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hcneymooners · 3 days ago

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౨ৎ summer slasher!pazzi: the finale.

best friends to lovers!pazzi. men & minors dni.

🫀⋆ you're at the end. turn back .ᐟ .ᐟ

cw: high gore (final showdown), blood, violence, typical horror disturbances, misplaced sexual tension, psyopathic behavior, morally ambiguous!p, morally ambiguous!a, the power of lesbians vs a mass murderer, unhealthy relationships bc it's a horror au, codependence, obsession.

notes: i genuinely thought you guys would bury me alive if i didn't post this, so here you go. i hope you enjoy. for all the threats i was getting, i better see some reactions in my inbox tonight! in all seriousness though, thank you for being here.

love you.

it turns out that even if your best friend is a killer, it will destroy you when she dies. it seems people you love are still people you love, even at their worst.

azzi doesn’t realize how much she has seen paige as infallible until now. her hands shake as she runs them over paige’s blonde hair, the blood soaking it so dark that the strands appear white. paige’s eyes are so blue, so bright in the cold call of the sun as she stares into nothing. there is so much blood, so much fluid leaving her from the neat slashes beneath her sternum.

her ribs peek through, the white bone arcing gracefully like dancers’ legs, curved in a reverent kneel around the pulp of her heart.

azzi doesn’t know where they are. when she looks up, eyes wild and wide, she can only see an aching, open forest. it was as if the two of them had been on a private anabasis, marching inland to something she was unsure of now. her throat burns as if she has been screaming, but when she lifts a hand to her mouth, she doesn’t find it open—she only feels the plump, even line of their closure.

her hands are shaking and covered in red. she reaches down and picks up paige’s head, which lolls like a broken doll. azzi’s grip keeps slipping, the crimson spray of blood across paige’s shirt and the base of her neck making it impossible to hold on.

finally, a sound leaves her.

it’s a horrible rattle, a combination of death and grief. azzi chokes it out, her back snapping outward as she leans over paige’s body and keens. she is nothing but an animal now—nothing but a pit of loss and rage. with a hand still on paige’s cheek, azzi glances up. she’s searching.

ashlynn must be here. she must be.

who else would be the killer?

as she turns to look in a new direction, something flashes—a hot arc of light. azzi stumbles to her feet and is surprised to feel the earth beneath them. when she peers down, she sees they are bare, her brown skin pressed into the rotting, maggotted soil. she doesn’t have any more energy to be horrified.

she pushes through the thrush and works toward that bouncing sphere of light. every step away from the woman on the forest floor behind her, away from the woman she loves, feels like glass cutting through her skin.

it is salt in the wound to leave her behind. it is a slow-burning; it’s an unforgivable evil.

but she reaches her destination, despite the pain. she is not clear about what she expected to find. maybe ashlynn—her knife siphoning the light like the leech she is, her weapon an extension of her parasitic life.

but it’s not.

azzi finds nothing but a mirror.

its body is long. its surface ripples like skin beneath a pulse.

she stares into it, desperate for answers. nothing is there except for herself: bloodied, bruised, and broken. she grits her teeth and tucks a shrill shriek of rage behind them.

she swallows down her terror. swallows down her mindless hatred. tries to taste only the love—the drive of paige’s death—tries to make it sweet.

and then, she sees something rise behind her.

a horrible, dark figure rises silently from the ground. she knows what it is. the knowledge snakes deep into her chest and coils in her stomach. this is paige’s killer. the creature that took her without remorse.

she has nothing to fight with except her bare hands. but still, azzi turns to face it. to face her.

she is hot-blooded. ripened by her anguish.

and then—she goes cold. because—

azzi is staring at herself.

behind her, the mirror stills. it has given her her answer.

𓇼

azzi jerks awake.

no scream. no gasp. just the sudden, animal twitch of her limbs like something’s been severed inside her.

she lies there for a second, disoriented. the air is too still. her chest heaves once, twice, but no sound escapes her. she’s soaked in sweat, the sheets clinging to her ribs, the echo of a scream trapped in her throat like a swallowed bullet.

she turns. slowly. like her body has a gravity it hadn’t before. she shifts beneath the blankets, knee brushing warm skin, and then she sees her.

paige.

on her back, sleeping deep, with one arm thrown above her head. her hair is a mess across the pillow. her face is soft, the tension of living drained from it in sleep. there’s a damp spot just at her collarbone where azzi must’ve cried into her in the night without knowing.

azzi stares. her own hands are trembling. there’s no blood on them now, no forest rot under her nails, but she still feels it. she still sees the wet gleam of paige’s ribs and the arc of bone cradling the red, weeping muscle.

she shifts forward, almost timidly, and crawls on top of her. her weight settles gently on paige’s hips, and she leans down, hands smoothing back the loose blonde strands. one at a time. every strand is a prayer. out of the two of them, paige is the religious one, but azzi still tucks paige’s name behind her teeth for protection.

she thinks about paige’s connection to god more often since discovering that paige could kill people without a hitch in her breath. she wonders if the avowed faith is more about penance than true belief. maybe there is room for both.

(paige understood that god was real when azzi saw the monster of her and did not scream. only unearthly hands could have made such a kind, forgiving heart.)

she presses her face into paige’s neck. breathes her in. the iron tang of her skin. the faint, dry vanilla sweetness of her shampoo. the heat of her pulse just beneath the surface.

paige stirs, brow furrowing slightly before her arms lift and fold around azzi’s waist. “you okay, mama?” she asks, voice sleep-rough and soft.

azzi doesn’t answer right away. she wants to. she opens her mouth. closes it again.

the dream still clings to her ribs like ivy. she can feel it in her gut, in the space behind her eyes, in the echo of her name shouted from far away. she can feel the end of something. like a bell that’s been ringing long before she heard it.

finally, she lifts her head and looks down at paige. her lips part, and this time the words come, low and fragile.

“this is going to change me.”

paige is quiet. just blinks at her for a long moment. then she reaches up, slides her hand into azzi’s hair, and cradles her.

“shh, baby,” she says. “just sleep.”

but azzi knows she won’t.

something in her has already broken loose.

𓇼 jana’s asleep on the couch. curled up in one of paige’s hoodies, headphones half-falling off, arms wrapped around her stomach like she is forcing her spirit to live inside of herself. azzi tucks the blanket up over her shoulder, gently, and when she picks up jana’s phone to place it on the charger, she sees that the younger girl is listening to morgan’s sleep playlist. she feels the familiar prick of tears, the sickly reawakening of grief in her legs and chest.

𓇼 she leaves a cup of tea on the table beside her. koshary shai, with a twist of mint. just how jana likes it.

𓇼 in the kitchen, the quiet is almost too loud. paige is on the floor with blueprints and maps, and two empty mugs already. her hair’s tied up. she looks like she hasn’t slept despite them pressing together last night. azzi doesn’t ask—she wasn’t able to sleep well after either.

𓇼 “she shouldn’t be here,” paige says, not looking up.

𓇼 “i know.” azzi’s voice is low, rocking with something she’s trying to keep under control. “but she has nowhere else. and i—i don’t want her anywhere else.”

𓇼 paige sighs. folds up a map like she’s trying not to rip it in half. “we should’ve told her. she deserves to know.”

𓇼 “and then what? she dies too?” azzi snaps, and then closes her eyes. quieter now: “i can’t let her be part of this. not again. she’s already struggling to live with…it.” she still can’t talk about morgan.

𓇼 paige watches her for a moment, something unreadable flickering across her face. then: “you were planning on going alone.”

𓇼 azzi doesn’t answer.

𓇼 “azzi,” paige says. and it sounds like she’s saying, please don’t die. azzi crouches beside her, takes paige’s face in both hands. her thumbs press softly beneath her eyes. “i keep having dreams of you dying, p. not like nightmares. more like… soft prophecies. i’m not psychic, but it has to mean something, right?”

𓇼 paige looks at her and then says, “it’s probably a manifestation of your trauma, az. i’ll be fine.”

𓇼 silence. outside, the wind shifts. azzi lets her go and walks away. she turns on the nespresso machine, which sits on the countertop, gleaming black in the weak sunlight, and brings it to life with a press of a button. “i don’t want to take the chance.”

𓇼 “azzi,” paige finally says. “i was willing to kill for you. i did kill for you. do you really think you’d make it out of this apartment without me right behind you? you’re smarter than that, ma.”

𓇼 moments like this one remind azzi that paige is—still—incredibly dangerous. she’s only barely tamed the beast inside her, has only trained it to heel beneath azzi’s hand.

𓇼 in the other room, jana stirs. her tea goes cold.

but of course, ashlynn is always one step ahead. azzi has to hand it to the bitch: she’s evil with a true purpose.

the basketball court is eerily beautiful at night. quiet and sacred. the polished hardwood catches slivers of moonlight filtering through the high windows, creating long, creeping shadows that stretch across the floor like abstract fingers.

it’s easy to slip in and be alone inside of it. everyone else left after morgan died, and those who stayed wouldn’t have left their rooms even if offered a million dollars.

paige had insisted they come. i need to clear my head, she'd said, and azzi had, like always, understood. basketball is paige's ritual, her form of meditation. the steady rhythm of the ball hitting the floor grounds her in ways little else could.

azzi watches from the lowest bleacher, small and still. paige runs drills like she's trying to outpace death. dribble. step. shoot. each motion lands with ghostlike precision. the ball arcs clean, kisses the net with a sound softer than breath.

“you’re still favoring your right,” azzi calls out, voice too light for what she’s carrying.

paige catches the rebound, pauses. gives a half-smile that doesn’t touch her eyes. “old habits.”

die hard, azzi finishes in her head. she doesn't smile back.

overhead, the fluorescents hum like dying bees, casting everything in a bleak, clinical glow. the emptiness of the gym amplifies every sound: the squeak of paige's shoes against hardwood, the hollow tremble of the rim as the ball beat against it. their words hang strangely, echoing back warped.

azzi checks her phone. no new messages. no calls. no blue dot from jana. her stomach knots. she’d made the girl promise, promise, to stay in, to lock everything. the girl had argued—of course she had—but eventually relented when azzi's voice cracked with a shrill squeak of desperation.

"she'll be fine, baby," paige says, reading the emotions off her body like a book. "she's smart."

"she's coping," azzi counters sharply. "there's a difference."

paige nods, slow. you aren’t yourself when you deal with grief. it makes a beast out of your nerves. it is easy to act out, to slip into a version of yourself warped grossly by your loss. jana is capable of anything during this time, plagued by a deep, miserable irrationality.

they all are.

the ball balances on paige’s long fingertips for a moment before she sends it spinning up toward the basket again. swish.

that's when azzi feels it. not a sound, not a sight. just a pressure. like the gym is inhaling. her spine prickles. her body knows before she does. she's developed a sixth sense for danger these past months, an animal awareness that prickles along her blood. her gaze darts to the shadows that gather in the corners of the gym, the observation deck above, and the corridor leading to the locker rooms.

“p,” she says. barely.

paige stills mid-dribble. doesn't turn. doesn't ask. but azzi sees the shift in her shoulders. she felt it too.

“paige, we need to go.” azzi stands. her hands won’t stop shaking.

the lights flicker once. twice. then plunge them into darkness.

azzi doesn’t think. she only moves instinctively toward where she last saw paige. her arms cut through the dark. her body is pulsing with an unnamed energy. she’s not calling out. sound feels like a risk now. her fingers graze skin, and paige catches her fast.

their fingers connect and tangle, hold. paige pulls her closer, their bodies pressing together in the dark. azzi’s body, ever uncontrollable, warms slowly as it registers their proximity. azzi exhales against the curve of paige’s neck, breath hot with fear. her lips brush bare skin, sweat-slicked. paige’s hands find her waist, urgent, grounding.

“emergency exit,” paige whispers, her mouth against azzi’s ear. “we’re gonna move slow, okay, mama?”

they begin.

one step. two. it’s as if they’re dancing.

the dark feels alive. the court groans under them.

ten steps. maybe more. time is liquid here. the silence crushes.

then, a sound. metal screeching against metal.

a lock clicks into place.

then another.

another.

“she’s sealing us in,” azzi moans. paige’s body is so tense it could be stone. they stop their migration, unsure now.

and then,

“i always hated that stupid bracelet.”

the voice sings through the dark like a near bullet.

azzi stiffens. paige turns, shielding azzi instinctively.

“such a pathetic little charm. all that sentiment for something mass-produced.” the voice drips honey and venom. amused. almost tender. “you kept it, though. of course you did. you probably felt so good thinking you had it all figured out. god, i hate arrogance.”

silence.

then footsteps. slow. deliberate. from the direction of the locker rooms. the echo carries strangely in the dark gym, like the space itself is struggling to breathe. it does not want to release her.

they switch: azzi steps in front of paige because she’s the one closer to the heat of ashlynn’s evil. her body is trembling, but her hands are fists.

“ash,” she says into the dark, hoping to coax some memory of their history with the nickname. “you don’t have to do this.”

ashlynn laughs mockingly. the sound is so soft, so broken at the edges. “ash. god, you’re still so romantic. you still think this is about choice?”

the lights snap on. all at once. blinding white.

and there she is. standing near the half-court line, hands at her sides, head tilted like a question.

she looks wrong.

thinner than she was. more angular. her limbs are too long for her body, or maybe it’s just the way ashlynn holds herself, like a doll that’s been overextended at the joints. her skirt sways with every shift of weight: white, cheap pleats, bloodless. a cropped uconn jersey is taut over her ribs, the fabric faded and curling at the hem. there’s blush smeared along her cheekbones, or at least azzi prays it's blush. she doesn’t know how deep the violence runs in the other woman.

ashlynn’s lip gloss is smudged pink and sweet. she’s dressed up, azzi realizes with mounting horror.

ashlynn’s eyes are too wide. unblinking. like she’s seeing a vision none of them can.

“there was never a choice,” she says, voice now deadly quiet. “there was always only this.”

wings. it’s a match to the bracelet azzi found missing.

ashlynn notices her staring.

“oh,” she says, tilting her head further, mock-embarrassed. “you like it? it was a set. my mom got them for me. one for the wrist. one for the throat.” she touches the charm gently, like it’s precious. “guess she didn’t want me to forget how easily things can break.”

azzi’s throat tightens. the gym feels colder now.

“you killed her,” she whispers. “you killed morgan.”

ashlynn doesn’t flinch. she only sighs. patient. as if disappointed in a child.

“yes, that. god, that was awful, wasn’t it? it was supposed to be jana or, well, you.” azzi’s blood runs cold at the mention of jana. ashlynn watches her, her lips twitching. “morgan was an outlier. an unfortunate name added accidentally to the list. but despite whatever you’re thinking, i swear this is all for a very good reason.”

azzi feels paige’s hand on the small of her back, right in the middle. she tries to focus on it. ashlynn saunters closer. both girls step back.

“all they ever did was hog the light,” ashlynn says, walking forward steadily, slow and calm. it’s as if she's giving a lecture. “gold medals. scouts. scholarships. even in their failure, they were praised for being brave. strong. legendary. but there’s no room to grow in soil that’s already choked.”

she steps closer. her charm swings gently. again, the girls step back. ashlynn pauses, her eye twitching almost imperceptibly.

“someone had to rip out the roots.”

ashlynn finally stops, now a few feet away. looks directly at azzi. her eyes shine sickly. azzi can feel her words, her disregard for every life she’s spilled into an early grave, settle slow, stringy, and sticky inside of her. it clings to the ribs.

“you—you were supposed to be different,” she says. “a signal that things could change. that we didn’t have to keep worshipping the same ten girls forever. but azzi, you stayed small.”

her tone shifts again. silk-wrapped. almost pitying. she tilts her head, seems to smell azzi's disgust.

“i’m not a monster, azzi.” a soft shrug. “i’m only a gardener.”

and something in her smile twists like she believes it. like it wasn’t pain she inflicted on real people, only a kind of pruning.

only love, in its most warped, most desperate form.

azzi suddenly becomes aware of how much her body is showing. she’d only thrown on an oversized, black zip-up hoodie over an unforgiving sports bra and low-rise cotton shorts. they were from adidas, vintage soccer style ones that ashlynn had gifted her just last year. i thought you’d look so good in these, she’d said.

azzi wonders if she’d thought of her dying in them, too.

ashlynn paces closer. her voice is still lilting, syrup-sweet.

“you know, you should’ve thanked me. i carved a space for you. you could’ve led.”

azzi’s voice is steady, but there's a tremble at the edges. “you didn’t make space. you made graves.”

a beat. ashlynn’s smile flickers. falters. that wasn’t the response she wanted. that wasn’t in the script.

then, paige steps forward. she easily maneuvers azzi to the side. she can see the coil of ashlynn’s body, that same killer’s rise that she houses in her own.

“bullshit,” she says coldly. “you’re a fucking coward. you don’t have the talent, so you’re cutting the real players up? come on, ash, that’s pathetic.”

ashlynn closes her eyes and cracks her neck. she speaks with her eyes still shut. “and you. god, we could’ve been great together. then, you had to go and get all moral about it. ‘nah, azzi is off limits.’” the impression of paige drips with derision. ashlynn’s eyes open. “why do you always have to be the fucking hero, bueckers?”

paige doesn’t flinch. “i didn't say all that. i know what i am. i’m not that deluded.”

ashlynn lunges—not for azzi, but for paige. swift as death.

but paige is ready. she ducks, somehow shoves azzi away, and ashlynn back, hard. azzi feels the air get knocked out of her as she falls to the floor, paige’s strength much more than she ever could have anticipated. her side hurts from where she’s hit the court, and she realizes just how softly paige has always treated her. even when she was being mean.

when she gathers enough strength to look back at where ashlynn is, she sees paige is managing to hold her own. there’s a moment where she even has her—back foot planted, adrenaline surging. she almost wins.

until ashlynn shifts direction, sharp and serpentine, like a dancer who missed a cue and made it part of the choreography. she feints toward where azzi sits stupidly on the ground and, of course, paige moves to intercept—too late.

ashlynn smiles, and azzi feels a horrible twisting ribbon of dread around her neck at the sight. she watches in slow motion as ashlynn whips back around and drives the blade in.

right under the ribs. the blood that follows is deep and red.

azzi screams.

the sound tears out of her like a rupture, and then there is only blood. blood, ruby and leaking, and the echo of metal. there is only paige, crumpling like the world stopped holding her up. azzi was a fool to think violence couldn’t reach her.

azzi scrambles forward, knees slamming the ground, hands skidding through something warm. she falls, slips as she pushes herself back up. her vision is thin and hot and wrong. she can’t hear anything except the pulse between her ears and paige gasping, trying to say her name through lips turning white at the corners. paige is still trying to be strong, her teeth grinding together as she lets out a pained groan.

azzi is going to kill her. she’s going to kill that fucking cunt.

“fuck,” azzi chokes. “okay. it’s okay. i’ve got you.”

she shrugs off her hoodie, blood on the sleeves already, and presses it hard against the wound. paige hisses, jaw clenched, but doesn’t pull away. azzi makes her hold it there.

“fuck, this shit hurts,” paige whispers. azzi lets out a weak laugh. “ah, shit.”

her blue-eyed gaze flickers over azzi’s shoulder. she reaches out, her free hand cupping azzi’s chin.

“look at me. azzi, look at me.”

azzi struggles to look away from the way her hoodie is becoming more and more soaked. her eyes are wide and glazed over. paige takes her hand away, slaps her. azzi gasps. not from the sting, but from the grief of it.

paige has never hit her before. not even once.

“sorry. ‘m so sorry, baby. but i need you to listen to me. you need to run.” she pushes past azzi’s strangled protest. “she wants to finish me off. it’ll keep her distracted, and it gives you a good chance.”

“p—” azzi begins, but paige cuts her off.

“you knew what this was, mama. i said the point was protecting you.” her gaze is hard. “this is it.”

azzi doesn’t answer. she’s somewhere else now. something else. her hands are soaked, sticky. her breath goes in sharp, shallow. paige’s blood is on her neck, her chest, her mouth maybe. it doesn’t matter.

“azzi, if you don’t fucking move, she’ll kill you too.”

azzi meets her eyes.

“she already tried.”

paige’s brow furrowed. azzi pressed her forehead against it. her lips parted, and the words ghosted out like smoke.

“do you remember seventh grade?”

𓇼 they were thirteen.

𓇼 paige never cried. not really. at least not when people could see her. she was the kind of girl who moved through the world like it owed her something sweet. so self-assured in a way that didn’t feel fair.

𓇼 she was perfectly coded. she knew exactly how to flick her ponytail and land a beautiful free throw. azzi had always watched her sideways, had memorized the slope of her smile and perfect nose.

𓇼 so when she found her behind the concession stand after practice one afternoon, sitting with her knees pulled up and her face red and wrecked, azzi had gone still.

𓇼 she knelt down. touched her. paige flinched.

𓇼 “it’s nothing,” paige said, laughing in that fake, strained way. “it’s stupid. that girl—whatever, man. it’s just words.” but there was a mark on her neck. a little welt like a thumb had pressed there, too hard.

𓇼 azzi didn’t ask. she just stood up and walked back toward the gym. past the vending machines, around the corner where the field shadows stretched long. she knew exactly who it was, who had done this. who kept doing this.

𓇼 amerie. eighth-grade cheerleader. lip gloss always too fucking pink. always looking at paige like she was—like she was something she could ruin. a small piece of meat that wouldn’t put up a fight between her teeth.

𓇼 she was behind the school alone, talking on the phone. azzi didn’t say a word. she grabbed her by the hair first.

𓇼 the phone went flying. amerie screamed once, short and stupid. then azzi slammed her to the ground—knees scraping, elbows cracking. she sat on her chest, legs pinned on either side, weight down hard like she wanted to be inside her ribcage.

𓇼 “you think you’re tough?” azzi said, breathing fast, too fast. amerie was clawing at her arms, crying now. “get off of me, you freak. what the hell—”

𓇼 azzi punched her. then again. then she dug her fingers into her cheeks, thumbs pushing up hard until amerie’s mouth split open at the corner.

𓇼“you like to call girls dykes?” she hissed. “you want to call paige that? huh? hurt her? make yourself feel big, bad, and strong?”

𓇼 the girl sobbed. azzi spit. she wasn’t sure if it was blood or bile or lip gloss on her tongue. azzi touched her own mouth, smearing whatever was there. then grabbed amerie’s chin and smeared it across her lips.

𓇼 “now you’re one too.”

𓇼 she leaned in close. maybe kissed her. maybe just hovered. she wanted her to remember this. her smell, her taste, the fear.

𓇼 “i’ll come back if you say her name again. and i swear to god, amerie, you’ll never forget mine.”

𓇼 and with that azzi stood, wiped her hands on her shorts. left the other girl curled on the asphalt, pink glitter gloss mingling with blood. she glanced down at her hands, saw the smear of dirt and glitter and blood.

𓇼 she sucked it off.

paige looked at her, her face pale from blood loss and now twisted in a mixture of surprise and something azzi couldn’t place. then, paige let out a long breath, and azzi understood.

it was desire.

“i never knew you did that. i just thought she’d finally fucked off.”

azzi smiled and leaned down, pressing a sloppy kiss to paige’s mouth. paige moaned into it, and azzi felt a rush of pleasure at the idea that paige was called more to her than the shadow of death at her door. she almost lost her sense of the present, but then ashlynn shifted from where she was watching with an almost detached boredom, and the floor creaked.

azzi grew cold.

