin would snap you a pic of his veiny hands grabbing his very obviously hard dick through his sweatpants with the captioned “thinking about you princess. come over”

you snapped back a picture of a fake pout saying “i’m at jen’s rn”. jaemin could see a shirtless jeno hugging your back behind you in that pic, causing him to see red.

they try to one up each other on absolutely everything. asking you questions like “okay who do you see more though?” and “who gives the best head?” and “whose dick game is stronger?” you never give them an answer, obviously, because you think it’s fun when they try to go even harder than the other to beat each other in this made up competition.

whenever you hook up with either of them, they will snap pics and take videos to gloat to the other. like jaemin will send jeno a pic of your naked bodies tangled up together after a good fucking captioned “😁” or jeno will send jaemin an uncaptioned video of you deepthroating his cock.

when jeno and jaemin hang out one on one, their new favorite thing to do together (besides you duh) is compare the suggestive snaps you send them or the sex tapes you made with each of them.

“jaemin, look at this lingeries pic i got last night ooh aren’t you so jealous?”

“jeno, hate to break it to you dude but she literally sent you that pic right before i ripped that off her and fucked her stupid.”

then he’d show jeno the video he got of you letting him tittyfuck, his cock rubbing so deliciously between your plump tits as you licked and sucked on the tip.

“fuck you jaem, lemme show you the time she let me take her ass then.”

all this competitiveness works out in your favor of course. you know about everything they do, from sending pics and videos of your hookups to comparing them when they’re with each other. all you have to do is tell jeno “ugh jaemin had me in this position last night and i have never felt so good” before jeno will seriously have you twisted like a pretzel and fucked dumb with his cock until you’re a sobbing mindless mess. or you’ll tell jaemin “jeno hit so deep in me earlier i could feel him in my lungs” before jaemin will take you on the wall, the mattress, the counter, the washing machine, the bathtub, and MORE balls deep and slapping your clit every time.

to switch it up every so often, you’d invite both of them at the same time over to your place, conveniently neglecting to tell them that the other would also be coming over.

you’d be lying on your back, legs up in the air, as jaemin ate and fingered your drooling little cunt when jeno would walk in, tutting and snarling at the sight.

“well, looks like this greedy little slut did it again. invited us both over because she can’t go a day without getting stuffed by two cocks.” jeno rips his clothes off and crawls onto the bed, grabbing your face into his strong grip and pressing a crushing kiss on your lips.

jaemin wouldn’t even look up from eating your pussy like a starved man, he’d smirk into your cunt and continue licking and sucking on it.

they’d do a rock paper scissors to see who gets to fuck your pussy first (jaemin won this time).

“what a fucking slut, jeno,” jaemin would pant, rutting his hips fast and deep into yours as he took you on all fours.

you were too busy licking and sucking on jeno’s cock in the front. “yeah, our slut. only we get to see her like this. isn’t that right huh babygirl?” jeno stroked your cheek affectionately.

you loved being a slut for jeno and jaemin.

[thebearer]

would you be willing to write something along the lines of casual dominant Carmy taking care of his girl who’s injured, maybe working at the restaurant with him? like maybe he’s super pissed at the carelessness causing injuries but also super concerned and caring

(may or may not be inspired by me breaking my finger and having it taped up, chipping the bone in my ankle and hurting most of the toes of the same foot 😅)

i tweaked the plot just a bit but same scenario lol. hope you enjoy!

"Hands!" Carmen yelled, plating the finished bolognese for Tina to grab, nodding at the perfected response. It was busy today, far busier than he expected with the stormy, summer weather, but he couldn't complain. The team was moving like a well oiled machine, customers were happy, and even Richie was in a good, upbeat mood.

"Corner!" Sydney announced, turning the corner abruptly, hand on the store's phone. "Chef, I need you."

"What?" Carmen looked over, adding the finishing garnish to the dish before putting it on the serving station. "What's the matter?"

Sydney hesitated, turning to Tina. "Tina, can you cover please? Just for a second?"

"Yes, Chef." Tina nodded, moving to Carmen's station, and ripping another order out.

"What's goin' on? Is it the freezer again? Fuckin' Richie-"

Sydney shook her head, nodding towards Carmen's office. "It's for you." Nodding to the phone in her hand.

"For me?" Carmen's eyes bulged, heart skipping a beat. "Are they mad?" His voice dropped low, eyes cutting to her's.

"No, no, not like that." Sydney shook her head. "It's a personal call. Look, I-I'll go cover for you."

Then Carmen was left, standing alone in his office, cradling the phone with a blinking hold line. He recognized the number nearly immediately- your number. Why would you call him at work? On the store phone? Suddenly, he was taken back to New York, standing in the kitchen after the dinner rush, looking at Sugar's name flash over and over and over on his phone.

His stomach turned, hands shaking when he answered it. "H-Hello?"

"Hi, Carmy." Your voice sounded small, a little wobbly- like you'd been crying. He was sure he was gonna be sick now.

"Hey," Carmen breathed, trying to still the beating in his chest. "What-What's goin' on? You alright? I-I didn't have my phone on me, but-"

"I'm alright." You soothed. "Well, I mean, for the most part. I... I'm at the emergency room."

That was all Carmen needed to hear, snatching his things out of the top drawer and bounding around the corner towards the back, shouting at Sydney to handle it, and cursing furiously when the line went dead.

Carmen walked through the dreaded halls of the emergency room, under the sickening fluorescence until he found your room. You looked up at him, eyes still red rimmed with left over tears, your friend chatting next to you.

"Hey, you alright?" Carmen pushed through the door, clumsily bounding towards your bedside. He still had his apron on, drove here in his fucking clogs he could barely press the pedals on, mind racing too quickly to care.

"Yeah, 'm alright." You muttered, looking down at your bandaged arm. "I burned myself and it was pretty bad. Jordie got scared and wanted to make sure it was treated." You nodded towards your friend.

Carmen felt the lump in his throat, bobbing with every movement of his head. "Yeah, I, uh, I see that." He looked carefully at the gauze.

"I'm gonna go," Jordie said, looking over at you gently. "If you're good with that."

"Yeah, I'll be alright now. Thank you." You hugged her with your good arm, Carmen muttering a thank you as she left.

Carmen sat beside you, hand falling over your leg. "How'd you do that, baby? What happened?"

You sighed, frustrated, maybe a little embarrassed. "It's so stupid." You could feel the tears flooding your water line again, Carmen's hand soothing them with tiny rubs. "I was making brownies for me and Jordie so we could have, like, a chill little movie day. And-And I wasn't even thinking, we were just talking, and I grabbed the tray out of the oven without a mitt." Your lip wobbled.

Carmen's eyes softened, cooing at you lightly. "And-And I freaked and didn't want to drop the tray so I threw it in the water, and then I ran my hand under cold water, like you said to do, but it was blistering really bad already and-and I don't know it looked like it was bleeding, and we were both freaking out because it hurt so fucking bad, so she took me here."

"That was good." Carmen nodded, your watery gaze meeting his. "No, that-that was the right thing to do. Could get infected."

"It's gonna cost so much." You muttered, looking down at your feet. "I-I should've called you- I tried to, but you didn't answer and... I just got scared."

"Don't worry about it." Carmen shook his head, reaching out to wipe a stray tear with the pad of his thumb. "You got insurance, we'll figure it out, alright? Just... You did the right thing, baby."

You took a shaky breath, curling into his touch, cheek to the palm of his hand. "The doctor said it was third degree." You muttered.

Carmen sucked a breath in. "Ouch. That's gonna hurt tomorrow. They give you anything for it?"

You nodded. "It's at the pharmacy. Some cream and bandages and something for the pain."

"Good." Carmen nodded. "We'll stop on the way home, ok? You gotta make sure you keep it clean, alright? Be gentle with it. Take it easy, ok? Can't get it infected."

You rolled your eyes lightly, rubbing your eyes with your free hand. "I will." You nodded.

"I know you will. I'll make sure you do, alright? I'll help you, baby." Carmen cooed, taking your wrist gently in his hand, pressing a soft kiss to the bottom of the bandage.

"I didn't mean for you to leave, Carmy." You sighed, blinking at him gently. "You didn't have to leave for me-"

"-Yeah, I did." Carmen said, a finality in his tone that left no room for argument. "Don't say that to me. You know I'm gonna come check on you. You're hurt."

"And it's dinner." You countered. "I was just letting you know."

"And I'm glad you did." Carmen said sincerely. "But I wanted to come. Syd's got it. I called Sugar on the way here, and she's gonna help Richie out front, and I'm gonna take you home. Make sure you're all good."

Carmen took extra caution, listening to the doctor's orders before your discharge- as if he didn't know most of the protocol. He was meticulous about your schedule for the next few days, texting you when to take your medicine, clean your gauze, not hold your phone in your injured hand. Everything he could to make sure you felt better, even making those brownies for you- from scratch, this time, which beat your Betty Crocker box ones.

[manyaccidents]

"All done cutie, you can go back to coloring now" said Alyssa as she finished doing the last tape on my fresh diaper.

"But it's no fair!" I whined, all too aware of how childish I sounded. Trying my best to come across more mature, and wanting to be taken seriously, I continued in a slight huff "I don't even need a babysitter. I'm a big girl and I can take care of myself". The situation I found myself in painted the opposite picture, but I was still trying desperately to hold onto the few last crumbs of dignity I had left, and even those were quickly slipping out of my grasp.

"Oh you're a big girl?" Alyssa said with a hint of a smile. "I'm so sorry sweetheart, I didn't realize. Tell you what, why don't you explain to me why you're a big girl who can take care of herself. If you are able to convince me, I'll convince your Daddy for you!"

Excitement bubbled up within me. Finally! A chance to get out of this! But almost as soon as the feeling came, it was replaced by one of unconfident apprehension. "What am I even supposed to say now?" I thought to myself, starting to panic. I had to say something, Alyssa was waiting. I couldn't waste this opportunity.

"um.." I started "well you see, um...".

I was totally blanking. I swear I had good reasons, but now that they were actually being put to the test they sounded substantially more flimsy and not thought through.

"It's alright darling, take a deep breath and begin from the top" Alyssa instructed comfortingly. This was not starting off well.. I took a shaky breath. The stakes were too high, I couldn't mess this up.

"um.. so well.. first I can.." - why was it so hard to think of something?? I stood there desperately trying to think of at least one thing I could say, aware that every second that passed was making my reward less likely. My heart was pounding and my thoughts racing. Without giving it any thought, desperate to at least say something, I blurted out the first thing that popped into my mind.

"I can eat meals by myself!"

A look of slight incredulity could be seen on Alyssa's face but she stayed quiet, waiting for me to continue.

"Um.. and I can... help with laundry! And cleaning up my room! And... I can even use the microwave and toaster by myself! I've been practicing! And... I can take care of my pets!" I finished in a rush.

Alyssa nodded her head slowly. "That's quite a list you've got there cupcake, but I just want to ask you a few questions about it okay? I just want to make sure I understand"

I swallowed hard, feeling a mixture of fear and hope in my stomach. "Okay..." I managed to squeak out.

"Great!" Alyssa smiled warmly. "Now, let's see. First off, can you tell me which meals can you eat by yourself? The ones that are already cut up in bite sized pieces?"

Her question caught me off guard, and I felt a twinge of panic. I knew I had to be careful not to say anything that would give away too much. "Um, well, s-sometimes it's c-cut up..." I stammered, trying to think of an answer that wouldn't make me sound too incompetent. "I mean, I can eat some meals by myself, like macaroni and cheese or chicken nuggets.."

Alyssa smiled at me "Thank you sweetie I think I understand now. Alright, next question; Have you ever done the laundry by yourself?"

I took a deep breath before answering. "Well, I helped Daddy put clothes in the washing machine and dryer a few times, and last time I did it all by myself!" Raising her eyebrows, Alyssa replied

"Your Daddy told me about that.. He said there were soap suds everywhere and that a certain someone used a little too much soap" I looked away, not wanting her to see how pink my face was getting. She chuckled, continuing "Well, I'm sure your Daddy was very proud of you for trying at least. Now, let's talk about cleaning your room. Do you clean it every day or just when you're told?"

I shifted uncomfortably. "Um, well... "I try to keep it clean, bu-" Alyssa nodded, seeming to accept this as my answer. "And what about taking care of your pets?"

Finally confident in one of my answers I proudly state

"I pet them and I play with them all the time!! And they go outside and I watch them to make sure they are ok!"

"It sounds like you love them very much, but do you feed them, clean their litter box, and give them fresh food and water every day?" Alyssa inquired, already knowing the answer.

I felt a pang of guilt. "Well... um... I usually just play with them... but I thought that was taking care of them isn't it..?"

