#no what drives me up a fucking wall is that people will scream “harming people is never the answer” in these situations

[upside-down-sock-drawer]

No because the amount of people up on their high horses about this is genuinely concerning. "Oh but but the CEO has a family he was a person too" and?? He is partially responsible for literally thousands of deaths, and forced chronically and/or terminally people into debt. For what, you ask? For more money to put into his pockets. So please excuse me if I don't have sympathy for that man.

[cookie-waffle-art-and-stuff]

Voyagers Chapter 1: Recoil

A sudden tragedy befalls the crew of The Ark, shaking even Optimus Prime to his core.

Content warnings: robot gore, heavy topics such as mental illness and self harm.

Prominent Characters: Optimus, Elita, Chromia, Ironhide, Bee, Roddy, and Ratchet.

A loud bang could be heard from one of the Ark's living quarters. A sound that had become all too familiar to the crew during their long voyage. Quickly, Ratchet and Knockout raced to the source, nearly knocking over at least 3 other bots as their tires left long black tracks along the ship's floor panels. Usually, Ultra Magnus would have given them an earful for reckless disregard for the rules, but this time, he could tell something must have been seriously wrong. Knockout carelessly almost crashing into people's legs seemed in character for him, but Ratchet? Magnus quickly followed after the two medics.

In the residential section of the ship, people were not up and about, looking for what could have made the noise. They already knew. The eerie silence in the hallways was only broken by the sound of speeding engines.

Ratchet, not even bothering to break, transformed at high speed, causing the old mech to slip over and land on his side. Magnus offered to help him up, but he didn't even turn to look at him before he jumped up to his feet and began frantically knocking on people's doors. Knockout didn't take long to join in the effort. Magnus now knew what had happened, and part of him wanted to transform and drive away right there, but he knew he needed to stay and help.

Ratchet frantically banged on a door, and a bleary-looking seeker answered.

"Ugh, this better be important, Ratchet."

One look at Ratchet's face and Starscream could already tell. Without saying anything, he closed the door and left Ratchet to do his job.

"Ratchet!" Knockout shouted for the other medic.

Ultra Magnus saw the scene before Ratchet did. "Dear Primus... No..." he muttered, taking a step back.

He blocked Ratchet from entering. "You don't want to see this, Ratchet."

"Magnus, get out of my way!" the old medic said.

"You can't, Ratchet! It's.... You can't see him like this!"

Ratchet had never seen Magnus look so visibly shaken before. He had known this bot for over a century and rarely saw so much of an eyebrow crease on his face.

"Magnus..." He told the larger mech in a calm voice. "Let me do my job."

Ultra Magnus reluctantly allowed Ratchet to pass by and witness the horror for himself. The moment he stepped inside, he was hit with the blinding glow of neon pink splattered all over the walls. When he looked down, a red heap of metal lay on the floor, with half his head scattered around the room.

"No... NO!"

Ratchet rushed over to the heavily wounded mech. His color was still visible but quickly faded into that all too familiar dull grey that Ratchet was so sick of seeing.

"WHY?! PRIMUS, WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE YOU?!"

Knockout had already left to get more medics, but now a crowd of bots had huddled around the doorway to see who was inside.

Magnus attempted to block the view with his large frame, but it didn't prevent Sideswipe from catching a glimpse.

"Is that- no.... He didn't. He fucking DIDN'T." The young Autobot cried out as he averted his optics from the scene.

Then, a blue fembot barreled through the crowd and slipped into the room, ducking under Magnus's legs. The screams from her made Ratchet feel like his spark was being torn out of his chest.

"IRIONHIDE!" she screamed out.

She shoved Ratchet out of the way and attempted to shake her conjunx awake.

"HIDE! HIDE! WAKE UP! You can't do this, WAKE UP!"

Ratchet tried to pull her away, but Chromia shoved him off. Her blue optics glowed so bright with emotion that her pupils were no longer visible.

She pounded her fists against Iornhide's chest. "You big idiot! Why didn't you say something!? Why didn't you just talk to me!?"

Magnus, although pained by the sight, needed to step in. He practically had to pry Chromia off Ironhide. She fought a hell of a fight, thrashing and kicking with all her might. But Magnus's strength greatly overpowered her. She eventually resorted to dirty tactics like biting and trying to bend his antennae. This caused Magnus to drop her, but not before Ironhide was taken away by medics. She was able to catch up with them quickly, but this time Ratchet warned her to stay back and let them do their thing unless she wanted her conjunx to die right there.

Chromia collapsed and watched as Ironhide disappeared behind the med-bay's doors. She wanted to go in badly but knew it was a bad choice. Once Magnus caught up, he put aside the sore pain in his antennae and knelt beside her. He put a large hand on her arm, which she returned by falling into his arms and sobbing. He wasn't sure what to do, but he attempted to soothe her by rubbing her back. He took a mental note to request that Elita One transfer to the Ark immediately. She had been purposely avoiding any vessel that Optimus was currently on, but Magnus knew that she would never allow Chromia to suffer through this ordeal alone. And she would certainly be a much better comfort than Magnus knew how to be.

Optimus could have practically teleported there in the operating room with how fast he showed up, which irritated Ratchet. The medical team quickly rushed him out. Optimus, the ever stoic leader, held a strong composure. But the worry in his optics betrayed his efforts to keep it. He was given special permission to wait just outside the operating room. Inevitably, Chromia was also granted this permission.

The Prime held Chromia's hand and tried his best to offer as many words of comfort as possible, but even he wasn't sure if he believed what he was saying. He was so utterly exhausted from this happening in the fleet so often. Now, one of Optimus's oldest close friends has done it. Aside from Jazz and Megatron, Ironhide was the only other still-living sparklinghood friend that Optimus had left. Ironhide was family. Chromia was family, too. Optimus's mask of stoicism might as well have been welded onto his face. He never cried in front of others. Even Elita seldom ever saw the mech shed a tear. But this time, it was almost too much. It took him all of his will to not cry as much as he wanted to.

Optimus's spark felt an ever-so-slight jolt of electricity about two hours in. He knew what that meant. And just as he suspected, barely a moment later, a deep yet effeminate voice rang out through Optimus's helm.

"Where is she?"

"Elita!"

Chromia ran into her best friend's arms and clung to her for dear life. Elita stroked the top of her helm while her face was buried in her neck. Elita hadn't yet acknowledged Optimus, and he took this opportunity to slip away and sit in the corner of the room. He was glad that Elita was there to help but still preferred not to look at her or hear her voice for too long. He could already feel his spark begin to painfully tense up.

Everyone leaped from their seats when they saw Knockout leave the operating room.

Chromia spoke to him. "So? Is my big guy okay? Please tell me he is!"

Knockout scratched the back of his helm.

He muttered under his breath before speaking, "Primus, I hate that they make me talk to people." He cleared out his throat and began reciting what Ratchet had told him. "Er, he's not doing great, I can tell you that. But he's not dead.... Not yet, anyway."

Though still highly concerning, the news of Ironhide's survival made everyone feel like someone had just lifted a Unicron-sized weight off them.

Knockout continued, "He unfortunately lost his right optic, but the left one seems intact and responds to light. And it's going to take a very long time for him to heal from his injuries. I'm... honestly shocked that he managed to miss hitting his brain, but I won't lie to you, the brain damage is-"

Knockout scratched the back of his helm again in his discomfort.

"I won't lie to you. It's bad. Real bad. Ratchet isn't sure if he will ever be the same again, mentally. Even if he completely heals, there is undoubtedly going to be some degree of extreme disability. He's likely going to need help just to-"

Elita One interrupted him. "Thank you, Dr Knockout. I think she's heard enough."

Chromia was inconsolable and sobbing heavily into Elita's chest as she held her.

"Thank Primus they never merged sparks..." Elita One thought silently to herself.

Breaking a spark merge without a death involved is already one the most physically, mentally, and emotionally painful things a transformer could live through. If they had been merged and Ironhide couldn't heal, a merge break in this manner would have likely killed Chromia, too.

The three were allowed into recovery to see Ironhide. Chromia gazed down at the hospital bed, saying nothing. The right side of the head was almost destroyed. One would be able to see the dim glow of his heavily damaged brain through the massive gaping wound. Optimus left the room, and Elita had to turn away. Chromia gently caressed what was left of the crest on his helmet. It was at least somewhat of a relief to see the deep red hue of his armor had started to return.

"May I please be alone with him?" Chromia asked Elita.

The larger femme gave a silent nod and left her friend to tend to her injured conjunx.

Outside, the crowd had dispersed, yet one little yellow mech remained. He wiped a tear off of his optic before greeting Elita with a warm embrace. Optimus was there, too, sitting down with his head down and his hands covering his face. He had already explained Ironhide's condition to Bumblebee.

Leaning down to the much smaller transformer's level, Elita welcomed his affection with a barely visible smile. Despite the current situation, smiling for the first time in cycles felt nice.

"My little Bee..." She said softly. "It's so good to see you again."

Bumblebee placed his hands up against Elita's. Due to the size difference, it was somewhat tricky for him to communicate with her via chirolinguistics. It took him a few moments to explain what had happened to Ironhide since she hadn't been there for the incident earlier that day.

Her optics lit up in horror. "What?! He... He shot himself?!"

She could feel Bumblebee's hands shaking in her palms. He tried to speak to her again, but he was beginning to lose his composure. Elita could see more tears roll down his cheek, and she used her finger to wipe them away for him.

Elita stood up. She began pacing around restlessly.

"I can't take this anymore." She said. "This cannot keep happening! We've lost far too many like this, and now Hide? We need to do something about this, Optimus!"

She looked at Optimus, sitting in the corner with his head down.

"Optimus? Optimus, Hey!"

He didn't take notice of her.

"ORION PAX!"

The old Prime slowly raised his head to meet her gaze. The grief-stricken look in his optics caused Elita to soften her tone.

"We can't just let this keep happening, Optimus."

Optimus stayed silent for a few more moments before he sighed and finally spoke. "You're right, Elita. We need to find some way to prevent this from continuing to happen. But-"

"But, WHAT? We can't afford to make excuses! There are less than seven thousand transformers left in this entire Primus-forsaken universe, Optimus! At this rate, there won't be any of us left by the time we get to Theta-3!"

"We don't have enough resources." Ratchet suddenly butted in.

Nobody even noticed him exit the medbay. Irionhide's blood-energeon was still smeared on his chest and torso, and he looked like he had aged about 50 vorns in the time it took to operate on his friend.

"We have one overworked licensed therapist on this ship, which has a crew of over 500 fucking people, might I add. And some of the fleet's ships don't have a licensed therapist, period. We also can't afford to keep prescribing medication! We're running out of the materials we need to make them! We're even running out of the chemicals we need for anesthetic!"

Ratchet's volume started to rise. "And we need more energon, goddamn it!"

The medic slammed a fist against the metal wall, causing a loud "BANG!" that resonated down the hallway. At this point, Bumblebee silently excused himself.

Bumblebee, not wanting to be alone, headed towards the lounge instead of his quarters. On the way, he had briefly bumped into Jazz. He didn't look like his usual energetic and upbeat self. Though his visor covered his optics, his doorwings drooped down, and his body seemed uncharacteristically tense. Despite this, he attempted to keep a friendly tone.

"Hiya, Bumbles. How ya holdin' up?"

Bumblebee gave a half-hearted shrug, but his face told the truth. Jazz leaned down and gave him a gentle stroke on the crest of his helmet with his index and middle fingers. The smaller mech closed his optics and leaned into the comforting touch. A low rumble came from deep in Bumblebee's chest, a transformer's way of purring.

"I'm so sorry, buddy." Jazz said. "I feel ya, I feel ya..."

Jazz let out a pained sigh before standing back up.

"Does your brother know what happened yet?" he asked.

Bumblebee gave another shrug. He hadn't seen his brother that entire day.

"Dang, well, if I see him, I'll let him know." Jazz said.

The two friends soon said their goodbyes and parted ways.

Once Bumblebee arrived at the lounge, his olfactory sensors were blasted with the pungent scent of pheromones and high-grade oil.

"Oh god." Bumblebee thought. "What the hell happened in here last night?"

"BEEBOOOOY!" a voice shouted out from behind the bar counter.

It was Swerve. He had spent all morning cleaning up the trashed lounge. Usually, this was Blurr's job at the end of his late-night shift, but Swerve still had that usual big goofy smile, regardless. It is evident to Bee that he had no clue of the tragedy that had taken place.

Bumblebee approached the other small mech. He had to tip-toe his way over trash, broken bottles, passed-out bots, and Primus knows what else. He looked at Swerve and tilted his head to the side in confusion.

"Oh, yeah, this. Er, I gotta clean up for Blurr because he got a little too into high-grade last night. He gave me his tips, though, so it's cool. And I don't think many customers are going to come in today, anyway. The usuals are all-" He looked across the sea of unconscious frames scattered about the lounge before him. "-a little busy, at the moment."

The bartender noticed the dim glow of Bumblebee's optics.

"Hey, you okay, buddy? You don't look so good." He asked.

Bee just gave a slight smile and nod. He didn't want to be the one to ruin Swerve's happy mood.

"Okay... if you say so, Beeboy," Swerve said, sounding rather unconvinced.

Bumblebee began making his way towards the rec room before Swerve stopped him.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you!" he called out after Bumblebee. "Some vehicons went in there last night and haven't come out since. Let's just say I don't think the pheromone smell is coming from inside this room."

Bumblebee's face twisted into a grossed-out expression, the sight of which caused Swerve to let out a chuckle.

"Last night got a bit wild, but I think you might have already noticed." Said Swerve. "There wasn't enough high grade left to last for the next few days, so Blurr told everyone in here they could go ahead and knock themselves out with the stuff. Although, I'm not sure he intended for them to take his words as literally as they did, heh."

Swerve stepped out from behind the counter with a broom and started sweeping away trash to make a path between the bar and the door.

"Man, I'm so pissed off I didn't know about the party. Apparently, Blaster tried to message me, but I had passed out on my couch watching TV. Sometimes, I hate being such a heavy sleeper."

Bumblebee was glad to hear that Swerve wasn't woken up by the gunshot.

With little else to do, Bumblebee decided to help Swerve clean up the lounge. They went from bot to bot, shaking them awake. Some were out so cold that Bee and Swerve had to physically jump up and down on top of them. And some bots were so out of it that they almost looked like they were in a coma.

"Oh, gosh. I hope nobody threw up in here." Swerve said out loud.

As it turned out, somebody threw up in there.

"Aw, dammit, Seaspray!" Exclaimed Swerve.

Seaspray slowly lifted his head from the floor and looked up at Swerve, "S-Sorry..." he mumbled.

Swerve stopped for a moment. "Oh, wait, that reminds me! I have the perfect thing for clean-ups like this!"

Bumblebee curiously observed as Swerve scurried back to the bar counter. He grabbed a large megaphone behind it and yelled, "OKAY, EVERYONE RISE AND SHINE! ANYONE WHO CAN STAND UP, GET THE HELL OUT, PLEASE."

He then turned on the megaphone's siren for good measure. Before long, the lounge started to sound like one of Wheeljack's horror movies. The tired groaning and moaning reminded Bee what a horde of spark eaters might sound like. Thankfully, it was just a bunch of drunk idiots, not undead cannibals.

Almost everyone left, save for the few who were out cold.

"Eh, we can leave them there for now." Said Swerve. "They'll get up eventually. That high grade was some strong stuff, so they'll probably be out for most of the day. Just try moving the ones on the floor to the couches."

Bumblebee and Swerve were both pretty small and moving the dead-weight bigger bots proved harder than they thought. They ended up having to drag most of them across the floor. Bee did not find the screeching metal-on-metal scraping sound of bodies being dragged across the floor to be very pleasant.

"I'll give you half my shift's pay, Bee. I really appreciate you helping me out here." Swerve said to Bumblebee.

Bumblebee felt bad for taking some of his pay, but he couldn't really communicate that through body language, and his hands were already full of drunk people. So, he just nodded and smiled.