“stay down,” azzi murmured. her voice was glacial. “you always take it. let me do it this time. please. just stay.”

she pressed her cheek to paige’s temple. felt her nod.

she rose.

azzi’s eyes are wide, unfocused. her body was already wrecked, always had been. but something sharp is crawling back up through her.

she remembers the feel of skin giving beneath her knuckles. the split of a lip. what it feels like to mark someone and walk away.

that’s what ashlynn doesn’t understand.

azzi hasn’t survived because she’s strong. she’s survived because she’s mean when it counts. love has never softened her. in fact, love, and paige, were her triggers. she doesn’t feel the blood trailing down her own leg until she sees it, shiny against her thigh, a relic from paige's wound that she hadn’t registered.

her hoodie is a makeshift bandage, and she’s left in her sports bra, which clings to her ribs, soaked through with sweat. her shorts hang low. her whole body hums like a struck wire. carefully, azzi turns to look at ashlynn. azzi—bleeding, breath stuttering, heart thudding like a war drum—laughs.

ashlynn’s face contorts.

she hates being humiliated.

“you’re such a piece of shit, ash,” azzi says. “on and off the court. you want me, but you can’t even make the proper effort to kill me. there’s always somebody else you go for.”

“tread carefully, az,” ashylynn says, her voice deceptively easy.

“or what?” azzi asks, head falling to the side like a dog. “you’re going to kill me? stab me? go ahead. at least then you’d finally fucking do something to me.”

ashlynn’s mouth twists into a sneer, and her hand tightens its grip around her blade. she wipes the strip of metal on the white of her skirt, the contrast jarring. azzi steps back, feet still slick. she moves toward the locker room.

“and here i was, trying to be nice and give the two of you a chance at saying goodbye,” ashlynn hisses. she’s moving away from paige. “this could’ve been sacred, azzi. you ruined it. again. but hey, at least you’ll be together in the end.”

azzi slides into a crouch, her body keyed up. she locks their gazes together, calls to the beast.

“eat shit, bitch.”

she turns and runs.

azzi knows she isn’t a fighter. but she also knows she wants a kill.

the lights flicker, buzzing and half-dead. steam coats the mirrors, and the floor is slick with water, blood, and shattered glass from a kicked-in fixture. she skidded into it when she burst into the room. somewhere, a towel drips blood into a puddle.

azzi is crouched low between lockers, her breath stuttering. she’s bleeding from her thigh, her side, her shoulder—flesh opened like peeled fruit. her hands are slick and shaking as she pulls another shard of glass from her side. it’s long and jagged, and her tattered skin flutters as she tugs it out like fleshy butterflies.

her shorts hang low on her hips, threatening to fall right off. her v-line is soaked. her sports bra clings to her chest, black and wet and shining in the low light. from outside the door: a thud. then another. footsteps.

azzi’s vision narrows to a tunnel. the fluorescent lights above flicker like a dying star, casting fractured shadows across the locker room tile, smeared with blood. hers, probably paige’s, maybe even someone else’s. who knows how long ashlynn has been here?

the air reeks of sweat and iron. her eyes are burning. her bare feet slip slightly as she takes one step forward, then another. she carefully snags the towel on the floor, wrapping it around the bottom of the piece of glass she just pulled from her side. she stands there with her makeshift blade trembling in her hand.

ashlynn moves like a ghost. calm. confident. as if none of this matters.

“she told you to run,” ashlynn calls out, her voice syrup-slow, tilting her head like a curious predator. “you should’ve listened.”

azzi doesn’t answer. she can’t. every word lodges in her throat behind a scream that hasn’t broken free. she pauses, closes her eyes, licks her lips, and tries to place ashlynn’s location.

she takes a leap and lunges. she’s off.

the blade barely grazes ashlynn’s thigh. just enough to tear fabric. just enough to draw a bead of blood. enough to enrage her.

they crash into each other: teeth gritted, knees hammering into ribs, fingernails clawing through sweat-slick skin. ashlynn’s knife goes spinning across the tiles. gone. azzi doesn’t care.

she slams her shoulder into ashlynn’s sternum. the pain is immediate and electric, sharp enough to make her vision go white for a split second, but she doesn’t stop. doesn’t stop when her elbow cracks against the corner of a bench. doesn’t stop when ashlynn swings the bat—where the absolute fuck did that come from?—and beats it against her forearm. doesn’t stop when the bone splits like a breaking tree branch.

azzi keeps going.

not because she thinks she’s primed to win. but because she refuses to lose.

they end up near the showers, and ashlynn uses azzi’s weight against her, slams her hard into a wall of mirrors and porcelain sinks. azzi feels an army of glass go into her, and she shrieks. ashlynn’s smile nearly overtakes her face. her teeth are pink with her lip gloss.

blood slicks the floor. they fall into it. slide in it. roll.

ashlynn is strong. but azzi is meaner.

azzi headbutts her. a sickening crunch. blood gushes from ashlynn’s nose. she rears back, and azzi strikes again. ashlynn catches her this time, pushes her back, and kicks her hard in the ribs. glass pushes in. azzi lets loose a horrible wail of pain.

god, she hopes paige can’t hear her.

“you’re not like her,” ashlynn hisses as she pins azzi to the floor, their limbs tangled in blood and water and broken tile. “you’re soft. paige is out there, gurgling like a pitiful little insect. she’s killed for you. and you? you can’t even protect yourself.”

azzi meets her eyes. something dead and ancient opens in her chest.

“you’re right,” she says, her voice flat. “i’m not like her. i’m not even like you.”

her eyes slide down to her thigh, to where a jagged chunk of mirror is protruding at a grotesque angle. her hand closes around it. she screams, raw and loud, as she drags it out.

the world tilts.

azzi grits her teeth, sobbing through the pain as she finally frees the shard and slashes it across ashlynn’s neck.

the sound ashlynn makes isn’t human. it’s not like she was one.

“i’m worse,” azzi finishes, her voice monotonous. she’s an animal now.

blood sprays across the wall. ashlynn gurgles. falls back. grabs her throat. tries to stand. but azzi tackles her. ashlynn worms her way out, still desperate to keep going.

azzi is so fucking tired of her.

somehow, the fight spills into the gym. azzi barely registers her surroundings anymore. it’s all just shapes and echoes and blood. the bat has been dropped. the wood shines red and begging.

azzi picks it up with her broken arm, pain lighting up her nerves like fireworks. doesn’t matter. she spits blood from her mouth, tilting her head back to breathe.

ashlynn is up. she’s stumbling. gasping.

rage floods azzi. she pushes herself forward, steps slow and heavy. she is aware of paige just off to the side, her body writhing to life as she sees the ways in which azzi is destroyed. the gym lights are strobing, or maybe that’s just azzi’s vision going in and out.

ashlynn is swaying. still moving. still swinging. so determined not to die.

azzi follows. she is her harbinger.

she hefts the bat. cocks her shoulder back and raises it high. her shadow elongates past ashlynn’s bloody, burbling body.

here they are—framed center court. azzi stands, slick with gore and sweat, chest heaving. her body is shaking, the bat trembling in the air. she’s frozen for only a moment. not with fear, but with the aftershocks of violence, like a bell still ringing long after the strike.

she looks savage. beautiful.

her shorts ride low on her hips, exposing more bruises than skin. patches of raw flesh bloom across her thighs and abdomen; a cruel constellation of survival. her stomach rises and falls sharply. blood traces the curve of her spine.

her mouth parts, lips raw, a streak of crimson trailing down her jawline like war paint. her eyes are half-wild, rimmed with salt and pain.

she is radiant.

she is herself, finally.

behind her, paige coughs, wet and broken. azzi doesn’t turn. she’s focused, but she can feel her. she knows paige is still on the ground because she made her promise to stay down. to let her fight. to let her win.

ashlynn turns, her knees beginning to buckle. her eyes widen. there’s a flicker of fear. azzi’s face twists into a snarl. her teeth flash, and she swings.

the first strike lands in the ribs. the crack is beautiful. next swing: the side of the head. then the shoulder.

the bat rises and falls. again.

and again.

she beats ashlynn down with everything she has.

azzi is screaming now. she doesn’t remember starting. the raw, bestial sound claws out of her chest. she drops the bat mid-roar and keeps going. keeps wailing like her body has become a speaker for everything she ever buried.

her grief. her love. her shame. her fear. her rage. it all comes up at once, ripping through her like a second spine.

she screams until her throat gives out. until she vomits. she falls to her knees, hands holding her up as the bile falls. she looks up, remnants dripping from her mouth.

ashlynn is unmoving. she’s finally stayed down.

azzi looks away and blinks blood from her lashes.

behind her, paige lets out a rattle. it’s moist and weak.

azzi turns. her injuries scream. agony spears through her. still, she crawls over.

paige is alive, but barely. azzi begins to cry.

the doors crash open. the police—late as always. she wonders what finally clued them in.

sirens scream outside. floodlights streak in through broken windows, blue and red flashing against the blood-slicked floor. a crowd is gathered just inside the gym entrance: cops, students, and jana, stunned and silent.

azzi stands, heaving.

she steps forward, bare feet flexing, each move unsteady but deliberate, like her body weighs more now. her breath drags out in short, shattered exhales.

“mmm,” she moans, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from fainting.

she places herself in front of paige.

one step. then another. she turns to the crowd.

her eyes lock with theirs. someone is sobbing. someone else whispers her name like they barely recognize her. in azzi’s face: no remorse. no apology. only choice.

the bat glints on the floor next to what used to be ashlynn, still wet.

azzi raises her hands, palms open. blood pools in the creases. her arms shake.

she’s drawn the line. they can think what they want.

azzi’s already decided.

paige is trying to sit up, always trying to take the fall for her. but azzi is different now.

but she doesn’t mind.

she will do anything to keep paige alive. to keep them both alive.

final girl stands alone. one killer behind her. one in front. she loves the one behind. their instincts are twinned. the other is gone. final girl has survived. but there is no peace inside her. only the hum of violence, like rabid bees. there is an aftertaste. almost holy. final girl with her blood-stained hands in the sudden silence. final girl declares: i did this. i would do it again. i had to choose, and i will always choose her. final girl stands cut open. many things bleed out. from her: a red river of love, but no peace.

𓇼 the hospital is quiet at 3 a.m. everything is bleached and humming.

𓇼 paige has a private room. no visitors allowed for now. but rules don’t apply to girls who almost died for each other.

𓇼 azzi’s got six stitches along her ribs, butterfly bandages blooming down her forearms where glass sliced her open. her body is stiff as she rises. a nurse tried to stop her from leaving her bed. azzi didn’t stop walking.

𓇼 she finds paige propped up in bed, pale but awake, one arm bandaged tightly against her body. the stab wound missed anything fatal by an inch. azzi has replayed that inch in her head a thousand times.

𓇼 paige blinks as if to check if she’s dreaming when azzi shuffles inside. “hey, princess,” she says. soft, so soft.

𓇼 azzi doesn’t speak. she just crawls in beside her, every joint aching. she presses her face into paige’s shoulder, careful not to touch the dressing, and exhales for what feels like the first time in days.

𓇼 paige tips her chin, kisses azzi’s hair. “i’m so proud of you, mama,” she whispers. “thank you for saving my life.”

𓇼 azzi barely breathes. paige pretends not to notice her hospital gown growing wet. “you’d do the same for me.” it’s quiet. not solemn. bone-deep.

𓇼 then paige mutters, “she got me early. she knew i’d shut that shit down.” azzi huffs, a crooked little laugh. “i am so gonna fuck you when we get out of here.”

𓇼 paige blinks, surprised, then breaks into a smile. “yo, chill,” she grins, hand curling into azzi’s. azzi smiles too, but paige can see through it. this is all bravado.

𓇼 they lie there a long time, and eventually paige falls asleep. azzi listens to the monitor beep steadily in the dark.

𓇼 she brings a hand up to her neck, where the sleek gold evil eye jana got them both for protection glints against her collarbone.

whether it’s that—or paige’s lips dragging across her throat—that’s the only line azzi wants drawn across her neck.

#mine ; 🐎.#pazzi slasher au.#pazzi #pazzi fics #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #uconn wbb #uconn huskies

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dancinglikebutterflywings · 2 days ago

Text

No More Arguing | DK

Requested by: @reiofsuns2001

Pairing: Lee Seokmin x GF!Reader

Synopsis: Seokmin has a major argument with his girlfriend and comes to realize he hates arguing with her. Using prompt 07 from my tumblr birthday prompts: “Arguing with you is horrible and I don’t ever want to live life without you.”

Genre: Angst, fluff, slice of life

Word count: 556

Warnings: Argument. Threat of break-up. Ends with fluff.

Requests: Closed until May or June

DK Masterlist | SEVENTEEN Masterlist | Taglist Sign-Up

His fight with Y/N was eating away at Seokmin. They've had their fair share of arguments in their relationship, mostly playful banter, the occasional serious one but none of them were to this extent. They would make up within in minutes, both apologizing even if just one of them was in the wrong. But this was different.

It had been hours since he walked out after she threatened to end their relationship. He didn't get far before the guilt started gnawing at him. He spent the next few hours sitting on one of the park benches outside their apartment building.

Seokmin leaned back against the cool metal of the bench, staring up at the afternoon sky. All he could think about was Y/N's hurt expression when he walked out. It felt like a weight pressing down on his chest. He knows that they both have strong personalities and that their more serious arguments can get heated, but this time felt different. The thought of losing Y/N makes his stomach churn.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he sends her a quick text after getting an idea. 'I'm sorry. Let's go for a walk and talk this through.' he texts before sending through another one with a simple 'please.'

He waits a few minutes for her to reply and when she doesn't, he tries calling her. As he waits for her to answer, she approaches him. "I'm here," she says getting his attention.

The sight of her sent a rush of relief through him, but he could also see her own lingering hurt mixed with guilt and unsureness in her eyes. He quickly stands up, turning his body to face her. “Arguing with you is horrible and I don’t ever want to live life without you.”

"I hate arguing with you too. I'm sorry as well," she says, sniffling. "I didn't mean it when I said we should break up."

Seokmin’s heart swelled with relief at her words. “Really?' he asks the tension between dissipating just a little. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I love you too much to let you go," Y/N nods stepping closer to him and wraps her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly.

"I love you too," he feels a rush of warmth as he embraced her, holding her close as if afraid she might slip away again. “I don’t want to argue anymore, not like that,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. “Can we promise each other that?”

Y/N nodded, her expression softening, "I promise, and I also promise I won't threaten to break up with you again."

He smiles and leans down to press his lips softly against hers. "And I promise not to walk out on you again."

Y/N smiled softly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We’re a team, and we can work through anything together.” She took a step back, still holding onto one of his hands. "Should we go for that walk? Maybe stop by our favourite place and get something to eat?'

“That sounds perfect,” he replied, the big smile she fell in love with when they met breaking across his face. The tension that had wrapped around them like a heavy blanket began to lift as they walked side by side, fingers intertwined.

©️2025 dancinglikebutterflywings - Do not copy. modify and/or repost anywhere.

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stevieschrodinger · 3 days ago

Text

Part One Ten

“Eddie?”

Eddie wakes up slowly, rubbing his face into the warm material under him, Eddie’s hand coming up without much thought to wipe away the wet drool pooled under his mouth. “What?”

Steve chuckles, and the firm chest under Eddie shakes with it, “it’s morning.”

“What?” Eddie says again, thoughts still slow and sleepy, dragging himself up.

It is light outside, a little daylight making it’s way though the blinds. Eddie can’t remember the last time he slept through the night like that, “I’m going to go let Falkor out in the yard, shower, and then make breakfast, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie just agrees, latching onto the knowledge that he’s got at least twenty minutes to rub one out and get vaguely presentable before he’s got to go eat, the feel of his hard on and the accompanying arousal almost immediately pressing, “make sure you pick up all the shit,” Steve snorts a laugh as he slides out of bed and pads away.

“What are we doing today then Jedi Master?”

“Well, my young padawan-”

Eddie snorts, not at all surprised that Steve’s willing to play along and yet still disgusted and charmed by it in equal measure.

Steve gives him some side eye from where he’s rinsing dishes at the sink.

“I thought we could start by walking Falkor, then some yoga and maybe a little housekeeping on my part. Then you can have a bath and stuff if you like. I wanted to make pesto shakshuka for lunch, and then,” Steve shrugs, “whatever.” He starts drying dishes, putting them away.

Eddie nods, “got a couple of tunes I could work on.”

Steve smiles, like, genuine, but not overdone or anything, “that’s great Eddie. I’ll appease the green owl.”

“Then a movie, maybe? After we’ve walked the dog again, I mean.”

“Sounds like we have a plan for the day.”

“Such a boy scout.”

“I was never a boy scout, but what can I say, failing to plan is planning to fail.”

“Jesus Christ fucking kill me.”

Scenting Steve helps. Pinning Steve appeases Eddie’s Alpha. Eddie hasn’t jerked off this much in years.

Mostly because there’s, up until recently, been someone around to do it for him, but that’s neither here nor there.

He doesn’t have the horrible, half formed, gritty sensation he had through his whole last rut, and even Eddie recognizes how much better this feels than the last one. Much more clear headed, and, as much as he hates to admit it, much more reasonable. He feels so much better, but he’s not willing to admit that it’s anything to do with walking or yoga or eating vegetables.

Steve would just be unbearably fucking smug about it.

Eddie’s started viewing Steve as a big, annoying, fortune cookie. Crack him open and out pops things like, ‘tidy space, tidy mind,’ and ‘you’d be surprised by how much of a positive an effect something as simple good sleep hygiene can have,’ and ‘have a glass of water, dehydration can affect mood and cognitive function.’

Steve is agreeable about reading his notes to Eddie every evening before he sends them to Chris, and honestly, Eddie sounds like a fucking A plus student once he’s been polished through the filter of Steve’s professional linguistic skills.

Eddie knows he isn’t, not even remotely, but, still. Steve’s on side, which is really nice to know, despite how fucking Steve is…Steve about everything.

Which is why it’s kind of upsetting when, at the end of day four of Steve’s imposed routine, Eddie’s rut starts to cool off. It’s still a little long run for a rut, if Eddie’s rut starts on a Tuesday morning, it’s usually done and dusted by Thursday afternoon but. Still. Not that much longer than normal, and Eddie figures that means it’s balancing out.

Steve knows it too, if the way he keeps side eyeing Eddie is anything to go by.

“What?”

“I haven't actually emailed Chris yet today, I could call her, get out of your hair now. You’re pretty much done, right?”

Eddie faces the prospect of going to bed alone for the first time since Steve got here, and he doesn’t like it. Once the band aid was off, Eddie had no issues scenting Steve. Which has led to, and this is extraordinarily irritating, possibly some of the best sleep Eddie has ever gotten. It probably helps that, despite not usually being at all Eddie’s type, Steve is almost offensively good looking.

And the pectoral pillows are, just, well. Eddie’s more comfortable with company when he sleeps, he guesses. Having the warm lump that is Steve within easy reach has been...nice. Especially compared to the hospital. And his lonely little room at the center. Chrissy made sure that rock star status did not allow Eddie a single spec of preferential treatment when he was drying out.

Not so much as letting him have a tab at the commissary. Eddie couldn’t talk his way out of a single room search, no matter what he offered to sign or whose selfie he offered to pose in. Not that he had anything to hide, but the invasiveness of having his room tossed always made him feel itchy as fuck.

“Maybe, I mean, it’s still a little, like, you know?” Eddie hasn’t had trouble telling people what he wants since he had a number one track, but he knows making demands of Steve will almost, definitely, result in the opposite occurring. He’s got to rely on Steve being the perfect blend of contrary asshole and bleeding fucking heart, “I mean, actually, you know what yeah, you go. Fuck off. Be nice to have the place to myself again. Since it’s actually my house, and everything,” Eddie lets his voice shake a tiny bit, right at the end there, even as he lifts his chin and crosses his arms stubbornly across his chest.

Steve can be a tricky fucker, conning Eddie into scenting and yoga and hidden fucking vegetables, but Eddie’s no slouch.

Steve stares at him for what feels like a long time over the top of his laptop, “I’ll email her that this is the last night then. I’ll go tomorrow sometime, it’s late anyway, I probably shouldn’t leave tonight. If that’s okay.”

Eddie lets his head flop back on the couch cushion so that Steve can’t see his face, “fucking, just, whatever then,” he aims for disgruntled, and he thinks he nails it.

Eddie sighs, blinking at the shadowed blinds that cover his bedroom windows. He resists the urge to nuzzle into Steve’s tee shirt covered pec, then almost the moment he stops himself, his brain does it anyway, operating on autopilot.

Eddie sighs again.

“Can’t sleep?” Steve whispers in the dark, his hand coming up to gently rest on the small of Eddie’s back.

“What’s the suggestion doc? Meditation? Glass of water? Counting sheep? Organize everything in the fridge by expiration-”

Steve snorts a laugh, “it makes it easier to see what to prioritize. Less food waste.”

“Uh hu,” Eddie yawns, “starving kids in Africa would kill for that half a jar of pickle.”

“Probably.”

They lie quiet again, Steve’s hand wandering, dragging the material of Eddie’s vest. Eddie thinks vaguely about what kissing Steve might be like. Soft and pathetic Eddie guesses. Gentle, romantic. Steve probably only kisses people he really cares about, and it probably shows. Minty fresh and soppy and definitely everything Eddie hates.

He shuts that down.

“Tell me about being a boy scout, that shit will put me straight to sleep.”

“Pretty sure I already told you I was never a scout.”

“And I’m pretty sure you’re lying.”

“I don’t lie.”

“Uh hu, that’s exactly something a boy scout would say.”

“My integrity is very important to me.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, “of course it is. What do you do when you can’t sleep?”

Steve hums, thoughtful, “well, you didn’t sound too keen on mediation, so that’s out. So, read, sometimes, I guess.”

“Cop out,” Eddie says, even as he rolls away. He hasn’t read anything for a long time, can’t, truthfully, remember the last time he picked up a book. Eddie was a voracious reader when he was young, and it’s one of the habits that got replaced with...far worse habits. He suddenly misses it. Misses it viscerally. Something that he hasn’t had any interest in at all for...a long time, and at the mere mention of it, it feels like it’s coming back and making demands.

He pads down the hall in the dark; all the scrappy paperback books got banished from Eddie’s bedroom when he did the great redecoration. Probably shouldn’t have done all that when he was fucking high though.

He doesn’t know what he wants to read really, nothing heavy, not this late at night, but then The Gunslinger is staring him right in the face from the dead center of the shelf and Eddie thinks, fuck it, why not?

If Steve is annoyed when he leans over to flick the light on, he doesn’t show it at all. Doesn’t seem even slightly put out by having his sleep delayed, “what you got?”

“The Gunslinger. King.”

“Oh yeah, Dustin likes those, keeps telling me I should read them.”

“You should, they’re the best.”

“You start then.”

“Huh?” Eddie gets settled again on his back, leaning into the crook of Steve’s arm, “start what?”

“You read a bit, then I’ll read a bit, if you want?”

“I…” Eddie wants to protest, because this is dumb, and he doesn’t understand why Steve is showing any interest in it, not really. But he finds himself unable to articulate why it’s dumb, and he knows Steve is always ready to tell him he’s wrong if he points out that Steve doesn’t care, not really. He gives in instead. “The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed...”

Falkor’s in the car, big pink tongue hanging out of his mouth, his head sticking out of the passenger side window of Steve’s car. Eddie vaguely wonders if Falkor is actually going to ride shotgun.

Steve’s got a dinky car; Eddie could buy him a new one.

Steve would fucking hate that, he’d probably donate it to charity or something.

“Okay, pretty sure I’ve got everything.”

“Right, yeah,” Eddie steps back in through his open front door, watching as Steve puts down his bags to pull his jacket out of the little boot room thing that Eddie was informed all rich people houses have.