Alyssa smiled sweetly "So those are the reasons you think you're a big girl? You think you'd be okay by yourself for a few hours?"

I nodded shyly, looking at my feet.

"Well, I'm not quite convinced sweetie. Can you use the stove by yourself? Or the oven? Alyssa asked, her tone gentle but firm. "And what about changing your diapers? We wouldn't want someone's wet diapee to give them a rash right?" I felt my face flush even more. "I... um... I don't really know how to d-do those things..." I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

Alyssa nodded, her expression sympathetic. "I know, and it's okay honey, I understand. You're still just a little girl, and there's a lot you don't know how to do yet. But that's why you have a babysitter here to help you when Daddy's not around, okay?"

I wanted to argue, but though I didn't want to admit it to myself, her words rang true. I looked down at my lap, the infantile garment stark proof of Alyssa's assessment.

Alyssa, noticing my silence, gently took my hand in hers. "I know it's hard to accept, sweetheart, but you're still just a little girl, and that's okay! Don't be in such a rush to grow up, being an adult is so boring... I know! Why don't I make us some popcorn and put on your favorite movie until your Daddy comes home, how does that sound?" Alyssa suggested animatedly, already knowing how easily my attention is diverted.

"Tangled?!" I squealed excitedly, forgetting everything temporarily. "Yeah, that sounds like fun!" I beamed up at Alyssa and ran to the living room to get ready, forgetting my skirt in my excitement.

Alyssa shook her head, smiling. "A big girl indeed.."

[momotonescreaming]

STWG Daily Prompt: missing an important phone call

“Tommy!” his mom calls, shouting from downstairs. He can hear her, muffled through his closed door but he can still hear her all the same.

“What?” he calls back, tilting his head towards the door, but not making any motions to move. He’s wearing sweatpants, reading a sports mag, and pretending his family doesn’t exist. Pretending his homework doesn’t exist. He’s fucking chilling.

His mom doesn’t respond. Because of fucking course she doesn’t. If he could hear her, she could absolutely hear him but whatever. She’s the one with selective hearing in this family, no matter what she says about teenage boys and him hearing only what he wants to hear. Whatever. Groaning, he throws his magazine down, heaves himself off of his bed, and leaves his room.

Throws the door open, and shouts down the hall, hoping the sound echoes down the stairs. “What?”

“Get down here!” She hollers back, Tommy stomping down the stairs with a roll of his eyes. He’s barely been home and she’s already nagging him. Dinner’s not ready, is nowhere near it in fact — dad isn’t even home. So what the hell does she want from him?

“Fine,” Tommy grumbles, letting his annoyance radiate off of him. He finds his mom in the kitchen, glass of wine in her hands, pointing at the phone. He raises his eyebrows at her, widening his eyes as if to say I’m here now, what do you want? Because there’s no way she’d let him get away with saying that out loud.

"Message for you,” she says, waving her hands in the general direction of the answering machine, before leaving the kitchen.

“Who the hell’s ringing me?” He asks, speaking aimlessly at her retreating back. She doesn’t answer. Whatever, it’s fine. Probably just Carol, ringing as soon as she got home or something. It’s not like he has anyone else calling him on the regular. He turns the volume nob, rewinds the tape, and presses play.

Tommy sighs as he listens to the clunk of the machine, the gentle whirring of the tape. And then the message starts.

“Hey Tommy, It’s Steve, um, but you probably knew that.” The message starts, and Tommy freezes. Feels himself halting in place, right there in the middle of the kitchen. They hadn’t spoken in months. Not since all that shit with the Wheeler chick last year. When she ruined everything. He forces himself to inhale, to breathe again, and listens to the rest of Steve’s message. “I’m just uh, ringing from the hospital. It’s not bad, I’m mostly under observation.”

Fucking hell. How the hell did Tommy miss this? They didn’t speak at school, not unless Tommy was teasing him. Poking and prodding and aiming for a reaction. To see a hint of the old Steve. His Steve. But Tommy had eyes. He was watching Steve. They were best friends since they were fucking kids, he couldn’t just drop that. Not like Steve dropped him and Carol.

“I probably shouldn’t be calling.” Steve continues, his voice wavering but clear. Almost anxious. Tommy’s breath hitches in his chest again. They used to call all the time, were constantly hanging out, and now Steve shouldn’t be calling him. It’s fine. Tommy’s fine. “I’m uh, in the hall right now, and the nurses don’t want me out of bed. But I wanted to… I just… I missed…”

Steve’s voice trails off. Gets softer, just breathes into the phone. If Tommy listens carefully, he swears he can hear Steve’s voice hitch. In that achingly familiar way when he tries to hold his emotions back. Tommy knows that sound. Steve clears his throat.

“I needed to call you, I think.” Steve continues, and Tommy ignores the way his hands starts shaking. Clenches them into fists, and shoves his hands into his pockets. The only one home is his mom, but he can’t let her see him like this. Fuck, did she listen to the message? She’ll ask him questions, Tommy knows she will and he’s really not ready to hear them. “My parents don’t get home ‘til next week, and my brain feels like mud, and I just, um, yeah. Missed you.”

The beep of the answering machine cuts off any goodbye Steve would have had.

Tommy inhales, lets the air cool his lungs, steady his heart. Scrubs a hand across his nose and turns away from the answering machine. Wipes his hands across his stinging eyes. He’s still shaking, he absently realises, as he lets Steve’s words wash over him. He’s in the hospital, is fucking stuck there alone while his parents travel all over the fucking show and he missed Tommy. Even if he still thinks Tommy is a miserable asshole.

Steeling himself, he snatches his keys off of the bench, shoves his feet into his sneakers, and storms out the front door.

[Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five]

[heartfullofleeches]

ICE CREAM MACHINE GHOST LORE-

i am so down for learnin more about R 👀👀

Especially the idea of them and fast food reader catchin up on stuff R didnt get a chance to do???

Chefs kiss for R or maybe just even regular smooches for R

R was born June 1st, 1981 and went missing on the 2nd of June, 2002. This is important to mention not just to give a timeline to his short period alive, but also because he was a huge Scooby-Doo fan and really looking forward the live action film coming out around that time [June 14th]

Fast Food Reader unwinds from a stressful day, and rewards R for good behavior (aka going one day without slapping their ass with a dish rag) by wheeling in the tv used for training tapes and popping in a copy of Scooby-Doo - chilling with R as they watch it. Grabs the blankets they keep in their locker and sets up a little fort in the break room with popcorn and everything. Being the saint they are, Reader may offer to let him use their body so he can enjoy the snacks himself, but R wants to experience everything with them and snatches some poor suckers body to use. Reader doesn't understand why any of their coworkers like them, but then they do shit like this that reminds R a little of what he used to be and fall deeper in love with them with the humanity they've restored in him.

If Reader ever shows him what's new Scooby-Doo they would try to kill him again because he wouldn't stop singing the theme song.

-

R watches from behind the counter as you push the tarp covered trolley into the break room. After cleaning up for the day, you've been in and out of the room without saying much to him or answering his questions. The slam of a locker door and your shoes clicking across the hard floor draw you back to his spot as you fling your bag over your shoulder. You present the item retrieved from within, picking off the plastic film wrapped around the box.

"Hey, I'm done with work and still have a couple hours on the clock. Wanna watch this movie with me? Brought it for you."

"For me?" The confusion in his tone is genuine - still laced with that snarky tone he's known for. "What's the occasion? If you wanted to take me out on a date you could've been a little more romantic with your approach."

"Don't play dumb. You've been muttering lyrics to hex girls songs since I started working here when you think nobody is around. Took a while to figure out where they were from, but it's from a Scooby-Doo film so I thought you'd be interested in watching one with me."

R inspects the box art closer. There is something vaguely familiar about the girl with the orange sweater. Had a crush on someone just because they had the same square glasses and brown hair. That lovable, scared-cat mutt and his equally as jumpy human companion. He and his little brother used to have week long fights to see who got to be who for Halloween... They've taken on a different look, but they're still them. And he's still him. The same young adult who lept over the moon when he first saw that poster hung on the wall of his local theater.

"Got some popcorn and junk in the back. You can use my body for a minute if you want some. Try to make me strip in front of the bathroom mirrors and I will call an exorcist."

"While I appreciate the offer, there's no need." Leaping over the counter, R zips pass you and straight for locked front doors - phasing through the glass and into the body of the understandably terrified customer you chose to ignore as you closed up early. Their eyes briefly widen with fear before glossing over. R stretches, popping the stiff joints in his new body as he rounds the building - leaping through the still open drive through window. He strolls over to you, flashing that wide smile that looked bizarre on a living human face.

"I'm sure I'm better looking as I am, but this body doing anything for you?~"

"Whatever - let's just go."

His stolen heart leaps as you take his hand and pull him along with you to the back. It continues to pound in his ears as you enter the bathroom and take your seat on the floor, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the little fort you made using chair and old tablecloths. You take a blanket left on the floor and throw some of it in his lap as you pick up the remote.

"Comfortable?"

Reese looks down at his legs. He looks over at your hand still in his and squeezes it tighter. He fainty remembers the warmth of a high school crushes touch, but there's something different about it this time. The angry swarm of butterflies he felt in his stomach then are calm in the same way his mind is whenever he hears your voice.

"Yeah... I am...."

[wolven91]

'I fixed it'

Ulfric stared at the hodgepodge of taped wires and jerry-rigged mechanical parts with a critical eye. It sort of looked like it would work? It gets a bit fuzzy in the middle, but his gut told him 'maybe' with a positive inflection.

He wanted to spit at the whole thing. To swear at it and curse the designer of the damned thing. The human didn't like how his work had turned out; it wasn't pretty nor, was he confident he'd done everything right. Theoretically the engine would come back to life if he understood how it all worked.

Problem was he didn't though. This was all alien tech; everything was alien tech! Human stuff was always behind! But even alien tech was supposed to comply with physics, so he did what he thought was right.

The ship he was on was supposed to be a 'simple' 'off the rack' skiff ship that could make it from one planet to another in less than a day. Not only had the jump drive catapulted him and his fellow passenger way past their target, but they were also floating alarmingly fast away from the system.

Sure, it had emergency beacons and SOS systems, it advertised that 'everyone found was saved' with its life preservation tech.

"Found." Ulfric stated with sarcasm. "Everyone found..."

If they weren't found, then sure, this shit craft's designer could keep saying that.

"How is it looking?" Asked a delicate voice from the cockpit.

The hornless taurian, who called himself; Yasil, appeared in the doorway, holding himself against the frame. Ulfric avoided the odd creature's gaze. Ulfric had been a rough man before the Earth 'thing', but now he was stuck in close proximity to this... delicate alien guy... 'Focus on the engine Ulfric', his mind supplied.

"Well. I think it might work, we have enough conventional fuel to turn up back the way we came, then we can try and jump." Ulfric said, scratching at the back of his scalp. He didn't know about male taurians and their demeanour, so once they were introduced to one another, the alien wasn't what he was expecting.

When Ulfric saw a bull coming towards him, horns or no horns, the human had thought he was going to be sharing with a man who could shoot the shit, but instead, every attempt to connect with the usual conversation points had fallen flat.

So, bored as he was, Ulfric changed tactics. They were stuck like this for at least a day, the human wasn't going to spend that silent.

Ulfric was rough, but he wasn't without a little game.

He turned on the charm.

An hour into their journey he'd turned the attempts at idle conversation into discussions on a far less superficial level. He didn't have a set plan or 'topic' it was simply a matter of listening out for what someone reacted to, what they wanted to or enjoyed talking about, if they wanted to talk at all.

Thankfully, it seemed the bull wanted to talk, and the topic was him. Or rather Humans.

Ulfric wasn't opposed to talking about humans, but he hated talking about himself. So, he answered the alien's questions, at least until the cockpit readouts went dead anyway.

They both had watched as the two of them fell out of a structured jump into 'real' space. They then had watched helplessly as their target planet sailed happily by while they travelled near close to light speed through the system. They got 'lucky' by not having anything in front of them while traveling this way.

By the time Ulfric had gotten through the sealed door into what amounted to an engine room, and then figured out which bit had done what, they were too far away for the general communications array to be of any use. Still, at least Ulfric could be useful now, well... either useful or both of them would be lost to the void forever.

What followed was multiple hours of swearing, sweat and the breaking of several noncritical machines and furniture to fix the busted, stupid, ridiculously crappily built engine.

The human created something akin to art. Only not.

His new engine was the opposite to art.

It was a monster, and he was the new Frankenstein.

Using the attitude adjustors, Ulfric changed their yaw and roll. They pointed at the slowly shrinking planet they wanted, or roughly where it was going to be in the near future.