The last one they had to dump on a couch was Eject. He was a teeny tiny bot, making it easy for Bee to pick him up and flop him onto the couch. But then, something caught the yellow mech's optic. Next to where Bumblebee had placed Eject, there was this pile of what looked like maybe 4 or 5 bots who were already passed out on the couch before Swerve had clocked in. Bumblebee recognized all of them. He was good friends with them, but they were a lot closer to-

"OF COURSE you would be here!" Bumblebee thought.

He could recognize that yellow spoiler anywhere. It was barely sticking out from under the pile. He had to wake him up. He couldn't be just passed out in there all day, not knowing what happened.

First, he pulled off Sunstreaker from the top of the pile. His body hit the ground with a loud metal "CLANK!".

"Sorry, Sunny!" He thought.

Swerve questioned his actions. "What are you doing, Bee?"

Bumblebee momentarily stopped what he was doing and walked over to Swerve. He held his palms out. Swerve, knowing what this meant, placed his hands against Bee's.

"There's a certain dumbass I need to talk to, and he's under that pile."

"Ah," Swerve said in acknowledgment. "Need any help?"

Bumblebee shook his head. "I think I should be the one to do this. I need to talk to him about a family-related issue."

Swerve nodded. He tanked Bumblebee for helping him with the cleanup and got back to work. Meanwhile, Bumblebee was occupied with dragging Moonracer off from on top of Inferno. They were in an.... exciting position. Bee didn't even see Hotshot initially, and even Wheelie somehow got buried in the pile, too. His suspicions were confirmed when he got to Drift, who was snoozing away while straddling his conjunx's lap.

Bumblebee gently pushed Drift to the side so he could lay out on the couch instead of on the ground with Sunstreaker. He walked up to the one person left on the couch—his brother.

He tapped Hot Rod on the helm a few times. He then moved on to aggressively trying to shake him awake. When that didn't work, he kicked him in the leg, which made him fall to his side, directly on top of Drift. Bumblebee rolled his optics and threw his hands up in the air out of frustration.

Swerve chimed in from the bar. "Maybe you should just let him sleep it off and talk to him later?"

Bumblebee shook his head. He needed to get Hot Rod to wake up, somehow. He rubbed his chin, thinking of what his next move should be.

Swerve chimed in again. "Bee! The megaphone!"

Bee smiled and gave him a thumbs-up.

Swerve rushed over to him with the megaphone.

"Allow me to do the honors yet again?"

Bumblebee shook his head and took the megaphone from Swerve. He held it up directly to Hot Rod's face, leaned in as close as possible, cleared his throat, and then let out an awful, high-pitched static sound. Swerve had to cover his audio processors.

"DUHWAAA!! WHA????"

Hot Rod's optics shot open. He tried to get up but stumbled and landed face-first on the ground.

"B-Bee! What the hell, man?!"

Drift slowly opened one optic, slightly lifted his helm, and looked up at Bee.

"mhm. Bomplebeeb"

Then, he went right back to sleep.

Hot Rod rubbed his temple.

"Ugh... My head feels like Unicron chewed on it."

He tried to stand up again, using the couch as a support. He unsheathed his battle mask to shield his optics from the light.

He noticed Drift and others. "Oh, Shit! are they good?"

"Yea, just let 'em' sleep it off." Assured Swerve. "Oh, and, uh, Bee wanted to tell you something."

The reminder of what he was there for caused Bumblebee's horns and doorwings to involuntarily droop down. Swerve took notice.

"Ah, I take it that you'd prefer to talk about this privately."

Bumblebee gave a slow nod, and Swerve went back to the bar. But not before thanking Bumblebee for the help once again.

Hot Rod looked down at his brother.

"Uh oh. Am I in trouble?"

Bumblebee took him by the hand and pulled him towards the lounge's exit.

"Oh, oh. Look, I SWEAR that seat inside of Magnus's alt mode was already broken when I went in there!"

Bumblebee turned to look at him with a very puzzled expression but then quickly chose to brush it off and keep going.

"Wait! I forgot something!"

Bumblebee let out a silent sigh.

Hot Rod wobbled over to where Drift was lying, then bent down and kissed him on the forehead.

"I'll see you later, babe. Sweet dreams." Hot Rod whispered to him in a sultry tone.

Bumblebee tugged on his arm.

"Okay, Okay! I'm coming!"

Bumblebee had to help Hot Rod keep his balance while walking, which wasn't very easy considering their significant size difference. Bee inevitably got tired of carrying his brother's weight, so he just let him sit down in the hallway. At least now they were at eye-level with each other.

"Dude, what is going on? That was a real dick move you pulled back there! Gah! My head is pounding!" Hot Rod said, rubbing his temples.

Bumblebee grabbed Hot Rod's hands and placed their palms together. "Irionhide almost died last night."

"Wait, wait, wait—WHAT?! I just saw him yesterday! Is he okay?!"

The look on Bumblebee's face told him everything he needed to know..

"Oh no..."

He could feel his brother's hands start to tremble. "He shot himself in the-"

Hot Rod yanked his hands away, the words hitting him like a punch to the face.

Frequent suicides have been a problem in the fleet for a while now. Over the years, Hot Rod met a lot of people. Made a lot of close friends. He knew that, at some point, someone he knew personally might do it. But he had constantly shoved that thought far into the back of his mind. He never imagined that Ironhide, who practically helped raise him, would do such a thing.

Hot Rod's ventilation quickened and his sparkbeat rose. "But... He- He's okay now, right?"

Bumblebee's dimly-lit optics looked into Hot Rod's. The look of grief in them was almost too much for Hot Rod to bear.

Then, Bumblebee pulled him closer in a comforting embrace. Hot Rod hugged him back tightly. He could hear the small autobot's frame shaking. Being unable to vocalize properly, his cries sounded like a toy whose batteries were running out. It was warped and choppy but still filled with sorrow. It didn't take long for Hot Rod to lose composure as well, not being able to contain the flood of emotions as buried his face into Bee's shoulder. He had already lost many comrades in the war, but this hit harder than all of them. Ironhide was more than just a fellow Autobot, he was family. He helped take care of he and his brother as a sparklings, taught him how to use a gun, helped train him to fight, and gave him some much needed stability while growing up in a world that was quite literally falling apart.

"Why... why would he-" Hot Rod whispered, his voice breaking. "Why would he do something like that?"

Bumblebee pulled back slightly, still firmly gripping his brother's arms. He touched foreheads with him, which was a common act of comfort and affection between Transformers. The small yellow Autobot may have been unable to speak with words, but his pain was palpable.

"Why didn't I see it Bee? Why didn't I do something?"

Bumblebee shook his head rapidly and hugged his brother tightly.

"I know you're trying to tell me it's not my fault, but... Man, I could have hung out with him more often or... Or SOMETHING."

Hot Rod sank back against the wall. He stared at the ground, trying in vain to think of solutions. His mind was a tangle of regret, sorrow, and fear.

Hot Rod began rubbing his hands across his face.

"Dammit, Bee," He muttered. "I should've able to notice something was wrong!"

Bee pulled back and shook his head again. It wasn't Hot Rod's fault and Bumblebee wanted desperately for him to realize that. Itonhide had been fighting more than just decepticons all this time. He had his own personal battles that he refused to let anyone help him fight. Not even his own Conjunx Endura knew about the other war going on in her partner's mind.

After a long silence, Bumblebee took one of his brother's hands and held it tightly with both of his. All he could do was show his brother that he was there, and that both of them would face this together.

Bumblebee and Hot Rod did not split from the same spark, but their bond still ran deep. They were born in violence and chaos. The day the well collapsed into rubble. The first thing Hot Rod ever saw of the outside world was a war-torn battlefield. He had pulled Bumblebee—Tiny and defenseless—out of the rubble and saved his life. For days, they ran around and played with other innocently unaware survivors amongst a field of death and destruction. But it didn't take long for them to start starving. When an autobot search and rescue team found them, the sparklings were in a weakened state. They were frightened by the adults, but most were too weak to run very far.

Bumblebee was terrified. Never having seen an adult before, and being roughly around the size of a stuffed toy, all the tiny bot could see were large hands reaching down to pick up his friends like they were inside a nightmarish crane game machine. Hot Rod fearlessly defended Bee. Clinging onto the little newspark, he ran from, bit, and kicked at any of the adults trying to rescue them. When they hid in a narrow crevice, the adults struggled to reach them. This is when Hot Rod learned his first ability; shooting fire from his arms. The force of the blast was very weak, but enough to singe some fingertips. Eventually, the adults went away and Hot Rod thought it might be safe to come out. Bumblebee, however, was still terrified and clinging onto Hot Rod so tightly that it was starting to hurt. He had his optics shut tight and his face buried into Hot Rod's shoulder. They stayed in the crevice together until a new adult approached. Hot Rod bagan to charge his fire again, but the new bot didn't attempt to grab them.

The sound of a fembot's deep, yet soothing voice broke through the fear. "It's okay little ones, you're safe."

Bumblebee hesitantly opened one optic and turned his head towards the sound.

"Oh my, there's two of you! I thought you were holding a toy." The fembot chuckled softly.

The fembot slowly reached in her hand, which caused Hot Rod to inch back as far as he could. But she didn't touch them. She only held out her hand and said, "Come on, we'll take care of you. You don't have to be afraid." Her eyes softened with worry. "You poor things must be starving."

Bumblebee's fuel processor clicked with hunger as looked at her hand. Slowly, released his grip on Hot Rod. He cautiously approached the hand. When he saw that nothing bad happened when he touched it, his instincts finally kicked in and he climbed on board. Seeing the much smaller and more vulnerable bot being unafraid of this stranger eased Hot Rod's fears as well. He too soon grasped onto a finger before both of them were lifted to meet the fembot's kind blue optics.

"Finally! I was gettin' real worried we wouldn't be able to get that last kid. Thanks, Elita!" A large mech said as he approached.

"There's two of them, Ironhide. What a lovely surprise this is!"

Again, instinct took over and Elita opened her chest to allow the two sparklings to climb inside. Her nursery chamber was warm and padded with soft alloy that gave the two sparklings a comfort they had never known.

Ironhide approached closer, his face lighting up with glee. "Well, rust my gears! There really are two of em'! That yellow one sure is tiny, ain't ya, little feller?"

The large red mech's enthusiasm made Bumblebee, overwhelmed by the attention, sank down into the warmth of Elita's nursery chamber.

"Sorry! Didn't mean to give you a scare!" Ironhide said, raising his hands in mock surrender.

Hot Rod noticed some movement coming from Ironhide's chest and saw several of his friends pop their little heads out to look at him. A pink and white little sparkling mech, that would grow up to become Arcee, happily waved his little hand at them. They were safe, and Hot Rod had nothing to worry about anymore.

Hot Rod and Bumblebee were soon taken back to the Autobot base. And they had been together through everything ever since. And whatever Ironhide's fate was, Bumblebee was determined to stick together with his brother and get through it together.

In the Ark's medbay, that atmosphere remained bleak. Ironhide was moved to a hospital bed, but then had to be rushed back into surgery within an hour after destabilizing. By the time Ratchet was able to fix Ironhide, or what was left of him, again he was so tired that he was about ready to pass out on one of the operating tables, still covered in energon. Despite this, Ratchet refused to leave Irionhide's side.

"Ratchet, go rest." Optimus said firmly. "You've Done all you can."

"But Prime!" Ratchet tried to protest.

"That's an order, soldier."

Ratched sighed and bowed his helm. "Yes sir."

Ratchet reluctantly left, frame still covered in bright pink smears.

Chromia wasn't fairing much better. Since Ironhide's second emergency operation, all she had been doing was sitting in the waiting room, not doing or saying anything. She didn't feel happy or sad, just numb.

"Come on, Chromia. Let's go home for now. You look exhausted." Elita suggested, deeply concerned for her friend.

"Alright..." Chromia replied softly. She allowed herself to be guided out.

The room grew silent. Optimus was the last bot remaining in there. He hadn't seen Irionhide since before his latest surgery, and scolded himself for being too cowardly to face his friend's condition. Nevertheless, he forced himself to see him. To Optimus's surprise, Iornhidelooked better than before. He was still in very rough shape, but at least now the exposed part of his head wound had a temporary protective metal plating framing screwed onto the area. A small relief in an otherwise grim situation.

Optimus gently held Irionhide's limp hand and rubbed it with his fingers, as if to give some kind of comfort to the unconscious autobot.

"Hey buddy." Optimus said quietly.

The only thing to break the medbay's eerie silence were the beeps and hums of the machines keeping Ironhide alive. It pained Optimus deeply to see his friend in this state. Irionhide was a strong, indomitable bot. He was tough as nails and only exposed his soft interior to those he trusted most.

Optimus tightened his grip around his friend's hand, unsure of what to say. He wasn't even really certain if Ironhide could hear anything or if he would even understand anyone if he did, for that matter. Optimus had known the mech ever since he was very young and had fought countless battles by his side. Now, the mech who once stood tall and proud was a far cry from the warrior he once was. Deep down, Optimus couldn't help but feel like he could have done something to prevent this. He could have been more observant of the warning signs, spent more time with him on the ship. or maybe even convince him to open up to Optimus or Chromia about his struggles.

"I failed you, my friend. I'm sorry."

He knew what Ironhide would probably say

"Just another battle scar, Prime. Barely even hurts. Quit worrying about me so much, ya rusty old screw!"

But it wasn't just a battle scar. It never was. The war had deeply affected the warrior in ways that no one saw, and that even he likely didn't realize either.

"I'll help you, I promise. We'll all help you."

Being completely helpless, in that moment, to do anything to ease his friend's pain greatly frustrated Optimus. But he couldn't lose faith that Ironhide would recover. Optimus just needed to be patient. It was one of the only things he could do for him. Wait, and hope.

[pretty-chaotic-world]

if my BPD can scream

1. I wish i could have a normal love... but no, my brain wants to worship every little detail of you until it drives me insane

2. sorry i pushed you away i felt abandoned and suicidal 

3. I’m sick of going to bed and knowing things won’t be better tomorrow 

4. I'll ask you thousands times if you really love, please don't get annoyed

5. I'll create "drama" and mishaps only to feel like I'm in home

6. i’m afraid that one day my anger will overshadow the little love i still have left for the world

7. I feel numb. No tears, no anger, nothing. Just going through the same day again and again. I would rather just sleep without waking up.

8. I'm so tired of everytime one small argument or inconvenience breaks out I want to end it and self destruct, it's so draining. 

9. I want to stop feeling anything and when i actually don't it breaks my heart but I can't cry it out.

10. "its all in your head" well duh where tf else is it gonna be??? in my fucking kidneys????

11. I am constantly between wanting people to care about me and wanting them not to so I can hurt myself without feeling guilty 

12. Psychiatrist told me there is no cure for bpd and I've to change myself. Well why cant they just let me die then?

13. Until you live with bpd you'll never know what it's like to be too much and not enough at the same time.

14. i know im constantly too much for everyone but sometimes i just want to be enough for someone

15. if he will leave me, my next diagnosis will be of "sociopath"

16. im so jealous of all the people who see him and touch him and talk to him every single day it should be me me me me 

17. oh I got my hair coloured. why? because I can't hurt myself anymore 

18. "you're so distant" because you can't handle my abandonment issues.

19. My younger self disappoint me a lot. like why were you begging people to stay in your life? ohh no worries I know the answer

20. I wanna throw a plate against the wall, stab a knife through my hand, destroy my laptop with a hammer, smash my door in with an axe and spray graffiti all over the walls of my room 

21. Why shouldn’t I be mad? Why can’t I just be angry and be allowed to feel it? Why can’t I burn everything down?

22. I have to watch my mouth every fucking second to make sure I don't destroy every relation I have coz apparently social life matters!!