“Yeah, so I’ve updated Chrissy, pretty sure she’ll be here later. Look after yourself, Eddie.”

“What, because you won’t be here to do it?” It’s meant to be snarky. It is snarky. It’s snarky for all the wrong reasons.

Steve grins though, huffing an almost laugh, “something like that.”

He shuffles through the door, negotiating his very sensible duffle bags, “you sure you got all the dogs stuff?”

“Pretty sure,” Steve shrugs, “but if I don’t that’s Dustin’s problem.”

They stand for a second then, staring at each other, “enjoy the ren fair,” Eddie says, just to drag it out a second longer before he’s alone again.

“Oh yeah! I’m sure I will.”

“You can, uhm, tell me all about it, maybe?” Eddie sticks his hands in his hoodie pockets to avoid fiddling. Steve might not be back. They both know they might never see each other again, that’s pretty much the reality here. Eddie’s rut was okay. He’s been out and dry for...well, few months now. He has a therapist.

He’s kind of doing okay.

“Sure,” Steve answers kindly. Or just...politely, which Eddie doesn’t really like. He much prefers the idea that Steve likes him, even though Eddie’s an asshole.

Maybe Steve likes people who are absolute dick heads to him.

The words are out before Eddie can really give them permission to go, “maybe we could get coffee?”

“Sure thing, Eddie,” Steve says, leaving with a smile and a nod. The smile was Steve’s bullshit professional one, and the words sounded kind of sad. Steve leaving suddenly feels kind of abrupt. Oddly...unfinished.

Eddie senses that he’s just fucked up, but he can’t...he can’t pin down why, because he’s not sure how.

He watches Steve’s little car trundle down the drive.

Chrissy crashes through the kitchen, slapping her bag down on the counter top, “Edward Munson what did you do?”

“What?” Eddie puts his guitar down, half climbing out of the lawn chair, ready to flee off the end of the deck if necessary, “what did I do?”

“Steve just emailed.”

“Right?” Eddie ignores the little twist of feeling in his chest.

“He said that he’s really thankful for the opportunity and really liked his time here, but, regretfully, he isn’t available to support you any longer.” Chris has her arms crossed over her chest, one foot tapping, and Eddie suspects he’s two minutes from having his blood sprayed across the lawn, “so why would that be?”

“I-I mean I don’t know?” Genuinely bewildered and doing his best to ignore just how sharp the hurt is.

“You don’t know?” Eddie’s heard the expression ‘thunderous’ before, and he’s pretty sure it applies now. Right to Chrissy’s face.

“Eddie, how can you not know? You must have done something. I told you not to push his boundaries okay, I told you this is not a sex thing, I told you he is a professional-!”

“Oh,” Eddie deflates. He puts his guitar fully to one side, flopping back in the chair.

“You know what you did?”

Eddie shrugs, “maybe. I mean. I didn’t think it was bad I just-” the warm squirming in Eddie’s chest is desperately unpleasant. The crawling embarrassment. The hurt. Eddie blinks a little too fast, trying to get rid of the sudden wetness accumulating on his lashes, “I didn’t mean it to be bad.”

“Oh honey,” Chrissy seems to turn on a fucking dime, she sits, taking the seat next to Eddie, “what happened?”

“I, uhm,” Eddie can’t even look at her, he’s so mortified, “I asked him out. For coffee. Steve probably saw that as like...encroaching on his professional boundaries or whatever. Not within the framework of his contractual employment. Fraternizing with the paying customers-”

“Eddie,” Chrissy quietly interrupts Eddie’s rambling, touching his arm gently, “why? I thought you didn’t like Steve?”

Eddie shrugs, angrily dashing away the one tear that’s broken free. He’s crying because he’s embarrassed and angry at himself, and now he’s crying he’s even more embarrassed and angry at himself because this is just so stupid-

“Oh. Oh honey that’s okay. I mean...Steve probably gets it all the time, I mean he does spend people’s ruts and heats and stuff with them. That’s probably...confusing for a lot of people.”

“I’m not confused,” Eddie protests quietly, looking across the lawn so he doesn’t have to see Chrissy’s pity face.

“Okay, sure,” Chrissy agrees way too fast. She doesn’t believe him at all. But then, she doesn’t know Steve, not like Eddie does, so she wouldn’t get it.

Eddie gets up, running away from whatever bull shit mess he’s created.

He’s never going to see Steve again.

Twelve

#steddie #pre steddie #rock star eddie munson #drug abuse #alcohlism #eddie munson #stranger things #steve harrington #ficlet #chrissy cunningham #eddie and chrissy #alpha eddie munson #beta steve harrington

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arlana-likes-to-write · 18 hours ago

Note

Can you please do wandanat x daughter reader were she has powers let's say like sonic. And she tries to hide them but it gets hard and she ends up in a fight with her parents and during Wich she accidentally yells about it and like instantly goes quite and how they would react please and thank you.

A Hidden Part of Me

Note: So I changed the power the read has because I didn't want it to be to much like Pietro. The power I choice added more angst to the story (which everyone knows I love). Also, sorry for being MIA I wanted this story out sooner but I think I'm developing carpal tunnel and I got sick. But please enjoy!

Warning: angst, angst with a happy ending (?), headaches, throwing up, dubious consent (it makes sense when you read it), mention of past death, self harm (?), trauma, lots and lots of trauma, x-men mention!, no physical description but reader does have long hair

Word Count: 5.1k

At this point, it was easier to keep it a secret. You had been with Wanda and Natasha for a few years but officially adopted only for 5 months. It was by accident that you ran into the couple. They were in California to help Scott with an Avenger issue. It so happened that the group they were after was after you, too. You gave them information critical to their mission. You thought that was it. That you would never see the Avengers again. However, the couple wasn’t too happy about letting you live alone, especially on the streets.

You moved into the Avenger compound in upstate New York. Nothing was holding you to California anyway. You enrolled in a home school program, worked out with Peter, and fell in love with spending time with Helen in the med bay. The Avengers welcomed you into their family, and you felt safe with Natasha and Wanda. Two years passed, and they officially adopted you. So, a hidden part of you was kept a secret.

They asked why The Syndicate was after you, and you told them you weren’t sure. That was the truth. You weren’t sure the Syndicate knew what you were capable of. Then, it never came up again. So why would you tell them? Being a part of the team wasn’t part of your ideal future. At most, you would want to help Helen in the med bay. You weren’t a fighter. Deep down, you were scared to tell them. Maybe they would see you differently when they discovered you were the reason you were alone.

Besides, it was easy to fight it. The urge to use your powers felt like a prick on the back of your neck. Sometimes, a headache would emerge, but you had remedies for those. So you pushed through. Ignored it. Time would pass, and the feeling would go away. For the past 10 years, you had it under control, and that was how it was going to be.

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A nagging headache pounded at your temples. No medication would touch it to help soothe it. Every sound made it worse. It came at a horrible time, too. You had a to-do list a mile on that consisted of essays, studying, and writing a speech for a conviction you were invited to. Every movement or bright light causes you to fight nauseous.

You called out sick with your internship with Helen and laid on the couch with a cold towel over your eyes. You were in Wanda and Natasha’s little apartment in the compound instead of your own. Their space felt like a blanket of safety around you. The lights were dimmed, and Wanda’s incense with lavender.

You groaned when their door opened, but their footstep stalled. It was Wanda’s soft footsteps that continued over to you. She sat on the table. “Another headache?” She asked softly. You groaned again as your answer. Her fingers undid the ponytail that held your hair up. The release of tension helped slightly.

“You’ve been getting them a lot recently,” Natasha’s voice came from the kitchen. She was trying to be quiet as she shuffled around - no doubt making tea. Chamomile tea had helped in the past, but you weren’t sure if it would help now.

“Grab some chocolate, too,” Wanda said to her girlfriend. Again, you groaned in protest. “I know, sweetheart, but it helped last time.” The last time was two days ago. Natasha wasn’t wrong when she said these headaches were more and more frequent. Suddenly, the cloth covered your eyes was removed, and you stared up at the smiling face of Wanda. Groaning, you rolled onto your side to bury your face in the cushion. “Now, when did a caveman replace my daughter?” Wanda chuckled. Huffing, you flopped back onto your back.

“Head hurts,” you mumbled.

“I know, sweetie,” Wanda cooed. Natasha walked over to you with tea and chocolate.

“Can you sit up for us?” You shrugged but slowly sat up. The room spun, and you closed your eyes tightly, pinching the bridge of your nose. You felt Wanda move behind you to offer support. “Open your mouth,” Natasha whispered. “Try to take a few sips.” As much as you wanted to, you were afraid, too. Saliva pooled in your mouth. The room spun, and you couldn’t find your center, even with your eyes closed. You reached for Wanda’s hand.

“Gonna,” you mumbled. “Gonna be sick.”

“Nat,” you heard the Black Widow move. As quickly as the redhead was gone, she was back, and something was pressed under your chin. A metal bow, you figured, when you grabbed it.

“It’s okay, med (honey),” Natasha said. “We have you.” The dame broke that you desperately tried to hold back. Your body lurched forward, dry heaving first - painful spasms that wrecked through your chest. Then bile rose, bitter and sour, burning your throat as it came up. There was nothing solid to bring up as you hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

Finally, it stopped, and you slumped back against Wanda - all of your energy was gone. Natasha left again and was back with a towel. It was warm against your skin. Gods, you hated feeling like this. Wanda pushed some of your hair out of your face and kissed your forehead. “Maybe we should take her to Helen,” Wanda said. “This isn’t good. Something must be wrong.” Natasha hummed in her agreement and took her hand. You liked the way her thumb moved back and forth against your skin.

“I don’t want to move her too much, though,” the Black Widow said. “Maybe Helen can come to us.” Usually, you hated when people talked to you like you weren’t there. You were just too tired to have any say.

You must have fallen asleep because you woke up in the couple’s bed - under the covers: an IV and a cotton ball with a tap at your elbow attached to your right arm. Helen must have taken blood. Thankfully, your headache was dulled. “Hi,” you looked at the Black Widow sitting in the chair next to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” you answered and sat up against the headboard. “I’m guessing Helen gave me tramadol .” Natasha nodded. “Does she know what’s wrong with me?” She sighed.

“No, but she took some blood and will run a few tests. She wants to run some scans when you are feeling better.” That made sense. The headaches had to be a neurological problem, and getting scans could help. It wasn’t making sense, though; you never go sick. Even when you volunteered at the local clinic, the flu spread through the city. The last time you had a headache, this bad was 10-oh fuck.

It was like ice was injected into your veins: fear and panic. Ten years ago, these headaches were so bad you missed five days of school. Ten years ago, you sat on your family’s couch while your parents yelled at you. Ten years ago, you became an orphan, but your headaches stopped.

Before you could dwell more about it, Wanda entered the room with a fresh bowl of chicken paprikash. “I hope you are hungry because I made extra.”

“Smells great,” you lied and took the bowl from her. It was your powers that were causing these headaches, which meant everyone around you was in grave danger.

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The scans confirmed your suspicion when they came back clear.

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Natasha saw much of herself in you - a scared young girl who thought she had to hold the world’s weight on her shoulders. When they first brought you to the compound, you were terrified and unsure how to act around everyone. You retreated so far into yourself that Natasha was worried she would never see you again. But as time went on, you learned to trust those around you.

Boy, was it a treat to see your personality shine through. Your laughter bounced off the walls. Your smile lit up the room, and you were so fucking brilliant. It amazed her how you flew through assignments. Natasha was so excited to see what the future held.

Now, something was wrong. These headaches were driving you further and further away from them. You pulled back. You kept to yourself, and Natasha was beginning to forget the sound of your laugh. At any given moment, you quickly would leave the room when someone entered. But there were times Natasha could look at you before you left. Your eyes were a million miles away, and you looked exhausted. She’s never seen you like this before. Your absence was taken a toll on Wanda and the team.

The witch desperately wanted to fix what was going on. But it was hard when they had no idea what was broken. The Black Widow was tired of walking on eggshells around you. Hell, the entire team was. She needed to comfort you and figure out what was happening.

The intervention happened during team bonding. The TV had Mario Kart on while Sam, Peter, Bucky, and Steve raced against each other. Bruce was talking with Maria and Yelena regarding an upcoming mission. Wanda and Vision were talking over a game of rummy. That left Natasha with Tony. The billionaire was behind the bar mixing a mocktail for himself. “So,” Tony said. “Any idea what’s going on with that kid of yours?” Natasha huffed and took a sip of her drink.

“No idea,” she mumbled. “Every time I try to talk to her, she runs away. It’s like she’s scared.”

“Of what? You and the witch?” Tony questioned. The Black Widow shrugged. Maybe you were. At surface level, they were good parents. But one look into their dark and complicated past would scare anyone off. “Nah, that ain’t it. She looks scared of herself.” Natasha looked at Tony.

“What do you mean?” Tony sighed and took a long sip of the drink he made.

“I’ve seen the same look on everyone’s face in this room, including mine. At one point or another, we’ve all been scared of what we are capable of,” he shrugged. “Besides, we never found out why The Syndicate was after her.”

He had a point. But if you had a gift like Wanda or Carol, why hide it? You were surrounded by different people unless Tony was right, which Natasha hated to admit, and you were scared.

The sound of footsteps approaching caused Natasha to look. It was you - dressed in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. A pair of headphones were over your ears. Gods, you looked terrified and turned away quickly to leave, but Natasha was quicker. “Hey,” she waved at you to get your attention. Luckily, you stopped and took your headphones off, winching slightly. Were you experiencing another headache? “Why don’t you stay? Hang out for a little bit. I know Peter has been dying to beat you in Mario Kart.” Peter looked at you when he heard his name and waved.

“I can’t,” you said. “Super busy with school.” You were fiddling with your hands in front of you. “Maybe another night.” Natasha sighed as you turned around.

“Why are you doing this?” She asked. “Why are you putting a wall between us and you?” You stopped walking at her questions, hands falling to the side and flexing into fists.

“Can we not do this here?” You asked. Natasha could tell you said it through gritted teeth.

“If not here, then when?” she countered. You run away every time we try to talk to you.” Natasha heard Wanda’s footsteps walking by her side.

“Sweetheart, we just want to help.”

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Help? How could they help you when there was no answer to your problem? You squeezed your eyes shut. You were too weak. The simple solution was to leave the compound, but you wanted to stay even when it endangered everyone you loved. Gods, you were a fucking monster. “You can’t help me,” you whispered. “This is the way it has to be.”

“Why are you acting like a goddman martyr?” Natasha asked. Slowly, you turned to face them. Everyone on the team seemed to be locked in on this fight. It was a long time coming. You could feel the tension every time you entered the room. ‘We are a family. We figure things out as a family.”

“You think I want this? Do you think I like isolating myself from all of you? I hate it! But I didn’t ask for this because this is how it has to be,” you yelled, wincing slightly. The headache, which was a dull pulse, was intensifying. You pressed your fingers against your temple as if you could squeeze the pain out, but it throbbed - pulsing waves that started behind your eyes and spread like wildfire across your forehead and down your neck.

Groaning, you hunched forward. The pain was causing your stomach to twist and turn. You felt like you were going to throw up. “Sweetheart,” to blinded by the pain, you missed when Wanda walked over to her. A gentle hand now placed on your back.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you recoiled away from her, accidentally slapping her across the face.

“Hey, that was so uncalled for,” Natasha looked over Wanda’s face. A small mark formed when you hit her.

It was all too much. The noise. The attention. The pain. You wanted it all to stop. You pressed your palms to your temples. The pressure wasn’t helping. Panic swirled around you. Each breath you took was choppy and swallowed. “Gotta make it stop,” you mumbled. “Gotta make it stop.”

Everyone was talking. Everyone was saying your name. But the worst of all, you heard their blood swirling through their veins. Every heartbeat in this room echoed inside your head. The prickle at the back of your neck became impossible to ignore. “Please stop!” You yelled and threw your arms to the side. Finally, the noise stopped. The headache was gone, but the reason behind it all twisted your stomach in shame.

Everyone was frozen, their eyes wide in shook and fear—except Vision. The android slowly stood up. “What are you doing, Miss?” he asked.

You ignored him. Your fingers twitched as if you were plucking invisible strings. Their body obeyed you - they were no longer in control. Clenching your hands into fists, they fell—one by one, your family to their knees, then to the ground. Everyone expect Natasha. She was fighting it - fighting you. Her eyes darted to yours in panic. Tears were streaking down her face. Her shoulders trembled. “I’m sorry.” And you were; that wasn’t a lie.

You punched your hand forward, and Natasha finally fell to the ground. Unlike the past, you had a little more control over your powers. They weren’t dead, just unconscious. It would give you time to come up with a plan. “Don’t come after me, Vision,” you looked at the android. “I don’t want to be found.”

As quickly as possible, you ran out of the compound, leaving the only family you knew behind.

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Wanda’s head was spinning. It felt like she tried to out-drink Steve and Bucky, and they used Asgardian ale. A gentle hand was able to bring her back to reality. Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw Vision staring down at her. “Easy,” he spoke softly. “I’ve alerted Helen and the medical staff. They should be here shortly.” Against her better judgment, Wanda tried to sit up. The world spun, and she threw up the little food in her system. “Ah, yes, the same thing occurred to Sergeant Barnes when he woke up.”

Once her stomach settled, she sat up and looked around the room. The entire time was in different levels of waking up. She was leaning heavily against the android as she looked at Natasha. Her girlfriend wasn’t moving. Luckily, Helen arrived and rushed over to her first. There was dried blood underneath the Black Widow’s nose. “Viz,” Wanda whispered. “What happened?” The android sighed.

“I witnessed it, and I’m not entirely sure.”

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Everyone sat in the conference room, an IV attached to their arms that was pumping fluid, pain, and nauseous medication. The only ones not here were Natasha and Peter. She had to be taken to the med bay for further testing. Tony refused Peter to enter the meeting. Wanda knew why through the security feed of the events that transpired. Natasha fought against whatever you were doing to them. Then you ran. Vision told the group you wished not to be followed. Like hell, that was going to happen. Tony groaned. “I feel like I’m hungover,” he said. “I hate this feeling. It’s why I quit drinking.”

“Shit was unnatural,” Sam shivered. “Felt my blood was betraying me.”

“And I’m guessing you and Natasha had no idea about whatever this is?” Maria asked. Wanda shook her head. There were moments when Wanda would accidentally venture into your mind. It was never on purpose, but she never saw this. Either you never thought about it or hid it away from her.

“What do we do?” Bucky asked. “She’s alone and probably terrified.” Steve rubbed his hands over his face and ruffled his head.

“The correct course of action would be to report it to Ross.” Yelena scuffed and shook her head. “What is it?”

“We all know what will happen to her if this gets out,” Wanda squeezed her hands into a fist. Ross and the council would throw you into the RAFT like they tried to do with her.

“What do you purpose, Miss. Belova?” The younger Black Widow locked eyes with her. Natasha liked to joke that you made Yelena soft. The Blonde became an aunt to you so effortlessly no one batted an eye.

“We do not report it, and we keep here where she is safe.”

“And what if this happens again?” Tony questioned. What if she loses control and this happens again?” he raised his arm with the IV in it.

“She is my daughter,” Wanda finally said. She’s family, and we don’t turn our backs on family. If she gets her powers under control, then she can stay here.”

“How do we train her?” Bruce questioned. “I have never seen anything like this before.” Wanda sighed. She sat at a table with an android who was given life by a stone, a man who turned into a Hulk, and two soldiers from World War 2. They were all definitions of ‘never seen anything like this.’ But for some reason, you were the abnormality - the one unable to get her powers under control. It was out of fear - they were terrified of an 18-year-old girl.

“Then I have another option,” She spun around to see Natasha. She looked paler than usual with dark circles under her eyes, but she was awake, alive, and standing.

“Nat, shouldn’t you be resting?” Wanda asked, standing up to approach her girlfriend. But Natasha waved her off and walked over to the table - hands resting on top of it - as Wanda sat back down.

“If we all agree to keep what she is capable of between us, then I have an idea. " At first, no one said anything, and Wanda held her breath. Finally, one by one, they all agreed to keep your power a secret. “Then I think we should send her to Xavier.”

“What?” Wanda exclaimed. “You want to send her away. She’s going to think we are abandoning her.”

“But we aren’t,” Natasha glanced at Wanda, then looked back at the table. “She’ll return to us when she can’t hurt herself or us.” Wanda wondered if Natasha was referring to the headaches. Slowly, the redhead put her hand over Wanda’s. “What other options do we have? Xavier can help her.”

Wanda wanted to argue that there were a number of options if they just took a moment to think and did not let dear cloud their judgment. But Wanda finally took a good long look at her partner. Natasha looked shattered, like a piece of her was missing. It reminded Wanda of a time after Ultron or the night Natasha opened herself up to her and relived every painful memory of her past—a past that was haunted by a man who controlled her—just like you did.

Sighing, she squeezed Natasha’s hand. “FRIDAY, can you locate her?” The AI was quiet for a beat.

“Yes, it appears there is a heat signature that matches your daughter’s physical build in the North Woods. I can send you the exact coordinates, Miss. Maximoff.”

“Send them to me too, FRIDAY,” Wanda went to protest. “She’s my daughter too. This doesn’t change that.”

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You weren’t sure where you were going. You ran to the forest that surrounded the compound and kept walking. No phone. No money. No plan. You tried so hard to keep it under control -to be normal. But you should have known life was very unkind to you. The cherry on top was it started to rain. You put your hood up and kept walking. The clothes you wore became soaked but you deserved it. This was the least of your worries.

The world pitied you as you stumbled upon a slight covering. You sat on the dampened forest floor with your knees to your chest. This was fine, you tried to convince yourself. This wasn’t the first time you were alone and had to find a new family. But it would be better for you to be alone.

Suddenly, a small chipmunk ran from the bush next to you. You were startled but curious as the creature moved toward you. You held out your hand but fell into your trap. With your hand outstretched, the chipmunk began to tremble. Then, the animal floated in the air, twitching unnaturally. It reminded you of a marionette.

You clenched your jaw but kept your eyes trained on the creature under your control. You wanted to face the monster that you are. Fingers remained in an invisible grip while you puppeted the creature’s veins and blood.

Once upon a time, you discovered a book about your ability. The author called blood-bending a forbidden and lost art. This wasn’t an art. This was an invasion. Your hands were inside everything, able to twist the most scared parts of any living being without consent. “I can feel it,” you muttered, voice hoarse. “The rhythm. Every pulse. Ever desperate little beat.” It came naturally to you, like breathing or walking.

Finally, you released the chipmunk. It fell in a heap, skittered a few inches, then collapsed again. You stayed put, not moving to help it. You looked away and rested your cheek on your knee. “I hate this,” you weren’t sure what you were referring to - the power, the chipmunk, or yourself.

Sighing, you closed your eyes. It wasn’t long till footsteps approached you. They belonged to Natasha. You knew it was her by the way her heartbeat and blood flowed through her veins. Like a fingerprint, everyone’s circulatory system was different. “No one has ever fought against it before,” you whispered. “I’m impressed even though it could have killed you.”

“Was your intention to kill us?”

“No,” you shook your head. “I just wanted the headaches to stop.” You wrapped your arms tighter around your legs. Wanda approached you on the other side. You liked the way their heartbeats complemented each other. They were soulmates in your eyes. “Is everyone okay?”

“They are,” Wanda answered. “Confused but okay,” she sat next to you - close enough for you to feel presence but enough space to not feel claustrophobic. “Can you tell us what happened back there?”