"What now?" Asked the bull, nervous in tone, but hopeful as he looked longingly at the human.

"Now. I kick start this mother." Ulfric said, getting up from his seat and readying his kickstart. "You holding onto the controls? Like I showed you? This is going to shake and judder something rotten."

"I got it." The taurian announced with a nod and a firm grip of the controls.

With a nod, Ulfric, with everything he had. With every ounce of hatred he had for this machine; he kicked the engine as hard as he could.

--- 0 ---

Ulfric stood in front of the spaceport's lead engineer. An ursidain covered in grease and other stains kept glancing from him, back to the craft that she had just appeared from. His craft, at least his engine anyway.

She was currently staring at his monster with a flabbergasted expression and kept glancing back at him before returning to the engine.

"You should be dead." She stated firmly.

"Well I'm not, I need to know why it failed so we can sue!" Shouted the shorter bull beside him. Choosing to ignore the fact the larger ursidain was speaking to the human. He wasn't a large taurian, nor did the young bull come across as an aggressive sort, but god help the poor soul that stood between him and justice. Ulfric never cared much for causing a scene, but the taurian had assured him that if they could remain in contact, justice would be had! Oh sure, they might get a few credits, but if they prevented the company from doing this again; they'd save lives!

Ulfric didn't mind either of those outcomes and he was starting to like the little taurian. All that pomp and show was just that, a show. He had a mouth on him!

"No I mean; this isn't possible! It shouldn't have worked! You've combined. plasma and pure oxygen!"

"I needed a combustion source."

"Thats. not. you." She tried to grasp his logic, but failed as the idea of using this method as a combustion source was suicidal.

She blinked, smoothed the thick fur on top of her head back, pulling the hair bobble from her wrist and tied the fur on the top of her head back with it.

"So. why is there no core then? How did you jump, without a core?"

"We ejected it."

"Was it damag-"

"And detonated it."

"You-"

"And rode the wave back."

The large bear alien stood back up right and stepped carefully away from the machine.

"I'm not touching this. Someone call for containment breach clear up."

[dodger-chan]

Wrote a couple of short pieces between refreshing the hurricane tracker and passing messages to relatives in Florida (all fine but without power). (part two)

“Worst song?” Steve asked.

“Easy. John Cage’s 4’33”. Most pretentious piece of music I’ve heard in my life.” Robin slid another tape into the rewinding machine and started it up. “Worst crush?”

“No, I need to know more about this song that you think is too pretentious.” Steve leaned against the counter, ignoring the returns he was supposed to be checking in. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Well, it’s essentially four and a half minutes of not playing music, so arguably you have heard it,” Robin grumbled. Under other circumstances, she might go in-depth into chance music and ambient noise. But Steve was only asking about it to avoid answering her question. “C’mon, Stevie, worst crush?”

“Uh, pass?” he asked. Robin kicked his ankle lightly.

“No passes in Worst, Dingus,” she pointed out. Best had a pass for some reason, but Worst didn’t. You had to name your personal worst and at least one reason. No lying.

“It’s gonna hurt your feelings.”

Robin rolled her eyes. She already knew about the crush he’d had on her. And if it wasn’t her, she could handle him naming some other girl she’d liked or been friends with that His Highness of the Hair hadn’t found cool enough to ask out.

“My feelings can take it. Anyway, aren’t you a heartless asshole who doesn’t care about other people’s feelings?” she teased him, reaching over to muss his hair. He caught her hand mid-air with his stupid jock reflexes and scowled at her. “Steeeeeve.”

“Eddie Munson.” The name came out sharp and quick. Steve dropped Robin’s hand and turned his back to her, like he was focusing on the returns.

Oh. Shit. That did hurt a little.

Steve had crushed on a boy and hadn’t told her. Had let her go on about her fears and feelings of isolation for weeks without a hint that he might share them. Had he not trusted her to love him despite their similarities? Or did he think them both liking girls was okay, but him liking guys was too different?

The rewinding machine clicked. She swapped out one video for another.

It was the second one that bothered her more. If Steve didn’t trust her, well, she didn’t like it, but she got it. She still hadn’t told her parents, even if she was ninety-nine percent sure they wouldn’t love her any less for being gay. If it wasn’t about trust, though. If Steve had limits as to how much gay he could accept and saw himself outside of them? That hurt so much more than any bruised feelings.

“Ugh, he’s so obnoxious. I see why he’d be Worst.” Robin tried for a casual tone, tried to match that easy acceptance she’d heard from Steve in that filthy mall bathroom, about midway through the worst forty-eight hours of her life to date. “You could do so much better. Like, um, Milton Bledsoe.”

“Milton Bledsoe?” Steve stared at her with skepticism. At least he was looking at her.

“What? He’s nice. He was probably my best friend before he went off to college and I met you. He’s funny. He’s really smart and creative. A total music nerd. You like nerds, Steve.” That sounded a little accusatory. She toned it down. “Also, he’s good looking? I think? I’ve been told he is. By people who were trying to set us up, so maybe they were overstating it. Honestly, I have no idea what makes a guy attractive. It’s probably all subjective, anyway.”

“Munson stepped on my lunch, once.”

“Oh?” It was a bit of a non-sequitur, but Robin could roll with it.

“Yeah. He was giving one of his big speeches and somebody - Sawyer, I think - tried to knock his feet out from under him and Munson stumbled right onto my lunch tray.” Steve made a face. Robin could sympathize. As much as she agreed with the thematic content of Eddie’s dramatic orations, she was a firm believer that shoes should be kept away from food. “I don’t remember what I said to him, but I remember him looking down at me, smirking, and telling me if I asked nicely he might let me lick his shoes clean.”

“Gross,” Robin agreed. “And rude. That definitely qualifies him for Worst.”

“No, Rob.” Steve glanced nervously around the store. It was just as empty as it had been all afternoon. Still, he lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. “That’s when I realized I liked him.”

Oh. Wow. The shit she was learning about Steve Harrington.

[klausinamarink]

Love Over Box Labels

rating: G | cw: none | tags: modern au, no Upside Down, the romanticism of workings at warehouses | wc: 987

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles | Dec 4: Meet Cute at Work

—

When his dad had threatened Steve into working at a warehouse instead of being the good CEO’s son, Steve had laughed at his face and said, “Go ahead! Maybe I’ll like it better than your stupid neopet position!”

It’s been two years since that conversation. And Steve’s still working at the warehouse. Though it’s not the same one his dad plunked him in. He’s since transferred to another place for a full time position. And Steve loves it.

Maybe ‘love’ is too strong a word to use. Steve definitely doesn’t love waking up at five-thirty in the morning every weekday, requiring espresso to prevent falling asleep on his feet within the first few hours, and the muscle strain from all the heavy lifting.

But warehouse work is surprisingly mundane and much better than Steve expects. He chats with his coworkers, the music choices aren’t bad, and the days can pass within a blink through the repetition of box folding and forklifting shipments.

There’s one guy that keeps catching Steve’s attention though.

As one of the new contract workers who came in last week, the new guy - Eddie, according to his ID badge - has long curly black hair tied up in a bun, black fitted clothes with different band tees, and a few tattoos on his bare arms. His brown eyes were dearly expressive, a bit helpful since he was also one of the few employees still wearing a mask. (an automatic sign of a decent person in Steve’s mental checklist)

As a team leader trains Eddie on the basic operations of their taping machines at the other line, Steve keeps sneaking glances at him as he steers a pump truck of packages into the shipping area. Eddie’s eyes are narrowed with concentration, nodding along at Deb’s words, probably unaware of his surroundings at the moment.

Steve gives out a quiet sigh. Then he mentally slaps himself. Jeez, this is a new low bar of pathetic-ness for him. Crushing on a new coworker who either doesn’t know he exists or has noticed Steve and thinks he’s a creep.

He should probably just be normal and try talking to Eddie during lunch. Problem is that Eddie is working on another line which has a different break time than Steve’s line. So unless the leaders rotate the employee’s positions to other lines next Monday, then Eddie’s going to be far from Steve’s reach.

Steve shakes his head, focusing back to his work. Whatever. It’s just a stupid crush. He’s gonna get over it because he and Eddie are never going to talk anyways.

—

“Steve, can you let Eddie help you with those labels?”

Steve blinks at Karen, caught off-guard by her sudden appearance with Eddie right next to her. He only manages to answer coherently, “Oh, sure!”

“That’s lovely!” Karen smiles at him, patting Eddie on the arm as she leaves. And then it’s the two of them at this table with stacks of boxes and rolls of labeled stickers.

“So…” Steve starts. “You're new here, right?” He kicks himself in the shin because what the hell, Steve?

Eddie just gives a jerky nod. “Yeah, first season.” He says, clipped. His eyes flick down to the labels questioningly. “How do I..?”

“Oh, this is like, super easy stuff, dude.” Steve says, hoping he doesn’t sound too eager on showing off the beauty of box labeling. “You just take this white label, place it here right above the numbers, take this..” He continues his demonstration to Eddie, who’s once again narrow-eyed with concentration. Steve nearly flutters when he notices how close enough he is that he can see the pinched furrow of Eddie’s eyebrows and a faint speckle of freckles below his eyes.

Be still, my bisexual heart. Steve demands as he looks away just before Eddie’s eyes - they’re so round, oh god - catches his. “You got it?”

Eddie nods, “Easy enough.”

“Cool.”

Unfortunately, that’s just all they say to each other as they work in tangent on the labels. Steve wants to talk to Eddie again. Bring something up like-

“Nice tattoos, by the way.”

Lord, please smite me from this earth and send me to Amazon.

“Thanks, man.” When Steve looks at him, Eddie’s eyes are crinkled up. “They’re super old, though. Got them when I was a rebellious junior student. Been thinking about getting new ones over it.”

“I mean, if you wanna change them or whatever, that’s totally up to you! Just saying that the bats look wicked.”

Eddie quirks an eyebrow. “You like the bats?”

“Yeah! They’re, uh, your favorite animals?”

“In a way.”

Pretty soon, they both fall into an easy conversation, discussing bits of their respective upbringings and what they’d done before coming here. They only pause to collect new boxes and bring the finished ones to the packers. When lunch break is called, Steve’s relieved that Eddie now has the same schedule, allowing them to talk more.

It creates a delightful feeling in Steve’s chest.

—

“I really learned a lot,” Eddie says as they walk out the building together at the end of the shift, “I don’t think I could survive today without you.”

“Really?”

Eddie takes off his mask. Steve’s heart flips sideways at the sight of the other man’s eye-crinkling smile. “Yeah. Now I know how to label boxes like my life depends on it.”

Steve bursts out a good-hearted laugh, “Well, if you want more advice, I can give you my number.”

Eddie stares at him for a beat before smiling wider, “I wouldn’t mind that.”

[stevesbipanic]

Steve has days where he'll unplug the receiver.

It will be the only time he gets out of bed. He'll wake up, feel the heavy weight pressing down on his chest, sigh, slowly walk downstairs, unplug the phone, even slower walk back up, and crawl back into bed.

He unplugs the phone, but at least then his friends know he's alive. Steve always answers the phone, it's more worrying to hear the voicemail machine than a disconnected phone. At least if it's disconnected they know what to expect. They're used to it by now.

Steve has these days.

Too many years fighting horrors.

Too many years alone in his empty home.

Too many years pushing it all down.

Now that all that's over his brain catches up. No dangers to push it away, no adrenaline to keep him going. So he just lays on bed. Let the weight of everything sink into him. Sometimes he's not even sure he's thinking. He doesn't really know how much time passes, but his friends do.

They always give him a day. A day to lay and sit in the quiet and process and wallow and feel and not feel. They give him a day of mourning and weight and guilt. They give him a day, and then they come.

Robin always comes first. No one will ever be more important than her, not even Dustin, not even Eddie. Robin let's herself in with the key she got after Starcourt. She goes to the kitchen, puts away the dishes left to dry and heats up some soup. The soup isn't always eaten, but it's a good gauge on the rest of the timeline. She'll carry the soup upstairs, placing it carefully on his bedside table and will sit with him.

She'll softly card her fingers through his hair, no words are needed yet, Steve just needs to know that she's here, that it's time to come back to them. On good days, he'll sit up, quietly eat his soup and lean against Robin while she tells him about the day he missed. On bad days, the soup goes cold, the only movement Robin receives is a soft push of Steve's head into her hands, and the room stays quiet. No matter the day, when it's time, she goes downstairs, washes out the bowl, plugs in the phone and calls Eddie.