23. Isnt it fucked up how he got away with every horrible thing he made me experience and I’m the one who has to live with myself feeling absolutely fucking worthless 

24. I don't deserve food and love. im a horrible person.

25. this is how my eating cycle goes

feeling weak coz i haven't ate anything -> eat -> purge -> feeling guilty after purging -> eat more -> feeling guilty after eating so much -> cry coz you don't know what's happening

26. the diagnosis makes me believe I'm not insane just lil emo ig!! NOOOO YOU'RE INSANE

27. “don’t let it bother u” baby i’m gonna be bothered by this for the next 10 years 

28. if I tell you I love you its equivalent to I can kill someone for you

29. Actually upon further inspection that shit really hurt my feelings 

30. I don't dive into insecurity anymore, i drown in self-loathe

31. i shut up in between group convo coz I know I'll talk invaluable shit and nobody really cares what I say until it's psychology class

32. "if you are fully aware of yourself, why do you keep acting like that?" slapping self awareness on top of bpd only grants the ability to watch yourself self-destruct straight from the vip section thats all it does literally

33. “Where do you see yourself in the future” building a cult for mentally ill people 

34. ofc I've a praise kind i was ignored as a child

35. I'm much better than I was before. you know why coz I don't to air now and don't see monsters walking by side all the time

36. No I don't want to self harm anymore I need to kill that fucking monster

37. Don't mind me, I'm just casually sabotaging all my positive relationships with negative delusions because my life doesn't feel real unless something dramatic and destructive is constantly occurring 

38. i don’t care i don’t care i don’t care (im going to sob my fucking eyes out)

39. “Stop making your disorder your personality” I have a fucking personality disorder for god sake

40. turning my mental illnesses into kinks and calling it the BDSM-5 

41. "destroy something precious while you're in rage" ohh yeaa and then I'll do that again and again 

42. what I hate most about my BPD is the fact that I have started doubting every emotion that I’ve ever felt in my life, whether it’s love, my grief through multiple traumas, or my anger, & it’s so saddening. It has actually led me to start questioning my reality.

43. if I need medication to stay alive, am I really meant to be here?

44. it's either be alone without 75% of my symptoms, or be with someone and display the most horrendous unstable awful version of myself. why do i have to choose between love & happiness or peace & stability?

45. That fucking bpd rage where everyone's voices makes you want to scream and every noise around you makes you want to sh and you're so mad you can almost feel the cuts everywhere 

46. getting worked up to the point of becoming physically ill (throwing up/stomach issues etc) because you felt rejected/abandoned by your favourite person  

47. i wish my trauma made me kind as everyone says but i’m becoming what i fear the most- a monster.

48. imagine getting diagnosed with a personality disorder and the only visible representation of that disorder is an animated horse man, a sociopathic sitcom character from philadelphia, and darth vader

[hasquetzorkukudoneanythingwrong]

El Noche de muerte

Recently, a new archeological site in Veracruz, Mexico was discovered. Uniquely, it's almost completely underground and it seems to be of Toltec origin, or another similar Nahuatl culture. 

Marco, a self described "amateur archeologist" who was also failing his archeology courses in university, was very much interested in this new site. We just had to go and see it. However, it was completely off limits to the public until further notice. This wasn't inherently odd, since many old sites could be harmed if people visiting weren't careful, but Marco seemed to not give a shit.

He decided to go out, late October. "Tonight is too perfect. Everyone else is getting ready for Dia de Los Muertos, so they can't stop me as easily. Just gotta get outta town quick enough." Marco, conveniently, lived in a town that wasn't too terribly far from the site. It was still a decent drive, but he'd definitely risk it. 

"Marco? Where are you off to?" His roommate asked him. 

"Just heading out into town for the night." He answered.

"Okay? Seeya later?" His roommate asked.

"Definitely." He responded.

After a few hours driving, he had gotten a bit lost. "God damn it. I must've made a wrong turn somewhere." Since the site was new, and off limits, it actually still wasn't on the maps app, so he couldn't depend on it to get there. "I'll try and backtrack a bit, maybe that'd help."

After driving back a bit and into a clearing, he was still not sure where to go. "Fuck, I should've been there by now. If I don't figure it out soon, someone will start looking for me."

Suddenly, someone tapped on his car window.

"Ah!" It spooked him. "Oh, uh, hello there?" 

A taller lady, with a black shirt with a spider on it, darker skin, prosthetic arms and peach colored hair was at his window. "Are you lost? I've never seen you here before." She asked.

"Oh yeah. Uh, I'm actually trying to find this uh- newly discovered Toltec site!" He explained. "I-I'm uh…. Checking on it's condition. I was sent by the museum! I'm professor Marco" Marco lied, unconvincingly. 

"Oh yeah! Just pass by those trees there, take a left and after a few meters, take a right and after some more driving you'll find it." She said, very helpfully.

"Oh! Th-thanks!" He said back.

As he got the car ready to go, he waved the girl off. "Thanks again, uh-"

"You can call me Nelia" She told him.

"Thanks Nelia!" He said.

After the short drive, and following Nelia's directions he was at the site. It was surrounded by warning signs and fencing, but oddly nobody was guarding the site.

"All these signs, but no one here to physically stop me or report my actions. Nice!" Marco said aloud to himself.

The visible part was just a small stone structure, with an entrance leading to stairs, that took you to the main part of the temple. As Marco navigated the signs and fencing, to not show obvious signs of being here, he felt his excitement rise and rise. 

He finally reached the main entrance, and started his way down the stairs. "So far so good, and so far I don't think I'm damaging any-THING!" As he said that, one of the steps crumbled and he tripped down the stairs.

"Fuuuuuck…." He said as he laid on the ground. He got back up, and looked back at the step that crumbled. "Fuck, hopefully that won't be noticed" He worried.

He then started to actually look around at where he was. "Wow, very macabre" he commented. 

The site was very creepy in nature. There were skulls everywhere, along with artwork depicting monstrous beings decorating the walls. "Maybe this was a place for sacrifices? Would explain the skulls and shit" He commented, as he walked forward.

Walking along, he also noticed sacrificial knives, old spears, animal bones and other things that'd creep out most people.

Marco eventually made his way to what seemed to be the end of the seeming sacrificial temple. In the center, was a round stone structure, with something terrifying on it. 

"I-is that… a fresh heart?!" He nearly screamed. 

It really was, before him on the altar, was a still very fresh heart, with red blood surrounding it. "I-is someone still using this for worship?! Is this why this place is off limits?!" Questions like these were racing through his head, then he noticed something above the altar, artwork depicting what seemed to be a god. This being seemed feminine in nature, with stone arms covered in spikes, sharp animalistic teeth in her mouth, and haunting red and purple eyes. Oddly, unlike most mesoamerican artworks, she wasn't depicted in profile, but front on. This had her facing Marco full on.

"God, I don't think I've seen this deity before. W-wait, is that her name down there?" He noticed glyphs underneath her, thankfully even though he was failing his archeology courses, he could at least read these glyphs.

"Ne-nex…. Nexoxcho? That's an interesting name." He then looked back up at the art, and when he saw her face, she looked back at him.

"AH FUCK!" He screamed, the surprise making him trip backwards. He picked himself back up and started running back to the entrance. As he ran, he had a horrifying chill running down his back, he needed to leave as quickly as possible! 

Eventually, he made it up the stairs, nearly tripping again but still booking it up to escape. 

It had started to pour rain when he was in there, but the fear in him stopped him from caring about that, and from caring about all the warning signs and fencing. He ram past it all, to get to his car. Once he got in, he took a minute to stop and just breathe. 

"Wh-what the fuck was that?!" He said to himself. "Is that God coming to get me or something?" He questioned. "I gotta get out of here!"

He then tried to start his car, but it wouldn't start up. "No no no! C'mon, we gotta go!" But it wasn't cooperating, and his fear was growing.

Then he heard a tap at his window again. "AAAHH!" He screamed.

"Woah! You okay?" He heard.

When he looked at the window, he saw Nelia again, holding an umbrella to shield herself from the rain. 

"O-oh! Nelia. I thought you were something else." Marco said, as he rolled down his window. "This stupid thing won't start! And I'd very much like to leave soon."

"Well that's not good." She responded back. "Hmmm, tell ya what. I'll take you to my place tonight, and we can get someone to help with the car in the morning!" She offered.

"O-oh? Really? Are you sure about that? You don't even really know me." He questioned.

"Yeah, but I can tell you're harmless, and you need somewhere to stay. C'mon, I'll take you there, it's not far" She said.

He stepped out of the car, Nelia actually handing him the Umbrella to hold.

"So, what were you doing near the site, anyways?" He questioned her.

"I like to hang around the area, it's very fun. Sometimes I look close to the site, noticed some interesting stuff happen there" She talked.

"Huh, interesting… you uh- ever gone in?" He asked.

"Oh no, I would never. It's far too dangerous. I've considered it, but it's not something I'd risk." She answered.

Eventually, a town was within sight, and Marco felt some relief to finally at least be somewhere warm.

Eventually though, he realized something was not right. The town was completely empty. And not only that, but it looked to have been abandoned for ages, falling apart. "N-Nelia, this is where you li-" but she was gone. 

That chill down his spine from the temple was very much back. "Fuck, was she a ghost or something? Y'know what, I'm not dealing with this horror movie stuff, I'll be lea- OH FUCK!" As he turned back, he actually saw a giant tree fallen behind him, blocking his path back. "H-how did I not hear or feel that fall?" 

"I-I guess I'm going into the ghost town." He said, as he went towards it.

Despite the place looking very much empty, he couldn't escape the feeling that he was being watched by hundreds of eyes. Eventually, he saw a tree with a piece of paper attached, somewhat blowing in the wind. It was a missing person's poster, and it had Nelia's face on it.

"Sh-she really was a ghost!" He said out loud when he saw the poster.

"Not quite" He heard behind him.

He turned quickly towards the source of the voice, but nothing. He continued on, eventually seeing a large building in the center, with the least damage of all the buildings, he decided to take shelter there.

He opened the door, stepped in and it was pitch black inside. He took out his phone to use it's flashlight, only to be immediately greeted by a the same mural of the goddess Nexoxcho hanging on a wall in the building. "OH GOD!" He screamed.

Immediately, his phone shut off. "N-no! You still had plenty of batte-" then the door slammed open behind him.

Standing there, was Nelia again. 

"Y-you! Wh-what do you want?!" Marco demanded.

And in a creepy voice, Nelia answered "Oh, I just wanted to have a little bit of fun." 

"Wh-what?! Am I just a toy for you?!" He exclaimed.

"Yeeesss." She said, as her body started convulsing and shaking. Her body stretched even taller, her stomach opened up a mouth with sharp teeth and a long tongue inside. Her prosthetic arms turn stone, with spikes adorning it. Her eyes turned a haunting red and purple. And huge tentacle sprouted out of her back.

"W-wait!" Marco said with horror. "Y-you're-"

"NEXOXCHO!" She screamed monstrously.

Before a tentacle grabbed Marco by the throat, and pulled him towards her. And the last thing he saw, was her mouth opening very wide as he was pulled in.

Teot-tober day 31

Nelia/Nexoxcho

Hope you guys liked the story! It's my first attempt at something like horror! Really hope it turned out well! And I also hope you enjoy the artwork of Nelia/Nexoxcho!

Nelia by Miuchat and Nexoxcho art by Sageyaku, both on twitter.

Tags to share!

@hasbbdoneanythingwrong @hasspartacusdoneanythingwrong @haskamadoneanythingwrong @hikikomuridesuuu @madillhethen @300iqprower @agnerd-bot @averaillisa @the-belial

[justjessame]

Light Through the Darkness: Chapter 72

Abigail wasn’t entirely sure how she made it back to her house. She wasn’t precisely aware of driving or walking, yet there she was, opening the door and calling for Cat.

“Midnight,” she whispered into the fluff around his neck, smiling as he purred. “I think midnight is more than enough time for someone to realize and correct their error, don’t you?” Holding him away from her, so she could see his face she nodded and let him down. “I need a bath.”

Releasing Cat to go about his business, Abigail was humming as she went to prepare a well deserved bubble bath. She didn’t notice her mother’s book flipping open and the writing becoming clearer.

Ric found Damon surrounded by broken glass in the darkness of the dining room and sighed.

“I’m guessing that you didn’t manage to calm Abi down,” arms crossed he watched as his friend stood up, looking shocked at whatever had happened that created the magnitude of disaster surrounding him. When his eyes flashed to meet Ric’s, he soothed whatever fear might have reared to the surface at the ungodly noise that hit whenever Abigail released her pent up irritation with the man standing before him. “John took Jenna home - I told her that the chandelier has been showing signs of disaster for a while.” And Andie was off to do whatever she did when she wasn’t having sexy playdates with Damon.

“She threatened me,” Damon was still wrapping his head around what Abi had said, in that voice that was hers but wasn’t, and he wasn’t sure what the hell to do. “She said I had until midnight to release him -”

“We can’t,” Ric shook his head, thinking that would be a fuck up of massive portions after Elijah’s veiled, yet fully understandable threats to everyone that had been at this farce of a dinner party. “He’ll kill -” huffing out a long breath and scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Everyone, Damon, he’ll kill all of us.”

“Would you rather we hurt Abigail?” Biting it out, cut him almost as deeply as her words had been to him. “Do you want to - or will it be up to me, Ric?” The idea of harming her, even after he knew he’d hurt her emotionally so many fucking times before, repulsed him. It reminded him of finding out Katherine was “gone” and he was in transition - Stefan telling him that they would be a family, the three of them - that he was a monster. “I may want to protect Elena to the very fucking end,” and a glance at Ric showed that he knew that he was telling the truth. “But I won’t hurt Abigail Morgan to do it. I won’t.”

Ric felt the same flash of pain at the idea of raising any type of hand to her as well, the idea made his stomach churn and twist. “Then what do we do?”

Abigail had just wrapped her towel around her body, once she had her hair contained in another, when the doorbell chimed. Considering the people who might show up for a late night visit, she’ decided it must be Ric since she felt certain Damon Salvatore would stay far away from her after the ultimatum she’d issued.

Another chime rang through her house and she chose to go directly to the door, since Ric was clearly too impatient for her to take the time to dress.

It wasn’t Ric. It wasn’t Damon, either. No, waiting on the other side of the door, visible through the glass cut into the wood, had her yanking open the door and pulling him inside as she whispered her invitation for him to cross the threshold.

And it no longer mattered that they hadn’t gotten the time to truly know one another. No hesitation rushed through her when her fingers slid through his hair and pulled his face closer to hers, and his own arms were wrapping around her as easily as if they’d been together for centuries. As his lips touched hers, and her mouth opened in a sigh that silently screamed “finally”, a fire that she’d never imagined possible raged through her and she hardly registered the front door slamming or the speed that he used to press her back against the wall closest to them.

Ripping his suit jacket from his shoulders forced him to pull away, which gave her more than enough time to rip open that beautiful blue shirt he’d worn to dinner. And then, as their lips met again, his hands slid down her body and parted her towel before they found her the back of her thighs and lifted her, smiling against her mouth as her arms wrapped around his shoulders and he carried her to the living room sofa.

“Are you sure?” He asked, pulling away and smiling at how her wet hair was free since they’d lost her second towel when he pressed her into the sofa cushions. “We can -”

Whatever he’d been trying to say died on his lips as her fingernail trailed down his chest and met her other hand at his belt. Clearly Abigail wanted what was clearly coming, and she was more than capable of taking care of the last offensive parts of his attire. Helping her by reaching behind them by sitting back and pulling his shoes and socks free, she followed up to sitting so she could nip at his collarbone while her fingers pulled his belt open and made quick work of the button and zipper on his slacks.

Pulling away to take off his pants and underwear, his eyes toured her bare body laying before him. And Abigail felt that fire flicker hotter even before he moved back over her, his hips cradled between her thighs. She didn’t spare a moment for how strange it was that this felt so right, not as he slipped inside of her, his hands cupping her face and their eyes locked, and not as they moved together as if they’d done the same a thousand times.

Damon was staring at the completely bare floor of the cellar and wondering how the fuck Elijah had just got up and walked out without him knowing it - and felt an odd sort of relief that he was gone. Abigail wouldn’t need to be disappointed - or angry - and he had to wonder how the hell he was going to balance her happiness with Elena’s safety.