You kept your eyes closed. “I could do it since I was young. I think I did it subconsciously on my brothers as a little game when I was a kid. The headaches come when I don’t use it. The longer I go, the worse they are.” Finally, you opened your eyes. “I killed my family by accident,” you admitted. “My parents thought I was faking the headaches to get out of school. They were yelling, and I just snapped. I tried to wake them up, but they wouldn’t.”

Natasha finally sat down. “The police thought a home invader came in, killed my parents and brothers, and kidnapped me. Somehow, what truly happened that night was found out by The Syndicate.”

“They wanted your ability to help them,” you nodded. That was always your theory. Natasha said your name with a sigh. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I was so scared,” you felt tears running down your cheeks. “I thought I had it under control, and if you found out the truth, you’d make me leave. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want you to know I’m a monster,” a sob left your mouth. Your body shook from the mixture of the cold or exhaustion. Tentative hands touched your shoulder, and you leaned into Wanda as the witch hugged you. “I’m so sorry,” you sobbed against her skin. They let you cry. They let you scream. At the moment, no words were going to help calm you down. Finally, your tears turned into quiet sniffles and hiccups.

Wanda cupped your cheeks in her hands. “You are not a monster, my sweet girl,” her thumb drew patterns against your reddened cheeks.

“I am,” your voice shook. “I killed my family. I almost killed all of you.”

“You have an ability that needs to be trained and managed,” Natasha said. She made no move to get closer to you. “These events were accidents.”

“Am I in a lot of trouble?” you asked. They were silent, and a quiet conversation passed between them. The longer your question went unanswered, the more anxiety filled your bones, and your heartbeat increased.

“Technically, no,” Wanda finally answered. “No one besides those in the compound knows what happened. Everyone agreed to keep it within the house.”

“Your confession about your biological family stays between the three of us,” you glanced at the Black Widow. She tried so hard to mask her true feelings, but you knew the truth. She was terrified of you. It was the way her heartbeat. Her adrenaline was through the roof. “You need to get your powers under control so the headaches stop and this never happens again. There is a school that helps.”

“You are sending me away,” you panicked.

“It is not permanent,” Wanda forced you to look back at her. “Only till you get your powers under control.” But if you never could?

“We are a family,” Natasha said. “This doesn’t change that.” You desperately wanted to believe her. You nodded and burrowed your face against Wanda’s shoulder. Everything was going to be different now.

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6 months

“Are you ready to go home?” Professor Xavier asked. You nodded, staring patiently out the window for any sign of their car.

You arrived at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters 6 months ago. When Natasha and Wanda dropped you off, you were determined to hate it here. But like at the compound, the other students and teachers here broke down your walls. You found another family in the other misguided individuals.

It was hard work, but Xavier helped you control your powers and manage your headaches. During your time here, you only spoke to Wanda constantly. Peter would send you texts every few days, and it was even rarer to hear from the other members of the team. Not hearing from Natasha constantly hurt.

Wanda tried to explain the Black Widow’s odd behavior. Deep-rooted trauma from her past, when a man believed he had a right to her body. Using your powers brought up unpleasant memories for her and, no doubt, Yelena. But Wanda told you Yelena was one of those who advocated for you to stay at the compound. That made you feel a little better even though you still felt awful. Guilt and regret were a constant feeling.

“Thank you for everything, Professor,” you faced the man. “I will forever be grateful.” He waved his hand.

“Nonsense, child. You have been a delight,” that was further from the truth, but it was a nice compliment. Xavier took your hand. “You will always have a home here. Whenever you need one.” You frowned slightly. Why was he saying that? Was there something he knew that you didn’t? Was Natasha and Wanda not coming for you? Xavier smiled. “Ah, I do believe your ride is here.” You looked out the window and saw a car drive through the past and up the long driveway.

Without another word, you ran out the front door to meet them. The car stopped, and your heart was pounding against your ribs. Finally, Wanda got out of the passenger side. It was like you could finally breathe normally again. They kept their promise and came back. “Mom,” you broke out into a run and hugged her. The force lifted her off the ground.

“Oh, my sweet girl, how I’ve missed you so much.” Wanda hugged you tighter. “Here, let me look at you,” you allowed her to take a step back. “You’ve cut your hair.”

“Yeah,” you smiled. “Jean said I needed a change. Do you like it?”

“I love it,” she grabbed onto your forearms. “They’ve been working you hard.” It was true. While Xavier worked on your powers and the mental side of everything, Logan and Hank were in charge of your physical training. Angel made sure they didn’t kill you.

The driver’s door opened, and you watched Natasha get out of the car. You met her at the front, approaching her slowly. “Hi, mama,” you whispered. Natasha smiled.

“Get over here, kid,” she said, meeting you halfway for a hug. You missed her hugs so much, and tears landed on your skin, but you knew you were crying too. “I missed you so much,” she said.

“Missed you too, mama,” you whispered. Natasha cupped your cheeks and kissed your forehead.

“Come on,” she threw her arm around your shoulders. “Let’s grab your things and go home.” Home. You were going home with your moms and couldn’t be more excited.

The past and future were out of your control and a little scary, but with your family by your side, you were ready to face the present.

#wandanat x reader #wandanat x you #wandanat x daughter!reader #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff

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queenimmadolla · 2 days ago

Text

𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐌𝐞

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐎𝐮𝐭, 𝐁𝐨𝐲, 𝐒𝐡𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐰 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐔𝐩

(A Lisa Frankenstein, Eddie Munson AU)

previous ─ next part ┊ 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ( + playlist)

Summary: After your stepmother's ahem accident, and now brimming with confidence, you decide it's about time to make Eddie whole again and lend him a hand in doing so, while Eddie regains new and old sensations along with some feelings. An excruciatingly heavy dose of jealousy, included. And you confirm that Eddie Munson is hot. Eddie is so very hot.

Chapter Warnings: he's not super stinky anymore but his feet still are, dark humor, unpleasant home life, intense longing. oh yeah, and murder. again. so there will be descriptions of violence and blood but its a creep getting what's coming. includes references to SA which occurred in a previous chapter.

a/n: surprise, bitch. bet you thought you'd seen the last of me. anyways, got a new macbook so here we are. this chapter was a lot longer but i actually forgot to add crucial details for my plot, so, I'm going to split it into more chapters. hope you enjoy this one! and yes, we are pretending certain songs existed during the year this is set.

light dividers ℗ cafekitsune ♡

“I mean—I haven’t stared at his hands or anything, he’s just got to be dexterous with all the books he handles. It’s perfect.” You’d decided on the next unwitting donor for Eddie. A suitable hand to replace the one he lost.

Of course, with the hand meant there’d be another body to dispose of. You’d planned it out carefully and quickly. You only had about a week until Laura was due back from her conference, or whatever the fuck it was. Regardless, you knew she wouldn’t be making another appearance, alive that is. You were sure her photos would assault you on news channels when she was discovered missing and you were relatively fine with that. It’d be the last of your abusive step-mother you’d ever have to see. You really were finally free of her, and it surprised you how relieved that made you feel.

From the moment she came into your life, she’d made it almost unbearable for you to exist in your own skin, in your own life—in any space or capacity. The months spent enduring her verbal, emotional and mental abuse had eventually made you grow used to it, not that it ever became tolerable or normal to you. You just…stopped realizing you weren’t yourself anymore; always hunched over, eyes staring at the ground, walking on eggshells every minute you weren’t locked in the safety of your room. You’d become meek, doing anything you could to seem small so she’d leave you alone. Always holding your breath.

You could finally breathe.

There was a bit of guilt present, only because you knew regardless of how horrible Laura was to you and how she’d been to Chrissy before your step-sister had graduated high school (she’d told you all about it when you’d first moved in), she was still Chrissy’s mother, and Chrissy would no doubt feel the loss.

She’d get over it.

Eddie slowly made his way into your bedroom after you, and you took the chance to really look him over. He certainly did look more lively. Still dead as fuck, but not so much a corpse rotting for years. Maybe just a few months.

“I’ll see him tomorrow, so we’ve got to do it then.” You kicked off your boots, letting them land wherever they wanted as you padded over to your bathroom with Eddie trailing behind you.

The bathroom light flicked on and you quickly got to work, pulling out your makeup removing balm and skincare products. You got started, making sure your hair was out of your face before you were massaging products into your skin, “You know, my dad said this move would be a new start for us—really, I didn’t have a choice unless I wanted to be homeless—and I thought that was a huge load of crap.”

You stopped the motion of rubbing the balm to pry your eyes open, blinking past the product coating your eyelashes as you stared at Eddie’s reflection in the mirror. He was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, staring intently at your reflection and not at all bothered with the state of your severe raccoon eyes, “I still think it’s crap. But maybe this happened for a reason, maybe I was meant to tend to your grave until lightning brought you back to life kinda. Maybe Laura only ever existed so she’d be around to give you another ear when you’d need it. I mean she always gave me an earful so, I think it’s poetic justice. Now, she’s the one who only has a singular ear. Ear-y, if you will.”

You quickly rinsed off your face and patted it dry with a towel, pausing to contemplate.

”And she’s dead now, too, so it’s like you guys just traded places. Freaky Friday and all that—did you ever see that movie? Jodie Foster?”

Eddie nodded his head.

“Did you like it?”

“Mm.” He shrugged, sticking his hand out and letting it teeter.

You pursed your lips as you applied your moisturizer, “I mean it’s got its moments, some real nice mother-daughter understanding but I thought it was just okay, too.”

You were expecting him to make some sort of zombie sound of acknowledgement, so when he remained silent, your eyes drifted once more to his reflection, finding him now staring intently at the shower curtain, fingers of his good (the other one wasn’t bad, it just wasn’t there) hand twisting it this way and that. The shower curtain was bright pink, holographic and shifted to reveal a bunch of kittens when angled correctly.

Eddie looked perplexed and you had to bite your lip to keep your grin from taking up your entire face at such a blatant display of boyish ignorance.

Slowly, as you watched Eddie continue to fuck around with the curtain, the grin twisted into a small frown.

Sure, Eddie looked a little rough around the edges, had apparently been in the drug dealing business while he’d been alive—but you couldn’t imagine someone wanting a guy fascinated with shower curtains designed for late 40 something year-old women with no taste (Laura had picked out the curtain), dead.

You wondered if they’d been behind his missing appendages, too. Glancing down at his wrist to take in the wound—bone still visible, a heavy feeling settled in your stomach, one similar to the feeling you’d get when you’d watch Carrie; see her smiling on that stage, overwhelmed with joy at finally feeling accepted, but you couldn’t be happy for her. As a reader and viewer, you knew about the bucket.

With your night routine finished, you turned to face Eddie, clapping your hands twice to get his attention. He reminded you of a puppy the way his head tilted in confusion at you.

“Back to my room.” You swept your arms out in front of you, gesturing for him to leave first and when Eddie stood up he tried to do the same thing, only his arms weren’t as loose as yours, so it just looked like he was doing the robot.

You smiled, turning to walk out the doorway when you stopped short, eyes honing in on the dark, red stain on your carpet.

Fuck, you had to clean the crime scene still. Panic filled your chest while your brain tried to recall your dad and Chrissy’s schedules for the day. Chrissy had said she’d be out with friends so she probably wouldn’t return until well past the time your father went to bed, and he’d probably be home by dinner time. Even if he did return early, he rarely—and by rarely you meant never—went into your room. Not to lecture you, not to say goodnight, not to check if you were still alive.

You were in the clear.

Moving to stand directly in front of the stain, your sock covered foot tapped rapidly as you fidgeted. There was no way you’d be able to get all that out, Laura had bled harder than you did when you sneezed on your period. You could soak up most of the blood, scrub out the rest but the stain would always be present, no hiding the dull red amongst the pink fibers.

But maybe…

Your eyes trailed over to the rug placed deliberately under your bed. It was a piece you brought from your room back home, a nifty find from the estate sales you and your mother would frequent with a shared love for antiques and the unique.

You could pull it out a little, have Eddie lift the bed and then you’d be able to cover the stain left behind after you cleaned the carpet. Your lower lip became the victim of nervous chewing as you wondered if Chrissy would notice the difference in placement. Did she even pay that close attention to you? Could you risk it?

Well, it’s not like you had any other option. With the clean up plan in mind, you turned to your doorway and jumped when you nearly collided with Eddie’s chest.

“JESUS! Fuck, sorry dude—I forget you’re so quiet.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and you were almost taken aback with the amusement you could see in his eyes. Eddie had found some amusement in having freaked you out by doing literally nothing—and his eyes kind of…sparkled with it. They hadn’t done that before you electrocuted him. While big, they hadn’t been all that expressive.

Interesting.

Whatever—you’d have to look into that later, right now you had something to cover up. And you needed to keep Eddie busy while you did.

“C’mere.” Rather than just have him follow after you, you grabbed his hand—tugging him over to your bed. When Eddie was in front of you, you pushed on his shoulders to get him to sit down and then grabbed your beat up Walkman, your headphones, and rummaged through your bedside drawer for a certain tape.

No luck. You scowled, slamming the drawer shut as you scrutinized your room. You eyed your school bag, on the ground by your door and scrambled over to it, arm reaching in to search around before dumping the contents out. Damn, still no tape and your irritation was beginning to fester.

Sure, you had more but you needed Eddie to listen to that one. It was important for a reason you didn’t care to delve into. So, you handled your lapse in memory with grace.

“WHERE THE FUCK IS IT?” You shoved everything carelessly back into your bag, practically throwing it back down as you rushed over to your dresser, moving all your crap aside in search of the plastic rectangle.

Not there either.

There was absolutely no way you’d ever misplace your tapes in the drawers of your dresser but you ransacked those, too, slamming them each when they proved futile. Your blood was practically boiling.

“Eddie, cover your new ear because I am about to LOSE MY FUCKING SHI-oh, there it is!”

It had been on your dresser, hidden under an open copy of Frankenstein, with the corner sticking out.

You hummed, annoyance fleeing your person as you held the cassette case up between your fingers to show off to Eddie. During your little bitch fit, he’d made himself comfortable on your bed, laying back and popped up on his forearm. The lower half of his face was cinched up and you had the sneaking suspicion he was smirking at having witnessed you lose your cool, but he was a dead guy so who was he to judge?

“This is gonna change your freaking life, I swear.” And then, as a guilty afterthought, “Uhm. In a good way.” You tucked his hair behind his ears, fingers gentle, and placed the headphones over them before you were pulling The Lion and the Cobra out of its case. “It’s one of my favorite albums and—honestly, I bought it because she’s bald. Well, I guess not bald bald, she’s got a buzzcut. This is Sinead O’Connor. I told you a little bit about her last night.”

After slipping the tape into place and closing it in, you offered the case to Eddie so he could see Sinead on the cover of it, wrists crossed over her chest, and her normally soulful stare avoiding all those gazing upon her.

When Eddie stared down at it a little too long for your liking, you snatched it out of his hands, an unpleasant feeling in your belly, heart clenching a little. It was a simple cover, he didn’t need to scrutinize her, didn’t need to admire her for that long.

You knew his eyebrows would be raised—if he could, but the most you’d seen them do is twitch—with the look he was giving you.

“Shut up. Just—listen, okay? Every single track is a work of art, but some feel a little more…personal than others. Tell me your favorite afterwards, ‘kay?”

Eddie stared at you for a couple of beats and when he nodded, you pressed the play button, giving him a smile.

You could feel his eyes on you as you walked out of your room to retrieve a sponge, some hot soapy water and the carpet shampoo mix Laura concocted and always drenched the floors in.

While you worked on making sure no one would ever know Laura took her last evil, foul wench breathes in your bedroom, Eddie had managed to shift into a different position, lying on his back with his head dangling off your bed, the ends of his curls pooling on the rug below.

Now Eddie had always considered himself a music connoisseur, loved discovering new artists—but he was a little unfair in his practice. As in, he didn’t give a shit what other people told him to listen to.

Well, people he didn’t care about. Eddie cared about you.

Eddie cared about you a lot.

He’d been rediscovering his body the longer he remained alive, still marveling over his ability to reanimate from the grave. With his apparent deceased status, came the sensation of knowing where every organ in his body was.

Eddie had been tempted to cut himself open, confirm with his sight what was going on in there, but he had a feeling you would have yelled at him so he settled for taking mental notes. He could think, so his brain was clearly working, maybe jump started by that lightning strike. He could tell the exact location of his stomach, feel things moving around in there and he’d spent a great deal of time hacking the creepy crawlers up after he’d spat one up in Laura’s lunch—he didn’t want to gross you out by accidentally coughing one up on you or something since he’d already puked on you.

After making sure he didn’t feel any more bugs roaming around in his organs (and he was extremely grateful they’d yet to make his way to his lower intestine because there was no way you’d be normal about him shitting out bugs—if he even could shit), he realized he had a couple of broken rib bones.

Eddie couldn’t remember much about the night he was murdered, couldn’t recall too many images—mostly just experienced an intense wave of fear that clawed its way out of some crevice in his chest and up his throat, desperate to break through with a scream, so he tried not to think about it much. They must have broken his ribs in the attack, if he pressed just below his left pec, that particular rib bone would move inwards with a popping sensation.

Definitely hadn’t done that before he was dead, would have been a sick party trick, though.

And then came the matters of the heart…it’s the one thing he couldn’t really feel, couldn’t locate, unlike his other organs. Eddie had briefly assumed that shit was still dead or dust but then you’d returned home, radiating with jubilation—a far cry from the miserable girl he’d observed that first night, so beautiful and marred with self deprecation.

You’d said it was because of him, of the dress he’d seen hanging in your closet and then fantasized about seeing you wear all night while you’d slept.

Eddie swore he felt the heart he thought had given up, clench. It had been a fleeting sensation, but he’d felt it nonetheless. He had no idea what it was doing, had no idea if was actually beating or just responding. All he knew was that it belonged solely to you.

And then you had to go and mention Steve fucking Harrington.

He wasn’t exactly fond of the self proclaimed King of Hawkins, had sold him some really shitty weed because the blockhead didn’t know the difference. He was an asshole, even worse than Eddie.

And for some fucking reason, the love of Eddie’s life—who read him poetry, talked about all her interests, shared her secrets with him along with the very same loneliness that had plagued him all his life and followed him to his grave, and who was far out of Steve’s league—wanted him. Not Eddie.

No, because this is Eddie’s second life, he still can’t be happy. You wanted Blane and your movie Pretty in Pink ending. Eddie was just Duckie and he had a feeling this wouldn’t be the novelization ending.

When the fourth track began to play, Eddie’s despair was calmed by the sound of a guitar strumming, and he was able to yank himself out of his head. No point in dwelling. This wasn’t about him anyways.

Yes, he’d come back from the dead. The circumstances of his return were still unclear, but he knew it was somehow your doing, somehow because of you. And he’d spend the rest of his life (he had no idea if he was gonna age or not, he’d only been alive for like a day) expressing his gratitude and protecting you.

Besides…

Ah when you close my eyes, babe, I can see most everything, Sinead sang.

And Eddie understood it.

His gaze bore into the side of your face, admiring the tick between your brows as you scrubbed at the stain, the pout of your lips and Eddie wanted nothing more than to be able to get up without his limbs literally creaking, saunter over to you with the confidence he knew would make you swoon over him, pull you up into his arms and kiss you until you forgot Steve Harrington even existed.

He closed his eyes and let the scenario play out, changing a few details in the scene.

The two of you weren’t in your room. Pink carpet switched out for his dingy, stained bedroom carpet. Generic in color, you didn’t seem to mind it at all as you rifled through his vinyl collection, greedy fingers flicking through the covers at an impressive rate.

Sinead’s voice was still comforting Eddie, just not through a pair of headphones. Her voice crooned out from the turntable on his dresser.

He’d been passively engaged in a sketch of the main villain for one of his favorite DND campaigns, still needed a ton of details that wouldn’t be hitting the page tonight. Not with you present, not with you sitting there engrossed in your own world and oblivious to his appreciative stare.

Eddie didn’t like to consider himself particularly vain, and truthfully it hadn’t mattered to him what you’d look like the entire time he was—whatever. He didn’t care. But oh did someone up there have to favor him just a little bit, because when he saw you for the first time with his soil embedded dry eyes, he was sure it was love at first sight. Would have popped a woody if he had any sort of blood flow and if you hadn’t freaked out at having a dead guy crash through your window.

Oh, fuck, he was ruining his own fantasy by remembering the circumstances of his existence. Back to it.

While he could envision you in that black dress, as hot as you were in it, it was the pajamas he first ever saw you in that covered your skin. Hair ready for bed as the two of you winded down in a show of domestication.

Thump, thump.

There it was again. Not always lively but always coming to life when you were around, even in just his daydreams, ready to beat for you. And since this was his fantasy…

Eddie tossed aside the sketchbook and pencil, not caring where they bounced to on his bed in his haste to stand. He padded the short distance to you, snatching the vinyl you’d been checking out right from your hands.

“Hey!” You cried out, any semblance of protest disappearing the moment you turned to look up at him and caught that mischievous Munson Smirk on his face as he dangled the album in front of you. He was teasing you.

Your eyes narrowed up at him playfully and for a moment you were still until your arm darted out in an attempt to snatch the album back—a move Eddie was already anticipating.

The album was quickly held just out of your reach and your grin was sheepish as you moved to get up from the ground. Clearly, your boyfriend (yes, he was your boyfriend in this fantasy, sue him) was feeling playful, and honestly, he just really liked it when you threw yourself at him just as you did right then.

Eddie still held his ground, arm sticking straight up in the air to try to keep the album out of your grabby hands.

Teasing would always get a little physical, since he’d known what it was like to be without another’s touch for so long, he was keen on forever feeling yours.

“You’re such an asshole!” You laughed as you did this pathetic little jump to try to reach it and Eddie snickered, the arm not clutching the album snaking around your side to bring you impossibly closer to him. Keep you there. Preferably forever.

“Mm, but I’m your asshole,” Eddie cooed down at you, angling his head down so the tips of your noses bumped. The gentle curve of your lips had his heart thumping again as you settled against him, one hand stroking up his chest to rest on his shoulder. He could feel your breasts against him but it didn’t excite him as it should have (okay—it did, he just wasn’t paying attention to his dick in the fantasy), what he really cared about in that moment was how he was able to hold you so close, he could feel your heartbeat. And it wasn’t beating for Steve Harrington. It was Eddie who made your heart flutter and race, “and you can do whatever you want with me.”

“Gross,” you whispered, breath ghosting over his lips.

“You say that and yet you still let me─” The rest of Eddie’s sentence was lost against your mouth, soft, and a little tacky from your lip balm but oh so sweet. He let out a pleased hum, flicking the album onto his bed so he could cup the back of your head as your tongue parted his lips. The two of you stood there, holding each other, kissing each other with no ulterior motives. Just the burning desire to ensure the other knew exactly how wanted their very presence, very existence was. Sinead echoed her own statement over and over again in the background, making it the perfect soundtracked moment.

God, there was nothing more he could ever possibly want.

Actually—there was one thing he wanted more, he realized as his eyes opened once more, and your profile came into focus with a couple of lazy blinks.

Eddie wanted you to want all of that.

Wanted you to want him back, because you deserved more than what Steve Harrington could give you. Materialistically, sure okay—the rich douche could give you more considering Eddie was technically homeless without a penny to his name, but you didn’t care about material things. Not like that. It hadn’t been objects or devices you’d told him you longed for at his grave.

You longed for something Eddie was positive he could give you. He just needed his body to be up to par, needed what he was missing so you could see the whole—Eddie as a whole—was greater than the sum of his parts. He could make you happy. He could make you so happy.

If only he wasn’t a fucking zombie—and really, c’mon, that’s the main thing Steve’s got over him. He’s…y’know…more alive.

You must have felt Eddie’s heavy and romantic, not creepy, stare because your head snapped up and you gave him that gorgeous smile again. Then you were knee crawling over and Eddie wanted to bite a chunk of your mattress out—you were so damn cute.