Eddie spends the morning of the second day waiting by the phone, he knew what was happening, this isn't the first time it's happened since he joined their little group, not even the first time since he started dating Steve. The first time had been horrible, tears and confusion and hurt for Steve. Now Eddie knew what to do, when he got the call he'd come.

On good days, Eddie will come up the stairs, smile at Steve and get the ghost of a smile back, hell lay down with Steve and whisper loving words to him until Steve gains the strength back to tighten his hold on Eddie. On bad days, Steve won't meet his eyes, hell lay with Steve, sharing air and just hoping it helps.

On the best days, Robin and Eddie get to call the kids. They come over and Steve smiles at them and they all loudly tell Steve about their days and what their plans are. They'll manage to drag Steve out of bed down to the loving room, dogpiling onto the couch, surrounding Steve with warmth and love and watch a movie late into the night. On these days, Steve will wake up to Dustin's drool on his shirt and smile and everything will be ok.

On the worst days, Steve doesn't eat, Steve doesn't drink, Steve barely even sleeps. He just lays there, existing. Robin will try and get him to drink something, Eddie will offer to read to him, they'll softly play his favourite tapes and just let Steve know they're there. On these days, Steve doesn't wake up smiling. On these days, the days turn into a week. On these days, his friends wait and wait and wait, hoping that Steve comes back.

Steve always comes back. As long as the phone gets disconnected Steve is still there. Steve is still sending them the message, saying "hey, I'm here, I'm not ok, but I'm here." Steve always comes back, so they just wait and hope that he always will.

[curiositydooropened]

Wildfire • Ignite

New evidence has been discovered among the Flayed, and it brings up terrifying memories. The tension simmers between you and your new partner as your time to return to the Ether draws near.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Chapter Wordcount: 9,800

Warnings: enemies/rivals to lovers, second chance romance, slooooowburn, unrequited love, so much pining, blood, gore, character death, best friend!disabled!Eddie Munson, character injuries, trauma, PTSD, hallucinations, drowning, concussion, hurt/comfort, fire

Fic Masterlist • Navigation • Masterlist

Chapter Two: Spark • Chapter Four: Pyre

---

NOW

September 1988

Your dormitory was muggy. The thunderstorms of August faded into early fall heat waves. You’d gone on an early morning run, and managed an ice-cold shower, but heat rose, and your dorms filled with hot air, sticking your clothes to your body. You wrapped a strained wrist with athletic tape, quelling the ache with pressure, and avoided the reflection of bags under your eyes and slumped shoulders.

Knuckles wrapped against your door, and you pulled your watch from the tabletop to look at the time. 08:25. With a resigned sigh, you buckled it over your wrapped wrist and answered the door. You startled to find Nancy Wheeler on the other side, brow crinkled and hair curled around her slender features. 

“Owens wants us.” She informed you, managing the softest of smiles. 

You swallowed, nodded, and went for your room key on the countertop. Wheeler moved on down the hall, the crowd of Scorchers growing around her. 

You followed, hanging back, still feeling a bit left out. You and Steve had passed your trials, but you’d yet to be sent on an official Scorch mission as partners. You hadn’t seen either of your names on the call sheet. You and Harrington had both found yourselves in Hopper’s office again, arms crossed over your chests in perfect mirror images, while Hopper waved you off to take a phone call, questions left unanswered. 

Maybe this was it.

You reached the far side of the dorm floor, adrenaline pumping with each addition to the group. Wheeler’s knuckles hit a rhythm, and the door opened to reveal your partner, and just over his shoulder, a messy, blonde bob. 

Your heart sunk, panic laced through your veins as you stepped behind Argyle to avoid being seen. Curiosity got the best of you, and you peered around him to watch the exchange of goodbyes. Harrington’s arm slung over Robin’s shoulders, a chaste kiss pressed to her temple that she swatted away with a laugh, and a “be careful”. Her voice was as raspy as you’d remembered it, her eyes just as blue, and all things considered, she looked incredible. She looked like she’d been sleeping, like she hadn’t been wasting away, like she was living.

You saw her wandering gaze, eyes searching the small group, and in a panic, you broke off from the group and scurried down the staircase, down past the War Room, down to the labs.

The long hallway was well-lit this time of day, bustling with men and women in white lab coats. Not a soul acknowledged you, hunched over clipboards or monitoring machines with print-outs that escaped your purview. You heard the shuffle of feet behind you, a sign that the Scorch team had caught up, so you pressed yourself against a double-paned window and waited, arms crossed like you’d been there the whole time. 

Wheeler and Byers blew past you, unseen, the group following.

“Hey,” Harrington sidled up beside you, soft touch to your elbow. You nodded, ignoring his gaze, watching the group meander into a nearby office, Owens voice greeting just beyond the swinging doors. “What’s going on?” 

You shrugged, pushed yourself off the wall, and the two of you filed in. 

Owens spoke your name as you entered, and the entire room fell silent. You felt too many eyes on you, and Harrington’s broad shoulders came into your periphery as he took a stance to shield you. “Mr. Harrington, good. I’m glad you’re both here. Could I have you make your way to the front, please?” 

You didn’t look at your partner, kept your eyes instead on the wall of glass Owens was referring to, and what was just beyond. 

Inside a sterile, white room, between two figures in full-body HazMat suits, was a glass box on a table. The box had holes for access, made of metal, and through the holes, you could make out the charred and puckered flesh of a man. He was restrained, although maybe it wasn’t necessary, because the paler of the man ensured you he was dead. 

Your stomach dropped, the metallic taste of blood and ash filling your mouth. 

“This man went out in our last round of scouts.” Owens explained, voice soft, but loud enough to the group to hear. “He’d been back for about forty-eight hours before we noticed tell-tale signs that he’d been Flayed.” 

You grit your teeth and stared down at the man’s body, lifeless, pale, cold. 

“His partner said he’d encountered a large flower. Said it looked similar to a nest.” Owens then placed a hand to your shoulder to captivate your attention. When you looked his direction, you shuddered under the pity in his gaze. “Does that sound familiar to you, at all?” 

You swallowed the dryness on your tongue, tried to think. Your memories all blurred together, smoke and ash and maroon lightning, vines and demo dogs and moulded groceries. You shook your head. 

“Well, when he was brought in for testing, we noticed these distinct marks on his body,” Owens wrapped his knuckles against the glass, and the two men in suits reached into the box to tip the body. 

Across the man’s back, now exposed to you, were a handful of bumps. They were like mosquito bites, but larger, blackened, a trail of something under the skin. Someone in the back of the room puked into a trash can. 

“We’ve seen these marks before, on other flayed victims.” By the extra squeeze on your shoulder, you knew he meant Vickie. You knew they’d pulled her body, covered in ash and burns, from the pockmarked pavement and examined her, found blackened bumps edging across her narrow shoulder blades. 

Owens continued, releasing your arm to address the group. “Hopper and I felt it was important to share this information with those of you on the front lines.”

You tore your eyes from the black marks on the man’s back, and glanced up at Harrington. He was watching you, jaw-clenched, arms crossed tight over his broad chest. You shirked under his gaze. Did he know? Had Eddie told him? 

“As many of you know, your team leaders, Ms. Wheeler and Mr. Byers will be following a team of scouts to retrieve this flower for further examination. They will be equipped with precautionary measures, but I thought it was good for all of you to know what you’ll be up against in the coming weeks.” 

Harrington’s eyes widened, darting from you to the Scorch team. “Whoa, what? No. Let us go.” 

You nodded, turning your back to the body beyond the glass, a chill settling over your spine. “Yeah, Harrington and I will go. No need to risk the leads on this.” 

“I appreciate your concern,” Owens nodded with a half-smile. “Everyone, if you could please join me down the hall, I have a few other things to show you.” 

The team filed out behind him, but you remained in the sting of rejection, told off like a couple of children who weren’t allowed to use the Big Kid Toys. 

Wheeler finally stepped forward, pushing her way from the back wall. She was staring over your shoulder at the body, a grimace etched across her stern brow. Then, she made eye contact with Harrington, plastered on a smile. “We’ll be alright. Just a quick in-and-out, make sure no one else gets flayed. We’re just the flamethrowers.” 

You felt something kick in your stomach again, this pervasive feeling like you were intruding on a private moment between the two of them. An unease that settled like the eyes on the back of your neck. You stepped away from them, back to the hallway, trying to shake off the itch between your shoulder blades. 

“Nance,” Harrington mumbled under his breath. 

“Steve,” she teased. “I promise. Besides, you know she needs you.” 

You swallowed, closed your eyes, thought of the beautiful girl in her dorm room. Nancy was right. You couldn’t take him from Robin, too. 

A hand at your shoulder startled you, dainty, but firm. And you spun to find Wheeler grasping you, eyes sparkling with something mischievous. “It’s really good to have you back.”

You managed a nod, mouth dry, and you stepped out of her way as she followed the group closely up ahead. You lingered in the doorway, watching the sway of her hips, the bounce of her hair, the curve of her biceps, the strength in her shoulders. If anything got to her, she didn’t let it show.

—-

The migraine came on in the Scorch course. The dull thud radiated in a cluster at your temple and spread to the scab healing on the back of your skull. The brightness of flames were blurred with aura, bright orange rimmed in blues and purples. The smell of jet fuel and burning plastic churned in your stomach.

You didn’t realize you’d missed three targets until Harrington peeled his mask from his face, crease forming around his pointed nose, and gripped your shoulder with a sweaty palm. “Alright, what the Hell?” 

You winced, eyebrows unable to lift, and swallowed. “Sorry, um… headache.” You pressed the heels of your palms to your eyes and pressed, the pressure relieving your sinuses ever-so-slightly. 

You expected him to yell, to tell you headaches happen, and it’s time to suck it up. So you were surprised to feel nimble fingers unbuckling your pack and lifting it off aching shoulders. You blinked your eyes open, as far as they’d go, and watched Harrington’s brow crinkle in concern.

“You seeing floaters?”

You shook your head. “More of an aura.” 

His jaw clenched, and he nodded toward the doorway. “C’mon. Think we’ve torched enough decoys for today.” Then he started down the staircase, your pack swinging by its straps from his arm. 

You followed him across the tarmac. The mid-afternoon sun stung, too warm and too bright, a rainbow cast over Harrington’s broad shoulders. You followed him back into the supply room. As he put your packs away, you peeled your mask from your face and slumped onto a nearby bench. 

You heard the shake of a pill bottle and felt a tap against your forearm, and when you peered between your knuckles, Harrington had extended a water bottle and two white pills. 

“Take these. Do you have a cold compress?” 

You nodded, accepting his offer and throwing the pills back. The water was fresh, but lukewarm, and it churned in your stomach a bit more than you wanted. You weren’t sure you could keep them down. 

Harrington nodded. “Put it on your neck and go to bed. If you want, I’ll wake you up before Nance and Jonathan head out.” 

You blinked back at him, wondering if you were hearing the softness in his voice, or if your mind was creating that, a fuzz, glossy, rainbow-filled world. “Okay.” You managed.

Harrington grabbed his gym bag and yours, holding the door open for you to pass into the corridor. The florescents buzzed a steady beat just above your ear, somewhere behind your eye. Harrington fell into step beside you.

“Do you get migraines often?” 

You shook your head, tried to take another drink. “I haven’t had one in years.”

“It was probably the concussion. I get them constantly.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, they suck.” The corner of his lip turned up at you, soft, a familiar smile that had your stomach swooping. 

You’d come to the elevator doors. The button was pressed, and you waited in silence, your heart beat rhythmic in your head. When it reached your floor, you stepped in one after the other, and you closed your eyes to the buzz of lights and the whir of the machine. Harrington settled in beside you, presence warm and quiet, a wall just outside of your periphery. 

—

The War Room was silent save a steady blip of the radar and the occasional fuzzy transmission from the Ops Team as they descended into the Ether and traveled Northward. 

You tiptoed in, happy for the dim lighting quelling the steady pulse in your skull that hadn’t subsided. The aura had slipped from your vision, and you felt a bit groggy from your nap, but Harrington’s advice for the cold compress had seemed to help.

The only seat available was beside him, too close, biceps and thighs touching.

Eddie’s chair spun to face you, massive headphones over one ear, and he offered a two fingered wave, smile sad, tense. The tension in the room could be cut with a knife.

You nodded back to your friend, and startled when you felt a pair of lips at the shell of your ear, warm breath, the spice of deodorant and shampoo. 

“How’s your head?”

You swallowed and shrugged, offering Harrington a half-hearted smile, shivers erupted down your spine.

“Scorch to Base. We’re approaching our destination now.” Byers’s voice came in, crackled.

The room sat upright. You glanced from Eddie to Hopper, Joyce wrapped in a cable knit sweater, Murray, Owens, a dozen others in front of screens and buttons, making sure the AV system stayed up-and-running. 