Abi was cradled against Elijah’s chest, his fingers sliding through her hair as they lay on the sofa in the afterglow of something neither of them was expecting when their evening started.

“I didn’t actually come here to -” she propped her chin on his chest so she could meet his eyes and his free hand came up to cradle her cheek, his thumb tracing her lower lip as his own lips curled into a smile that made her knees weak. “I wanted to woo you, Abigail, to prove my worthiness for your regard.” So old fashioned, so perfect that it almost hurt her to hear. “You’re worth so much more.”

“If I hadn’t wanted what just happened,” kissing the pad of the same thumb that had tortured out more bliss from her body than she could contemplate, her own smile blossomed. “I couldn’t have held back if my life depended on it.”

He hadn’t bitten her, not even when she offered her neck and practically begged him to - he simply teased his teeth against her pulse and pressed deeper inside her, bringing her over without once tasting what she was more than willing to offer him.

“You didn’t taste me,” now that they were resting and not in the thick of lust and need, she wanted to know why. “I wanted you to.”

“We have the rest of our lives for me to know every single part of you, Abigail, and while I yearn to take and give everything we both can - waiting for that, for what could come from knowing how the blood in your veins tastes while it sings to me every moment you’re close -” he swallowed and Abi felt his once satisfied member stir under her. “I can wait.”

“What if I can’t?” Said with the perfect understanding of what would happen when he drank from her, with the same need building in her that was clearly building in him, their lips met and his growl vibrated through her.

The speed that Elijah could move with was faster than Damon had ever considered using with her - from the sofa to her bedroom they moved. Sitting so she was straddling his lap, his hands pulling her hair into a waterfall over one shoulder, his lips and nose were tracing down her jaw, licking at her skin as he ran down her neck to the throbbing vein that showed just how much she wanted him.

Abi moved, her hand wrapping around his shaft and lifting her hips, she moved until he was back where he belonged - inside of her. Her hand wrapped around his neck and she tilted her head farther, holding him to her skin while he fought against what they both so desperately wanted.

“Please,” she breathed, rolling her hips so she could feel how much she wanted everything from him. “Elijah, please.”

As her hips rolled against him like the tide, his fangs descended against her skin and she sighed as they finally pierced her skin and took what she so willingly offered.

[capettitwrites]

Blurb: Haunted by her mother's tragic death, taxidermist Harriet seeks solace in the stillness of her workshop. Memories intertwine with the daily rituals of preserving life in death, while Jenna, her business partner, becomes an unexpected anchor in the cold embrace of grief. Together, they attempt to navigate the delicate balance between love and death.

CW: Self-harm and suicide ideation, grief and loss, graphic descriptions, mental health struggles, family issues, strong language

It’s back again. It likes to attack when I’m alone. Sitting on the tram. Walking through the industrial parking lot. Standing at the warehouse door. When my heart aches and everything feels pointless, my wrists thrum. I wonder whether it’s the knowledge of others' self-inflicted pain that causes the thrumming or whether the thrum itself drives people to cut. I’ve never cut before. Only ever imagined the blade. How it might slice neatly through soft skin, moisturised and sunscreened just like Mum taught me. 

‘You have to protect your skin so you stay young and beautiful forever,’ she would say. An unspoken lecture on the dangers of cancer. 

Or perhaps I’d have to hack into the skin to be rid of the thrum. Carving deep to the root of it and removing it from me in its entirety. A gouged crosshatch of skin left on my forearms. Staring at them now as I battle with my keys, I can almost see the blood. Then what would Mum say? 

Her funeral was nearly a month ago now. The sun bore down, blistering heat as we hid in air conditioned rooms. One lonely cloud disrupted that endless blue, reflecting the ocean underneath. Heat mirage rippling off the black tar roads in waves. Through the window, a child and their father tippy-tapped their way across the burning sidewalk with bare feet. 

A perfect Perth summer. 

Everything Mum would have loved. 

No one else was here yet. The immediate family got an early viewing of the body. Probably so we wouldn’t break down when other people were around. Just behind heavy walnut doors lay Mum’s corpse. Not my actual Mum. She’d left long ago. This was just pageantry, I tried to tell myself, a performance to make us feel better about the whole situation. It did nothing to stop the way my heart decayed in my chest. Finally, Grandma and Pop entered the lobby. Our hug was cut short when the funeral director offered for us to cross that final barricade into the room. This was really happening. I took a deep breath before entering. 

Ammonia and borax. Formaldehyde and alcohol. The smells of my workshop don’t usually register in my brain but today they’re almost offensive. I guess I’ve been away for a while. Weaving through metal worktables, gliding past shelves of domes, and reaching between a bear and a chicken I open the only window. Shoulder mounts and shadow boxes clutter the rest of the walls, Derek the giraffe stretching his neck from mid wall to high ceiling. I can’t stop myself from running my hand along his fur when I pass, the taxidermist in me screaming about the damaging oils on my fingers. 

With a clink, I place my instruments on the workbench. Perfectly aligned. There are a few specimens waiting for me in my freezer; a roadkill possum, someone’s pet budgie, cane toads. Staring down into the freezer chest, I see Mum in the mortuary cabinets and I’m just as frozen as her. Blue and stiff and naked. She needs a jacket. She hates the cold. 

‘I thought you weren’t coming back for another week?’

‘Fuck!’ 

Jolting up, I smack my head on the underside of a metal shelf. Domes above rattle and pain blooms at the place of impact. Just bruised, I’m sure. Still hurts like a motherfucker though. 

‘You ‘right? You’d think God was in that chest the way you’re staring at it.’

Jenna is leaning against the door frame, smirk on her lips but a crease between her eyebrows. Pity hiding in her eyes. The same quiet sadness that filled the faces at the wake. 

‘I’m so sorry, Harriet,’ Aunt Cas whispered in my ear. Her hug was bone crushing and her perfume overwhelming but I didn’t push her away. The familiarity of it dulled the pulsing in my head. If I closed my eyes, I was sure I’d wake up to find myself in Grandma’s living room. TV blaring Play School, cigarette smoke pluming from the porch, and ceiling lights compensating for the closed window blinds. Cas’ tears soaking into my shoulder kept my eyes open. I needed to be present. This wasn’t a moment I could escape. It wouldn’t be fair to Mum. The sea of sad faces stared back at me, all tear tracks and sorrow. My eyes were dry. So dry with the air conditioning sapping away any moisture. It was too cold. I shivered. 

Jenna slips in beside me and shuts the freezer door. So close, her warm skin radiates through my cold and for a moment I think that I must have died. Standing here I’ve become as cold as the dead, just another one of our specimens waiting for treatment. Jenna is alive and I’m just a ghost. 

‘Don’t want those to start defrosting, hey?’ she jokes as she sits on the chest. Her knee bumps against mine and her hand rubs my shoulder. Solid and real. Not dead. 

‘Sorry. Couldn’t decide which one I wanted to do,’ I lie. 

‘We got a fresh order of butterflies yesterday, if you wanna work on some of them. That gorgeous Birdwing you were waiting for came in.’ 

I know what she’s doing. Give me an easy job to ease back into the swing of things. I must look an absolute mess if she’s offering up butterflies. Her eyes try to meet mine but I refuse to grant her that privilege. She doesn’t need to see the exhaustion in them and know that she’s right to worry. I don’t want her to treat me as lesser. In avoiding her searching gaze, mine lands on a thawing rabbit. 

‘You working on that?’ I ask. 

‘Yeah. Memorial piece. Just waiting for her to loosen up a bit more. Wanna make the base for it?’ 

Deflection. 

‘Nah, you can do that. You always make prettier environments than me anyway.’ 

Jenna doesn’t stop me taking the fluffy little bunny away from her station or complain when I place it at mine. Rubbing up its body to loosen the joints before laying it flat in front of my instruments, the silver table seems shinier. I can hear birds chirping outside where there was muffled silence before. Tension slips off my shoulders. Tawny fur is soft in my bare hands. In the corner of my eye, Jenna collects a base from the shelves and a storage box of greenery. 

I ignore her setting up close beside me and take my scalpel in hand. The thrum tingles at my wrist. It would be so easy to remove it. A clean, surgical cut. Glide the sharp edge against my skin, only a little bit of pressure required. Just like cutting into an animal, only there would be more blood. 

…A lot more blood. 

‘When did you get back?’ Jenna asks, her gloves snapping as she slips them on. Her smile meets her eyes now, the way it usually does when we work together. A fiery crackle behind hazel. 

‘Last night.’ 

‘Eager beaver.’ She bumps her hip against mine. ‘Want me to make the first cut?’ 

My hands are trembling. The scalpel shivers in my grasp. I hadn’t even noticed. 

‘No. I’ve got it.’ 

I take a breath and turn my hand into stone. Two fingers below the base of the skull, between her shoulder blades, and then I slice into her back. Gently peeling back the skin, I start to slide my hands inside, between her skin and the neat sack of organs. The methodical process, one I’ve done a million times before, washing over me like a warm shower. As my hand comes around to her stomach to wear her like a bracelet, my fingernail catches. 

Pop!��

A sudden dampness. The smell of faeces. My hands are red when I pull them out. 

There wasn’t as much blood as I was expecting. As she lay there in the hospital bed, it felt like she should have looked different somehow. Blue-ish white skin or the etched outline of bones or horrible disfigurement with puddles of blood coating the floor which we’d have to wade through just to get a look only to see she was beyond recognition. There was none of that. Some needles in her arm and a tube in her face. The doctor said something. I’m not sure what. I think my stepdad was listening because he nodded and the next thing I knew they unplugged her. 

Time of death, 02:26. 

I don’t remember saying goodbye. I don’t remember leaving her room. I don’t remember going to the maternity ward. There were only five babies in the nursery that day. On an average day there’d be anywhere between ten to fifteen newborns. The room looked so empty. It made sense, I thought. Mum was a midwife. How could new life come into the world when she’s gone? 

‘Harri!’

Jenna grabs my bloody wrist and tosses me away, quickly using cotton balls to sap up the mess. I watch as she takes over. Cleaning and sanitising. Removing the skin from the body. Rubbing in our tanning mixture. Peeling her gloves off and turning to me. 

Looking up at her from the floor with the light dancing through her locks, I feel every bit the penniless beggar. Pleading for a morsel of comfort. Hating the benevolence with which she answers my prayers. The Angel Jenna cups my cheek and I pull away. 

‘Fuck off,’ I choke out. A traitorous tear sneaks past my defences as snot blocks my nose and my throat constricts. It’s a coup. Another tear slips down my cheek and I scurry away from her sad eyes. Blood smears across my cheek as I try to stop the revolution, wiping tears from my face. It’s a losing battle. There’s nowhere to run from Jenna’s tender gaze. 

Don’t look at me…

And she doesn’t. Turning away, Jenna disappears from the room. 

Everything feels cold. As my hand tremors, I pull at my hair and try to breathe. It comes in stiff, stilted huffs. The more I try to control it, the less I can catch it. Panic clutches at my chest. Lost and overwhelmed, just a child crying in their bed. 

‘Look at me, baby,’ Mum said as she lifted my chin. ‘Take a deep breath. Together, okay?’ 

In through her nose, her chest rose slow and controlled. Her face was resolute as her hand swept up in time with her breath. I tried to copy, my own chest jittering as it swelled. Then she let go with an even exhale through her mouth, lips shaped like an ‘O’, hand pushing down. Wheezing, I followed. 

‘Good job, and again.’ 

She took it slower, breathed in for longer, as her lungs expanded deeper. Her hand continued to conduct the symphony of our breath. I found it easier though a few hiccups caught as new tears fell. Mum’s soft hands wiped them away as we breathed out. 

‘One last one. Ready? In…’ 

My hand copied hers as we inhaled. Like a cacophony of music finally coming together to play the same part, my breath followed hers in…

‘And out.’ 

Fsshhhhh…

‘AH!’ I scream when fingers wrap themselves around my wrists and tear my hands from my hair. Now-loose strands tangle through my fingers in a ratty net. The way they worm in my grasp, mixing with half-dried blood, makes me feel sick. A moist tea towel and then Jenna’s hand slips into mine. Calmly rubbing circles, dislodging the disgust from my hands, cleaning the rough edge of my life just like always. She crouches in front of me, mumbling apologies. 

‘Sorry for calling so late,’ Mum apologised, voice crackled through the receiver. 

‘Nah, you’re all good. What’s up?’ 

‘I had a shitty day at work.’ 

‘Oh yeah?’ I only half paid attention as she told me about her day, occasionally offering a grunt of acknowledgement or ‘that sucks’ of empathy. I was busy finishing up a quail. Honestly, I hadn’t realised how late it was until Mum called. Jenna passing out beside me should have been all the hint I needed that it was time to put the tools down an hour ago. 

‘So when are you coming back to Perth?’ Mum asked. I couldn’t help but giggle. She always did this. Slicking the last feather into place, I picked my phone up off the table. 

‘Mmm, I could use some Perth summer. Melbourne sucks for it.’ 

‘November then?’ She was being more insistent than usual. 

‘Yeah, towards the beginning. So I don’t miss out on any of the Melbourne warmth.’ I couldn’t tell her the truth. That we’d booked a stall at an oddities exhibition in the second half of November and Jenna would need me around to get through it together. The whole taxidermy thing icked Mum. She got weird around death. 

‘Sounds good. I’ll book you a flight.’ I could hear her tapping away on her computer. 

‘I can buy my own ticket,’ I chuckled, waiting for Mum’s rebuttal. 

‘It’s okay,’ Jenna whispers. Blood stains the cloth but when she pulls it away my hands are clean. She reaches up to my face next. The gentle baptism of her touch is too much. Cotton coarse against my skin. Every damp stroke stinging to my bones. Tension holding tight to my limbs. Everything hurts. 

My legs ached. Dragging my feet up the mountain, I couldn’t wait for us to get to the top. We walked along a thin path with leaves and branches encroaching on our space, Pop in front, Mum in back. I could hear her breathing rasp at my neck. She’d been falling behind on these walks lately. It must have worried her because she ended up going to the doctor about it. When she came back, she was quiet. I tried to ask her what the doctor said but she insisted she was fine, just tired. She’d been tired a lot. 

The sunset was blinding when we reached the top. A beautiful plateau for us to enjoy the view from. High above the valley, the landscape was drenched in rich greens and yellows. A rainbow of nature. We stared in awe, the trek proved its worth. 

While Pop and I shared water bottles and snacks, Mum wandered near the edge of the cliff. As she stood, I wondered what she was thinking. A hair’s breadth from oblivion, tempting death. Pop didn’t notice but I saw her. The tension in her limbs, the slight forward lean, her halted breath.

‘Mum!’ I called out to her and she jolted. For a moment I thought she’d go over the edge. She took a second before she turned, stepped back from the brink, but when her eyes met mine she failed to hide it. Despair. Fear. Loss. 

Jenna’s earthen eyes stare back at me. Warm, deep, golden. Giving in to the safety in there, I let go. Falling freely, I can’t stop the wails pouring out. It comes from my gut. Clenching painfully. Shaking my whole body. Tearing open my throat. I might be sick. The sound of my cries reverberates through the workshop. 

Though the corridors were winding, I knew them well. Following the stream of people, every white wall was somehow intimately familiar. Even the air itself. It was all home. Passing through the security doors and heading towards the baggage claim, the air conditioner worked overtime to keep out the heat. Once my bag came through the carousel, I stepped out into the warm to wait for Mum. Even in the late evening Perth managed to warm my bones. God, I’d missed this. 

Jenna gently takes me in her arms. Circling tight as snot runs down my nose and into her sleeve. I can feel her breath hitch with my head against her chest. A few tears of her own wet the top of my head. She rakes her fingers through my hair and massages at my scalp, breathing hushed assurances. 

‘I’m here, you’re not alone.’