When you were in front of Eddie, and still very much so upside down to him though you were actually right side up, you lifted the headphones off his ears, “How you liking it so far? You good over here?”

Oh, you know just, yearning over a love we’ll never share because I know I could be everything you’ve ever wanted and anything you need, whatever you want, if I weren’t a corpse and I have to listen to you talk about another, much less cool guy when I’m right here and I’m missing a hand, so I could be better.

Eddie held up (down, technically) his thumb and you leaned your body over so you were kind of upside down too, grinning brilliantly at him. Eddie had never wanted an upside down kiss so badly.

“I don’t know if I’ve told you this yet, Eddie. I really like hanging out with you.”

Eddie let out a groan, rolling his eyes and gently pushing your face away from him after your terrible pun while you cackled.

After you finished cleaning the stain to the best of your ability (so not well), you enacted the rest of your solution and had Eddie lift your bed frame so you could pull your rug a little more out and successfully cover the stain.

Before bed, you asked him what his favorite track of the tape was. When Eddie pointed at Just Like U Said It Would B, you nearly jumped up and down on your bed before revealing that was your favorite song, too.

Eddie wasn’t even remotely surprised. Yuuuuup. You were definitely his soulmate.

When you woke up the following morning, squinting like an elderly chihuahua as you once more fumbled out of bed to pry your closet doors open, Eddie had another outfit waiting for you. Unlike yesterday, Eddie wasn’t awake.

He was sitting against the wall of the closet, head resting against the bottom of various dresses and long skirts as a makeshift pillow. His eyes were closed and he was unnaturally still.

Alarms started to blare off in your head and you nearly shit your heart out of your asshole because you thought Eddie had somehow died again. Your reaction was instant, eyes filling with tears as you got on your knees and crowded into his space, hands gripping his shoulders and shaking him with a strength you didn’t know you possessed, “Eddie?! Eddie, c’mon, don’t do this to me—don’t leave me, I just got you, c’mon get up.”

When he stirred, chest rising as he inhaled, you nearly dropped dead from the relief, allowing yourself to fall back on the carpet and partially on the rug sticking out from under your bed.

“Oh my god.” You breathed out, lifting two fingers to check your own pulse. You still had one so you were kicking, and Eddie was still very much alive or whatever he was, “Okay, new rule, you gotta tell me what your body can and can’t do anymore—I thought you were DEAD, Eddie!”

You pushed up on your hands before you launched yourself at him, arms wrapping around his upper half. In that position, his hairs rubbed at your nose and the scent of your own shampoo filled your nostrils and he felt very hard overall, but his arms wrapped around you too. He was fine. Except for y’know, his current state of existence—but at least he still existed.

When you pulled away to look at him, you noticed his eyes looked kind of hazy, bleary. Tired. He was full alert yesterday morning, and you were pretty sure he hadn’t slept that night, nor had he been tired when you got home.

“Are you okay?” You asked, fingers raking through his bangs to settle them against his forehead.

Eddie nodded slowly with a grunt, and grabbed the items that had been resting on his lap when he fell asleep, pushing them into your arms.

A sheer black mesh long sleeve, a red corset to go over that and keep you from getting arrested for the public indecency, and a sleek midi black skirt that was sure to hug your hips and flow the rest of the way down to stop a little past your knees.

“So, yesterday it was Madonna and today it’s Cyndi Lauper?”

Eddie pushed you out of the closet but before he could shut the doors, you wedged your way between them to prevent him from doing so.

“Wait—okay, you win again. Are you tired?” You pried the doors all the way open again so you could see Eddie more clear with the light, his head nodding slowly.

”I didn’t know you could sleep,” You mumbled and the look Eddie gave you made you think he hadn’t known either. You were beginning to suspect your little Dr. Frankenstein moment did more than simply bring Eddie’s ear to life, “Well get up. You can sleep in my bed, I’ve got a couple of classes today. Chrissy likes to carpool on Tuesdays and my dad’s gonna head to work, not that he’d ever venture to this corner of the house anyways. Get some rest and I’ll wake you up when it’s time.”

He looked a little unsure of himself so you had to pull him out. And once you remembered he was in the same pair of clothes, you gave him another band shirt and some plaid pajama pants you’d received on some birthday in the wrong size, to wear to bed.

By the time you’d finished getting ready and doing your makeup, Eddie was asleep again. You found him lying on his stomach, head nuzzled into your pillow with his feet hanging off your bed.

You walked over, grabbing your comforter from where you’d bunched it up on the other side of the bed after you’d thrown it off you and pulled it over him. Whether or not his blood circulation was working wasn’t even a thought, the action of tucking Eddie in was more so an affectionate one than rational.

It’d been years since he’d slept in a bed, having been wrongfully sentenced to spend eternity with worms and everything beneath the earth’s surface. You hated that, something hot simmering in your belly. Laura’s much deserved murder aside, Eddie hadn’t done anything wrong! Yeah, okay, you didn’t exactly know him—but you knew him. The dead dude, currently sleeping (?) in your bed, had acted earlier only and solely to protect you. You hadn’t been in Hawkins when he was alive so the odds of him running around with a sewing machine to bash people’s heads in for you were pretty slim.

Impulsively, your hand reached out to run through his hair with ease, fingers twisting into the curls. His tresses were still surprisingly soft and there were no tangles. Part of you wanted to lean forward and smell him but you didn’t because it’d be creepy and he’d just smell like your shampoo, probably.

With a sigh, you retracted your hand and silently gaped when some of his hair came out with it.

Oh, shit.

Rolling your lips together and with no alternative, you rolled the hair into a little ball and tucked it into your bra to dispose of later. The last thing you needed was for him to be nosey and bored enough to go through your bathroom trash and find his hair in it, without him having put it there.

You were just about to head out when you remembered his shoes and how uncomfortable going to bed wearing them must have been so before you could USE YOUR FUCKING HEAD you were carefully pulling one off (it would be just your luck to accidentally pull his foot off or something) and once his foot was free—you realized immediately why he’d kept them on.

The stench hit your eyes first, tears filling them faster than you’d ever experienced before and stinging them something fierce. When the smell breached your nostrils, it triggered your gag reflex and you did everything you could to keep your dry heaving relatively quiet.

After you threw up in your mouth a little, you managed to put his shoe back on and ran for the bathroom. Once your stomach was settled, you held your breath and braved your room, lunging for your body spray to aggressively mist over Eddie’s sleeping figure before hurrying out, gasping for air once you were in the hall leaning against the bedroom door.

God, your wallpaper was fucked. No way it wasn’t curling in on itself.

You were still in a state of shock and recovery when you ventured downstairs, almost snapping to attention when you heard Chrissy gasp and your head lulled towards the dining room where she sat at the table across from your father. He had his head buried in some magazine while she stared at you in awe, hands covering her mouth.

“My goodness, Sissy! You look like you could have walked straight out of that witch movie that Cher was in! You know, the one with the three witches?”

“I’m familiar, let's hope men in real life are easier to knock dead.” You commented, leaning against the entryway with your arms crossed and the strap of your bag over your shoulder.

Chrissy laughed, the sound ringing out like the most annoyingly pleasant wind chimes as she explained to your father who wasn’t really listening, “Because in the film, daddy, there’s this awful man and they’re trying to get rid of him and really all the men in the film aren’t the greatest.”

Your dad just grunted, still thoroughly engrossed in his magazine, “Uh-huh, I’m sure your sister’s a regular maneater.”

The sarcasm was evident and unappreciated by both you and Chrissy. The brief glare you spared the oblivious sack of meat was lethal before your steely gaze was back on the strawberry blonde.

“You ready?” You usually carpooled with Chrissy on Tuesdays since your last classes lined up.

“Ohhhhh, here she comes. Watch out, boys, she’ll chew you up.” Chrissy teased, popping the last of her eggs into her mouth. You noted, with great satisfaction, specks of pepper peeking out from her gums and between her teeth, “You know, sissy—you seem a lot more confident without mom around.”

Your dumb bitch of a mom, you internally corrected her, lips curling into a smile as you recalled exactly where that woman was. Probably arguing with Satan about which ring of hell she’d be damned to for the rest of eternity. It had to be one of her choosing or she wasn’t going to budge an inch, you could imagine her telling the fallen angel.

“I do have to admit,” Chrissy continued, “It’s pretty peaceful without her here. I’ll have to convince her to go out more often.”

This next part pained you, and you could actively feel your stomach clenching as you forced the words out, “Not too often. I kind of miss having her here.”

Oh, you were so gonna throw up, “I mean—everyone needs a Debbie Downer to put life into perspective.”

Or make you want to kill yourself. The sole reason you were even voicing these lies was because you needed to establish a somewhat ‘healthy’ relationship with your stepmother, for investigative purposes.

Sure, you argued a lot; she hated you, you wanted her dead and now she was, but if you went around saying you missed her, you likely wouldn’t be number one on the suspect roster once she was determined to be missing.

That caught your dad’s attention and he finally looked up in confusion, “Really?”

“Of course! I know we fight sometimes but she’s a good example for me.” You had to put your all into this performance, forcing your expression to appear somewhat genuine even if you were really mocking her, “Because of her, I now know it’s possible for you to be a bitch your whole entire life if you don’t fix your attitude and outlook while you’re young, and that if you don’t start caring for your skin sooner rather than later, you’ll have wrinkles the size of California. I know she doesn’t want that same bitter existence she goes through, sunup to sundown, for me. That’s why she’s so tough on me.”

Chrissy looked touched, a dainty little hand over her chest as she blinked back tears, “You are so right. I know she’s hard on you but I’m glad you’re starting to see she can’t help it. She’d probably rather die than not be a little judgmental.”

You scratched the back of your neck and cleared your throat, “Mhm. So, school?”

“My, aren't you eager to just snap the neck of every boy at school today?” Chrissy gathered her utensils after she’d cleared her plate.

“Just certain ones.” Your nose crinkled with your smile. Chrissy briefly disappeared into the kitchen, and when she emerged, she was tightening the ponytail she’d sectioned the top half of her hair in, allowing you to see a faint bruise just below her jaw.

“Hey—you good?” You reached up to rub a knuckle over the same area on your skin and her eyes widened as her fingertips flew to her jaw, pressing at the skin until she seemed to feel the tender spot.

“Oh, yeah. I must have got myself with my straightener this morning.” She laughed, nervously and your eyes narrowed as you followed her into the foyer.

“I thought you valued not ever using heat on your hair.” You reminded her, having had to often listen to her brag about how her hair was sooooooo healthy and sooooooo long because she never used heat on it. She only slept with curlers on, and judging by the bump to her ends—that had been exactly the case.

Chrissy’s eyes darted away and you knew she was lying, “I-I—I do! I mean I don’t! We were just doing each other’s hair at the sleepover yesterday, and I let them─”

“Sleepover? I thought you just went out for some bowling and a kickback. Did you not sleep here last night?” You quirked your head, mouth setting in a frown. There was nothing more you hated than being lied to. Except maybe getting the shit slapped out of you by Cruella de Vil yesterday.

Chrissy’s eyes widened and she began to stammer, “No, no! I-I did! It was, you know, it was supposed to be a sleepover but I didn’t stay all that long. S-School night and-and all.”

“Huh.” Was all you said, deciding to let it go after making her a little more nervous with your stare. It was powerful when lined with kohl. Chrissy looked like she was about to start shaking in her white princess Reebok’s and you started to feel bad for her. It had been over a year since her boyfriend had broken up with her and she still always felt guilty about being with other guys. You had a feeling she was still holding out for him. That, coupled with the fact that you were feeling sorry for Chrissy—and not the other way around—made you feel good about yourself so you’d happily look the other way while she tried to find affection she probably craved.

Oh, how the turn tables.

The ride to school was filled with chatter, Chrissy’s way of trying to make sure the subject didn’t return to her escapades from the previous night, no doubt.

You let her chatter away as you pulled a piece of paper from one of your notebooks to jot down a quick note. Much flirtier than you had originally planned to write it, but after spotting Chrissy’s hickie, you were inspired.

Once you were done, you folded the pink lined paper up and pressed a kiss to it, leaving your lipstick stain on it. The paper was rubbed discretely against your neck as well, an effort to get some of your perfume on it.

I’m tired of playing games. No more interruptions. Meet me at the old bench in the woods behind the high school at 4pm?

Yes / No

Leave your response on the windshield of the white miata

Xoxo

When Chrissy pulled into the parking lot and the two of you parted ways, you scanned the area for a certain car and placed the note under one of the windshield wipers before making your way to your first class. Luckily, your seat was right next to the window that overlooked the parking lot. You spent the entire class nervously fidgeting until you saw him making his way towards his car.

You watched, with bated breath, as he paused in his approach when he noticed the note. Your asshole clenched when he pulled it from its secure spot and unfolded the note to read its contents.

He was too far for you to make out the expression on his face but he dug around in his pocket until he produced a pen and scribbled his response before jogging over to Chrissy’s car to leave the note exactly where you instructed and you wanted to stomp your feet against the ground in victory but no.

No. You couldn’t, not in front of all these people and certainly not in class. You were just beginning to garner a cool reputation and you weren’t about to let a guy ruin it.

You did, however, maintain a constant smirk throughout the day and it briefly morphed into a genuine smile when you’d intentionally wandered in front of the library, catching Steve’s eye. He’d traded you a secretive smile, fingers waving in your direction and you returned the sentiment before carrying on your way to beat Chrissy back to her car.

You were in such a rush to make it to the parking lot before her, you didn’t stop to think someone could be coming around the corner and crashed right into a broad chest, dropping your back in the shuffle.

“Shit. Sorry,” You mumbled, dropping down to your knees to grab your bag and the subsequent items that had fallen out of it. The mystery person bent down in time to grab the tube of your mascara before you could, the last item you needed, and held it out to you and you glanced up, body freezing as Tommy Hagan stood before you.

“No harm done.” He shrugged, appearing nonchalant as he smiled down at you, “You really should take those corners slow. They’ll get you.”

Tommy Hagan was…something. You didn’t really like him.

He hadn’t given you much of a reason to not like him, since you never interacted with him, it was just…something about him. He was a wildcard. You’d seen Tommy in many different states; cool, calm, collected, goofing off. Then, with a snap of a finger, it was like he was a completely different person.

You’d witnessed him lose his shit on someone before, crowding some poor guy up against his car as he threatened to bash his face in with the door.

He wasn’t much of a bully to you, Carol seemed to target the girls and while you’d heard Tommy used to be a big bully in high school, you hadn’t seen him pick on people continuously. Just those he actually seemed to have friction with, so you assumed he’d grown out of the bullying.

That being said, up until recently, he was still involved with Carol and anyone that could willingly want to deal with her in a romantic situation had to be bad news, and that’s why you stayed away.

How he could go from Carol, to appreciatively eyeing you up in the middle of the corridor, you had no idea.

You didn’t like it.

“Uh, yeah.” Was all you could say when you realized you hadn’t responded to him. “I-uhm-I was in a hurry.”

He nodded, brown eyes sweeping over you once more, sending a bad shiver down your spine. You definitely did not like it and you couldn’t even explain why because there had been nothing inherently crude about the way he looked at you. It wasn’t anything like with Fred the other night, Tommy wasn’t looking at you like he was about to have his way with you…you couldn’t explain it. There was just something so ominous about his presence. Something dark attached to his freckled, ‘friendly’ face.

“Do I know you? From somewhere? We have a class together or something?” He asked, apparently keen on making small talk with you.

“No, I don’t think so.”

”You’re Chrissy’s sister!” He supplied, eyes lighting up and you weren’t fond of being linked with him any sort of way.

“Yeah. She’s-Chrissy. My step-sister.”

How the fuck can I end this conversation?

Tommy smirked, and you could feel your stomach drop as the ominous aura came over him, his face somehow darkening. Not in color, in nature. “Is she the evil one, or are you? Hmn?”

You didn’t know what that meant, didn’t know if he was cruising around for his next cruel girlfriend, but it wouldn’t be you.

Instead of answering his question, you laughed nervously. The sound wasn’t pretty, nor was it modest. You laughed loud, and you laughed obnoxiously. It’s not like you could help it!

“I gotta, I gotta go.” You managed to get out between rounds of your laughter as you backed away.

He watched you with something akin to interest, as you whirled around and made a dash for the parking lot.

You could hear him call out a see you around and since you didn’t want to see him around, you just lifted a hand in acknowledgment without turning back.

Good god, that was unpleasant. That was extremely uncomfortable and it made you feel the need to panic poop. The urge faded, when you saw Chrissy’s car. A white square was under her wipers.

You snatched the note up, quickly unfolded it and the smirk made its way back onto your face, mimicking that of the Grinch’s when he’d come up with his plan to ruin Christmas for The Whos.

Yes was circled, several times, so it looked like you had a date with destiny after school.

“What are you so happy about?” Chrissy asked on the drive back home, a smile on her own face as bright eyes darted from the road to you and back again. The maniacal smile remained firmly in place on your face. You couldn’t help it. Everything really was falling into place for you.

“We watched Bill Nye in a segment of Almost Live in my Lab class today.”

“I love that guy, they really should give him his own show. He is kind of cute, isn’t he?”

You gave Chrissy some side-eye, “Uuuuuhhhuuuh.”

When she pulled up along the curb outside your house, you noticed she only put the car in park and made no move to unbuckle her seatbelt.

When you raised a questioning brow, she supplied, “I’m gonna run into town for a little bit. You need anything?”

Immediately, you were suspicious and if it weren’t for your plans, you might have pushed at the lame excuse. This worked for you, she’d be gone for a while and out of your business, “Nope.”

You made sure to wait until her car had disappeared around the corner before you entered your house, jumping when you saw Eddie trying to yank his good hand out of one of the vases Laura had placed near the fireplace. It had been one you made in art class back at your old high school, so naturally, she deemed it hideous, and hid it behind an even bigger vase.

It was also where you stashed your weed.

Eddie turned to you, his hand still stuck in the vase, and somehow managed to look sheepish.

You glared, shoulder sagging enough to have the strap of your back rushing down it, “Seriously?”

He shrugged his shoulders, grunt sounding small.

“Can you even smoke weed?” You asked, abandoning your backpack on the floor as you bounded over.

Eddie’s grunt in response sounded more like a scoff. Can he even smoke weed…

You took hold of the bottom of the vase, holding it still to allow Eddie to pull his hand from it, still intact—thank god. In his grip, was a brightly colored Lisa Frank pouch, meant for holding your school supplies.

It obviously did not hold your school supplies.

“Alright, bloodhound. We’ll give it a shot. Later. Right now, we’ve got big plans.” You gestured for him to follow you upstairs and he did, after stopping by the front door to retrieve your bag for you.

You shoved your bedroom door open to find the bed fully made, and Eddie’s pajamas haphazardly folded on top of your duvet.

Sparing a glance at his approaching figure, you made a mental note to stop at one of the stores in town to get him some more threads. He couldn’t wear the same thing everyday. Actually, he could but you didn’t want him to. That was gross when guys did it, especially dead ones.

Your bag was tossed to the side, and you began rummaging around in your closet in search of spare sheets, “Did you get everything else ready?”

Eddie grunted in confirmation. After he’d woken up, he’d put the items you’d requested in your van and discovered a discarded filter in there, which resulted in him searching your house for the stash you had to have.

When you emerged from the closet, arms around balled up sheets which you soon transferred to Eddie’s waiting arms, you gave him a determined look.

“Let’s do this.”

The van ride had been a quick one, and it was parked somewhere in the woods away from the roads and any foot traffic once you made it.

A quick detour was made at the cemetery before you walked over to the area behind the high school, not too much of a walk away from the cemetery. How appropriate.

You assumed it was once a family location back in the glory days of Hawkins, but you had no idea why there was only a singular picnic table there.

Come to think of it, you didn’t see any sort of grills or anything else that would make this area a popular destination, so why the hell was there a random picnic table in the middle of the woods???

Before you could give it much more thought, you heard the sound of leaves crunching and turned your head to see Eddie’s latest donor walk right through the treeline.

“Hey,” Fred grinned, a surprisingly thick finger reaching up to push his glasses further up his nose. His hair was wet, and you tried to keep your lip from curling at the knowledge that it was sweat and not just water. You had a sneaking suspicion the walk had been a challenge to him.

Show time.

“You got my note,” you breathed out, making sure the statement sounded airy and affectionate despite how the hairs on your arms were rising at the sight of the guy who’d touched you so brazenly without your consent.

“I did,” Fred confirmed, nearing you and you stood up to stop his approach, “I was really hoping you’d come around. And-And don’t worry, you don’t have to be embarrassed about the other night or anything.”

You don’t have to be embarrassed about the other night.

You.

Fred had tried to take advantage of you while you were under the influence of a drug you hadn’t known you’d taken, had whisked you away to an empty room where something sinister could have taken place had you not saved yourself—and you didn’t have to be embarrassed about what he’d done to you.

Something in you snapped, blood boiling so hot you could feel yourself sweat a little.

You didn’t even like Fred as a person, and yet you could feel something lodged in your throat, heart pumping heavy in your chest and loud in your ears. It wasn’t fear, wasn’t the anxiety that overtook you more often than not.

Rage coursed through your entire being.

You had no pity for him, Fred was going to get exactly what people like him deserved.

“I was just so nervous,” you lied, tips of your fingernails dancing over the wood of the table top as you slowly moved to the other end, “And you were so kind to look after me.”

A glance was spared in his direction, your gaze heated through your lashes.

His cheeks flushed, splotchy face gaining more color to it.

“It was nothing, really. We freaks gotta stick together, right?”

You scoffed, the sound playful though you held nothing but malice for the guy across from you.

Fred was no freak. He was a monster disguised as a nerd. You’d gone through Chrissy’s yearbook before, had seen how small he used to be. He’d evidently gained a bit of muscle since high school, swapped out a wardrobe for something slightly better, but all the physical change could do nothing to hide the little man he really was. A self-titled nice guy who wondered why girls never went for him while trying to take advantage of ones that could barely stand up on their own two feet.

At least the creeps made their nefarious intentions obvious. Fred was dangerous; someone calculating who hid his intentions behind a pair of frames and a somewhat friendly approach.

“You’re right. You’re so right, and I feel really guilty about the way I ran out on you. I was hoping…” You fiddled with your fingers, feigning a coy demeanor, “Would you let me make it up to you?”

If Fred really was worthy of some sort of stupid fucking redemption, of living, he’d say no. He’d realize how fucked up in the head he was, this whole situation was, and go get help or put himself on some sort of registry if not just disappear from the face of the earth altogether. In an ideal world, those would be possibilities.

This wasn’t that world, so Fred only nodded his head frantically as his knees began to shake.

As you led him through the woods, you briefly wondered what was going through his head. What exactly did he think you were going to do to him? Not like it really mattered, since he’d proven to be the type to try and force people to do whatever he wanted.

You felt something swipe against the side of your pinky and pulled your hand to your chest just in time to prevent Fred from taking hold of it.

At his questioning look, you just gave him a demure smile, “That’s for later.”

He just shrugged his shoulders, not at all upset about being unable to hold your hand just yet because he’d get to do other things to you.

“Where’d you say you parked your car, again?” Fred asked as the two of you approached the back of the cemetery. It was eery in this section, the area even creepier after the lightning strike. You could feel Fred’s nerves.

“Just outside of the cemetery, it’s quicker if we cut through it. Although, I have to say, I quite enjoy strolling through it. Really puts life in perspective, don’t you think?”

Fred gave a nervous chuckle, hair dampening again, “Uh-huh. I don’t have many dead relatives, so, no-uh, real reason to come on by this place.”