One such familiar man flicked on a series of switches until you heard the buzz of static. The room illuminated in pale grey light, and you peered between shoulders at a television screen, now huddled around. 

The Scout Team, with Wheeler and Byers on backup, were slowly approaching a covered bridge. The camerawork was shoddy, a bit all over the place, like one of the horror films Eddie delighted in forcing you to watch, but the setting was unmistakable. Thick, black vines looped themselves along the sides of the road, sprouting up from the empty river bank below and climbing into the cavern, or maybe out of it. The steps slowed, camera panning the site to give a full view of the area.

 A handful of crew members stood in full hazmats. Wheeler and Byers were the smallest of them all, weighed down by massive packs. You couldn’t hear the crunch of gravel, the heavy breathing through masks, but you felt it. You could taste the ash in the air, could feel the frigid damp. 

You recognized the bridge, having biked over it too many times to count. It resided over Sinner’s Creek, an off-shoot of the Roane River. Thanks to its name, there was a rumor that the Devil himself lived inside that bridge, asking residents if they’d like to make a deal. The memory sent chills down your spine.

The crew took measured steps forward, scaling the wooden ramp that would bring them up and over the creek. Torchlight was shined through the opening, and you realized it was so overgrown, blackness enveloped through to the other side. Vines tightened their grip on the siding, paint crackling and fading away. 

“We have visual. Are you guys seeing this?” Byers sounded disgusted, like he was barely containing the bile that crept up alongside your own.

The camera shifted slightly to the left, and you all saw it. Gaping maw, riddled with teeth, red and blue stripes, dangling from the wall at the height of a demogorgon. Everyone jumped. You stretched impossibly closer, nearly in Harrington’s lap to get a better view. 

From the looks of it, it was a demogorgon, stuck to the wall with vines, the same way your fallen comrades would be taken over by the terrain, only more was growing from this one. The hole in which you’d seen dozens of things be consumed, there grew a sack. Large, black, shimmering with puss, and at the shine of the flashlight, it dispersed a puff of spores in the air. The camera shook as the camera man fumbled backwards, out of the spray.

Your entire body went cold. You had seen this before, on the bank of the Roane River, probably two miles north of the covered bridge at Sinner’s Creek. You’d been walking alongside Vickie, packs running low, stumbling back from a particularly long Scorch, back to the meet-up coordinates. 

You’d been reminiscing, laughing about something silly Robin had done, or maybe Eddie. Vickie hadn’t been watching, hadn’t been careful, nearly twisted her ankle. You caught her mid-fall, scolded her to watch where she was going.

There, in the river bed, was a dead demogorgon. It’s skin had been blackened with char, body taken over with demonic foliage. And it had something in its mouth, a pulsating black sack. 

You’d scorched it again for safety and scurried home. 

You leapt from your seat and rushed into the hallway, pulse matching the thing beat for beat. Your head throbbed, your stomach flipped, and you felt feverish, too warm, too claustrophobic under the buzzing static of the television, the sound of Jonathan’s voice over the walkies.

You thought of Vickie, of the look of panic on her face, of her tightening her mask, rolling her ankle back into place. You thought of her clawed grip on your arm, of the look of terror at your discovery. 

Something wet and warm hit your upper lip, and you reached to wipe a nostril. Your fingertips were stained red. You wiped frantically, ignoring the near debilitating ache at the base of your skull. 

“Are you okay?” Harrington’s voice was too close, towering above you while you painted the leg of your black cargo pants with the blood on your hands. 

You licked iron from your upper lip, wondered what to do, what action to take. Eddie stared you down from inside the War Room, jaw clenched in worry. You blinked from him to Harrington’s pitying gaze. 

“I’m fine. Thought I was going to throw up. I think I might go back to bed.” You croaked. You could taste the iron at the back of your throat, hoped it didn’t show. 

Harrington nodded, clenched his fists at his side. “Okay. Do you…” He sighed. “Do you need anything?” 

You shook your head, managed to grimace, and hid your nose behind your hand. 

He gave one more curt nod in understanding before letting himself back into the little room.

You caught Eddie’s gaze again on the other side of the window, but his eyes weren’t the only ones you felt on you. There was someone else too, someone far away, over your left shoulder, a stare too deep, too menacing, too real.

—

You stumbled through the woods, that shock of orange just out of reach, on the horizon. You scampered after it, legs aching, calling for her to slow down, to wait up, telling her it wasn’t funny. A game of hide-and-seek, after all these years. You knew all of her hiding spots, in treehouses and behind cars in the junkyard, tucked into abandoned beaver dams. You couldn’t catch up. 

You slipped, plummeting downward, too far a fall, couldn’t catch yourself on twigs or branches, can’t touch the vines, Hive mind. Your back scratched and scraped. You hit the basin. 

A swimming pool lay before you, lit in soft blues, plastered, empty. You helped yourself upright, depth taller than you. You spun in circles, not recognizing your surroundings, missing the flash of orange. You cupped your hands to your mouth and called out for her, told her to come out. This wasn’t funny.

Your name was called over your left shoulder, muffled, deep. You spun.

They were caught up in vines, pinned to the walls of the pool, their charred remains. Nancy, Jonathan, Robin, the shock of red hair. You screamed, tried to release them, hacked at vines with the hatchet in your hands, scrambled, begged them to come back, this wasn’t funny. 

Vickie opened her eyes, jet black, and then she opened her mouth, and you inhaled the spores. Black particles that flew from her and infected you, and there was no stopping it as they entered every orifice, as you succumbed to them, as they dug into your spine, laying eggs beneath shoulder blades.

—

You sat upright, panting, tangled in sheets. Your body convulsed in shivers, clothes and hair slick to you with sweat. Your room was dim, not dark, the lamplight pooling yellow in your periphery, dousing everything in the blur of reality. It was a dream, just a dream.

You pawed at your eyes, scrubbed your face with your hands, tried to shrug off the pervasive itch at the small of your neck. You reached under your sleep shirt to scratch and paused when you felt a bump, a ridge beneath your skin that hadn’t been there before. 

You leapt from your bed and threw your shirt up, trying to look in the mirror, but the glass was a too stained, and the light was too dim, and you couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t breathe and your hands were shaking. 

You threw open the door, linoleum freezing beneath bare feet. The hallway was too cold, too dark, the glow of moonlight cascading in from the common area, while the Exit sign cast a red glow on the far end. You had no choice. You needed help.

You raced down the hall as stealthily as you could, balls of your feet slapping against the floor. You tried to shut out the horrors that crawled behind you, the vines that erupted from closed doors just beyond your line of sight. You tried to stop them from crawling up your esophagus, tried to rid your mouth of the taste of ash. 

Your knuckles wrapped before your brain could process it, frantic, clinging to some humanity, to memories of your past you hoped he’d cling to, to promises he’d made. “Steve,” you called, voice hoarse, hands shaking.

The heavy door opened in a split second, Harrington looking bewildered behind wire-rimmed glasses. “What’s wrong?” 

You shoved him inside, two palms to the flat of his broad chest, and it wasn’t until the door closed behind you that the words spilled out. “She knew in April. She was infected in April, and she knew, and she didn’t tell me. A whole month.

“I’m getting migraines and nosebleeds, and I’m having nightmares. So many nightmares, and I can feel him, Steve. I can feel him. He’s always there, always behind me. And I see her too, sometimes, and I’m so scared. I don’t want to die, please don’t let me die.” You couldn’t focus, head gone fuzzy from hyperventilation. 

You felt a strong pair of arms around you before you even realized you were pacing. Large hands at your ribcage, broad shoulders in the path your bare feet were burning into the tile. 

“Stop, slow down,” he ordered.

You smacked his hands away, threw yours into your hair, turned heel to pace the opposite direction. “You don’t get it. I saw him at the pool, when I hit my head. Eddie found security footage. Someone came into the pool room. The camera didn’t catch who it was.”

“Wh - ” You could tell he was struggling to grasp what you were saying, lost in his own world.

His bedding was crumpled in the shape of him, a book lay upside down on the nightstand, lamp illuminating the room in a honeyed glow.

Steve reached beneath his glasses to rub at tired eyes. “You think he was here? Like, here here? Rightside up?”

You shrugged and scrubbed at your own face with your hands. Your body ached, and that chill that resided between your shoulder blades hadn’t left for weeks. You swallowed, peered between your knuckles at the man frowning across the room from you.

His spectacles fell back into place, hands dropped to his hips like a confused soccer dad. 

“I,” your voice quaked against your will, “I think I have marks on my back.”

The way his eyes trailed your frame had you painfully aware of your state of undress, sleep shirt falling at the tops of your thighs. You shifted bare feet against the linoleum, air conditioning pebbling exposed skin. You swallowed when his eyes met yours, dark, jaw clenched. 

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he took a measured step closer. “Can I - ” He cleared his throat. “Want me to…?”

“Sure um…” You swallowed. “Y-yeah. Would you?”

He took another belabored step forward, nodding slowly, mouth falling open as his eyes trailed your middle. 

You closed your eyes and turned your back to him. With a deep breath, you pulled the thin fabric over your head, gathering it at your chest with crossed arms for modesty. 

Too long a moment, breaths held, static building like the clouds of an incoming storm. You failed to steady your heart rate, flames that licked at your skin, pooled at your core, a heat that coursed through you.

 His hands found you, fingertips spread the expanse of your mid-back, making purchase with every bump, every groove. His touch trailed your ribcage, lithe, and you itched under it, too hot. He inched up your spine, brushing hair from the base of your neck. His thumbs massaged circles into a knot between your shoulder blades. 

You released a sigh, easing into his safe hands, letting your head lull to one side.

His nimble touch trailed either side of your spine and outwards again, pushing at the plump skin under your arms, and you lifted them without thinking. He muttered a quick apology, breath warm against your neck, minty. 

You hummed, allowing him to mold and model you as he needed to get a better look.

He spread his hands once more down your back, massaging circles into the dimples at the base of your spine, and before you could arch into them, they were gone, the heat of him replaced with cold air. He cleared his throat. 

Your eyes blinked open, adjusting to the soft lamplight, the view of yourself in the mirror above his countertop. You looked at flustered as you felt, shoulders and clavicle exposed, eyes dark.

You could just make him out over your shoulder, eyes on you, heavy as your belabored breaths. 

“Well…?” Your heart pittered behind your sternum again.

“Heat rash, I think.”

You startled forward a few paces, quick to place your t-shirt back over your head. You tugged at the hem in a vain attempt to lower it, and chewed on the inside of your cheek. You spun to look at him, your own hands diving up your back to feel the gentle bumps of your skin. They were all in a line where your sports bra would have glued itself to your skin. 

You groaned and buried your face in your hands, the tension washed away with the tide.

He inched around you and busied himself at the sink, pouring a large glass of water, the red plastic cup stolen from the Mess Hall. “Did you get any sleep?”

You sighed, shrugged, accepted the cup in trembling hands. “A little. Had a nightmare.”

Steve nodded, tight-lipped, stared at the cup in your hand until you rolled your eyes, brought it to your lips. 

The water was tepid, but not unwelcome, soothing your nerves.

Satisfied, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter. “Jonathan and Nance made it back okay.”

The news served more relief, a loosening of your shoulders, slowing of your heart rate. 

“You’ve seen that thing before?” His brows were furrowed in concern, and the way he looked at you, you knew there was no point in lying, not anymore.

You swallowed more water, nodded, mopped at the corners of your mouth with the back of your hand.

Steve reached to take the cup from you, refilling it while you explained what happened with Vickie, with the demogorgon flower, the spores, the infection. He didn’t say anything until you took a deep breath, took another drink.

He sighed, ran thick, warm fingers through his hair. “Tomorrow, we’ll go down to the office and pull all of Vickie’s logs from April, and I’ll help you go through them. We can go downstairs and see what they’ve learned that thing. And I want you to show me that video. I’ll talk to Eddie.”

You frowned and wrapped your fingernails against the textured plastic cup, a new nervous energy settling behind your sternum. 

“What?” He scoffed, pushing off the counter to pull the cup from your hands once more. “You want to fight about this too?”

You laughed at that, a wet sound that ached somewhere unfamiliar, and you watched his lips dip shyly in return as he ducked his head in a snort. “Okay.” 

“Okay, you want to fight? Or okay to the rest of it?”

“Both.” You delighted in the roll of his eyes, the sound of irritation that rumbled low in his chest. 

He turned to fill the cup again, and you watched the curve of his spine as he hunched over the sink. In his reflection, you caught that faint, lingering smile, barely visible beneath the etched concern, the worry that had been laced across his beautiful features since the moment you met him. You wondered if his shoulders ached carrying the burdens of the world. You knew yours did.