Barbie drove by in her Star Vette, Mum’s hand at the wheel. It had been bad news from the doctor. Melanoma growths on Barbie’s skin, a result of too much tanning. Stage IV. No way of treatment. Barbie would be dead in a week. Melodramatic, just how I liked my play. I giggled as Mum gave a dramatic speech of woe, bemoaning Barbie’s impossible dreams that would never come to pass. 

‘There’s nothing left for me. Goodbye cruel world!’ Mum announced as she crashed into Barbie’s Dream House. Barbie went flying over the dashboard through the window, she hadn’t been wearing her seatbelt. 

Sound was sucked from the room like a vacuum. I looked over at Mum. Her empty face held stormy eyes, something I couldn’t quite read. Maybe fear. Maybe envy. She looked like she needed a hug. 

I throw myself into Jenna’s embrace, thawing the coldness, my hand smacking against the workbench in the process. Metal rings in my ears as tools clatter on top. It’s too loud. I reach out and slam my hand on top to stop it. The cold handle of the scalpel digging into my palm. 

‘Just breathe.’

My plane had landed over an hour ago at that point. It was nearly midnight and I was freezing. Mum hadn’t answered any of my texts or calls. A shiver wracked through my body again as I considered going back inside for the third time. Sitting on a bench in the pick up zone, I watched a woman reunite with a man. Maybe they were husband and wife, but he seemed like he was too old for that. Too young to be her father though. Siblings? 

My phone rang in my pocket. 

Caller ID: Step-Dad. 

I take hold of the scalpel. Its familiar weight in my hand is a comfort. The tears stop falling. It stings when I run my thumb along the blade, blood pearling at the site. I take a deep breath, just like Mum taught me. The edge rests gently on my wrist. Slowly, I begin to cut. 

‘We’ll get through this together.’ 

Lights beam and a car pulls up to the curb in front of me. I tear my eyes away from my phone, hope dull in my stomach. It’s a black Hyundai i30. Out of the driver’s side, a young woman with blonde hair steps out of the car. Much younger than I’ve seen her in years. She smiles when she sees me. 

‘Sorry I’m late, baby. Traffic was terrible,’ she says. Midnight turns into the breaking dawn and she seems to glow in that light like she was made for it. My phone falls to the ground and shatters. I run up to her, a child being picked up from their first day at school. Mum swings me around when she picks me up to hug me. 

Call rejected. 

‘Mummy!’

[letterstoself]

thursday august 24th 2023, 2:58 am

dear me,

hi beautiful. i can’t help but smile just now at the thought of you, of us i suppose. where we’ll be, everything we’ll become. i’m struggling right now my love. i really am. but i’m doing everything i can in order for you to have clarity soon. mentally, i’ve hit a wall. i feel so drained of energy, i feel as though i’m punishing myself by being here and staying with someone. i want to be alone. i want it to be just me and the people i love. i’ve decided to start these thursday letters. my story first began on a thursday, and so i’ll share my thoughts and feelings as they come each week. i intend to upgrade to actual journaling soon. once i’m ready and once i know my privacy can’t be compromised. this feels like a nice first step. comfortable. it’s gotten a lot easier for me to starve myself as of late. i’m starting to feel at peace with it now. it feels right. feeling myself slowly but surely shrink away and watching my body take it’s natural contoured state. i have the most amazing bone structure. i am so thankful. i can’t wait to see it in it’s full glory. this is something i’m truly passionate about. not something i have to exaggerate or pretend or act like. i’m currently dreading going to work tomorrow. you’re far too pretty to work you know. it’s not all bad. but i can feel my mind slipping away from this place. like a lonely songbird escaping a cage, but still not free until she finds a window. i’ve been crying a lot. and a lot for me is like, next level. i can’t help it. i’ve left my heart back home with my family. i can’t remember what i came here for. personal development? love? experience? you could say i found all of them, or you could say i’m still looking. maybe i’m lost. how do i find myself? where is it that you are? i guess i’m not doing so great at finding you that clarity yet huh. i want to go home babe. i really do. i miss my family so fucking much and my cat and my beautiful home and just everything. i don’t miss who i was then. i was taking everything for granted. i was unappreciative and impatient. maybe that’s what i’ve found here. because god knows how patient i’ve had to be, even in moments when i’m ready to slam my head in a door or start screaming. this guy, these people drive me insane. but it’s been my job to stay presentable and keep a smile on my face and act as though nothing effects me. stay professional and light and upbeat and fun. even when i’m thinking about self harming and sobbing and flying a million miles away. self growth or just improved acting skills? time will tell i guess. or hey, why not both. we almost broke up tonight. and then just ended up getting bubble tea and having an awkward sex-talk for like an hour and a half. first world problems or what? jesus. in all honestly idk how much i have left in me for this. i’m going to make an effort to try this week but longterm i just can’t. if i’m being honest one of the main reasons i’d want to stay is to go to the weeknd concert. lol. but i feel like that’s not going to happen. he probably was just talking when he said we’ll get the tickets and it’s months away idk how i feel about committing to december plans in august. actually i do know, i wouldn’t feel great about it. it would also mean i couldn’t leave the country before then unless i wanted to be down like 4 grand. sigh. idk. i really do want to go. it’s not unlikely that i’d have more fun just going by myself too. we’ll see what happens i guess. one thing i want to stop doing is letting other people / situations control me and what i do. this is MY life. MY world. if i want to do something i should go ahead and do it without a single thought or doubt holding me back for a second. i shouldn’t wait around for someone to tell me they don’t want me here before i leave, or tell me they want me to come before i go. i can do whatever tf i want. take charge girl. seize this time. i am young and beautiful and have the whole world in the palm of my hand. no one can tell me shit and i’m done taking it. i’ve spent so much time worrying and wondering and contemplating.

now is the time to start living. do it for the plot. i love you too much to let you waste any more time or have any regrets. it’s nearly 5am now and i’d better get some shut-eye before i start on the many things i really don’t want to do tomorrow. oh yeah and PS i was 50.5 today. my waist at 21.5! i was sick this week and pretty much did a 3-4 day unintentional fast. it was that simple! of course it was, starving was the answer all along. im really proud. and i know you’ll be even prouder. i’m so, so excited for you my perfect angel. dreaming of you and doing everything for you, always.

until next thursday

xoxo

[hardworlders]

Mandala Volume I Hardworlder | Book 1 - The Office Job Chapter 3: The Target

Is there a price on my head, or am I just hungover?

Paul had a rough night and some strange dreams. He had stayed out clubbing till three in the morning and according to his account, had spent four thousand dollars at bars, strip clubs, and ATMs. There was no one else in his bed, but he had dreamed of two of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He didn’t think he could have made them up. He wasn’t that creative.

What he was, at least, was rich. He traveled all over the country helping criminals hide their money, which lately meant a lot of crypto wallets and trying to explain the difference between Bitcoin and Monero to people who knew how to manage criminal networks like magic but had never passed a math class. Some trips were covered by his day job, supervising the west coast accounts unit at a large insurance company. He paid his manager three grand a month to fudge the productivity reports and generally make him invisible to management. He laundered his money in the usual ways and had recently made a fortune trading options in an insane bull market. Life was good.

One of his favorite things about his life was staying up all night, which also meant sleeping in. Most days, this wasn’t a problem. He would get up around one, make it to the office after three (already clocked in since eight). However, it was only nine o’ clock and he was wide awake. His phone was ringing for the second time, buried in his clothes on the floor halfway across the room and he kicked two bottles getting to it.

“Hello, Paul?”

He nearly threw it into the wall. It was his therapist. He had weekly sessions about a suicide attempt he only half-remembered. According to the police report, he had tried to drive his car off a bridge and only managed to get it stuck on a curb. He usually got really fucked up before he went, but had just skipped the last two. He figured that since he didn’t remember them anyway, there wouldn’t be any harm in not going at all. His therapist disagreed.

“Paul, I have you down for nine-thirty today. Do you remember when we agreed on that time? You rescheduled twice before, and you assured me this time would work for you. I tried to call you three times last night.”

So that’s who was blowing up his phone in the champagne room.

“I’m not going to be able to make it. I got to go to work.”

“I thought you didn’t go in until the afternoon. Isn’t that the arrangement?”

Paul pulled the phone away from his face and gawked at it. How much had he told this dude?

“Uh, no, what? I just can't make it. Look, I'm doing better, I just—”

“Paul, the court mandated that you attend our sessions. If you don’t show up today, I'll have to report it.”

Shit. He could probably pay him off. But why hadn't he done that before? Had he tried? He couldn’t remember.

“All right, fine. Can you give me a couple of hours? I just got up.”

“I will see you at ten. I’ll have breakfast brought to my office, so don’t worry about eating beforehand. Please expect to stay until eleven. Goodbye.”

He hung up! Paul considered having him dissolved in a barrel somewhere, but something told him he had to go to this session or the heat was going to come down on him hard. He decided just to pop something and head out, but found the condo completely drug-free, nothing but thin amber slivers left in the bottles.

He passed out in the back of the Uber on the way and dreamed of a room with no doors. When he screamed, his voice echoed back as a laugh.

His therapist’s office was halfway up a black glass tower downtown, in a hooked hallway between a hedge fund and a fintech startup. The breakfast spread came from a five-star kitchen at the top and almost made it all worth it. He gave his therapist, Andler, a censored summary of his last few weeks while he finished two plates. Afterward, Andler asked him something he asked every session, or at least the ones Paul remembered. It had never seemed weird before. It did today.

“Any strange dreams lately?”

“No.”

“None?”

“I never dream.”

“Everyone dreams, Paul. Every night. You just might not remember them.” The office was small and minimally furnished, but what was there screamed money. Andler was sitting in a love seat across the coffee table. Paul was sunk into a big leather couch he always struggled not to fall asleep in during their sessions, sipping orange juice and praying for vodka.

“Then I don’t remember them.”

“Paul, you’re sober today for once, which I appreciate, but you usually don’t have any problems talking about your dreams. That tells me you want to, but you think you need the drugs to get up the courage to do so.”

Paul didn’t remember ever telling him about his dreams. Looking back, he could remember being asked, but had no idea what he had said.

“So, you analyze dreams? I thought that was outdated.”

“I don’t analyze them in the Freudian sense, no. However, they can be useful for you to talk about.”

“Like, what I say I feel about my dreams is more important than what you think they symbolize?”

“You could say that.”

Paul ate more of the scones and drank some coffee. He watched the river glitter behind the downtown skyline out the massive floor-to-ceiling window and wondered if any patients ever tried to throw themselves out of it.

“Paul, you really can't recall any of your dreams? You told me last month you would try to remember as many as you could.”

Andler moved his papers around in his folder. Paul hated it. Despite his efforts, there was more of him in those pages than on this side of the coffee table. Maybe coming here high had been a bad idea.

“It was one of our goals, the first one. ‘I will try to remember my dreams. I think they are important. That’s what you wrote right here.”

Andler showed him the paper with his handwriting. Paul didn’t remember writing it. He looked at it like he was giving it serious thought and imagined some maniac throwing Andler through the window.

“We talked about lucid dreaming, how a friend told you about it and you felt it would be helpful to you.”

Paul smiled and nodded. His friend had said “Bruh, you can fuck any girl you want, any way you want when you go lucid. I fuck porn stars two at a time every night”. It had sounded legit.

“Do you remember any of your dreams this week?”

Paul thought about the two girls from last night, which was easy as he had been thinking about them off and on all morning, and decided it would be funny to see Andler’s reaction. He couldn’t imagine the guy even discussing sex. If those two girls showed up at Andler’s house, he’d probably make them tea and ask them about their dads.

“Well, last night I dreamed about two girls, the hottest girls I've ever seen, I mean ever. I don’t know how my mind did it. I'm not creative enough to come up with girls that hot, you know?”

Andler’s reaction was not what Paul had expected. He got very still and seemed to be waiting for Paul to give some grand confession.

“What did these girls want from you?”

Paul laughed and spilled his coffee.

“Are you a robot, Andler?”

Andler didn’t laugh, and something in his not laughing killed Paul's laughter. Was he analyzing his dreams for real?

“Did they ask you anything?” Andler said.

“Uh, yea, you know, normal girl shit. Where I worked, how much I made, what I do for fun.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I don’t know why, but I told them about my job, that I worked for an insurance company. It was weird but, they seemed really interested. Like they thought it was cool that I worked there. What's that mean?”

Andler took a moment to snap out of whatever thoughts he was having.

“It could be a sign that you want to be that person, to take pride in your job. The idea of someone liking you for that seems to be something you want. What else did they ask you?”

“Uh, where the good clubs were, stuff about the city. I think they were from out of town. What does that mean?”

“What else did they ask you?” Paul usually took no shit from anyone, and by all rights he should have backhanded Andler for his tone alone, not to mention ignoring his question, but something had come over him and he couldn’t even consider doing anything besides answering truthfully.

“They asked me where I would be tomorrow. I mean today. They wanted to see me again.”

“What else?”

“That’s it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Sorry.” Paul couldn’t remember the last time he had apologized to anyone.

Andler sat back and sighed.

“Well, I want you to think about what you think that dream means and tell me about it next session. And try to remember any other dreams you have. We talked about dream journals a few sessions ago. I suggest you try your best to write in yours regularly.” There was a pause.

“Are we done?” Paul asked. It had only been half an hour.

“Yes.” Andler didn’t offer any other explanation, and Paul remembered he didn’t want to be there anyway, so he got up and left.

When he was gone, Andler took out his phone.

“He just left. Someone’s trying to get to him. No. I don’t know. Two girls, it seems. Got his P.O.E. Understood. No. Well, call me if they do so, and I’ll get him up.”

He hung up and went behind the desk, pulled the carpet up, and opened a floor safe. He took out a Beretta Px4 with a custom grip, a pouch of three magazines and some car keys, then grabbed his other keys off the desk and went out the door.

Continue

[ajwinter-is-a-nerd]

Le Chat et le Serpent - Chapter 31

Please note that the entirety of this story is a ****TRIGGER WARNING***** - mentions of child abuse, graphic violence, alcohol use, mental health, suicide, suicidal ideation, self-harm - basically a constant blow of pain towards the characters - as well as some "steamier" moments.

Chapter Summary:

Adrien wakes up confused, him and Alya bond.

Chapter 31: Death Drive

“Adrien?” James’ voice echoed through his room, followed by another knock.

“What?” Adrien’s half-asleep word was miles from eloquent. 

“Should I cancel your appointments for the day?” His voice cracked, intimidated by the fact that he had to wake up the corporate head. 

Adrien rolled to his back, his hand falling towards an empty bed. The flashing lights seeped through his memories. 

“Um, that’s probably a good idea.” Adrien rubbed his face in an attempt to comprehend his current situation. The maroon blood on his hand scratched against the scales on his face. 

What the fuck happened? Where did Luka go?

“I can do that sir… um… your superhero friend said she won’t wait though.” James nervously turned to Rena, who was tapping her foot impetuously. 

Fuck. I forgot about the footage. “Come on in, Rena.” Adrien didn’t have the energy to rebuff her presence. 

James gave a slight nod to Rena as he attempted to awkwardly walk around her. It was not that she was in his path, but that he had not grown accustomed to the presence of people with such power.

“Shoo!” Rena did not have the patience to square dance with an awestruck boy. 

It wasn’t until Rena had walked through the threshold of the door that Adrien realised he should have asked for a minute to prepare himself. He resembled a Vincent Castiglia piece of art, a monstrous depiction of beauty painted by blood. 

“Sorry, I didn’t get all the footage.” Adrien stepped towards his computer. “I found some of Felix and Lila, but-,” Rena broke his words by pulling him into a hug. 

“We are so worried about you. What happened? They said that you found your mom?” She took a moment to inspect his clothing. “Did you kill her?” 

“Let me clean up, Plagg can fill you in.” Or at least, Adrien hoped he could. Adrien was selecting clothes as Plagg floated towards Rena. Knowing that Plagg would not appreciate being the messenger, Adrien called out to him, “Sorry, here!” He lobbed a piece of cheese in the Kwami’s direction. 