“What’s the matter, Freddie? You scared?”

“No way, just not one to take romantic strolls through a cemetery. I’m not scared though.” He huffed out.

You should be, you thought.

A chuckle was the only response you gave him as you neared Eddie’s grave.

“That one’s my favorite,” A polished finger was pointed in its direction and you could hear Fred’s intake of breath. Eddie’s gravesite was particularly fear inducing, the stone cracked and blackened. Patches of the grass around it had also been charred, with black arms seemingly reaching out from it. Patterns from the lightning strikes.

Fred’s steps slowed significantly, tension building until it all came to a head when he finally noticed the mounds of dirt pushed aside, a large hole in the ground just in front of his tombstone.

“We—We should really be g-getting out of here,” He stammered in fear.

“Nonsense. What? Does it creep you out? Relax, Fred. It’s just from that shit weather that night, remember? Lightning, is all. Not like the dead can just climb right out.”

Your tone was reassuring but if the noob couldn’t see the marks Eddie had made when he’d clawed his way out, couldn’t see the footprints of his shoes embedded in the mud—well, that was on him.

But Freddy boy had had enough, walking right up to you to grab hold of your wrist so he could drag you away, “Let’s just go to your van already, this place is evil as shit and his grave is not a welcome place for anyone, let alone me.”

Fred pulled you to his chest, which sent you into a panic. You hadn’t been expecting him to get physical with you so soon. Your body went into fight mode, squirming to get away from him which seemed to only annoy him as he fought to subdue you.

Before you could even voice your protest, demand he let you go or kick him in the balls, Fred yelped. His grip on your wrist disappeared and you jumped back in time to avoid his body colliding with yours as he went crashing down to the ground.

Your breathing was labored, relief morphing into the best kind of elation when you spotted the hand, coming from the hole in the grave, wrapped around Fred’s now twisted ankle.

Fred turned to stare down at it, too. His mouth dropped in horror, body shaking like a leaf as the two of you watched Eddie Munson rise from the grave.

The shriek Fred let out was decidedly girlish in nature, high pitched and almost impressive. You couldn’t have anyone hearing him though, so you dealt a swift kick to his mouth.

You didn’t use much of your strength, but the kick still sent him onto his back. He groaned, reaching a hand up to his mouth and you noticed his teeth were staining a shade of red, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

“Feeling ambushed, Freddie? Violated, perhaps?” You hissed down at him, mind flashing back to that night, feeling so disoriented and lost and wrong as he’d cupped your breast, felt you up while you could barely string a coherent sentence together and still said no.

Fred groaned again, hunching over to spit out some blood, “What the fuck?” He asked, voice sounding dazed.

You didn’t notice your kick had also knocked his glasses off his face until he was shakily reaching for them. One of the lenses was cracked. It didn’t impair his vision too much, though, because he started screaming again when he caught sight of Eddie again, who’d climbed completely out of the grave and stood just over your shoulder, glaring menacingly down at him.

“Stop screaming, you banshee.” You quickly squatted down, scooped up some dirt and shoved it into his mouth. He fought against your palm, but the idea had the desired effect; Fred was too busy coughing the dirt out to scream.

“Please,” he croaked out, tongue sticking out of his mouth, “Stop! Please don’t hurt me. I didn’t know what I was doing!”

The chuckle you let out was void of humor. Of course, when a man has to answer for his evil ass actions, suddenly he’s capable of admitting what he did wasn’t in the right. Too fucking bad for him. You were about to tell Fred it was far too late for pleas, until his next round of statements made you realize his begging wasn’t directed at you.

“It was Chance! An-And Andy! It was their idea, I had nothing to do with it! I mean—I mean, I was just the lookout! How was I supposed to know what they would do?”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, and you looked over your shoulder at Eddie who appeared just as perplexed as you.

His brown eyes bore into yours, searching for the question in them before he shook his head.

You turned your attention back to the weasel cowering on the ground, “You know him?”

Fred’s gaze darted frantically from you to Eddie as he kept stuttering. He’d clearly caught on to you being unaware, and possibly Eddie. You couldn’t have him keeping secrets, though, so you reached for the ax Eddie had pulled out of the grave where’d he’d hidden it and Fred let out an inhuman line of gibberish.

“Yes! Yes, okay, yes, I know him!”

You weighed the ax in your hand, glaring down at Fred. You just needed this fuckers hand for Eddie. That’s it, just needed his hand and you couldn’t let him live after that.

It’s not like he’d just let Eddie have it, go about his life pretending like he didn’t know there was a deadman walking around with his hand after the two of you cut it off.

That’s all you needed of Fred, and now he was mentioning having known Eddie. Implying something was done to Eddie, and you had a sickly feeling you knew exactly what.

Did Eddie want to know? Would it do more good than bad?

You turned your attention to Eddie once more, and found that he was already watching you. There was nothing expectant in his gaze. Despite the circumstances, and the guy shaking like a leaf on the ground with broken teeth and a broken wrist, Eddie didn’t appear menacing to you at all.

Just looked like he was waiting to follow your cue. And you remembered how he’d come to your rescue so many times already. It was high time you started showing up for him.

“Explain.” You demanded of Fred, handing the ax back to Eddie.

Fred looked hesitant, only speaking when you turned to Eddie as if to deliver the instruction to kill Fred, “It was…It was after graduation. Look, I don’t know everything, okay? Chance and Andy told me I had to meet them at the Quarry and just make sure no one else came by but Eddie. I wasn’t thinking, I was just scared as hell about someone else showing up, like what was I supposed to do to stop them? I was a twig! And then—And then, everyone came running out and yelling to scram and run for it! So…I did.”

You watched as Fred seemed to shrink before your eyes, back to that scrawny boy you’d seen in the yearbooks.

“I…I didn’t find out until my mom turned on the news later that night…I didn’t know Eddie was dead until then.”

You couldn’t do anything to stop the shaky croak, a hot tear trailing quickly down your cheek as Fred confirmed Eddie had been murdered.

Your Eddie, the sassy guy with long curly hair, a mischievous and playful nature, so far from hostile unless someone was a direct threat to you.

He’d been harmed, his life stolen. The rage you’d felt earlier was nothing compared to the craze you were spiraling into.

“They killed him,” You whispered out, nearly shaking. When Fred gave a slow nod of confirmation, you just about shrieked, “And you didn’t tell anyone?! You didn’t go to the police!?”

Fred looked at you like you were out of your mind to even suggest that of him, “And tell them what? That I was the one making sure no one interrupted? I would have gone to prison.”

Your mouth dropped open.

Okay.

Yes, you were fucked up. Your emotionally, mentally, and apparently physically abusive mother was dead and you’d played a role in that. But she was only dead because she meant to seriously harm you, and Eddie had stepped in to protect you. If it had been someone innocent, someone like Chrissy, you would have taken the blame and the prison time. You wouldn’t have been able to live with yourself.

But this motherfucker knew Eddie had been murdered that night, had not been too far away when it happened, and hadn’t told a soul because he was afraid of possibly being held responsible. Always only thinking of saving his fucking skin.

“You selfish son of a bitch!” You spat out, “Eddie died that night, you knew he was murdered and you let them get away with it! If you weren’t an accessory then, you sure are now!”

“Does it look like I was meant to be in a cell!? Admonish me all you want, I did what was best for myself! I can’t take it back, what’s done is done. Besides, you didn’t know him. Eddie–he was a burnout. He wasn’t gonna do anything worthwhile anyways.”

You couldn’t believe someone so pathetic EXISTED!

It made you want to scream, but you held it in, physically having to close your eyes and take deep breaths before you made the last demand that would determine what would happen next.

“Go to the police. Tell them everything. You can even tell them about me, and you can try telling them about Eddie,” You jabbed a finger into your zombie boy’s direction, “They’ll never believe you about that, though.”

Fred blinked at you, incredulous.

“I’m not telling anyone anything. I’m not going to jail. I’m not.”

You nodded your head a couple of times, running a hand over your hair. “Yeah, okay, you’re right.”

Then, you grabbed the ax from Eddie’s grasp, swinging it down onto Fred’s propped up wrist. It was a clean cut, hand perfectly severed and Fred let out a scream.

“You’re not going to jail.”

Blood spurted from the wound and you cringed back a little, wishing he’d aim it away or something. Gross.

“Why’d you do that—oh my GOD, my HAND!”

Fred was in hysterics, clutching his arm, and really you couldn’t blame him. It probably sucked to lose your hand this way but he wouldn’t have to suffer for long.

You picked up the appendage, waving it around triumphantly.

“Why are you bitching? What’s done is done. I’m holding your hand like you wanted.”

Eddie made a sound behind you and turned to hand him the…hand.

“Here, this is yours now.”

Fred whimpered as you positioned yourself over him, ax in hand and poised near your head.

“The hand is Eddie’s, but chopping it off was for me. You’re never gonna touch another girl, never gonna cause harm with it. Never again. This, however,” you adjusted your grip on the ax, making sure you had a good handle on it, “Is for Eddie. It’s nothing personal, it's just that I hate you and you shouldn’t have been too much of a bitch to report a murder.”

With that, the ax came down. Fred didn’t make any more noise.

“So, you really don’t remember much about dying?” You asked for the third time, perched on Eddie’s headstone as he shoveled dirt over the grave to seal it once more.

“Uhn, uhn.”

“Can’t remember faces?”

“Uhn, uhn.”

“…Did it hurt?”

Eddie paused in his ministrations, stabbing the shovel into the ground as he leaned against it and seemed to ponder your question. You wondered if he was trying to recall the answer, or if he was debating on whether or not he should answer.

You got your answer a few moments later when Eddie slowly nodded his head, shoes smoothing over the surface of the dirt before he pulled the shovel out and gestured for you to follow him back to the van.

Eddie was quiet, something had changed. Aside from, you know, your body count.

You had an inkling it bothered Eddie to not know what happened to him. Not a whole lot of your thought went into it, but Eddie had to have been mourned by someone. He had that tombstone, the inscription. Those weren’t cheap and someone had to have cared for him enough to make sure he had it. Did he have a mom and dad? A guardian? Family?

He’d left people behind, against his will and probably had no idea where they were now.

You hoped he didn’t feel alone in the world.

It wasn’t impulsive, it was an action that came from a great deal of caring… you reached out for the hand still attached to his body. It wasn’t warm, and it wasn’t cold, either. What it was, was comforting.

From your peripheral vision, you could see his head turn to you in surprise and you met his gaze, offering a smile and a squeeze to his hand you were sure he couldn’t feel.

Until he squeezed yours back.

“We didn’t even need the sheets.” You realized out loud. Originally, you were gonna wrap Fred up, weigh him down with some rocks and throw him in Lover’s Lake. It had been Eddie’s idea to bury him. By that, you meant he just dug out the rest of his grave (impressive with one hand) and rolled Fred into it.

RIP FrEddie Munson.

After a quick trip into town to get some things for Eddie (he had to lay down in the back), and pick up some more thread, the two of you made it home to find no one else had which worked in your favor.

You didn’t bother changing out of your bloody clothes just yet. You still had some Frankenstein work to do with a live-ish appendage, so you found yourself on Eddie’s lap, sewing his new hand into place.

It would have been quicker if you could focus but Eddie’s face was just a few inches away from yours and he would not look away. The side of your face his gaze was boring into felt hotter than the other side and it was making you nervous for some reason. Not a bad nervous, just…nervous.

You decided to break the tension.

“Oh, shit, this is the wrong hand.”

That did the trick, you felt him tense up underneath you and Eddie’s head darted down to make sure he didn’t have two of the same hand, body relaxing when he realized you were joking.

“Got’cha.” You grinned, eyes scanning over his features. You felt your heartbeat stutter when you noticed the twitch at the corner of his lips. Eddie was smiling at you.

Swallowing hard, you cleared your throat, gave him a tight smile, and went back to work.

He groaned on one particular tug of the thread, and you paused with a wince, “Did that hurt?”

He shook his head, but he was also making a bit of a face.

“Feel unpleasant?”

“Mm.”

“Sorry,” You were a little more gentle in your actions, trying to carefully weave the needle through his wrist, and his new hand, making sure your tugs were extra gentle which he appeared to appreciate, nuzzling his head against yours for a brief moment.

You nearly convulsed.

Once the hand was on, the thread had been snipped and neatly secured, it was to the tanning bed!!!

You got him all situated, made sure he didn’t hit his head and then watched him light up.

The smell of burnt hair filled the mini garage, and you made a mental note to pick up some hair products later. Eddie’s curls were gonna need it if they wanted to stay attached to his scalp, though you supposed you could probably scalp someone should he need a replacement.

Argyle, a guy who worked at one of the local pizza places, had long luxurious locks of hair, but you couldn’t do that to him. He was a nice dude, stuck in a permanent trip for sure, and so always pleasant to you. He was also your dealer and you were pretty sure his girlfriend was a witch. The last thing you needed was to be cursed or hexed. Or turned into a goat.

Settling in for what you expected to be a long wait while Eddie tanned, you were surprised when just a few moments later, all sparking stopped. Figuring you didn't set the right temperature to bake him at, you moved to mess with the dial only for a hand to curl out and push the lid of the bed up.

Eddie’s time in the tanning bed, while somewhat briefer this time, still seemed to have cooked him. Smoke dripped out, flowing almost syrup-like down to the floor where it all seemed to pool and twist around your ankles as the bright blue lights of the bed’s panels cast the room in a euphoric glow.

You stared wordlessly, mouth parted in complete enchantment–and you swore you could hear the intro to Ozzy Osbourne’s No More Tears in the background like some godly music video on MTV–as Eddie’s figure emerged from the smoke still gathered in the bed.

And in seemingly slow motion to your captivated self, Eddie pulled the goggles over his head, hair tousling just the right amount. His movements were fluid, not a stiff limb in sight. In fact, he even stretched out, shirt riding up to expose his pale—no longer a completely sickly shade—stomach and a smattering of dark hair that made up his happy trail.

Uh oh. Something was going on in your body.

It was only when that happy tail was covered again, Eddie hunching forward, that you realized you were staring at his crotch region. Your eyes drifted up to find Eddie staring at you, more life in those warm, gorgeous eyes of his, framed by attractive dark circles as he smirked at you. No twitching of his lips, no maybe smiles. It was a full on smirk. Eddie was in complete control of his face (and you noticed his cheeks dimpled when he smiled).

He lifted his new hand and wiggled his fingers at you in greeting. That’s when you lost it, jumping up and down in elation.

“OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD!”

Eddie was fast, pushing himself off the tanning bed to dart forward and sweep you right out of the garage, spinning you around and around.

You clung to him, laughing and filled with so much joy at the knowledge that Eddie was coming back to life. When he decided you’d been spun enough, and your head was a whirlwind, he released you and you stumbled a little, finding your balance with the hand Eddie offered to you for stabilization.

“Look at you.” You breathed out in amazement. It was more of a whisper but Eddie heard. He looked pleased, gesturing to himself with a sweep of his wrists, Look at me.

You were correct in your scrutinization of him when you’d first played dress-up.

Eddie Munson was very much so hot when he was alive. There was no doubt in your mind. You hadn’t seen a whole lot of his movements, what with him finally being able to move freely occurring just a few moments ago, but you were inclined to believe he was extremely theatrical in them. Probably in everything he did.

And confident.

Eddie seemed to have had enough of the small distance between the two of you, twirling you back in his grasp so you were pressed right up to him, his hands on your sides to hold you. He was grinning like an idiot and you were positive your face was no better. Your cheeks were beginning to hurt from your smile.

“So. You’re the infamous Eddie Munson.”

He rolled his eyes and you laughed, something inside of you warming up at the smile he gave you in response to it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Eddie. I’ve been wanting to for a while now.”

#Eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #Freak like me #lisa frankenstein #lisa frankenstein inspo #Zombie!eddie munson #dead!eddie munson #undead!eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson au #Eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfic #Eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson #Steve harrington x reader #eddie munson x black!reader

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lemotmo · 1 day ago

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Pffff okay... my 8x15 thoughts...

Here we go I guess...

Let's start with this first:

How the fuck does a succesful TV-show go from the excellence of 8x09 and 8x10 to the absolute drivel that is 8x15? And all of this in just a few weeks? 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

Second:

Bobby? I'm not going to lie. I wept, sobbed and broke down at the end of the episode when Bobby 'died'. This for two reasons...

The first one being that it's Bobby fucking Nash, one of the staples of this show! Hell, I started watching 911 for Peter and Bobby!

The second one being that there has never been a more pointless death ever on any TV-show I've ever watched. And this in the middle of the season? The complete and utter disrespect for his character is mindboggling. Especially after reading that godawful Tim Minear interview where he says it was his idea to kill him off.

They had Peter do a goodbye article for Deadline? And exit interviews? HOW AND WHY? We literally saw bts last week with Bobby there! Alive and well!

So is it a 'fake' death or not?

If it is fake? This is NOT the way to treat a loyal audience Tim! You cannot kill someone and then magically resurrect them without repurcussions. A big part of your audience won't even be watching the show anymore to see him come back to life.

If it is real? Then fuck this show for doing this in a way that is nothing but disrespectul towards the GA and fandom alike. It's like they are begging to be cancelled!

Tim saying that it was supposed to be Ravi first makes so much more sense! Ravi is a recurring character. His death would have been horrible as well, but it would have pushed the story forward in a different way.

No, I'm not saying I want Ravi dead. Not a all. I like him a lot. But he isn't a main and he isn't Bobby! Narratively speaking it would have made so much more sense. It would have packed a punch, but it would still have been bearable.

Third:

Why does it seem they are setting up for Buck and Tommy to become friends? Does this have to do with the whole 'Tommy can be Buck's gay Yoda' thing Oliver talked about all the way back in season 7?

Hen and Karen are right there to give Buck advice. Do we really need Tommy for that? Ugh.

I just hope they aren't planning for some kind of weird love triangle with Eddie, because that would be the absolute worst way to address Buddie at this point. 🙄

Tommy literally challenged Buck, telling him that he viewed Eddie as competition. You cannot put the doomed couple together again after a conversation like that, only to draw out the endgame couple a bit longer and string the audience along. It would literally be Buck once again falling into the same trap he's always fallen into. 🤦‍♀️

But from what I've seen, they're probably forcing some strange friendship on Buck and Tommy, so Tommy can eventually help Buck with his feelings for Eddie. Which is also such a dumb storyline.

But whatever... they just killed off Bobby fucking Nash for no apparent reason in the middle of the season, so whatever! ��‍♀️

Fourth:

And this is the most unforgivable part of this entire episode for me.

The utter lack of Eddie Diaz!

This man has gone through hell for the 118. He has been nothing but a loyal friend to all of them. His character development has been stalled in order for others to get more developed.

His son was sent off to Texas in season 7. He followed him there in 8 and we weren't even allowed to see him reconnect with Chris. Then he finally got a storyline in Texas, only to be sidelined in the most disrespectful way ever by not even including a single scene in this two-parter where 'family' was so important.

They wasted time on some pointless helicopter chase nobody wanted or needed. They could have used that episode time to fit in a quick call to Eddie to show us his reaction at the end of the episode.

Bobby died and Eddie didn't even get a single reaction scene?

And Tim saying that we'll see Eddie's reaction later on?

Why is it that we always seem to see Eddie's reactions after the fact has happened? We didn't see him struggling with his son gone, we didn't see him reunite with Chris, we didn't see him reconnect with Chris, we didn't really see him confront his parents...

How can they treat a main character with so much disrespect? 😡

I am truly baffled that Ryan was still promoting these episodes to be honest. He really is too nice.

Fifth:

I can now completely understand Oliver's lackluster video he sent out yesterday to 'promote' the episode. He seemed uninterested in the whole thing. He wasn't excited about it. And the whole strange Q&A he did a few days ago where he said he lied liking 16 for the promo? Back then I thought he was just being his own British self, but now I think that he was genuinly annoyed by that episode.

He had to say goodbye to Peter, he had to work with Lou 🙄 and there was no personal development for his character at all.

In conclusion:

Where do we go from here?

We'll get the funeral in two weeks. The question about Bobby's resurrection was asked in an interview and Tim said that it wasn't real. He also said he didn't expect the funeral to leak? Really? That film set could be seen from space dude!

Then there is that weird flashing light we got right after Chimney received the antiviral. What was that about?

Couple that with the fact that Chimney got sick immediately from the virus while Bobby apparently had been walking around with the same virus for hours, but managed just fine???

Nothing adds up here.

If this all turns out to be some weird Chimney dream... again? What then?

Because then this show will have wasted precious air time to Chimney's delusions, while it could have used that time on more and better character development for its main characters.

What does all of this mean for Eddie Diaz if it turns out to be a Chimney hallucination? It means that he won't really have been in three episodes in a row, because in the third one he is a hallucination. 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

Whatever the characters get up to in some kind of weird coma dream isn't real, so nothing would move for any of them, except for Chimney.

What is the point of a plot like that? The story would just reset itself in episode 17.

And I know that I argued before in my (now very wrong spec) that this could all be a Buck dream. But at least if it had been Buck they could have developed the Eddie and Buddie plot further. They could have really dived into his feelings for Bobby as a father figure and his feelings for Eddie and Chris. It would have made sense in his narrative of season 8.

But Chimney? What would be the point? It would just be a repeat of 'There goes the Groom' in season 7. 🤷‍♀️

I just...

What a mess.

Honestly, this episode deserves low ratings and reviews. It simply wasn't good. 🤷‍♀️ They managed to alienate the Bobby crowd, Bathena crowd and Eddie crowd all at the same time. Even a big part of the BT fans weren't happy with this episode. Ali's ask box got flooded with angry Tommies because Tommy was 'used' in the episode and referred to as the 'ex'.

This was the only funny part of the episode for me to be honest. When Buck made sure it was clear that Tommy was his ex-boyfriend. 😂

I'm still going to continue watching season 8, don't worry. I need to see where all of this goes. But honestly, if Bobby is really dead? If Eddie keeps getting sidelined like this? If the Buddie plot isn't pushed forward a bit this season? I don't know what I'll do for season 9.

Eddie has been my main reason for watching this show for seasons now. I cannot go through something like this again. They better have him there for a lot of scenes in the last three episodes to make up for this horrible two-parter.

I'm still not worried about Buddie happening, because 8x09-8x11 set it up that it HAS to happen at some point. I'm just not clear on when anymore. If they don't address Buck and Eddie's feelings in season 8 they will lose all the momentum they created with 8x11 and they would have to start all over again in season 9.

I am a patient person and I've waited for ships before. But I won't be pushed around. If they decide to postpone the storyline again after they dangled the possibility so openly in front of us in season 8? I'm not sure what I'll do for season 9. 🤷‍♀️

Okay, I've rambled long enough. I'm going to try and answer some of the asks in my inbox later on today. I won't be able to get to all of them though. There's simply too many of them.

For now I'm going to take a moment for myself, regroup and try and conjure up some positivity for the rest of season 8. I'm quite sure it's still lurking around somewhere. 😂 I don't give up easily! 😌

#lemotmo's thoughts and ruminations #911 8x15 #911 8x15 thoughts #911 8x16 speculation #911 spoilers #911 abc #buddie #t mention

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wonderhello · 22 hours ago

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I usually don't do this kind of thing but this reblog bugs to hell out of me (as someone who's known I have OCD for about 6 years just to be spared that argument lol) because it is the worst possible faith you could've taken this.

First of all, that reblog wasn't even talking about OCD anymore, it was talking about people who put perfect moral purity above actually doing the right thing. So that's a moot point and we can move onto OP now.