“Steve,” you rasped.

He looked up at you first, in the reflection, before spinning to look at you properly, hands outstretched as if he was ready to catch you, always waiting. 

You blinked back the emotion that blurred your vision, tightened your throat. Guilt clawed at your ribcage, echoed the spaces between your joints where his fingers had been, sunk into the marrow of your bones, filled your mouth with ash. You wanted to apologize, for abandoning him, for ruining his life, Robin’s. 

With slow movements, timid, he crossed the room to meet you. His hand found your hip first, fist clinging to the gossamer fabric of your shirt to tug you centimeters closer. His other hand was hesitant, and you watched his chest rise and fall before he reached out to cup your face. 

You folded, all cards shown, eyes closed, breathing in his warmth. You clung to his forearms, trying to stay glued together, to not fall apart in your need for this, for him, for safety and warmth and home again.

Your mind echoed with memories of his lips pressed to yours, bodies tangled under sheets, heavy breathing. From celebrations after serious wins, tongues painted whisky sweet, to comfort after serious losses, tear-stained cheeks and tight grips. To his arms around your waist, hauling you away from the charred remains of your best friend, laughter fading from a flash of orange, a spark in a wasteland.

Your eyes flew open, fearing you’d find a mangled mess, too many teeth, an outstretched claw cupping your face. 

Seeing the anguish in your eyes, Steve released you, his features laced with worry, mouth agape. 

The guilt returned, settled into every part of you save the section between your shoulder blades where He resigned, ever-present, ever-watching. You swallowed, managed a few steps back, stumbled over the leg of a chair, caught yourself on the table. 

Steve reached out to catch you, a white knight. 

“I should,” words felt odd in your mouth. “I should go to bed.”

He nodded, scratched at the back of his neck. “Okay, sure.”

“Yeah, thanks for the…” You gestured to his room, to the sink, to the reflection staring back at you. “Thanks.” 

“Sure, yeah.”

You flung open the door, and he met you there. Your hands met on the handle. You recoiled, and squeaked a whispered goodnight. He reciprocated. You couldn’t look at him again as you made your return to your dorm room. 

The red sign at the end of the hall glowed like firelight. A shadow stood beneath it, grinning back at you.

—

The steam from your post-gym shower was refreshing, rejuvenating, muscles finally looser than they’d been in months.

Vickie used to yell at you for walling things up, for winding your opinions so tight within yourself until you snapped. She used to coax emotions out of you with French toast sticks and movie nights, well-timed games of truth or dare.

There had only been two screaming matches: one when she hadn’t told you her family was moving to Hawkins until a week before they moved, and another when she thought you wouldn’t accept her sexuality. Both ended in tears and snacks and sticky maple syrup splattered against kitchen walls. 

You squeegeed the moisture from your hair with a towel, and glanced at your reflection in the pockmarked mirror above your countertop.

You wondered what Vickie would say now, what screaming match would ensue about your persistent arguments with Steve, about her hiding the truth for a full month before she died, of her making Steve promise to take care of you. 

Tears prickled in your eyes, and you blinked back at your blurry reflection, muscles taut, more fit than you had ever been. You were working yourself to the bone, teeth grit, fighting to avenge her death, when you could have been fighting to save her. 

“Fuck, Vickie,” you coughed, the letters of her name foreign against your tongue after all this time.

You hung your towel on the back of a chair and let yourself out of your room. You halted in the doorway, a piece of paper fluttering in your periphery, folded and cell-o taped to your door. 

You’d received two similar notices: one when you’d been given your final mission, and another the day after, informing you you needed to report to Quarantine. 

You wiped clammy hands on the thighs of your cargos before checking either side of the hall and ripping the flyer down, unfolding it to scan, reading and rereading in case you’d missed important information in your haste. 

Please report to PSYCHIATRIC for a mandatory evaluation at 10:00.

It was signed by all of the important people. 

Betrayal tasted of ash, felt like a swift punch to the gut, blurred your vision like heat waves. The same heat that licked at exposed shoulders stung in your chest. You slammed the door behind you, paper crumpled in one hand, and stomped down the hall.

You hadn’t gotten far, slipping just past an open stairwell, when you saw a dark head of hair scurrying downwards and out of sight. You followed two floors down, calling his name just as he was a about to slip out near the Mess Hall.

Harrington stopped, looked up at you with knit brows as you finished your descent and shoved two fists directly into his chest. He stumbled backward, back pinned to a concrete wall. 

“What the fuck?” You seethed, slapping your notice into his chest. 

He didn’t even look at it, jaw clenched, eyes stoic. He knew. He knew because he’s the one who ratted you out, who spilled all of your secrets to the wrong people. He’d been waiting for you to slip up, and you’d been dumb enough to fall into his trap. 

“What is your problem with me, huh?” You shoved at his shoulders again.

No response. 

You shook your head, laughed dryly. “You can’t even use her as an excuse because you hated me for months before she died.” 

His nostrils flared, but he just stared down at you, crossed his arms over his chest as a shield.

“Tell me what I did to deserve this,” you shook the creased notice in one hand. “I trusted you. You know that? I felt safe with you. For the first time in months, I felt safe, and you went and called Hopper on me?”

The scurry of sneakers and chatter down the hallway startled you, and you pulled back, breath heavy, face warmed in embarrassment and anger, betrayal. A few kids snuck past, muttering apologies before they giggled up the staircase. When you were sure they were out of earshot, you rounded on Harrington again. 

“I thought you were supposed to ‘protect me’.” You put the words in air quotes, digging deep, throwing his words back in his face.

“Are you done?” His voice sent chills down your spine, measured, snapped, venomous.

Your jaw clenched, fists too, at your side.

He snatched the paper out of your hand and trailed his fingertips across the page as he read. Then, he pulled a slip of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it, passing it to you. 

You scoffed, but felt the nausea settle the moment your eyes found the words.

Please report to PSYCHIATRIC for a mandatory evaluation at 10:00.

“Hopper told us we’d have one more psych eval before they put us back on the field. He wants a medical professional to reassure him we aren’t going to kill each other.” Harrington’s voice was nothing short of catty, the bite of a mean girl you knew he’d harbored in his past. He ran his fingers through his hair and tugged before emitting a growl that startled you a few steps backwards.

“God, you’re so fucking frustrating, you know that?” He tossed his arms in the air, voice finally cracking the soft, stoic barrier you were used to.

You read the words on the page again and again, pushing through the embarrassment to undying panic, the root of your problems, the girl with red hair that lingered at the end of the hallway, just out of sight, taking great delight in your pain. You took a deep breath, folded the paper carefully back up to hand it to Harrington, who snatched it quickly from your grasp.

You swallowed. “I haven’t told Linda about any of it.” 

“What?” His jaw was clenched now, fists too, and you were burning under his gaze.

You shrugged. “I lied to her about all of it. She knows about the nightmares, but she thinks they went away. She thinks I’m going through the normal stages of grief. That’s why she told Hopper I was fit to go back on the field.” 

You expected him to yell, to throw something, to abandon you here in this hallway. 

Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and sighed, shrugged. “Fucking, whatever.” Then, he gestured for you to turn and head back up the stairwell. “Let’s just get this over with.” 

—

Linda’s office was musty, poor ventilation and heat wave combing with the misters she used for her plants. You were suffocated, heart racing, warm under buzzing fluorescents. Harrington’s seat was too close to yours, his bouncing knee shaking your thigh, making you seasick. Linda paced and hummed that stupid tune. 

“How are you two doing?”

You glanced sideways at Harrington, who rolled his eyes and slumped further into his chair. “Fine.” You both managed in various tones of annoyance. 

Linda peered at you from over her glasses, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “Excellent. Then you’re definitely both up for some team building exercises.”

An alarming, but gruff sound escaped your partner, and he played it off as a cough into his fist. 

“Yes, Steve, you’ve always done well with these,” Linda smiled, tone every bit patronizing as she wheeled her finger in a circle your direction. “Go ahead, face each other.” 

“What?” You glanced sideways at Harrington and watched in horror as he turned his chair to face yours, feet scraping along linoleum. You’d nearly fallen off your own seat when a large hand met your thigh, encouraging you to do the same. “Is this really - “ 

You weren’t sure how to finish the question, stumbling under Harrington’s grasp as he manhandled you into an about-face.

“I can do it,” you snapped, standing with a huff to turn your chair around, and slumping back into it, knees knocking with his own. You crossed your arms over your chest and sat up straight, as to avoid any further physical contact. Your toes curled back around the chair legs while his leg continued to bounce incessantly millimeters from your own. 

“Perfect,” Linda chimed, just out of periphery. “I’m sensing a bit of tension this morning, so why don’t we start with frustrations?” 

You blinked at her from over your shoulder, feeling suddenly warm under Harrington’s gaze. Your entire body tensed in the proximity, confusion radiating into anger that clenched your fists tighter under your arms. “What does that even mean?” 

“Steven, why don’t you start? You’ve done this before. Let’s get it out. What about this partnership is frustrating you the most in this moment?” 

Harrington barked a laugh, and when you snapped your head to face him, he was grinding a wry smile back between his molars. He avoided eye contact, choosing instead to stare at your knees while his head shook, hand scrubbed against the stubble on his jaw. 

You dipped your head to catch his eye, and you were torn between whether to silently plea for him to keep your secret or dare him to speak his truth.

He took one more sideways glance at your proctor before releasing an exasperated sigh, hands in the air as if throwing all caution to the wind. “I’m frustrated,” he emphasized, as though he was a good little boy who had spent hours learning I-statements in this very room, “in this moment,” he punctuated with a fingertip to his knee, “with how competitive she is.” 

You fought the urge to argue, to allow the words of protest to slip from your open mouth. 

Linda was thrilled. “Speak on that. In what ways does her competitiveness hinder your partnership?” 

“What is this?” You stepped in, waving your arms to stop the flow of their teamed attack.

Harrington held his hand out as if you stay you were providing fine examples. 

“It’s important that we foster an environment where we can all get our grievances out. Let’s listen to what he has to say, and then I promise it’ll be your turn.” Linda scolded like an elementary school teacher, scribbling unmentionables on her Godforsaken legal pad. 

You recrossed your arms and glared at Harrington’s returning scowl. 

“Go ahead, Steve,” she offered for him to continue. “How does her competitiveness hinder your partnership?” 

He scooted upright in his chair again, halting the bob of his knee in favor of picking at a loose thread on his inseam. “I feel like we can’t get anything done. There’s always push-back, always an argument.”

“I feel the same way,” you interjected, slumped further in your own chair in defiance. “I feel like I can’t do anything without you scrutinizing it, and if I do ask for your feedback, I’m met with the silent treatment.”

“I don’t feel like I can get a word in edge-wise.” He leaned forward still, a challenge. “You won’t let me say anything without beating me to the punch.” 

“Because I know what you’re going to say!” You sat upright again, tossing your hands in the air. 

“Okay, alright,” Linda cut you both off with the click of her pen against her notepad. 

You both shuffled back to relaxed seating positions, and she walked back to her spritzer to continue over-watering her plants. Maybe it was a nervous habit. You suddenly found yourself wishing you had a watering can handle to wring. 

“Answer me this. When did you both start viewing your relationship as a competition?”

You swallowed, glanced back across the span of your knees to where they met his. His began to bob again, and you withheld that ever-present need to halt his movement. You closed your eyes, tried to shut out the gentle waver of the floor beneath your feet. There, in the darkness, humidity clinging your clothes to your chest, you felt her, just between your shoulder blades, that smiling face, mischievous. 

“Last year,” your voice came before you opened your eyes. 

Harrington stared back at you, crease folded between his brows. 

“We were competing for Scorch Leads: him and Robin, Vickie and me.”

“That makes sense,” Linda spoke from somewhere behind you, too far away. “You were in separate teams, going after a set objective.” 

“Yeah,” you nodded, swallowed back the lump forming in your throat as you dared to look him in the eye. “If I had known what would happen, I wouldn’t have tried so hard.” 

“What do you mean by that?” Linda asked. 

Harrington eyed you, head tilted downward, a shadow cast down the bridge of his nose. 

You shrugged, your response heavy on your tongue, but part of you figured this session had to facilitate a conversation that wouldn’t be allowed outside those doors, wouldn’t be tolerated. You felt a spectral hand on your shoulder, warmth guiding you to speak. You chewed on the words before they fell from your throat a little wrong. “I mean, he’s better at this than I am. He’s strong. He’s capable. He knows what he’s doing. If he and Robin had become leads, we probably wouldn’t be in this… predicament.” You let out a shaky breath, swirling your hand around your own head to indicate what you meant. “Vickie would still be alive.” 