“There better be more if you’re expecting me to tell her the whole thing!” Plagg snipped before taking a bite of his cheese.

Now on the other side of the bathroom door, Adrien’s voice was muffled as he replied. “Already ordered a whole new wheel.” 

“Adrien!” 

“Fine, I’ll order two!” 

Pleased, Plagg shifted his attention to Rena, but purposefully spoke loud enough for Adrien to hear. “Have you ever seen a horror movie where you’re like, ‘no, don’t do that! That’s literally the stupidest thing you can do’?” 

Amused at the start of the story, Rena chuckled and nodded her head. 

“Well that was basically the ENTIRE night.” 

-

Adrien rested his head against the wall as the cherry red water spun around the drain. He continued to grapple with his memory of the night. The last 14 hours felt intangible, like a fever dream that he couldn’t wake from. 

He caressed his raw and swollen wrists. The memory of his own voice screaming was intangibly quiet. Was he fighting Luka? The paramedics? 

Where was Luka for all of this? He felt a slight residual rush of anger towards him. Luka was sitting petrified on the front step with… with one barefoot. Was Luka afraid of him? Did he hurt Luka? 

Luka heaving over the edge of the walkway flashed within his brain. Alya’s introductory questions helped to fill in the blanks. 

Mom, we found my mom .

At least he had something tangible to grasp on to. His own voice echoed in his head again as he clawed at the memory. 

“You love me don’t you?” 

Fuck, what a stupid thing to say! What was I thinking? Is that what pushed him away? No… he stayed. 

Adrien slinked to the floor, hoping that a foetal position could help illuminate his foggy memories. The start of Plagg’s story hadn’t been fantastic, but right now, Alya probably knows more about what happened than he did. 

“Go home Luka. If I can’t trust you, I don’t want you here.” 

The fated words rang through his head. 

No, I couldn’t have said that. Luka always supports me. He would never intentionally hurt me… why would I say that? It can’t be true. 

If it wasn’t true, he would be here. 

The reality of his actions collided into his chest. He hoped the shower was loud enough to mask his panic attack induced nausea. 

-

“Good timing.” Alya sat on the piano bench as Adrien emerged from the bathroom. The towel he used to dry himself had speckles of bright red, highlighting the pieces he missed. 

“Yeah, we just got to the end where you told Luka to fuck off.” Plagg spat towards Adrien, clearly unimpressed with how the situation was approached. 

“So that really did happen.” Adrien sighed as he buttoned up his shirt. 

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t imagine the footage would ever-,” 

“Lead me to an underground secret room with my mother’s rotted corpse within it? Yeah, me neither.” Adrien’s intent had been to lighten the mood, but his resentment towards the situation sliced through. 

“Exactly. I’m sure everyone will understand if you need time or anything.” Alya wanted to alleviate him of at least some stress. 

“My dad was Papillion.” Adrien slid the last button through its hole.

Alya swung her head. “What?” 

“Gabriel Agreste was Papillion. The same villain that attacked us for years.” He rolled up his sleeves. 

“When did you know?” Alya reeled backwards through her memory, thinking of every moment that could relate to the discovery. 

“When he almost killed me.” He buttoned his rolled cuffs. 

Alya blinked heavily at the reminder of Adrien’s body clinging to life on the night of the battle. “Adrien… I… I don’t know what to say.” 

Adrien grabbed the extra jar of gel he had off his shelf. “Felix gave him all the jewels. And then disappeared.” 

Trixx was just as shocked as Alya, they mirrored each other with their jaws frozen open. 

“And the videos show that. They show all of that. Want to see me almost die? I can find that too.” He rubbed the gel within his fingers. 

��Adrien, why didn’t you say anything sooner?” Alya startled herself by pushing her hand against the keys of the piano. 

“Everyone needed to know everything about my life when they suspected Felix. How do you think the team would react if I told them dear old dad was our baddie for the last few years and I had no idea?” Adrien quaffed his hair. 

“They’d think you were in on it. That you knew all along.” The truth of the situation bit into Alya. 

“Exactly.” Adrien worked on the minute details of the hairs that lingered around his face. 

“What are you going to do?” Alya couldn’t grasp a solution. 

“Right now, I’m going to look at houses. This place is fucking haunted.” He glared at his reflection, disgusted with the eyes that peered back at him. 

“No, Adrien, we have to figure this out!” Alya jumped to grab his arm. 

“I’ve been working on finding a solution ever since the day I found out my dad shot himself. No matter what, I’m living on borrowed time.” Adrien picked up his jacket.

“What do you mean?” Alya jogged to keep up with him. “Trixx, let’s pounce!” 

“Either everyone finds out that Gabriel was Papillion and finds blame in me, or my medical mystery of nosebleeds will kill me. No matter what, it’s not looking up for me.” Adrien paused at the door to open his jacket for Plagg. 

“No, there must be another way!” Rena paced with him as he headed down the hall. 

His ten am meeting was standing in the lobby, confused at the bustle. “Mr. Agreste, we were just told that-,” 

“Didn’t you see the news? He’s off today.” Rena interrupted them, acutely aware that Adrien had no intention of acknowledging them. 

The man continued stammering as they marched past him. 

“Adrien!” Rena shouted as he stepped into the elevator. 

Adrien did not respond, but held the door open for her. 

Frustrated, she followed. “There has to be another way, why are you so focused on running out of time? And what is this medical mystery? You are just dumping so much information on me right now.” 

“You should detransform. It would make more sense if Alya came to a real estate office with me than Rena.” Adrien watched the floors switch at the top of the elevator. 

“You’re killing me man. Let me at least help you.” Alya switched back to jogging, no longer having the power to easily match Adrien’s rushed pace. 

“You are helping me. I could use another opinion on a place.” The tires screeched as Adrien ripped out of his parking spot. 

“Okay, you said -ah!” Alya braced herself on the dashboard at Adrien’s erratic driving. “Jesus! Okay. You said that you have nosebleeds that are going to kill you… do you just have really sensitive skin? Is it going to kill your image ?” 

“Not quite.” Adrien continuously shifted from third to fourth gear as he weaved through traffic.

“Was it a nosebleed that caused the murder scene in your room today?” Alya was adjusting to the daredevil drive she was a passenger to. 

“Yep.” Adrien’s vague passive answers were going to be the death of Alya.

“How do you know it’s a medical mystery? It may be indicative of something in your brain.” Alya pulled out her phone to begin a basic Google search. 

“You won’t find anything online. The doctors can’t do anything. I’ve had every medical exam possible, short of cutting my head open, to look into the cause.” The car jolted as they came to a sudden stop. 

They hadn’t even stepped out of the car before excitement was brewing outside. Adrien Agreste was out in public, doing seemingly mundane things, we must know what is happening! 

Alya grimaced at the wave of people that surrounded them as they walked towards the office. Adrien’s gait was steady, as if the people surrounding them didn’t exist. 

“So,” Alya whispered once they were in the building. “You’ve had them for how long?” 

“On and off since I was about eight.” Adrien leaned onto the administration’s desk. “Hello, I am looking to purchase an apartment.” 

A realtor was leaning over the administrators shoulder as they were fixed on the computer screen before them, completely unaware of who stood before them. “Did you make an appointment, sir?” 

“Nope.” Adrien responded with keen confidence. 

“This is a very busy business we do not-,” before the realtor had a chance to finish, an eager new employee squeaked from her cubicle. 

“I’m free!” She waved her hand over the top of the divider. 

“Perfect, I’ll go talk to her.” Adrien strummed his fingers along the desk as he glided towards the cubicle that homed the waving hand. 

Marie was in the process of brushing the donut dust off of her black pencil skirt as Adrien stepped towards her. She nearly choked when she saw the client she had agreed to take on. 

“Sir! You can’t just walk back here!” The administrator stormed forward, obviously not used to walking fast in heels. 

“What’s your name?” Adrien ignored the woman whose steps were growing louder behind him. 

“Marie Belliant, sir.” Her hands were frozen on her legs, never having completed her dusting. 

Adrien spun around to face the huffing woman, with Alya lingering in the background by the front desk. The administrator nearly broke the heel off her shoe when she saw who she had been running after. “Oh my god, Mr. Agreste! I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise it was you! I can get you an appointment sorted out right away.” 

The realtor at the front desk perked at the Agreste name and came sprinting forward. “I’ll take you sir, I have years of experience. I’ll make sure you’re in the best hands.” He lifted his hand out to shake. 

Adrien read his name tag. “Sebastian, nice to meet you.” He kindly took the man’s hand. “But I already have a realtor.” 

Adrien turned to Marie, who had finished her dusting, assuming that her potential client had been poached. 

“No, you don’t want her, she’s not as expertised.” Sebastian cringed at Marie. 

Alya, now confident in her freedom to walk towards the scene, pitched in. “Bro, I think he already made his decision. Too bad you didn’t see him first, hey?” 

Adrien grinned at Alya’s contribution. “Come on, let’s pick a few.” He waved Alya over. 

“Oh!” Marie jumped, realising that it was her turn to speak. “You said apartment, anything in specific, do you have a price in mind?” 

Sebastian scoffed at the ‘rookie questions’.

“Thanks for your help, Sebastian.” Alya patted the insecure man’s bicep. “But I think we’ve got it from here.” 

Adrien smirked in approval at Alya’s dismissal. “I want something with a view of the harbour and open concept. Basically a wall of windows. No price limit.” 

Only Alya was able to see the droop in Sebastian at the last remark. 

Marie began typing as to search through possible apartments. 

Alya whispered into Adrien’s ear. “Can we look at some crazy houses? Just for fun? I’ve always wanted to do that!” 

Adrien glanced towards the screen of possible condos. There were a few that seemed to fit the bill. “Let’s look at these three.” He pointed towards the screen. “And could you also show us three of your favourite houses? Whatever you think is the most ballistically insane!” 

“Of course! I’ll print out my favourite first and then find something from there.” Marie was giddy to have a chance to walk through the most elite real estate. Normally, it was only the men at the top that even got to set foot within those houses. 

“Do you drive or?” Adrien asked as she printed out the listings. 

“It’s our policy that I drive a company vehicle, would you like a lift?” She tapped the papers on her desk. 

“No, that’s quite fine, we will meet you there. Let’s start with your third favourite property.” Adrien held out his hand for the appropriate print out. 

Marie fluttered through the papers to find the correct one. “Here you are. I will be right behind you.” 

“I doubt that.” Alya snorted, only slightly rattled that her words had actually been spoken out loud. 

Beaming at her reaction, Adrien shifted his attention to Marie. “Do you like coffee? I’ll pick you something up on the way.” 

Marie stammered, it wasn’t often that clients were so accommodating, especially one of Adrien’s stature. “Um yeah, I’d - uh- I would love a caramel macchiato.” 

“Perfect. See you soon.” 

Adrien spun his car keys as they waded through the crowd of people once again. 

“That was amazing!” Alya shrieked as Adrien revved the engine. 

“People treat you differently when they know you have money. I’d rather deal with someone who would greet me even if I made minimum wage.” Adrien’s head bobbed along with his traffic weaves. 

Alya wanted to ride their euphoric adventure, but she shook herself back to the reason she was sitting in Adrien’s death trap of a vehicle. “You said you had nosebleeds since you were eight, did they recently start up again? Or were you just really good at hiding them in high school?” 

“They got bad again after the battle. It’s strange, they only seem to rear their ugly head when I’m dealing with Luka. It’s something related to stress, I think.” Adrien pulled into the Starbucks drive-thru. 

“Only with Luka? Are you… are you in the closet Adrien?” Alya was confused, never perceiving the male model as heteronormative. 

Adrien clenched his head, thankful for the chance to order. 

Plagg spoke into the ear furthest from Adrien. “In a really weird severe way. Sass and I both believe it’s related to dark magic. Anytime he talks about it he gets headaches or bleeds.” 

Adrien’s headache had nearly dissipated by the time they got their order. Alya clung to the tray as the tires left tracks on the edge of the drive-thru. 

“Why are you convinced you’re going to die, Adrien?” Alya took Plagg’s warning and switched off the topic of Luka. 

“When I was eight, I was hospitalised for it. I don’t remember it at all, but Felix told me. He said I almost died.” Cars honked as Adrien swung through lanes. “The medics yesterday said the same thing. The bleeds are getting heavier and more frequent. I better live my life while I still have it.” 

“Have you seen a specialist since they got bad again? Maybe it’s because of the accident.” Alya suggested as she braced the tray in preparation for the jarring stop. 

“They did a full scan when I had one in the hospital. Found nothing. I’ve already cheated death once, I think it’s just my time.” Adrien stepped out of the car. 

-

“Thank-you for the day, Adrien.” Alya’s fingers rested along the inside door handle. “Those places were mind blowing. I think you made the right decision.” 

“Thanks for coming along. If it wasn’t for your interest in checking out some of the bigger real-estate, I would have never found a new base of operations. I think starting with a blank slate is the best idea. No more skeletons in the basement.” His fingers tapped against the steering wheel the entire time he spoke, it was as if he couldn’t refrain from moving. 

“I still think you should have got the one with the pool!” Alya snickered at the idea of an Olympic sized swimming pool as a centrepiece to Agreste Fashion Industries base of operations.

“It probably would help morale, but alas, not quite the architecture required to house our needs.” Adrien feigned heartbreak over the loss of a swimming pool; the hot tub on the deck of his penthouse loft would do quite fine. 

“Are you going to tell the team? About your dad?” Alya had struggled to get any real answers from him all day. A lot of information, but minimal forward momentum. 

“If I live long enough, I’ll tell you then.” Adrien smirked. 

“Stop that. Have you ever seen Nino cry? It’s not cute! And then he starts blowing bubbles and acts like he’s some bleak version of Sherlock Holmes! Don’t do that to me!” 

“I’ll do my best. But, considering the time, he may have already popped out the bubble pipe.” 

Author's Note:

There’s an almost staccato style to Adrien telling Alya the huge issues - this is done very purposefully. Not only is it to symbolise that these traumas are becoming a regular aspect for him, but he’s attempting to repress the negative feelings by being restless, manic even.

For those that are interested in the specifics regarding some of the diagnostic criteria, this is what Adrien has shown us that he has so far: Unsurprisingly, Adrien has been demonstrating a lot of symptoms relating to PTSD, now that he’s both found his mother and nearly died himself in the process he has started portraying more symptoms. At this moment, he currently demonstrates: Nightmares, Dissociative reactions/flashbacks, intense psychological reaction to cues (severe panic attacks), avoidance of external cues (such the need to escape his surroundings by buying a new house), inability to remember specific parts of the event, persistent and exaggerated beliefs or expectations of self, reckless or self-destructive behaviour, inclining beginnings of depersonalization.

He is currently restless, reckless, and scared to stop moving. Because if he does, then he has to deal with the issues waiting at his doormat.

Adrien is more of a “difficult” case because he also has additional mental ailments that will be expanded upon later.

Additionally, I would like to note (especially since it is so often mentioned in fan fictions regarding Adrien), in this story he does not deal with a specific eating disorder. His issues with food are related to other mental health stressors.

Luka’s mental health will be discussed in a later chapter. He’s sought help for a lot longer and has more resources than Adrien in managing his mental health than Adrien does, so it’s not as ‘blatant’. I will say at this moment that it is a mood disorder, it is something that will never completely go away.

-

Also, on a lighter note, I loved the ability to poke at the hilarious mess of Nino Holmes. I seriously pictured him at the screen door, bubbles prepped beside him. I mean, it is a lot healthier of a coping strategy, but comedic nonetheless.

I loved Alya and Adrien teaming up to go on an adventure and teach the importance of treating everyone like human beings.

-

“Death Drive” - SO - Death drive is a play on words involving Emelie’s death and Adrien’s driving BUT it is also another ‘fun’ thing. The hole that everyone has that they are desperate to fill (referred to in a previous set of notes) has also been compared to the Death Drive. Which when looked at by Freud, Zizek, or Lacan have slightly different meanings. I’ll explain it through how I understand Zizek to correlate it in the desperation to find the ‘Big Other’, to fix what was wrong. Adrien is changing and uprooting everything to achieve a sense of imagined peace. Basically, the Death Drive entails the motivation that pushes you, to the point of death, chasing after something.