OP is ABSOLUTELY correct that all of these behaviors can come from a place of OCD. They are not ALWAYS OCD for sure, and some can sometimes be normal or even good, but there are circumstances where they're worth looking into. And even if it's not OCD, it's still good to talk to someone about it.

I think the best example of one is having political debates in your head. That can be normal—in fact, it can even be good! It's true! It ensures that you understand where you're at in terms of your knowledge and opinions. However, if you're doing it constantly to the point where it's taking up a lot of your thinking space constantly but you Have to do it or else you're going to Hell or people are going to die every time you don't do it so you have to do it Now or you're Bad and you're tainted with Bad forever...that's 100% for sure something to look into.

Being able to explain yourself when necessary—also a good thing! Again, it's good to ensure that you're solid in your opinions and you have a fully understanding of them. But feeling the need to justify yourself all the time because if you don't then everyone will think you're Bad and Evil and you will Never be clean and you need to explain until you are "pure" again...is also something to look into.

Making sure you're being a good enough ally for marginalized people—doing research, talking to us, donating if possible, etc.? Good! Doing that to the point that you can and still needing to constantly seek reassurance because if you don't you're SURE you're a bigot you're being a bigot right now by existing you're not doing the work you're evil right you're evil for sure you need to do more to ease this feeling of being evil? Something to look into.

The way some people talk about these things isn't just "I'm doing what I can to make sure that I don't get wrapped up in a hivemind and can draw my own conclusions"; it's "If I don't do this, I'm Evil and I'm Bad REGARDLESS of what my true beliefs are and REGARDLESS of if I'm solid in them and have been shown to be in the past". I'm not trying to armchair diagnose anyone, and neither is OP! It's a suggestion because these are common patterns seen in moral scrupulosity OCD and they don't look like what's traditionally thought of when OCD is discussed.

But honestly, like I said above, even if it isn't OCD and it's "just" overthinking—which is for sure a possibility—it's still worth seeking someone to talk to about it to me. Because living like that is exhausting, and you're not even going to be able to do what little you can do if you're constantly bombarded with the things you feel you're not doing enough but literally can't do. It's a horrible, terrifying world out there and there capital w Will be a lot of pain in trying to do what we can, but all we can do is what we can. It's about balancing the awareness of what's going on with not feeling morally reprehensible for not being able to singlehandedly fix it or do every single possible thing to fix it. Just do what you can. Even if it's something as little as doing your one click or a reblog.

Anyway, sorry for the long ramble. 👍🏾 I dunno if I explained myself well here. It's just my opinion + ngl the whole "omg EVERYTHING is OCD" thing bothers me because it's pretty much the opposite from my experience. If anything OCD is minimized to the point where things like this are beyond its scope to most people, lol.

TL;DR, "There is no version of trying to improve yourself or being a moral human being that is OCD" is…not correct. This isn't like some Tumblr woo-woo shit lol morality can ABSOLUTELY become OCD and that's becoming more known even within the medical community.

I DESPERATELY needed someone to tell me this as I grew up in leftist online spaces. So now I am going to tell YOU:

If you

Check what you sent over and over to make sure you didn’t say a slur instead of “hello how are you”

Fear that someone will find you thinking not-leftist-enough thoughts and will call you out and ruin you

Feel you have to make your intentions clear and over-explain your actions

Find yourself consistently resisting the urge to engage in reassurance-seeking WRT being a good enough ally to marginalized people

Stay up late endlessly debating political ethics in your head

Have a set of actions that you take after discovering you made a morally wrong decision so that you can atone, which you rely on for reassurance that you are not a bad person

Would rather not make a decision at all than make a decision that is the lesser of two evils, but is not morally pure

then I am gently, but firmly, requesting that you look into moral scrupulosity OCD.

#a delusion of dawn #sorry to muts for this being reblogged again i had an addition to make in response to an rb

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bellaxgiornata · 3 days ago

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Life Worth Living |Chapter Three|

Pairing: Matt x mutant!fem!Reader Word count: 5k [Series Masterlist] [Matt Murdock Masterlist]

tags/warnings: 18+; dark themes/content, canon typical violence, emotional hurt/comfort, PTSD, smut, plot twists, fluff and angst, torture, mentions of sexual abuse, canon divergence, Reader has a fake name & is Matt's neighbor

a/n: Finally a chapter that gives y'all a little breath from all the suspense. Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

Tag list: @kmc1989 @let-it-go-and-live-again @paracosmic-murdock @fries11 @thetorturedpoetcalleddez @frenchtoastix @1988-fiend @daisy-the-quake @energerstar @lilianashomaresparza

Unlocking the deadbolt and the door lock on your apartment door, you reluctantly swung it open to find your neighbor, Matt, standing just outside in the hallway. His hand slowly fell back to his side from where it had moments ago been knocking against your door as your gaze immediately began scanning him over. You noticed that his dark hair was mussed and the gray t-shirt and black sweatpants he was wearing were rumpled, as if he’d either just gotten out of bed or pulled his clothing on in a rush. The red glasses that he often wore were currently missing this evening, allowing you to take in the entirety of his face finally.

The soft hazel of his eyes held your attention for far longer than you cared to admit as you studied the different flecks of color visible in them. They were creased in concern as they darted around your general direction, never focusing long in one particular area. That odd sensation you felt whenever he was near you was still there–the sensation that you’d noticed when you’d been back in your bedroom and he’d first begun knocking on your door. You could feel it running over your skin now in something like a light tickle as you studied him in return, noting that worried downward curve of his lips.

You hated to admit it, but he was attractive. There was something about him that just drew you to him–but whatever that something was, you weren’t certain you were ready to explore it. Not after him anyway.

“Are you okay?” Matt asked.

His voice broke you from your thoughts, drawing you back to the present. Clearing your throat, you realized that you’d been standing there in your doorway just quietly staring at him without so much as a greeting. Heat crept over your cheeks in faint embarrassment.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you assured him. Trying to steady your voice after that horrible dream you’d just had, you added on, “I just have nightmares. On occasion.”

“That was the screaming?” Matt asked, his eyes finally landing somewhere along your cheek.

You didn’t like that he’d caught that–your screaming. The amount of nightmares he must’ve overheard you having when you’d only moved here just over a week ago was certainly abnormal, and you didn’t want him asking questions any deeper than he currently was now. Because you were just a normal woman living next door to him–nothing out of the ordinary. He didn’t need to be thinking anything otherwise about you.

“Yeah, I uh, just had a nightmare,” you repeated awkwardly, your hand still gripping the door. “I accidentally knocked my lamp over when I woke up. Still adjusting to the new apartment and I was a little disoriented, you know?” you quickly half-lied. “Besides being incredibly embarrassed that you heard all of that, I’m fine. Really.”

Matt’s head tilted a bit to the side, his eyes noticeably narrowing at your words as they dipped down towards your chest. That strange tickle along your skin increased before you saw a muscle twitch in his cheek.

Something was definitely going on right now, and you had no idea what. It was driving you insane. Was he doing that? Or was it a reaction you were having to him?

Before you could ponder the question too much further, you spotted a cut along his left temple, on the opposite side of his face as that nasty bruise he’d had this morning. But that cut hadn’t been there when you’d run into him at his office, and you couldn’t help but stare at it. Where did he get it from in the hours since?

“You’re bleeding,” you pointed out.

Matt’s lips twisted into a puzzled frown, his eyes raising from your chest to focus on your face. “I am?”

Your hand rose up in the space between you both, your fingers about to gently touch the left side of his face and brush back the hair along his temple to point out the cut for him, but you abruptly froze. The gesture seemed far too intimate–not something you should be naturally trying to do with a neighbor that you’d only briefly interacted with on three separate occasions now. That wouldn’t have been typical, appropriate behavior for someone. Dropping your hand back to your side, you found yourself grateful that he couldn't see what you’d foolishly been about to do.

"There’s a cut on your left side, near your temple,” you told him instead, your eyes fixed on the injury. “It's–it doesn't look too bad, but it probably should be cleaned up and bandaged."

Biting your lip, you watched him gently raise a hand up towards his face. His fingers lightly touched the cut before he winced at the contact.

"I, uh, fell on the pavement earlier," Matt told you sheepishly, his hand lowering back to his side. "Didn't realize there was a crack in the sidewalk and my shoe got stuck. I tripped." He shrugged in an offhand way, one that seemed too practiced to be believable. "I'm pretty clumsy, I get injured often. Kind of comes with being blind." He let out a laugh, gesturing towards his eyes, but you continued to study him closely, feeling as if he sounded way too flippant. "I can take care of it in a bit,” he continued, “I just wanted to make sure you were alright after I’d heard the screaming."

Standing there observing him in the hallway–still very aware of the weird sensation passing over your skin in soft, uneven flickers–you felt your stomach nervously twist at his blatant concern over you. You didn’t exactly know what to feel about it. No one had ever shown you genuine concern before–you’d always just fended for yourself. And you’d long since come to realize that he had no idea what it meant to truly care for another person.

At the thought of him, your dream resurfaced and a shudder raced through you. That all too familiar prickle of fear raised the hair on the back of your neck, your breathing growing a bit uneven.

He’s not here.

Raising a hand, Matt nervously scratched the back of his neck in the growing silence. He glanced towards the ground as he shifted his weight on his feet in front of you. "I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't have bothered you," he apologized. "You don't know me that well and it's late and I'm making you uncomfortable. I'll just–"

"No," you shot out quickly, cutting off his rambling apology.

He paused, eyes darting back up towards your chin as his brows raised at your blurted interruption. Standing there gripping your door tighter, you had absolutely no idea why you’d just responded like that. The word had just flown right out of your lips.

"No, you're not–I mean it's not," you spluttered.

Stopping, you paused to take a breath in order to give your mind a chance to form a coherent thought. Matt stood there watching you patiently, but the strange way his attention on you made your skin tingle wasn’t helping you to think clearly.

"You're not…making me uncomfortable," you finally managed. "I appreciate the gesture. Checking on me, I mean. It's very kind of you to make sure your weird neighbor that woke up screaming from a nightmare is alright."

Matt shifted forward on his feet again, leaning a little towards you with a gentle smile on his handsome face. That odd fluttering in your stomach returned just before the corner of his lips twitched upwards.

Why did he have to be so damn attractive?

"I don't think you're weird, Olivia," he said softly. "We all have our demons."

Unable to resist, you huffed out an amused breath at his words. He didn’t even know the half of it where you were concerned.

Eyes shifting back to the cut along his temple, you chewed your lip in silent indecision. If he couldn’t see the injury, how well could he bandage it himself if you just let him go back to his apartment? He’d already been kind enough to check on you, would it be absurd to invite him in just to give him a quick bandage? Normal people would offer something like that, wouldn’t they?

"If you want to come in, I can clean up that cut," you offered hesitantly, uncertain of the suggestion still. "I might have a bandage in my first aid kit for it." Pausing, your hand tightened on your apartment door while you hoped that you hadn’t come across too forward–or as if you were implying anything else than first aid treatment. "If you want, I mean. You certainly don’t have to," you quickly added.

A warm smile spread across his lips before he nodded. "I would like that, actually," he replied. "Thank you." He held up his hand in the space between you both, one brow quirking up onto his forehead as he tentatively asked, “Would you mind guiding me in? I left my cane back in my apartment when I hurried out of the door.”

Slowly you reached out, gently taking him by the wrist and guiding his hand to your forearm. His fingers gripped gently around the bare skin, his thumb just once lightly sweeping across the delicate skin right over the pulse point along your own wrist. It almost felt like static electricity passed from his thumb to your skin at the touch and you tensed instantly. Eyes flying up towards his face, you caught the way his mouth very faintly twitched in response before his tongue darted out between his lips.

Had he just…felt that, too? Or was this all just you?

Eyes running over his face, you attempted to make sense of why this man always elicited such a strange reaction from you, but then his head tilted to the side a bit, a small smile drawing over his lips. You realized a second later that you’d just been standing there with his hand on your forearm while staring at him again instead of guiding him into your apartment.

Quickly turning your head away from him, you winced at how ridiculous you probably appeared to him. Clearing your throat, you lead him into your apartment, shutting the door behind him after he stepped fully inside.

“Right, so, I’ll just lead you down the entry hall to my couch in the living room,” you told him, guiding him straight towards the piece of furniture. “Then I can grab my first aid kit.”

Once you’d gotten him settled onto your couch, you hurried off to your bathroom for the first aid kit you kept under the vanity. You grabbed a wet washcloth to clean the blood from him before you stepped back out into the hall, making your way down it to find him still seated on your couch where you’d left him.

As you lowered yourself onto the cushion beside him, you tried to shake off the strange sensation still passing over your skin. Setting the first aid kit onto your coffee table, you turned towards him with the wet washcloth in your hand.

“I’ll need to clean the cut off first,” you said, eyeing the injury. “You’ve got blood dried along it.”

Leaning forward and resting his elbows against his knees, Matt shifted so his gaze was facing forward, giving you easier access to his cut.

“Do whatever you need to,” he replied.

Very gently, you grabbed his chin in one hand, tilting his head at an angle better suited for you. That brief flicker of something akin to static electricity felt like it momentarily passed over your fingertips before it disappeared, leaving you struggling not to focus too hard on the rough stubble and warm skin beneath your fingertips.

With his face positioned where you needed it, you released his chin before brushing away the soft brown hair from his temple, your fingers holding it back and out of your way. Matt’s eyes fluttered closed beneath your touch as he leaned just marginally into your hand. You registered that subtle movement, swallowing hard before focusing on gingerly wiping the dried blood from his skin instead of trying to make sense of it.

“So you know I’m a lawyer,” Matt said, breaking the growing silence. “What is it you do for work, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m a programmer,” you answered him, remaining focused on your task. “I don’t do anything exciting, exactly. I create programs for companies to help with data storage among other boring things.”

“What uh…what made you choose that?” he asked curiously.

Pulling the cloth away from the now cleaned cut, you removed your hand from his hair, watching as it fell forward along his forehead. It wasn’t a deep cut, nothing remotely serious. Something you could have easily helped him with in another way–but you weren’t doing that. Not anymore.

Because you were normal.

“I don’t know exactly,” you admitted, setting the washcloth onto the coffee table. As your fingers searched your first aid kit for some ointment, you continued. “I guess I liked the idea of creating things. And programmers, in the right company, can make a decent living–though New York City is still expensive.”

Matt grinned at your comment, a faint breath of laughter falling out of him. “Yeah, you’re not wrong there,” he agreed. “But you work from your apartment, don’t you? Doesn’t that ever feel…isolating?”

Dabbing the ointment onto his cut, you found yourself so focused on your task and the conversation that you’d forgotten about the strange sensation along your skin. Though it was still rolling over you in gentle waves–almost in a comforting way.

“I don’t mind it,” you told him. “I like the quiet and the familiarity of my own space. The freedom to work from anywhere in the country, allowing me to move whenever I need a change of scenery. Gives me a certain sense of freedom, really.”

Shifting on the couch, you turned and began searching for a bandage that you could use. Your fingers sifting through the items in the bright red bag, you continued to speak, unaware that you were rambling on far past simply answering his initial question.

“I don’t usually like being surrounded by people, anyway,” you confessed. “I’m much more comfortable working in a space without countless co-workers or upper management watching everything you do. Observing you every single day. Monitoring you.”

As you’d brushed away the hair from his forehead with your pinky, your hands holding the bandage just above his cut, you paused. Realization dawned on you about how much you were oversharing, your face slightly heating. He didn’t need to know all of that.

“Sorry,” you abruptly apologized. “I didn’t realize I was babbling incessantly.”

“No, don’t apologize,” Matt quickly countered, a smile drawing itself across his face. “I like listening to your voice. It’s calming.”

Focusing on applying the bandage over his cut, you noticed that sensation across your skin growing a bit warm now. Somehow that made it even more distracting than it usually was.

“Thanks?” you said with an awkward smile. “I’ve uh, never been told that before.”

Smoothing the bandage across his temple, you finished taking care of his small injury. Hands dropping back into your lap, you shifted a little away from him on the couch.

“All done,” you said, voice a bit quieter now.

Matt turned on the couch, positioning himself towards you more fully. The warm smile on his face was now fully visible, his gaze focused just somewhere above your left shoulder.

“Thank you,” he replied, gesturing a finger towards the bandage. “I appreciate the middle of the night medical care.”

Trying to bite back the smile on your face, you shrugged a shoulder. “Well, I appreciate the middle of the night safety check-in.”

An amused chuckle rumbled out of Matt before he reached a hand out in your direction, his palm somehow easily finding your knee. He gave it a gentle squeeze, and something about that simple and unfamiliar gesture had you stiffening on the couch.

“Anytime,” he assured you, his hand releasing your knee. “But I should probably let you get back to sleep. It’s late.”

With a resigned sigh, you nodded in response. “Right,” you muttered half-heartedly.

Matt’s head tilted at your tone, his brows furrowing together as the smile slipped from his face. “Something wrong?” he asked.

Shaking your head, knowing that he couldn’t see the gesture, your thumbnail dug into the fabric of your sweatpants, toying with the cloth nervously. The last thing you felt like doing right now was going back into your bedroom and falling asleep again. Not after that nightmare.

“No, nothing,” you replied, trying to keep your tone light. “I just doubt I’ll be falling back asleep anytime soon. It’s not a big deal. Stupid, really.”

A moment of silence passed between the pair of you, your fingers still fidgeting with the fabric of your sweatpants. The thought of falling asleep and seeing his face again was far too much for you right now.

“If it would make you feel more comfortable,” Matt began hesitantly, “I can stay for a bit? To keep you company?”

Lips parting in surprise at his unexpected offer, you sat beside him in shock on your couch. He was offering to stay here for a bit? At this hour? Despite the strange Skin Tingle as you’d begun calling it in your mind, you found yourself tempted to accept his offer. His presence felt comforting and safe. But how absurd and childish would it look for a grown woman not wanting to be alone after a nightmare? And how would that not make him begin to wonder what was really going on with you?

“Honestly, I don’t mind,” Matt continued when you didn’t respond. “I can go into the office a bit later tomorrow morning if I need to. That’s the beauty of working for yourself,” he said with a grin. “It might upset Foggy for an hour, but I really don’t mind. It would actually make me feel better to make sure you’re really alright.” He cleared his throat before he sent you a hesitant, friendly smile. “If I’m not intruding, of course. I–I’m actually enjoying your company.”

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you considered his offer while trying hard not to focus on the last thing he’d said. The thought of being alone wasn’t a pleasant one, and he was offering to keep you company–quite insistently.

“I suppose if it’s not putting you out,” you answered him slowly. “And if it really won’t affect your work tomorrow. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of any problems.”

“Really,” Matt said, settling back onto the couch with a charming smile on his face. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay, well I–I’m just going to grab the broken bits of my lamp from my bedroom and toss them,” you told him, rising from the couch. “There’s like three pieces, it shouldn’t take me more than a moment.”

“I’ll be fine right here, unless you’d like some help?” he offered.

“No, it’s not a big deal,” you replied sheepishly, embarrassed that you’d even broken the damn lamp. “I’ll just be a moment.”

Hurrying down the hall to your bedroom, you stepped inside to see it in the same state you’d left it in earlier. Your sheets were still half thrown onto the floor from where you’d woken in a fit, and the bedside lamp was still broken in three pieces along the floor. Carefully stepping over to that side of the bed, you began collecting the broken pieces, making sure not to cut yourself in the process.

“So you said you don’t particularly enjoy being around a lot of people,” Matt called out as you began to make your way back down the hallway. “Can I ask what drew you to the city then? New York City seems an odd choice for you if that’s the case.”

You headed into the kitchen, tossing the lamp and its broken pieces into the garbage before glancing over at him on the couch. His arm was slung over the back of it, his head turned slightly towards where you stood in the kitchen. Unable to resist, a small smile tugged at your lips at the sight of him sitting there.

“I don’t,” you admitted. “Like being around a lot of people, that is. I lived in Anchorage, Alaska for a few years before I actually came here. I just wanted a change, I guess. Though Anchorage isn’t technically small–it’s actually the most populated city in Alaska. It’s certainly not New York City, though. But everything out there is sort of…secluded. It’s kind of what drew me there initially. The idea of getting lost somewhere.”

Clearing your throat, you realized you were once again spilling far too much information to him. Instead, you stepped over towards an open shelf and pulled two glasses down.

“I haven’t done much grocery shopping yet, so my hostess options are limited, but would you like some water?” you asked, attempting to change the subject a little.

“Yes, thank you,” Matt answered.

Brief silence filled your apartment as you filled up two glasses with water. Carrying them back towards the couch, you slipped one glass into Matt’s outstretched hand before taking a drink from your own. Your mouth felt incredibly dry as you attempted to navigate this personal conversation about yourself.

“The coffee table is about a foot and a half in front of you,” you said, lowering your glass from your lips before sitting back down on the couch. “If you’d like to set your glass down.”

“Thank you,” Matt said, smiling as he leaned forward to do just that. As he once more sat back against the couch, his unseeing gaze landed in your direction again. “What was Alaska like? It seems a very unlikely location for one to just end up in.”

The ghost of a smile swept over your lips as you looked down at the cup in your hands, your fingers running over the cool glass beneath them. In your mind, you could easily recall the place you’d called home for a few years. Part of you missed it already.

“It was…beautiful,” you began, voice quiet, almost reverent. “I’d been traveling briefly right before having moved there,” you told him, fighting hard to keep the memories attached to that period of time buried deep. “But I’d never seen any place like it. The mountains are massive. They tower behind Anchorage, just always in the distance, always standing so tall. I’d never seen anything quite like them before. And the forests…”

Your voice trailed off as your eyes fell closed, remembering the forests. There’d been many times you’d disappeared in them for awhile just to escape from your own thoughts.

“They’re wild,” you continued softly. “Countless different types of spruce trees, cedars, and birches. Moss literally coats every inch of the forest ground like a green blanket. Everything is just so incredibly green and full of life.” That faint ghost of a smile was still drawn over your lips as you pictured Anchorage in your mind. “You could look up and spot bald eagles or magpies in the sky. There were always moose and their young on the side of the roads, or cutting through backyards in the city.”

Opening your eyes, you noticed Matt’s had closed at some point while you’d been speaking. He looked as if he’d been trying to focus on imagining everything you were explaining himself.

“You paint a beautiful picture,” he said quietly, his own eyes slowly reopening and focusing back in your direction. “It sounds like you loved it there.”

Exhaling quietly, you nodded your head. “I did,” you told him. “I loved hiking the trails, being out in nature. Tried a few outdoor activities, but I never got into the fishing or hunting out there–not really into the idea of killing things," you said quietly, an edge to your words.

Beside you, Matt’s expression softened. “So why’d you move out here?” he asked.

You hesitated for a moment at the question, uncertain with how honest you wanted to be with him. But with how you’d gotten to know his friends, Karen and Foggy, you had a feeling that Matt was someone you didn’t need to completely hide yourself from.

“Figured maybe…I’d feel less lonely,” you answered, giving him a weak shrug. “There’s only so much comfort trees and mountains can bring someone.”

“Did it help?” he asked curiously, his brows lightly drawing together. “Do you feel any less lonely since you’ve moved here? Surrounded by buildings and people instead of moose and trees?”

Pausing for a moment, you considered the question. That night you’d spent out with Karen and Foggy while they drank returned to you, a tiny smile curling your lips upwards at the memory. You’d had fun with them. Real, genuine fun. Something you didn’t think you’d felt before.

“I’ve been here one week and made a few friends already,” you responded. “So, yeah, I’d say so.”

“Good,” Matt replied, a warm smile crossing his face as his eyes creased at the corners. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Matt noticed the change in your breathing as soon as it gradually began to slow. You'd been steadily growing closer and closer to falling asleep as you sat beside him on your couch for the past half hour, narrating the late night movie for him that you'd both settled on watching. Despite the way your voice had eventually gotten a bit more slurred from exhaustion, Matt couldn't help but find himself focusing so intently on it.