“Or Robin or myself would be dead,” he snapped back. “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” he tossed his hand your direction again. “There’s always a competition. One of us always has to come out on top. One of us has to be better.” 

“I’m conceding to you!” You scoffed. “What more do you want from me?” 

“I don’t know, for you to listen to me, for once?”

Your molars slammed together at the tightness of your jaw, and the room fell to silence. Not even Linda’s spritzing continued. 

Steve grit his teeth, cracked the knuckles on his right hand, still a bit scabbed over. Then, he pieced his fingers through his hair. “I feel… so much guilt… every single day.” His eyes were dark, shoulders slumped. 

That feeling restrained you, asked you to hear him out. 

“Because I couldn’t save her, for Robin.” He licked his lips, met your gaze. “For you. Because I couldn’t protect you.”

The loom of something darker lingered in your periphery, an ice-cold chill down your spine. 

“And I feel so guilty because of how,” he shuffled in his seat, broke eye-contact, “relieved I feel that it wasn’t me and Robin.”

It struck like he’d doused a full glass of water in your face, a gasped breath, the wash away of any comforting warmth that had been replaced with a cold chill. You shifted in your seat, knocked your knees across his as you turned away from him. 

“You get everything you need, doc?” You snapped.

Linda reached for her notes, scribbling a few more things down with a pinched expression, but you had already stood to leave, taking the handful of strides to the doorway to release yourself back into a less-stuffy hallway.

“No, shit, that’s not -” Harrington’s words were cut-off as the door slammed behind you. 

He was relieved. He said he was relieved that you had been the one to murder Vickie. He was relieved that it hadn’t been him, hadn’t been Robin, a sentiment you’re sure you would have understood from his position, but from where you sat, in an endless swirl of chaos and panic and agony, it felt like a stab to the back, to the gut, like char and ash and smoke. 

You made it halfway up the next flight of stairs before he caught up with you, a sturdy hand catching your wrist and wheeling you to face him. 

You yanked yourself out of his grasp and shoved at his chest hard enough to have him tumbling downward. “Go fuck yourself, Harrington.” 

—

Eddie’s room smelled of stale weed and peanut butter. His government issue bed was far squishier than yours, but it didn’t matter because you weren’t going to sleep anyway. 

“After that shitshow, she still told Hopper you were good to go out on the field? As a team?” He guffawed, lips stuck together with peanut butter from the spoon in his hand. 

You shrugged, squeezing two Saltine crackers around a chocolate bar, the spread squishing out on either side, and you licked around it before crunching into the sandwich.

“She needs a fucking psych evaluation.” Eddie’s joke had the corners of your lips turning up, and he elbowed at your side until you swatted him away. 

He laughed, mouth full and hearty, before you sank back into the comfort of each other’s shoulders again, a closeness you’d missed with everyone else, thankful for his surrogacy. 

“Really though, how are you feeling?” He asked after a moment, breath evening, sticky midnight snacks swallowed. 

You shrugged, licked melted chocolate from your hand. “Well, I’m in your room at quarter to one in the morning. How’re you feeling, Eds?” 

“Terrified,” he answered, and you expected more humor in his tone. 

You felt his eyes boring holes into your skull as you respun the lid to the jar and tightened it, wiping any residue on your pant leg. “Don’t be. Everything’ll be fine.” 

“She says with Evil Incarnate looming over her.”

Eddie’s words sent an increasingly familiar chill down your spine, the reason you’d been evading sleep, a presence you hardly wanted to stir mere hours from setting foot in the Ether. 

“Could we change the subject?” You pushed off from the bed, crumbs rolling off your chest and onto the floor beneath your socks. 

“Have you seen him again?”

Your temple began to twitch, the first sign of a headache, and you squeezed your eyes to dull the throb. “Eddie,” you warned. 

“I’m not kidding. If this is serious, I’ll call Hopper right now.” Despite his words, you didn’t sense truth in his tone, and when you met his gaze, there was a softness to his dark eyes, a fear that radiated through you both. 

“I haven’t seen him,” you shook your head, began rinsing his spoon in the sink. As the particulars of food and suds circled the drain, your vision blurred from exhaustion, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. 

In two hours, you’d be wrestling gravity downward. You’d be strapped to Harrington, oxygen mask on, carrying a heavy pack of jet fuel. You’d be back in that cold, dark, damp place that held nothing but agony. And somehow, this is what you wanted? What you’d been working toward? 

“What’s it like?” You asked, blinking your eyes open to stare at your own reflection in the smoke-stained mirror. Your features looked gaunt, unrecognizable. The muscles of your right eye began to twitch. 

Eddie spoke your name, soft, uncertain. 

You turned to face him. “What’s it like to be Flayed? For real. Don’t give me any of the ‘I didn’t feel a thing’ bullshit. I know you lied to me when she died. I don’t need to feel better, I need to know.” Your hands were trembling, and you clenched your fists at your side to steady them. 

Your friend, your only real friend, emitted a sound of distress, pulling spindling fingers through his curls. Seeing your stance hadn’t changed from between his knuckles, he sighed and patted the spot next to him for you to return to your place. 

With careful steps, you crawled back onto his mattress, choosing a spot near the foot to face him. When you were finally seated, and he’d torn the rest of his thumb cuticle off with his teeth, he spoke, that Midwestern drawl so specific to Eddie Munson. 

“It’s not like anything I’ve ever experience before. It’s cold. Like teeth-chattering cold, and your muscles want to react, but it’s like something else is calming them. It’s a bit like dreaming, like that weird in-between when you’re laying in bed but your leg’s asleep so you can’t get up and go to the bathroom.

“You know that pit in your stomach when something horrible is about to happen?”

You swallowed, nodded, shifted in your spot to quell the chill growing at the base of your spine. 

“I felt it the day my Mom died. The whole day. I just knew it was going to happen. With Chrissy, too, when I found her standing there, I got it.” 

He grimaced, ran his hands down his face again. “Well, when he’s got you, it’s like that all of the time. Like you’re aware of how wrong it is, how unnatural. And there’s nothing you can do about it.” 

You closed your eyes, pushing back the ache that had spread into your jaw, settled behind your eye socket. “How do you know?” 

“I don’t really know. For me, I was attacked. Bats got me. I lost most of my blood, my leg was dangling by a fucking thread. When I woke up, he’d already had ahold of me. I hate that I feel like I owe him my life.”

You reached across the sheets to tangle your knuckles in his. His were bonier, long, spindly. He’d been through so much, and although you didn’t know him before all of this, you were sure he’d been a healthy young man, prime of his life. You all were. Now, alongside the world, the Ether was sucking you dry. 

“Just promise me something, okay?” Eddie squeezed your hand until your knuckles whitened with his, and you looked up into those big, sad brown eyes. “The minute you feel him, the very microsecond, I need you to tell Steve, and I need you two to get the Hell out of there.” 

“Eddie,” you muttered. You’d thought about this since before Vickie, since before the screams burned at your lungs, since before Harrington had hoisted you away from her burning corpse. All of you made peace with it, knew what had to happen if any of you were Flayed, for the betterment of the group. 

“I came out on the other side,” he growled. “And so will you. You come back, and you Quarantine, and we figure out how to burn him out of you.”

—

The Gate’s pull made you sick. The topsy-turvy gravitational change that had your stomach churning but never righted. You were hyper-aware of Eddie’s warning, feeling wholly not-right, like everything in your body knew you weren’t meant to be here, that this was unnatural. Although it’d been so long, you couldn’t remember if this was how you always felt. 

Everything was cast in greyscale, a lack of sunlight providing a lack of color, but nothing had changed from when you’d seen it last. Vines blanketed the world in intricate weaves, keeping from areas already charred black. The tear hung skyward, pressed into the roof of a cart port somewhere near downtown, though downtown down here somehow felt more alive. 

Melvald’s denoted an autumn sale. The Hawk was showing All the Right Moves. Times were simpler, and somehow that made everything more sinister.

You walked in step with Harrington, your pack heavy against your shoulders, sweat beading there turned ice-cold. Your breath fanned from your face in a cloud that went nowhere, atmosphere stagnant, wet. 

“Alright, you two,” Wheeler rounded on you at a fork in the road. “Just a routine burn, we’re torching houses surrounding the area. You know the drill. Burn what you can, and meet us back at the Gate at 700.” 

You glanced at the numbers of your watch, the red softened. 4:00. “Copy that.” 

“And guys?” She tucked her fingers into Harrington’s oversized hand. “Be careful?” 

“We will, Nance,” he offered a weak smile, tight-lipped. “You guys, too. Jonathan.” He nodded to the other boy. 

Byers nodded, solemn, and the eyes he made at you were nothing short of worrisome, judgmental. 

“Ready?” You hoisted your pack higher and broke off from them, heading down Indiana toward Elm, Maple, Hemlock. You heard the scuttle of boots as Harrington trudged to keep up.

You didn���t grow up in this town. You had no attachment to the Tigers. Hell, you had no real attachment to your own mascot, the Roane County Ravens. Your only real memories of Hawkins were tied to the Fair, smoking in parked cars, hooking up with boys along the banks of Lovers Lake. 

But you could remember the first few times you’d stepped foot in the Ether, the chill up your spine at the memories consumed by black ichor and vines. That was before the Spread, before it had seeped so deeply into the roots of the real world that bits and pieces of your home had been swallowed, sink holes and pits dured to gaping mouths, full of brambles and teeth and aching, throbbing pain. 

Harrington pulled you by the elbow to the first house. A massive oak sat out front, charred to devastation. Red pockmarked it, a wide crack down the center that had split the wood and caused half to crash to the ground, blocking street access. Vines had grown over it, decaying the underbrush, painting everything slimy and black. 

“Are you good?” He adjusted his pack, pulling the hose and trigger from its holster.

“Fine,” you grit your teeth. Your headache had thrived in the handful of hours since you’d seen Eddie, that piercing ache in your eye socket that blurred everything in an aura of technicolor. You’d taken more pills, closed your eyes on the drive over, thankful for cloudy skies and the darkness of night. 

Harrington muttered something unintelligible over your shoulder, and with a deep breath, you took simultaneous steps inside a half-eaten garage.

Everything was charred beyond recognition. The roof was caved in. A skittering sound had you walking faster, nimble feet to an unlocked doorway, and not until you were inside did you stop to settle your racing heartbeat.

“Kitchen,” Harrington spoke, voice muffled under a plastic mask.

You nodded, took a few steps forward to let him through. You wanted to follow, to crunch your way onto charred linoleum tiles, but something compelled you the opposite direction, around a large brick fireplace. You left Harrington his devices, sidestepping onto polyester shagged carpet, the color and smell of burned plastic long since faded. 

A wide window, smashed and cracked, exposed the ruins of the oak tree. A field of despair lay westward, a place where cattle once grazed, now scorched Earth, scorched Ether. This little sitting room, with replicated antique furniture and copies of classics on broad bookshelves, seemed mostly untouched, unmarred save a few pockmarked walls, peeled paint and wallpaper, a broken window. Just a bit moth-eaten, but otherwise, a safe-haven. 

You closed your eyes and breathed in the damp air inside your mask, felt the relief of an ache dispelled. 

Then you heard her voice, soft, a whisper on the wind. Your neck snapped with the force of your head turn, glancing toward a rickety staircase. Harrington climbed, pack strapped, and your eyes honed in on the heel of his heavy boot, where it met blackened staircase. 

“Steve!” You called out, leaping his direction, but it was too late, the stairs were collapsing, upper floor with them, scorched and broken, a mess of ash and wood, and Steve Harrington was lost in the rubble before your eyes. 

---

A/N: This chapter contains the inception moment of the idea for this entire fic! I love the little moments between them, the push and pull, no matter how exhausting and competitive they are. Please come yell at me about it. Thanks. Love you! Thanks, as always, for reading xo xo xo

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Chapter Two: Spark • Chapter Four: Pyre

[via-rant]

Leo watched from across the room as Jason pestered Nico into eating. Talking to him happily when he did. He wanted to snarl but didn't want to bring attention to himself right now. Not while he's like this. He wasn't angry at Nico. Or Jason. Just the circumstances. Jason was supposed to be his best friend. So was Piper. Piper just got along with everyone here. Except him.

As soon as this whole quest started he became nothing but a nuisance to them. Just like everyone else. It wasn't their fault. All those stupid memories were fake. Jason doesn't know who he is. And neither did Piper. He told him lots of things during that time. And it didn't even happen. And it never will.

He continued eating not bothering to talk to anyone or look them in the eye. He was tired. He walked out barely finishing his lasagna and back the engine room to continue repairs. That's what he's good at.