I’m less versed in Freud’s version, but from what I understand, it’s based on human’s drive for self-destruction. So also relevant - just a lot less confident in describing it.

-

Final point, not sure if anyone noticed or not, because I just automatically changed it in part 2 - Adrien applied for a corporate name change. It is no longer Gabriel Agreste Industries, but now just Agreste Industries.

-

Thank you for reading!!! I hope my teaching sessions are useful or interesting for at least one person haha

Disclaimer * The characters and original plot were written and created by Thomas Astruc. This writing is merely an interpretation in a sad gay type of way.

[firelord-frowny]

MY MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIND

not to sound arrogant and call myself a ~great writer~ lmfao (even though i ammmmm) but WOW a great writer’s mind works in a totally reverse order sometimes omggggg! 

so i’ve got this character. Pleiades. Extremely gifted in the arts. brilliant philosopher. could definitely be a major force in the development of fine art, but has always failed to live up to her potential, and she hates herself for being so physically weak. none of her talents mean anything to her because she’s weak. can’t open a jar. can’t move heavy objects. can’t fight back against an aggressor. can’t protect herself or anyone else from any physical threat. her fixation on weakness and her fixation on her desire to be strong seems absurd. she’s bereft over it. 

in my head, it’s for no particular reason. it’s just the way she is. 

so, i’m writing a bunch of scenes from various points in her life. 

get to a scene where she’s back in her childhood home at the library of alexandria where her parents work as researchers/scholars/etc, and where she used to work and study as a musician and artist.

almost as soon as she arrives, her behavior becomes bizarre. panic attacks over the slightest criticism. suddenly terrified of performing in front of anyone. she finds herself at the mercy of her old teacher who oversees the music department. she doesn’t really remember it, but this teacher was a psychological nightmare of an emotional abuser. jerked her around. praised her for something on one day, and then scolded her for the same thing the very next day. forced her into opportunities she wasn’t prepared for and then punished her for failing. gaslit her. told her what a disappointment she was, called her arrogant, lazy, berates her for always half-assing everything she does, threatens to dismiss her from the department because she’s just not living up to the required standards. and then tells her how much she loves her and that she’ll never abandon her and that she’s the most gifted student she’s ever had. 

it drives pleiades fucking crazy, but she absolutely has no idea. all she knows is that she feels worthless and wants to die.

So now she’s back at Alexandria. sees her old teacher. old teacher expresses such joy to see her. gushes to all her colleagues about her. talks her up as being the best student she’s ever had. a prodigy. a legend. a Muse in flesh and blood. And she invites Pleaides to be featured in a seminar where distinguished musicians present new techniques they’ve been developing. Pleiades is thrilled. 

the day before the seminar is due to take place, Pleiades has a mild disagreement with her teacher about something, and the teacher turns on a dime and takes her off the program, accusing her of being too difficult, too moody, too arrogant, to unpredictable, too unstable. your new techniques aren’t that special, anyway. i was wrong to trust you to live up to your potential. you never did before, so i was a fool to expect you to be able to do it now. what a disgrace. i’m ashamed to even have people know that you used to study with me. 

she has a breakdown. screaming, crying, breaking things. she shatters some glass and walks all over the shards. a physician has to be called in to give her a sedative so she’ll calm down. 

while she’s knocked out, the physician explains to her companion that ‘this kind of behavior is nothing new for Pleiades. she’s always been prone to self-harm.’ 

the physician then describes past incidents where Pleiades would scream for hours on end in her room, throwing herself at the walls over and over again with such force that she’d be black and blue with bruises and swelling. 

but what nobody knew, because nobody ever bothered to ask, is that she wasn’t just throwing herself at the walls out of sheer insanity. 

she was trying to break the door down because she was locked in. 

her parents used to seal her in her room as punishment when her teacher would report that she’s not doing well enough in her studies. and these lock-ins almost always happened when she was supposed to be participating in some sort of esteemed event where she’d be featured as a master of her craft. 

so she’d ram at the door, trying to get out. but she wasn’t strong enough. 

and every time she rams into that door, she recalls a time where she once tried to hide behind that very same locked door from someone who intended to hurt her, and that person busted right in. 

she’s not strong enough to free herself, but other people are strong enough to breach the barrier that’s supposed to keep her safe. If only she was strong, she could have saved herself in both kinds of scenarios.

FULL CIRCLE!

Literally none of this was on my mind when I arbitrarily decided that she has a fixation on her physical strength. And when I was writing these scenes, I had absolutely no conscious awareness that it would tie in so seamlessly with that character trait that I picked at random. 

woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow.

[blackteacreates]

Also ngl I think my hang ups with my mother is why I have such a visceral reaction to the UwU don’t blame me I’m so mentally ill, club.

And I say this AS a mentally ill person with multiple diagnosis. Is some of it unfair? Maybe. But I also don’t know what to do with all this rage.

Because my mother is one of my main abusers. And she very much would have been one of those depressed girlies on social media, who seem like poster girl for depression and ptsd. The kind who hates themselves and claims that they are the biggest victim of their own behavior. That they hate themselves so much. That their actions are from a place of self hate.

And honestly, I can cognitively acknowledge the main difference here is she was my mother therefore in a unique position of power over shaping me as a child that does NOT exist in peer-peer relationships. And at the same time there’s a visceral part of me that wants to scream NO.

You CAN hurt people. You DO have to own up to it. When there are resources there is a point at which you have to take some ownership over it. Accountability isn’t just saying I’m horrible. I’m terrible. That you can do harm with 0 ill intent.

That narcissists aren’t the only people who can do serious harm. At the same time, there are layers of this harm that are so harmful BECAUSE it was a parent child relationship. (But even then that’s important to remember if you’re planning on having kids). I know these are my triggers. And that my reactions aren’t free from problems.

But man oh man, there’s some flavors of discourse that strike me of the same flavor of harm my mother has perpetuated and it drives me up the fucking wall.

The hardest thing I have been struggling with these past few days, and I’m yapping about here because my therapist ghosted me this week.

I don’t know how to process the fact that my mother doesn’t seem to genuinely hear anything I say or be self aware in any capacity.

It’s always been tricky for me because she’s not really a narcissistic parent. She’s not a parent who refuses to apologize or even actively guilt trips. But she is an incredibly emotionally immature parent. And probably neuro divergent but reluctant to ever acknowledge or cope in any healthy way.

She self sacrifices and doesn’t exactly guilt me for it. She says a lot of the “right” things but her actions don’t add up. She hates herself and can’t even recognize it and thus will be in denial about the reality of that self hatred in a way that makes repair impossible.

But at the end of the day, she still can’t see me. She still can’t actually grasp the impact of her behavior, the way she doesn’t see me. The way she lashes out and parentifies me. She cannot understand cause and effect. Even if she can understand how behavior in the past has deeply hurt me and apologizes it’s like she cannot take that knowledge extrapolate and infer how that presents today.

It’s like each incident of behavior is a new one. And she will fully have gaps in memory. At times I will ask her what did I just say, and not only will she not remember, say the wrong thing, but then she will deny that it happened. She will forget whole conversations and then act like it’s such a big deal to ask her to remember “every little detail”.

And when I bring up to her the aspect that oh she’s a pessimistic person, she complains all the time, and how her negative skew of things makes her completely oblivious to any progress I make or any thing that I contribute she’s all surprise Pikachu face.

But she never asks why is there discrepancy between my self perception and how I am read in the world. She never asks questions about herself. And you gotta fight her to get her to recognize. If she acknowledges shes co-dependent after years of telling her and giving her resources she never checks out. And I mention it later she’ll be like “you think I’m still codependent?” As a genuine question.

LIKE GIRL. AT WHAT POINT DID YOU DO THE WORK TO FIX IT OR LEARN ABOUT IT. Like what was your thought process to get from point A to B. And it’s like she HAS no thought process. She lives in a world of magical thinking 24/7 and any attempt to bring it ups results in a shame shutdown where she’ll show remorse. And she doesn’t say it aloud unless backed in a corner but she will internalize it as “wow I’m fucked up”.

Then it’s like none of that happens it gets suppressed until the next incident. And I just…I can’t. She will never understand how much heartbreak exists in keeping trying over and over to meet her where she’s at, and not only to go unrecognized, but be actively fought on it, then blamed or treated like I’m rude and uncaring when I’m burnt out. To be treated like I’m asking for too much.

When I have to put up more boundaries etc. she acts like she’s doing it for me. Like no bitch I’m protecting myself from you because you choose ignorance over and over again. And she has too much pride and self preservation I guess to admit her limitations. The denial about her own limitations coupled with the chronic lack of action means heartbreak over and over.

And her inability to connect the dots means she will never see conflict as a continuation or consequence of prolonged behavior. She will never internalize it in a constructive way. If you bring anything up you just demotivate her and trigger the shut down and forget. If you don’t say anything you’re either betraying yourself or getting blamed.

And it hurts. It fucking hurts. Because I don’t know how to stop trying to fix things. I don’t know how to not be impacted by her comments and behavior. I don’t know how to not be bothered when I’m angry and want nothing to do with her. I can get so angry even her presence makes me want to break something.

And to her it’s out of nowhere, for no reason. It’s “I don’t treat you like that” you’re right you don’t because you just do the silent kind of disrespect. You do the neglectful kind of disrespect. The one that silently kills. And I feel crazy or like an abuser when I want to say something like: every problem you have between us is your fault before it is mine.

Because it’s like you can’t be nuanced with her. Any form of nuance is a way for her to delude herself into thinking something doesn’t apply to her. Because it’s like some way or another it is her fault. That the reason I am snappy, don’t want to hear her run her mouth, am short with her etc. is because she has repeatedly refused to get help. That she has continued to break my heart over and over. That she has continued to neglect me. And blame me. Continued to take me for granted and the invisible emotional labor I put into keeping us even functional while also trying to heal while also trying to move forward in my life.

And when I do try to be nicer because my inner child is sad and misses their mom, she takes that to mean everything is okay. She has no concern for how heart breaking it is to have to cut that part of yourself off. To guard it. She only thinks about how that cold behavior hurts her. She so self involved even if she’s outwardly selfless to a fault. And she will never see how much pain that causes.

I don’t know how to untangle from that. How do I accept help or kindness from her that I may need to survive and not pull myself into this dynamic. I hate it so much. I hate that she will never see me. And I hate getting nuggets of hope. I hate broken promises. I hate that the most.

Maybe I’m jaded but it feels so selfish to keep making broken promises because all it does is soothe her shame. I don’t care how genuine she may be in the moment. It’s its own twisted kind of cruelty. Theres a unique (not worse) kind of pain in harm done from neglect and lack of thought.

Sometimes a part of me may think I almost wish you’d intentionally hurt me. At least I could feel justified in my anger. It’s the back and forth. The lack of thought. The lack of action coupled with the self hate she exhibited but refuses to see. What am I supposed to do with that. How am I supposed to react to that. I *wish* she’d grow a back bone. I wish she’d take her own healing seriously. Because she puts that responsibility on me.

I’m so angry and bitter. And it’s destroying my life. This anger and bitterness is poisoning me from the inside. I don’t even want to feel justified in it anymore I just want it to be done.

[writer-in-theory]

California Dreamin' — harringrove.

Summary: When Steve goes on his dream road trip to California alone, he finds the unlikeliest of ghosts in a tattoo shop. Prompt: B1 - Tattoo Shop // A2 - Reunion Pairing: Bottom!Steve Harrington/Top!Billy Hargrove Rating: Explicit Word Count: 10.7k Content Warnings: 18+ ONLY, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussions of Trauma (canon-based), Needles (tattoos), Emotional Smut, Implied Unprotected Sex, Anal Sex, Scar Worship, Non-Graphic Smut, Insecurities Read On AO3: HereA/N: This is another fill for @harringroveson-bingo and @billyhargrovebingo !! This was meant to be a short lil fluff fic but ended up being angst and smut, so here we are. Huge thanks to @serenity-lattes for cheering me on and beta-reading through this whole thing (and coming up with the tattoo shop name!). Also many apologies for making @lcvingprentjss cry.

Harringroveson Bingo Masterlist // Billy Hargrove Bingo Masterlist

Steve was 10 miles from his destination when he saw the shop. It was a smaller building, nestled between a record shop and coffee shop that looked designed for people more academically inclined than he’d ever been. It wasn’t trying to be anything it wasn’t—no flashing lights or intense neons that decorated every other building he’d driven past that night. Maybe that was what had drawn Steve to the tattoo shop on the corner of West Eleventh and Park, the simplicity of the ‘Valhalla Ink’ sign above the door. 

Already he could hear the wild screams from Robin and Eddie when they inevitably saw his tattoo, maybe by that point it would already be healed up and slightly faded from time. Nancy would be told about it by Robin, and she’d shake her head and talk all night about how much he’d changed from the Steve Harrington she’d known in school.

As if none of them had changed after what happened, after what they’d lost. 

That was it then, Steve decided if only to divert his mind away from what had long since been over. He found the nearest street parking, offering the Beemer his ritualistic thank you for surviving the trip thus far, and set off to the shop. When Steve had pictured himself making this trip, it had always been in an RV with too many kids to keep track of and a loving partner who made it all worthwhile. Still, when he’d woken in Hawkins one Thursday to realize he was well and truly the only one left, he couldn’t help but pack a measly bag of supplies and hop into his car without any real plan to guide him. All he knew was that he’d end on the beaches of San Diego, his one true dream destination.

“We could make it, you know.”

“Where, San Diego? Get real.”

“No, I’m serious. After the summer, we could get out of here. I’ll take what I can from my parents, we’ll get in your car, and we’ll go. You could show me the beach.”

“You’ve seen the beach.”

“I haven’t seen your beach.”

Tattoo shops. Beemers on their last legs. Shitty road motels with the kinds of beds he didn’t really want to think about too closely. Tattoo shops.

Steve was getting a tattoo, and then he’d find someplace to sleep, and then he’d deal with the beach tomorrow when his mind had time to recover from the drive. He could handle that much right now, he knew he could. 

The shop was even more picturesque inside. There were chairs and machines, sure, but there were also worn surfboards hanging on the walls and old records tacked up alongside them. They were bands Steve never listened to on purpose unless he wanted to harm himself with the memories, though seeing them treated like art in this way made something warm wrap around his heart. He would have liked that. Or maybe He would have called it pretentious, snickering at Steve for trying to get a tattoo when everyone knows it wouldn’t really fit in with his style.

Who the fuck knows anymore.

“Hey, we’re about to close!” a voice called from a distance away. There was a door open in the back of the shop, maybe it was from there. “I don’t have time to start anyth—”

Steve Harrington must have died on the trip. He must have gotten into an accident on the way and his friends were being told because there was no fucking way this was happening right now. The man looked different—older than he’d ever been allowed to be, with shorter hair than Steve had ever seen him with. It was long enough to still show off those curls, one lone corkscrew hanging into his face and obscuring a part of those familiar blue eyes, now filled with far less anger than they once had been. He was in a t-shirt, exposing all of the tattoos he’d never gotten to get before but had always talked about, along with several white scars that trailed his skin like veins. He was different, but no amount of years between them would ever let Steve forget him.

“Billy?” Steve whispered, like speaking anything louder might make this ghost disappear.

He’s sure Billy didn’t hear him—there was no way he could’ve with the amount of distance between them now—but the other man still jerked back like he’d been hit. 

“What are you doing here?” Billy Hargrove—Billy fucking Hargrove—asked, and the sound of his voice alone was enough to gather tears in Steve’s eyes. 

He thought he’d lost all right to hear it again.