He'd been honest earlier with what he’d told you–your voice was calming to him. Soothing in a way he hadn't experienced from anyone else before. He couldn’t help but want to continue listening to you speak, unsure why exactly your voice sounded just marginally different from anyone else's. As if there was the faintest pitch hidden in there that he couldn’t quite place. An odd, calming note that he’d never heard in someone’s voice previously.

You were a curiosity to Matt.

At first, he'd started paying attention to you after you’d moved in across the hall because he'd overheard the late night screaming coming from your apartment. He’d caught it that first night you’d been there. But then your late night terrors continued after that. Matt caught the sounds of them when he was heading back into his own apartment, undressing from his night out on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. Or the noise of your panic had sometimes managed to even draw him straight from his own sleep, causing him to bolt wide awake at the shrill, scared sound. On occasion, Matt had even noticed the acrid tang of fear barreling across the hallway from your apartment, the pungent scent forcing its way into his own space periodically at different hours of the day. It was such a strong smell that Matt was incapable of ignoring it.

There was something off about you. Something different. And clearly something was troubling you–something he got the sense that you were hiding from. But he wasn’t going to push you to open up about it. Not yet, anyway. But that didn’t mean Matt wasn’t going to try to find some way to unravel your secrets.

But the nightmares and the strange tone in your voice wasn’t all that had Matt curious about you. He’d noticed it the first time he’d met you in the hallway with Foggy, and it had only become more evident to Matt tonight as he’d spent time in your apartment with you. Carefully rising from your couch, Matt turned around and gently grasped your sleeping form by the shoulders, that odd noise still humming in his ears. Even as he lowered you slowly down onto the couch, helping you to rest in a more comfortable position, he could still hear that peculiar sound.

Whenever Matt was close enough to you, he’d grown aware of the faintest humming that appeared to emanate directly from you. It was soft, almost imperceptible to his own sensitive ears, but he always heard it whenever you were near enough–and tonight was no exception. It was as if your body itself was vibrating somehow, creating this oddly unique and relaxing version of white noise in his ears. Or the gentle buzz of a handful of bumblebees. In all his years with his senses, all his time navigating the city, Matt had never come across another human being that actually made a sound. A sound that was something other than the usual noises of one’s body–heartbeats, breathing, grumbling stomachs, blood pumping through someone’s veins.

No. This was something else entirely. Something uniquely and frustratingly you. Something Matt desperately wanted to understand even more after his night here with you in your apartment.

Reaching his hand out above your sleeping form, Matt ran it along the back of your couch in search of the blanket he knew was there, the sound of the movie continuing to play on your television behind him. After a few seconds, Matt’s fingertips brushed over the plush, soft material. He took a moment, gliding his fingers back and forth over the silkiness of the blanket, appreciating the feel of it. The corner of his lips twitched before he removed it from the back of the couch and draped it over your sleeping form that was currently fast asleep on the cushions. He’d let you get some sleep for now, aware of how much your exhausted body clearly needed it.

But as he maneuvered his way around your couch, heading towards your apartment door, Matt couldn't help but wonder about you. You seemed kind and genuine, perhaps a little awkward, but not someone who appeared to carry any ill-intent. So why did you seem so constantly filled with fear? What sort of nightmares plagued you so frequently that it woke you screaming and accidentally breaking lamps? And what the hell was with that faint vibration you emitted, or the weird way you reacted when he'd grabbed your wrist earlier?

Who were you? What secrets were you hiding?

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock #daredevil

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pukefactory · 20 hours ago

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BROKEN BONES

An unfortunate series of events ends up with you meeting Eternal Sugar. How unfortunate.

A/N: A little drabble inspired by @brittle-doughie ‘s Warmth fanfic.

You breathe gently. Your chest rises, falls—slow, mechanical. The ache seeps from your limbs like syrup off a spoon, pain and pressure unraveling in quiet surrender.

Eternal Sugar had found you like that—drifting on the edge of her realm, bruised, lost, barely upright. You had tried to explain. You didn’t know how you’d ended up here, only that something had gone horribly wrong. There had been a monster. You’d thrown yourself in its path for the sake of your friends. And now they’re… somewhere. Gone. Forgotten by the sky.

She didn’t ask questions.

She simply looked at you—something unreadable flickering in her sugar-spun eyes—and without a word, scooped you up in her arms. Up, up, into the sweet-smelling clouds. She set you down gently on one, resting beside you like this was always where you were meant to be.

“Isn’t that better, dear?”

And for the briefest instant—barely more than a blink—you almost said yes. Because… yes. It was better. The years you spent folding yourself into obligations, worries, sacrifices—they slipped from your shoulders like petals caught in wind. You wanted to close your eyes. Just for a minute. Just long enough for this peace to become permanent. Just long enough to forget the weight of reality entirely.

But you remembered.

You remembered promises. Your friends. Their terrified faces.

You had reasons to hurt. To keep going. To stay.

And slowly, that comfort wrapping around you started to shift—felt heavier. Tighter. Like a silken noose disguised as a lullaby. You felt trapped inside your own calm, too drowsy to panic, but still aware enough to want to.

“No,” you rasped, breath shallow. “This isn’t right.”

“Is it not?” she asked, not looking at you. Her voice came from somewhere far off—like it had to travel through fog and static just to reach your ears.

She didn’t wait for your answer.

She sat motionless, her gaze lost in the cloudy abyss. Her expression was blank. Truly blank. Not cold, not sad—vacant. Like a mural stripped from its frame and left to gather dust. Whatever emotion had once lived behind her eyes had been evicted, leaving only silence to take its place.

She looked like stone.

But then a change. A flicker. Her lashes lowered, her brow twitched. A ripple of thought stirred her features—small, but telling. Her mouth quivered like it was remembering how to feel again. Slowly, her mask reattached itself, piece by piece.

“Poor thing,” she murmured. “Too exhausted to know what’s best for you.”

You stared, wide-eyed. She didn’t notice. Not with her eyes closed.

The pressure returned—tight now. Suffocating. You tried to move. You thought you were moving. Struggling. Kicking, clawing, something—but when you looked down, your body was still. Arms crossed delicately over your chest. Legs stretched out, calm, serene, like you were posing for a painting you never agreed to be in.

It felt like you were fighting. But your body had betrayed you. And you knew why.

“Please…” You groaned, breath hitching. “Please—”

Her eyes opened. Tilted slightly, lazily, like a doll’s. Her hand rose, slow as syrup, then wrapped gently—dangerously—around your throat.

It wasn’t tight. Not yet. But it could be.

She leaned down until her face hovered just above yours. Her gaze swept across you like it was memorizing every crack, every flaw, every blink you tried to hide.

“I’ll do it all,” she whispered, voice light but curling like smoke. “I must do it all to keep you here.”

Her grip tightened.

“Being alone for decades is torture. Like having your ligaments strung up and plucked like the strings of a lyre.”

A smile twitched at the corner of her lips.

“We’re going to be very happy here… together.”

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hrtwayne · 5 hours ago

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Safe & Sound || Alexia Putellas

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Lionesses Wife!Reader

Summary: Where Claire has her first nightmare after the adoption.

Note: English is not my first language!

Warning: Mention of Nightmares!

Previous Chapter | Women's Football Masterlist

The rain hammered hard against the windows, and thunder rumbled across the dark sky, briefly illuminating Claire’s room. You had been awake for a while, listening to the storm and tossing in bed, when a sharp scream made you bolt upright.

Your heart raced. It was Claire.

Without a second thought, you rushed to the teenager’s room, carefully pushing the door open. The scene before you shattered your heart: Claire was curled up in the corner of the bed, knees pressed to her chest, lips trembling, and eyes wide with terror. Her breathing was fast and erratic, as if she were trapped in a nightmare while still awake.

"Sweetheart... hey, I’m here," you whispered, keeping your voice calm even as a sharp pain clenched your chest at the sight of your daughter in this state. "Breathe with me."

Claire stared at you, but the fear in her eyes didn’t fade. For a moment, it almost seemed like she didn’t even recognize you.

"Can I touch you?" you asked, slowly reaching out.

Claire hesitated, her shoulders tense, as if expecting any contact to hurt her. The look on her face stung more than any physical blow.

"Sweetheart, I won’t hurt you, okay?" you reassured her, keeping your voice steady but soft. "I’m just going to sit beside you, alright?"

Finally, Claire gave a small nod, and you sat next to her, carefully wrapping her in a hug. She was ice-cold, her fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt.

"What happened?" you asked, stroking Claire’s hair.

She swallowed hard, as if the words were thorns in her throat.

"I-I... had a nightmare..." Her voice came out in a barely audible whisper, muffled against your chest. "I-It was horrible."

You didn’t push. Instead, you held her tighter, feeling the tremors running through her body.

"Shhh, it’s okay, my love," you murmured, kissing the top of her head. "You don’t have to tell me, alright?"

Claire nestled closer, as if seeking shelter in your arms, and you let the silence wrap around you both, broken only by the sound of the rain outside.

"I’ll stay until you fall asleep, okay?" you offered, still running your fingers through her hair.

Claire took a shaky breath before asking in an almost childlike tone of vulnerability:

"Can you stay till morning?"

You smiled, even as your heart ached.

"Of course, my love," you replied, lying down beside her and pulling the blanket over you both. "Just close your eyes. Nothing can hurt you now. I’ll be right here when you wake up, sweetheart."

And as the storm raged outside, inside that room, you made a silent promise: no matter what Claire had faced before, she had a family now. And that family would never let her fight alone.

#alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #alexia x reader #woso imagine #woso x reader #fem reader #gxg #woso fanfics #barcelona femeni #barcelona women #imagine

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burreauxsss · 2 days ago

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why me?

background: a causal hookup turns into you becoming his baby mama, or so you thought.

notes: angsty blurb because i hate writing angst (no really)

word count: 330

warning: this is a alternative universe, joe would never do this (most likely). talks of being paid to not contact ever again angst, not proofread.

<- Part 1 -> Part 2

The hookups began on a super casual level, you and Joe meeting at a 4th of July white party. You met him because you were a +1 with a friend, but between the two of you, there was an undeniable connection that made you attracted to each other. Two things were holding you back: Joe being an NFL player with a huge fanbase, including the fangirls who would attack you for breathing next to him, unfortunately. In the meantime, you were dealing with mental issues since you were going through a break-up with your ex boyfriend, who was extremely unfaithful towards you.

When the football season first started, it quickly that the playoffs wouldnt be possible to the Bengals starting 0-4 even before the bye week. Instead of being in a mood, each month he'd fly you out first class. Since you knew not to tell anyone about this, he never required you to sign an NDA and it relaxed both of you. But social media always investigates which made it even harder to be at Joe's house. You knew you had to get out of this. Joe only used you for his pleasure. Sure, you loved it at first as a hookup, but slowly catching feelings was horrible for someone who could possibly be a player.

But when you got back from Cincinnati to your house, and took a pregnancy test, which you nearly chickened out, you stared at the positive sign and instantly assumed the best. Joe had the potential to be the perfect father. You saw him when he was around kids, especially the ones at training camp on social media, a man who would have formed a firm and long lasting bond with your kid. Thinking that he'd remain a part of your life for 18 years simply because the two of you had a child together. What he ended up doing was the exact opposite of what you were wishing for the entire time.

notes: this is what yall get

#joe burrow #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow insta au #joe burrow smau #joe burrow x black reader #joe burrow text imagine #joe burrow angst #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow blurb #joe burrow x y/n

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therosebookshop · 2 days ago

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An Unhealthy Obsession

͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙ ·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Warnings/Contains: Dead dove? Yeah, dead dove; yandere, yandere, yandere; not cringy yandere, if you’re looking for yansim type yandere you will not find that here; stalking on both sides; mentally unwell on both sides yeah duh; gender neutral pronouns and reader as always; you’re aware you’re fucked in the head and why, but therapy is expensive; an ‘accidental’ murder; I hc sol to have a tongue piercing because god knows he should’ve had one, that creep from the arcade but this time bbg Sol is there to save you first <3

A/N: um hi I got sucked in by sol and for any followers sorry I’ve been absent I have ✨burnout✨ so

Inspo: a tumblr post and the title came from ‘An Unhealthy Obsession’ by The Blake Robinson Synthetic Orchestra

Yandere.

A mix of two words- yanderu, “to be sick,” and deredere, “lovestruck.” Most of the time, yandere are portrayed to be sweet, caring, and innocent before switching into someone who displays an extreme, often violent or psychotic, level of devotion to a love interest.

You know you have a problem. Something wrong in your brain, having developed from your childhood abandonment and neglect. The need to be loved turned into an obsession with a boy in kindergarten. You’d thought he would be perfect for you, because he seemed so sweet and caring. And well.. that girl you’d pushed into traffic one day after she’d given him a flower and they’d sat together at lunch had been an accident, of course. A horrible, tragic one.

Your obsessions had never been this bad. Of course, some of them had been over fictional characters. Some had been over real boys in school, but they had never returned your feelings. And you’d cried your heart out after the rejections. You simply didn’t understand why they didn’t love you. You’d stalk them to see what they liked, change your clothing and your personality and everything, just for them. To be their type.

But this obsession… had turned so bad.

He plagued your every thought. His gorgeous eyes, pretty hair, nice hands. His lips, his arms, how tall he was. Everything about him was so perfect. He was perfect. The fact that he didn’t seem to have many friends.. well, that was okay. When you finally got him as yours, he wouldn’t need anybody else. He’d have you.

You’d gained a reputation as a weird kid, one that had apparently followed you to your new college. There was a boy at the back of your class, who was nearly always accompanied by a boy who was about a head shorter, blue hair. You were jealous. But you weren’t stupid. No, you had to plan carefully to dispose of the boy.

Years. Painful years, of learning about the object of your obsession. You had a whole wall in your closet covered in Polaroids of Sol, each one neatly dated on the back in a green marker that matched the green in his hair. You had shoeboxes full of Polaroids of him, too, all of those neatly dated in legible handwriting and stacked by date. You followed him home once to set up a camera in his bedroom, complete with a mic, right near his bed to hear him sleep. You recorded it once, for if you ever needed the comforting sounds of your darling to sleep and he wasn’t available. Surprisingly, it was hard to learn anything about him just from searching his name- a lot of the kids here were from richer families, more popular families. So you simply stalked him, learned everything about him you could, and kept note of everything about him in a black hardcover notebook, kept on your person at all times.

Every little tick, nervous habit, anything. Noted. How his tongue prodded at hot food before taking a bite. The absolutely hot looking tongue piercing he had. The cute way he fiddled with his sleeves sometimes, or tapped his foot. When people were being annoying he rolled his eyes, or crossed his arms. He had a sibling-like relationship with his best friend, and you had a few pictures of his cute little pout when he was teased.

You learned from careful observation that he was in the nurse's office every other day, so you started to give yourself little injuries to be in the office too. A cut, a bruise, other injuries.

Little did you know he was obsessed with you too. You'd heard this town could be dangerous for pretty young women at night, but you hadn't ever had any issues. Because he followed you home every night. Why would you need a recording of him sleeping when he climbed into your room through your window and spooned you every night? He knew about all the Polaroids and everything. And it made him more obsessed, that you felt the same way about him.

You started to leave him little gifts- cute ones like a tiny bouquet of geranium blooms held together with twine placed on his desk (he knew about the flower box in your living room), a hoodie casually tossed over the back of his chair (it smelled like you and was oversized, so fit him well). Or bigger gifts- a horse plushie, snacks. All of them were from you, he knew they were. It was obvious, how you'd always be at your desk, which was just a couple away from his so you could inconspicuously look at him, before he was in the classroom. How you'd watch eagerly as he put the hoodie on, or slipped the snacks or plushie into his backpack to take home.

Then came the day in art class- three Expressionism drawings. You weren't an artist in any form (unless taking a lot of photographs of one person counted, and it probably didn't) and anyway, even if you were, you didn't want to spend a lengthy amount of time with anybody but Sol.

Everybody moved around to their partners, and you were the only one left without one. And, as your eyes fastened on Sol... he didn't have a partner, either.

You went over, sliding into the seat beside him. "You don't have a partner, right?"

You'd never spoken to him before. Not once. You'd heard his voice so much, but now, actually face-to-face with the object of your obsessions and sleepless nights, your heart was beating out of your chest.

"No. I don't. He ditched me." He said. And god, is his voice hot.

"Well, I don't either." You have to remind yourself to breathe, even though your knee is bobbing under the desk. "Want to be partners?"

His eyes don't miss the rapid, nervous movement of your knee bobbing, heel tapping against the floor. The corners of his lip twitch slightly. Adorable.

"I don't see why not." He says finally, eyes focusing on yours, and you have to remind yourself again to breathe. His eyes are so gorgeous. Like warm honey. You could fall into them and be trapped, like a fly in amber.

"Great." And the word comes out a little breathless, a little flustered. "I'm (user), by the way." You offer your hand to shake. "What's your name?" Like you don't already know it.

He stares at your hand for a minute, as if contemplating. Then he shakes your hand. "Solvian Brugmansia. Just call me Sol."

His hand is warm and bigger than yours, unsurprising because of his height. You can't help but grin. "Nice to meet you, Sol."

You talk a little, ideas of what to draw. He had a sketchbook open on his desk, and to see it without straining your neck, you scooted your chair over, leaning into his personal space bubble. But for such an introvert, he didn't seem to mind one bit.

He smells so good, you think. Comforting. Like paper and something akin to blood- an irony smell. And something under that, something so distinctly him you want to bury your face in his neck. You want to rest your head against him, maybe put your hand on his thigh for 'balance'. To touch him in some way.

He shifts, clears his throat, and when you glance up at him you realize his cheeks are flushed, and he looks down at you. You realize when you can see the faint blemishes on his face- oh so pretty- that you're very, very close.

You lean away, flustered and embarrased. You don't think you blush- he can see faint pink on your cheeks- but you do grin like an absolute idiot. You've learned this through playing dating games (a way to familiarize yourself with relationships, to be as good a partner as you possibly can for your future darling). You're not grinning as wide as if he had flustered you with his words, but you've still got a smile on your face.

And almost without thinking, his hand squishes your cheeks between his fingers to tilt your face up. You're so pretty, he thinks, those eyes never looking away from his, eyes that he could spend hours staring into. With the faint blush coloring your cheeks and the smile on your lips, you could be a perfect subject to draw.

"Stay like that for me." He murmured softly. "I'm going to draw you for this project."

Your lips parted, cheeks growing red, even if you couldn't feel their warmth. He opened up a page of his sketchbook, releasing your face to start sketching. He tells you how to pose- your chin on your palms, head tilted slightly. You watch him as he sketches, how focused he is, his lower lip caught with his teeth. Your eyes soften. He's gorgeous like this, pretty eyes occasionally flickering between the page and you.

Your eyes unfocus, simply staring at him. When he looks up his eyes lock with yours. He can practically see hearts in your eyes, adoration in your gaze. His cheeks turn red. You're adorable this way, oh-so-pretty. Stunning, really.

There's not enough time to finish the drawing within class, so while everybody files out he makes you stay there, finishing the sketch. When he's done he closes his sketchbook and stuffs it into his bag. "I'll show you when I color it in." He says as you grab your stuff and exit the classroom.

Out in the hallway, the two of you stand off to the side. "Since we're, um, gonna be partners, we should exchange numbers. To keep in touch and talk about projects and stuff." You add.

Please, please, please-

“Yeah. Here, put your number in.” He pulls out his phone and opens the contact app before handing it to you. You couldn't stop grinning as you typed in your number and handed his phone back. Your phone went off- a text from an unknown number, no doubt him.

You changed his contact nickname to 'Darling ♡ ' in your phone, grinning to yourself. You're so much shorter than him, he can easily see your phone screen, and he smiles to himself. He's added your contact name as 'Pumpkin'.

The obsession was so obvious.

Over the next few days of the project, the two of you ended up hanging out a lot. Usually at each other's apartment. You even went to the arcade with Sol while Hyugo went and saw a movie nearby.

It was really a cute arcade date, and you dressed as cute as possible that day- oversized sweater, baggy pants, oversized chunky boots that you sometimes lost your balance in... but it was fine, because you always had Sol to lean into for balance.

At the arcade, you played games together, laughing. Sol went to get more tokens and you insisted on sticking by his side. Somebody brushed past you, and in your horrible balanced fashion, you stumbled.

Sol caught you by the waist, steadying you. "Are you okay?"

He seemed to realize what he'd done and cleared his throat, moving his arm, but you stopped him, lacing your fingers with his, begging he wouldn't freak. His cheeks went bright red but he didn’t pull away, and you grinned to yourself as you went up to the counter with him, giving him a cute little side hug while he bought some more tokens. His cheeks were even redder now. It was adorable seeing him like this.

The cashier smiled at the two of you. "How long have you been a couple for?" You hastily released him. Sure, you knew that could be considered slightly romantic, but-

"Not long at all." His arm loops around your waist to tuck you into his side. Your face flushes a bright red. He looks down at you, noticing your blush, and his cheeks turn a pretty pink.

When you get more tokens you go to plushie machines. One of them has horse plushies. You give Sol, who's at a claw machine with plushies of your favorite animal in it, a quick look before going to the machine and putting in a token.

You're laser focused on it, cheering when you get the plushie. You don't even notice when an unfamiliar man comes up to you with a sleazy look, his two bodyguards in tow. He throws an arm around your waist, and you startle away from him, horse plushie clutched in your arms.

"Hey there, pretty. You alone?" He reeks of tobacco, and your nose wrinkles.

"No, I'm here with my boy-" You try to back up, but you bump into one of his bodyguards that blocks your way.

"What kind of boyfriend would leave a pretty thing like you all by yourself? C'mon, come with me, pet. I'll show you a good time." He starts to try to pull you away, but you stomp on his foot, hard, and run. Sol was nearby, he can protect you-

You collide right into Sol, and he keeps you from falling, eyes darting over your face with concern. "What's wrong, pumpkin?" The cute little pet name slips from his lips without him even realizing.

"This man- he grabbed me- he wanted me to go with him but I ran-" You're shaking, Sol can tell, the horse plushie still clutched in your arms. His eyes literally darken in anger, looking up and around for the man who dared to touch you without your permission.

I'm gonna kill him.

He gives you a hug, and you hug him back tightly, the horse plushie held in your hand, the bag of other prizes you two had collectively won bumping against your back as he held it in his hand. "It's okay, I'm here now."

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering. You smell amazing. He should find out what scent you wear, so he can buy one for himself.

But he should focus on the situation at hand. He runs his fingers through your hair. "It's okay. Let's go, yeah?"

So you walk home with him, and he holds your hand, keeping you close. Your hands are cold, and he pauses, setting the bag down at your feet and holding your hand to his mouth. His cheeks redden as he kisses the back of your hands, and you blush too.

He's so pretty. And so, so close. His eyes lock with yours, and you see the same sort of adoration and obsession in his eyes that are often in yours when you look at him.

And it makes your breath catch. He feels the same way. That's what that look has to mean.

He holds your hand the rest of the way to your cozy little apartment and you invite him in. He accepts, of course, acting like he's never been inside your apartment- he knows it like the back of his hand.

And maybe you do kiss him that night. Maybe he stays over, cuddling in your bed with you. Maybe more happens. But you're his. And he's yours.

But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee—

#therosebookshopstories #the kid at the back sol #tw yandere #fluff #yandere male #the kid at the back #yandere reader #solivan brugmansia #sol brugmansia #sol x reader

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