-------

"Heeeelloooo- oh. It's you." Leo said his face dropping when he saw Nico standing in front of him. Nico glared.

"Okay, what did I do to you?"

"Nothing. You just get on my nerves for some reason."

"I get on your nerves?"

"Yeah... something about being emo."

"I'm not... emo. What does that even mean?"

"Wears dark clothes, listens to depressing music, pretends to not care about anyone or anything."

"I do care!"

"Pretends. Key word there." He said with a shit eating grin and Nico stared in surprise before glaring.

"Okay, okay. Leo can we talk?" Jason asked, trying to not get them to fight.

"I would but I'm busy."

"What do you still have to do?"

"The mast is slightly unstable, one of the propellers need to be fixed - was it one? I have to check that. A few infirmary supplies, the scanners again, the navigator, I still haven't figured out why Festus' ear is leaking oil, and the glass to the stables is broken." In the distance they heard metal break. "And Percy broke some pipes again."

"Sorry, Leo!" He yelled.

"Leo, take a break."

"I don't need a break. I can handle it."

"Fine. How can we help?"

"What do you mean?"

"You expect to do all that and talk to us at some point? No. We're helping. What can we do?"

Help is help I guess. He thought and shrugged. "Sure."

------

"Aha!" Leo yelled in excitement before taking out some glass piece and replacing it with tape.

"There bud. You should stop leaking." Festus creacked and Leos smile relaxed and Nico swore his heart did a backflip.

"You're welcome." Nico watched him in fascination. It looked so real. Like nothing in that moment mattered. He was content right there.

"How are you so nice to machines but not people?" He asked and Leo looked up frowning.

"Cause people are shit. Thought you would get that."

"I used to think that. But then I met good people."

"Hm... must be nice." He replied walking to the broken pipes. They looked at each other in concern.

"Leo you have this whole ship of people who-" Jason tried.

"-'who care about you.' Yeah yeah yeah I've heard it a million times." He took out a blow torch, which confused him because he has literal fire powers, and torched the pipes.

"We care."

"Prove it."

"We're helping you with repairs."

"Yeah, to talk to me about whatever, not because you're worried. Hey, can I ask you something?" He asked looking over at them. They didn't get a chance to process the first part but Nico swallowed. "Um... yeah, go ahead."

"What do you want to talk about?" He asked and they froze.

"Why you don't... like... Nico." Jason answered in realization and Leo looked him up and down.

"Hm... interesting. Hey Nico can you glue the glass to the stable floor?" He asked throwing him the glass piece. "Jason you can continue this. I'm gonna go work on the mast." He said walking out as they stared in heartbreak. Oh...

----

@moa-broke-me so I thought of the Leo being Jealous of Nico thing more. You can add stuff if you want, I can not think of what happened next for the life of me.

[practicecourts]

Thursday snippet

Read Undercover Lover on ao3 and a possible chapter 2 snippet under the cut…

thank you @eastwindmlk for the amazing banner!

When his shift finally ends, and he’s changed into his regular clothes, he knows he should leave. Go home, eat, rest, sleep and come back tomorrow morning. Again, his feet go back to the ICU, this time they bring him straight to her bed.

She’s still unconscious, her bed is surrounded by machines, other than that she’s alone. He checks for her name and doesn’t find it, which means the hospital has no means to contact any next of kin or emergency contacts.

James wonders if she remembers him, or if she moved on along with her boxes and perhaps has already met someone else. It’s been over three months. And even if he hates the thought of another man sitting in the blue hospital chair, holding her hand, it feels wrong she’s here all alone.

He pulls the chair up, sits down and takes her hand in his.

With the steady beep every time her heart beats in the background he tells her his name, tells her how he looked for her. Despite her pallor he can still see freckles scattered over her cheeks and nose. Her lips are separated by a plastic tube, held in place with white tape across her face, some hair has got stuck underneath as well. He touches a loose strand with his free hand, and remembers how soft her hair had felt then.

James swallows down the bile that threatens to rise up from his stomach, his grip on her hand tightens. This version of her is all wrong, she is too dull, too lifeless, too alone, and he knows he can’t go home.

He doesn’t know how long he sits, just holding her hand in silence. But once he begins to speak the words just keep coming. He tells her he isn’t going to leave, not again. He tells her his name, asks hers, chastises himself for leaving that night. He tells her he went back to her apartment, and to the bar but no one could tell him anything about her.

He asks if she really is a spy, if her jokes were actually a cover-story.

Even when he knows she can’t hear him he keeps talking. Even when he knows she won’t wake up and answer, he keeps asking her questions.

[winterbuckwild]

For @babyboymunson inspired by their adorable angry farmer Steve prompt.

Today everything was pissing him off. His coffee machine pissed him off when it conked out in the middle of the drip leaving him caffeineless and adrift at 5am. The horses had pissed him off: one not wanting to go out to the paddock and the other wanting to go out a bit too enthusiastically on his two hind legs. 

The sheep had pissed him off by escaping their lambing pens running amok over the cabins front lawn and one adventurous cow had decided to investigate the commotion and took an entire fence line with it. 

Which is why at 8am Steve was loading up fence posts onto the quad trailer and cursing the fact that they ever thought farming was a good idea in the first place. 

He had just thrown the last roll of electric fence tape violently into the trailer bed when a dust trail could be seen kicking up across his unfinished driveway. 

Dust. Fuck. Now Steve was pissed off with the lack of rain and the sheer blinding effort it was going to take to drive the god damned fence posts into the hard ground. 

A familiar truck rounded the corner and he felt his bad mood lifting as a dark head came into view, curls bopping with the metal drum beat blaring out of the speakers. 

A couple of sheep startled and took off towards the cabin, most of them used to the cacophony by now and not letting it interrupt their destruction of the rampant front garden. He glared after them and studiously didn't think about where else the little fuckers could end up and what they would destroy when they got there.

"Well, that is a face." The big truck cut off as Eddie stepped out, his long, lean body loose and relaxed and a lopsided grin on his handsome, scarred face. He'd gone out early - right before the coffee incident - to pick up the feed order and there was a large hump under a tarp in the truck bed that was distinctly non-feed shaped. "Who pissed in your cheerios, princess?" 

He took a look around at the fence, the sheep and the damned cow, noticing the chaos and winced. "Nevermind. Need a hand?"

His husband skipped over, kissing him lightly on the mouth just because he could. It still made Steve go a little goofy on this inside, enough to make the whole thing worth it. Even the damned sheep. Eddie was worth everything. 

"Give me a hand with the fence?" He gestured to the quad behind him. "We can round up the assholes when we have something to put them behind."

What he actually wanted to do was drag Eddie up to their shared bedroom and give him the morning wake up that he deserved. He contemplated just ditching the madness for a full three seconds before guilt over shirking responsibilities raised it's ugly head and he sighed. Eddie must have seen the hot look in his eyes, because his smile widened and he winked. 

"Only if you give me something pretty to look at, big boy." He walked back to the truck to grab his thick work gloves and turned around to find Steve's shirt stripped off, skin golden and glowing in the morning sun. "Perfect." 

They worked slower than they could have, the flex of Steve's biceps as he rammed the posts into the solid ground distracting Eddie while the latter tried his best to tease through the whole process, brushing against his other half, pressing kisses into sweating skin as he tried to resist climbing the ex jock like a tree.

When the last post was hammered in and the stock fence attached Eddie slipped his arms around Steve slim waist and pressed a soft kiss on the side of his neck. 

"I love you." He whispered, just holding on. "I love this." 

"I love you too" Steve answered, taking a long, deep breath and melting into his husbands embrace. "I love all this." He looked over the rolling land, fields of green and swaying hay in the summer breeze. He filled his lungs with sweet air and closed his eyes, the stress of the morning almost forgotten. 

Almost. 

A loud clang sounded behind then, the loud noise jolting through them like a live wire. Steve didn't open his eyes. 

"I'm not looking." He murmered darkly. "I refuse to look. I'm comfy. You look." 

He felt Eddie shift and swear, arms dropping from around him as he darted off, cursing a blue streak. Steve turned around as his beloved chased a sheep out of the bed of his truck, the feed and mystery covered item in danger and shook his head in despair. 

"I fucking hate sheep." He sighed, "cock blocking bastards." 

***

May do a little part 2 if people like it and I can gather the brain cells....

Sorry guys should have added that I'm not able to do tag lists right now :(

Also on Ao3..

[weirdowithaquill]

Okay okay okay

I just

*need* to hear more of you rambling about trains being shipped together I don't care who it is

Although if I am allowed to request a couple I find very cute myself it'd be Culdee and Catherine

Sorry it took me a hot minute to answer (I got sick) - but let's dive in!

Ok - Catherine and Culdee are the very definition of an adorable old married couple, perhaps even moreso than Toby and Henrietta. They *need* each other - and Catherine gets jealous when Culdee takes the Truck out. Likewise, while some of the engines just take whichever coach out, Culdee has specifically requested Catherine be taken off the rotation roster (especially after the Lord Harry era). They are absolutely adorable together, but they can have a... possessive streak.

It comes from the codependency.

(They legit need each other... to survive Culdee Fell.)

At the opposite end of the adorable old married couple is Toby and Henrietta. These two actually recently made history when they became the first two (to steal the term) non-faceless vehicles to marry. Ever. Previous to this, there had been a lot of legal battles and red tape and a whole heap of "they can't marry, they're machines" which the pair fought through... since the 1920's. (Culdee and Catherine legit married the next day, and are still jealous that Toby and Henrietta got hitched first).

Furthermore, Henrietta and Toby adopted Mavis in the early 70s the moment she stopped actively ignoring their advice. It is entirely thanks to Henrietta that Mavis asked Daisy out.

(Toby continues to enjoy watching his wife verbally beat other men into dust.)

Speaking of, Mavis and Daisy really are the very essence of disaster lesbians. There is no understating how ridiculous this pair can be - see the fact that Mavis spent nearly a full decade with her jaw hitting her bufferbeam every time Daisy entered the yards. And to make matters worse, Daisy had no clue! She thought (wrongly) that Mavis had a thing for Toby... which she vehemently objected to because - and I quote - "Toby is too old for such a powerful, commanding woman." Somehow, Daisy also missed the part where she liked said 'powerful, commanding woman'. Cue Daisy trying to flirt with a very uncomfortable BoCo every time he visited the junction while Mavis tried to get her driver to send... 'messages' to BoCo.

The only engine who enjoyed this absolute anime-plotline of a romance was Toby, who revels in chaos.

(Annie is pretending not to listen in on this gossip - but she's totally listening in on these two disasters.)

From disasters to functional beings - Duncan and Rusty continue to hold the title of 'most functional Sodor couple'. And for good reason! After Duncan got over his preconceptions about diesels, he was very blunt about his new feelings for the little diesel. And remember, Duncan is a mix of rock-star, factory worker and punk. So he manages to seem wild and abrasive to everyone who hasn't seen how devoted he is to his little diesel.

Rusty, being cool and calm and petty, loves to rub their relationship in Rheneas' face - because Rheneas can't do the same thing Duncan did and ask Duke out. Because Rusty is petty, let's not be mistaken - that little diesel was happy to let Duncan just sit off the rails because he was rude. Rusty is kind and helpful - but will also sit back and let you suffer from some Sodor Karma.

(This is why I say Duncan confessed - Rusty is gazing off into the sunset, but Duncan only has eyes for Rusty.)

Speaking of poor Rheneas - I've already given him a full post dedicated to the wild ride that was his courting of Duke - but I managed to miss the small detail of Duke adopting Spencer (see ERS for details). And that leads to a whole new realm of disaster for this poor engine. He gets Peter Sam on side, he gets Sir Handel to begrudgingly admit he's... decent enough... for his Granpuff - heck, he even manages to get Skarloey to stop laughing for long enough to wish him luck! He even manages to get some good advice on asking Duke out from Rusty and Duncan! And then.... AND THEN...

Spencer grabs Duke and whisks him away. Away? Away away - to the Boxford Estate. Spencer is not a 'good' engine, and he literally resorts to kidnapping Duke like the old engine is suddenly Rapunzel (Duke has feelings about this). In response, Rheneas had to get out 'The Truck' and make his way across the Island to save Duke... who had already hitched a ride out of there with Edward and was having tea and biscuits while laughing about their respective prospective red disaster boyfriends.

(Genderbent Elizabeth and Thomas enjoy watching Rheneas watch Duke get mended...)

I think that's all from me for now - no Percy x Diesel 10 shenanigans this time, but if someone asks for them, I will bring them. Until then, I'm going to take a heap of antibiotics and try to sleep off this illness some more.