“I’m—” Steve began, though cut himself off quickly after noticing the expression on Billy’s face. He wasn’t crying. No, his blue eyes were clear and looking side to side, categorizing every door in the building. He stood light on his feet, every muscle tensed like he was ready to run the second any of it got to be too much for him. Steve had a million questions, ‘how are you alive?’ being the chief one, but all he could do was sigh, press a smile into his face like a cookie cutter, and say, “To get a tattoo. I can come back tomorrow though, if you’re closing. Or never, if that’s what you want too. I don’t, I don’t...whatever you want.”

Billy looked like he was going to tell him to get out. He opened his mouth, eyes alight with the same kind of fire that had once gotten Steve laid out on the floor of Joyce Byers’s kitchen, but then he closed it all too suddenly, fire dimming with the kind of resigned hopelessness that Steve had grown accustomed to in his own mind.

“Have a design in mind, Harrington?” 

“Uh, no, no I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Steve admitted, feeling his cheeks burn pink. 

When Billy laughed, it felt like everything would be okay. Not hearing it for six years had nestled something deep and immovable in Steve’s chest, but he felt it nudge away as the room filled with that sound again. It was still as odd and wondrous as ever—Billy’s chin tipping back with the force of it, a punch of sound like he’d been fighting the release of such a happy noise.

“You haven’t changed, have you?” Steve wanted to scream that he had. He wanted to grab Billy by the shoulders and shake him until he saw the kind of changes he’d been forced through. Before Dustin left for college, he’d called him tired, old. Even before that, when Robin was sitting in Nancy’s car ready to follow her around the world if the other woman asked, she’d cried over how worn out he’d seemed. Withering, Steve thought to himself, he was withering. 

Steve only shrugged, but that seemed to be a good enough answer as any because Billy waved him over to the desk where a notebook and pen rested between them. This was the closest they’d been since....well, since. Closer, Steve could see the scars didn’t stop at his arms. They continued down Billy’s hands, to wrap around each finger like marionette strings. He supposed that’s what Billy had been at the end, or what he’d always thought had been the end, a puppet.

“We had a funeral,” Steve whispered then, unable to stop them up even when he tried.

“Steve,” Billy warned, fingers gripping the pen tightly like a lifeline.

Still, against Steve’s better judgment, he pressed. “Robin, Max, Lucas, and I. We had a funeral. A real one, not the bullshit your dad se—” 

“Steve!” Billy shouted, other hand smacking down on the counter loud enough to make Steve jump back. The anger faded quickly, disappearing somewhere past the scars both new and old Billy carried with him. “What kind of design were you thinking of?”

Right, tattoos. He was here for a tattoo.

“I don’t know,” Steve admitted. “I told you, this wasn’t in the plan.”

“Do you trust me?” Billy asked. 

To the ends of the Earth, to where no one has ever gone before, with every breath Steve had left.

“Sure, I trust you.”

It was awkward in ways Steve didn’t think was possible, watching Billy design. The other man kept the page close to him, arm wrapping around it to conceal the design from Steve’s view while he worked. He mostly didn’t talk, leaving Steve to focus on the scratch of the pen on cheap paper and the way Billy’s tongue still poked out of his mouth when he was concentrating. 

Eventually, Steve wandered. Billy looked up at him once, but when he never said anything Steve took it as permission to continue. He walked around the perimeter of the large room, taking in each bit of covered space on the wall. The surfboards were all signed, some with Billy’s name—or rather, first name. Steve didn’t recognize the last name—and others with names Steve didn’t have any chance at recognizing.  There was a shelf of cassette tapes in the back, where all of the chairs and benches were. Most were bands he would’ve crinkled his nose at years ago.

“You could at least try to woo me with some better music.”

“The hell are you talking about? I’ve already wooed you, Pretty Boy.”

There was one, however, that stuck out to Steve. It was in the middle of the pack but there may as well have been a spotlight on it with the way it drew his eyes. He plucked it off the shelf, opening the case to make sure his heart was on the right track. Sure enough, in the little corner of the inside cover rested his own handwriting. SH, ‘83. 

“You have my Tears For Fears tape?” he asked, spinning around to hold it up for Billy to see. 

“They found it in my car,” Billy answered quickly, eyes looking back down to his notepad. That elicited more questions than it did provide answers, but Steve knew better by now than to push.

“I would’ve hoped my music taste rubbed off on you a little more, but, I guess this works,” Steve teased, popping the tape into the player before returning to the counter. “Figured something out?”

“You know, normally clients come in with ideas. They don’t expect me to come up with the perfect tat for them on the first try,” Billy said, his eyes never once leaving the page.

“Well I’m not any normal client, now am I?” Steve said quickly, leaning over to see it and jumping only a little when Billy’s hands smacked down to shield the page from view. “C’mon, Billy, I wanna see it!”

“Whiny brat,” Billy hissed, catching even himself off-guard for long enough for Steve to grab his hands and move them away from the page. Steve nearly gasped when he saw the drawing, fingers instinctively moving to brush over the pen strokes. Billy drew a bat, adorned with familiar nails through the barrel. Around it was a crown fit for a king, wrapped around each other like Steve’s very own coat of arms. 

“It’s perfect,” Steve told him, “that’s what I want.”

“Good, I wasn’t gonna redraw it,” Billy said, motioning for Steve to sit in one of the chairs while he disappeared into the back room he’d been in when Steve had first walked in. 

This was really happening. There was still time to leave, to tell Billy he was actually joking and they could go grab coffee to catch up instead of stabbing a needle repeatedly into Steve’s skin. But the tattoo was perfect, and no one would ever expect it from dethroned ex-jock Steve Harrington. 

It felt a little like a blur, having Billy so close. While Billy readied the machine and slipped on black nitrile gloves, Steve stared. There was no way the other man didn’t notice, but Steve couldn’t find it in himself to care. All he could think about was the fact that Billy was here, now, and not in the grave they’d abandoned him in six years ago. 

The needle hurt on his forearm, but it was the kind of hurt Steve could deal with. It wasn’t cruel Russian fists or suffocating demobat tails, or even the deep devastating hurt from losing—

It was the bearable kind of hurt.

“Most guys whine like babies for their first ones,” Billy spoke up, eyes still focused on what he was doing. Needle, wipe. Needle, wipe. “You take the pain like a champ.”

I always did. “I think Robin would say that’s not a good thing,” Steve laughed, lightly so as to not jostle his arm under the pen.

“You keep talking about her like I know who that is.”

Right. Fuck, so much had changed in his life that Steve hadn’t gotten to tell him about.

“Do you remember my dorky coworker from Scoops?” Steve asked.

“The one with the You Suck board?”

“I seem to remember there being a You Rule, too, but yeah,” Steve answered, rolling his eyes at what bits and pieces Billy had remembered. “We’re friends now. Best friends, actually. She was there, that night. I know it was a lot and you probably don’t remember any of it, but she was there. She was there for me after too, when I couldn’t really tell everyone about…us.”

Billy was quiet for a while, the only sound in the building being the continual hum of the pen as he dragged it over Steve’s skin. Just when Steve was about to bring up another topic, Billy spoke again. “I remember it.”

“That night?” Steve asked tentatively, watching with nothing but uncertainty as Billy rested the pen back on the cart beside him. 

“I remember all of it,” Billy admitted, blue eyes meeting Steve’s hazel. “I wasn’t in control, but I was there. Watching, feeling...everything.”

Billy knelt over El, so far from Steve he couldn’t make out the minute changes in either one’s expressions. All he saw was the moment Billy stood up, yelling and reaching out toward the monster in defense of the girl. The moment Billy caught one of the monster’s arms with both of his own, Steve knew. He knew.

“Billy!” Steve screamed, throat feeling like it had torn to shreds. “Billy, no!”

“I thought you died,” Steve spoke again, daring to bring it up now that Billy couldn’t leave. He needed to know, needed some kind of explanation for how they were together now. Steve had felt Billy’s heart stutter to a stop on the floor of the Starcourt Mall six years ago. “They said there wasn’t a b—That there wasn’t anything to bu—they said there wasn’t anything left.”

“I did die, I think,” Billy answered. “That’s what the fuckers told me.”

“How did you end up here?” Billy ignored the question for a while, picking up the needle pen again and setting to work. “Billy.”

“It’s old news, okay?” Billy sighed out, fingers tightening against Steve’s arm.

“It’s not old to me,” Steve whispered out, wincing as he caught what was playing on the tape. 

Memories fade but the scars still linger, goodbye my friend. Will I ever love again?

“It’s not old to me, Billy,” Steve pressed, more insistent now as his confidence burned brighter and brighter. He’d missed how he’d felt around Billy—like he was made of starstuff, untouchable against the very worst the world had to throw at them. “An hour ago I was still mourning you.”

I cannot grow, I cannot move, I cannot fell my age.

“A week ago I was mourning you. A month ago, a year ago, I was mourning you. Six fucking years of it, Billy, and you were here. The whole time, you were here.”

Engulfed by you, what can I do? When History's my cage, look forward to a future in the past.

“You think I wanted to be?” Billy snapped out, fingers pressing harshly into Steve’s arm as he held it down onto the workspace. “You think I wanted to wake up in some fucking lab, alone? That my idea of a happy fucking ending was being told to get out? To leave with nothing but the shit they found in my totaled car and whatever fucking hush money the US government decided to throw at me?”

“US gov—did Owens do this? He said you were d—”

“That’s kind of the idea, Pretty Boy,” Billy said with such cynical harshness it took Steve’s breath away. “Can’t be a lab rat if no one knows you fucking exist.”

It was too much. It was too much pressing against his heart, his brain, and suddenly the continued scratch of the needle was too much too, overwhelming to the point of making Steve want to rip his hair out and chew on his knuckles for peace. Billy seemed to recognize it, too—he always had, even before Steve knew what these reactions were—because he set down the machine, wrapping Steve’s forearm in plastic so they could ‘take a break’.

“Want some water, Harrington?” Billy asked, dipping his head to catch Steve’s eye.

Water. Water would be smart, but the shaking in his hands wouldn’t be steadied by water he wanted, he wanted... “Have a smoke?”

“Nah, kicked the habit. Kills people, you know?” At Steve’s small whimper, Billy winced. “Bad joke. Yeah, I got a smoke, but you’re not lighting up in here.”

Steve followed Billy outside, where he pulled a pack of cigarettes—still Marlboros—from his back pocket and offered Steve one only after lighting one of his own. Dustin may have kicked him for smoking again after trying so hard to stop completely, but Dustin wasn’t exactly there, was he? He deserved a smoke, after everything that had come out of the last legs of his trip.

The silence was bearable, more bearable than it had been in the close quarters of the shop. They both leaned against the wall, so close Steve could feel the heat radiating from Billy’s shoulder, but the open air of San Diego washed over him and eased any worry before it could compound.

“Why’re you in California?” Billy asked after some minutes had passed, watching cars pass rather than look at Steve.

Steve shrugged, unsure of how well he could really explain himself. “I’m just driving. Wanted to get out of Hawkins, see the ocean.”

“You know you can’t swim with that, right?” Billy asked, one eyebrow raised and the hand holding his cigarette pointing toward Steve’s wrapped-up forearm. 

He hadn’t thought about it, though it would’ve probably occurred to him by the time he got down to the water. “Yeah, yeah,” Steve answered, “I just, needed to see the beach.”

As if in an echo of the past, Billy smiled a thin-lipped smile and said, “You’ve seen the beach before, Harrington. It’ll look just like all the others.”

“No, it’ll be different,” Steve answered immediately, turning his head to face Billy too. “I haven’t seen your beach yet, and I mean to.”

If he closed his eyes, Steve could imagine he was back at the Quarry. They were laying under the light of the stars, smoking and talking about the future. Billy was holding onto him and Steve was promising Billy the entire world, if only they could make it through one last summer in Hawkins. He’d pack a bag and toss it into the back of the Camaro, and they’d drive until they found the beach Billy had grown up at, the beach that had been his peace for so many years. 

Except they hadn’t made it, and Steve had been left with all the promises he could never fulfill. 

“So this Robin. She your new girlfriend now?”

The idea alone pulled a loud laugh from Steve, warmth filling where the icy chill of loss had just resided in his heart. “No, ew, no,” he continued to laugh, bringing a hand up to scrub at the tears building in his eyes. “I’m not her type.”

“I think you’re everybody’s type, Harrington.”

“No, I mean,” Steve shook his head as the laughter began to die down, wishing he could call Robin with complete surety that she’d answer, if only so he could tell her what happened. She’d heard enough about Billy that she’d know what this meant, she may have even understood what Steve was feeling in that moment better than he did. “She’s dating Nancy now. They’ve lived in Boston since Nancy started college.”

“Prissy Wheeler?” Billy balked, making Steve grin at the old nickname he’d refused to drop even six years ago. “Wheeler is dating some girl from band?”

“Yep,” Steve answered, popping the ‘p’. “You missed a lot. We all ended up sort of...well, I guess there’s a reason we ended up friends. Jon’s out in Lenora Hills with this guy, Argyle, he met in school, you’d like him.”

“Lenora Hills...California? What’s Byers doing there?”

“Oh, they moved out there after...well, it’s kind of a long story,” Steve concluded, finally putting out his cigarette once his hands stopped shaking.

“So you keep saying.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Steve sighed, knowing he should tell Billy more, but where did he start? How could he possibly recap six years in a town’s history that Billy had never really cared about anyway? How could he recount so many years of his own history, knowing most of it would result in talking about how much better the days would have been if the memories could have been shared with Billy? “What’ve you been up to out here?”

It was Billy’s turn to shrug, dropping his cigarette and stepping on it. “We should finish up your ink.”

“Just one thing?” After so many years wondering what Billy could have done with all the time he hadn’t gotten, Steve was a little more than desperate to know what had ended up being his life. 

“C’mon, Harrington. I want to get some sleep tonight, let’s go,” Billy insisted, holding the door open until Steve had no choice but to return back to his seat. 

They didn’t talk much through the rest of the tattoo session, only little inconsequential statements thrown here and there to fill the space. When it came time to pay—or force Billy to actually accept the wad of bills he’d outstretched—and leave, Steve found himself hesitating by the door. Billy was busying himself cleaning up the space before closing the shop, only glancing up when he didn’t hear the bell of the door ring to signal Steve’s departure.

“What, forget how to open doors on your own, princess?” Billy called out, no malice hiding within any of his words.

Steve couldn’t stop himself from what he said next, the words flying out of his mouth before he could truly process them. “Come home with me.” At Billy’s confused look, he tried to explain. “I mean, I’m gonna go find a hotel to crash for the night. You should come with me, so we can catch up.” So I don’t have to stop looking at you, so I know you’re actually alive and this isn’t some horrible dream, so you can take me to your beach like we planned.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Steve.” Billy’s answer was curt and to the point, no room for any arguing back. Even after all these years, he still knew how to handle Steve.

“Right,” Steve breathed out, wondering how he was ever meant to gather enough strength to walk away from him. With a careful, stilted breath, Steve managed, turning and slipping out of the tattoo shop like it hadn’t turned his entire world on end.

The next three days passed by like a blur. Steve couldn’t bring himself to get to the beach, or to go talk to Billy again, or really do much of anything except sit in the cheap motel room he’d found a few blocks from the shop. 

Steve didn’t really know how long he’d stay in California, figuring he’d stay until it felt right to go. At the rate it was going, the trip length would be defined by his rapidly dwindling funds. There’d been no choice but to move out of his parents’ house after Vecna, finding they wouldn’t have understood or accepted the Steve Harrington that had emerged from the rubble, but that also meant he’d given up every ounce of his inheritance in order to go prove he could be his own person. Sometimes, especially now as he lay with a sore neck on the scratchy thin sheets of a motel bed, he wished he wouldn’t have felt so determined to prove anything to them.

He considered calling Robin. He probably should’ve, actually. She would smack him upside the head if she ever found out this happened, that he’d found his long lost lover kickin’ it in sunny California, right when he had his quarter-life crisis and ditched his entire life for some roadtrip that once included Billy in the plans too. Every time he looked at the dingy plastic phone, however, Steve couldn’t bring himself to dial the number. How long had it been since they last spoke? Her birthday had been in March, he knows he called her then. Had she called for his?

In the end, Steve ended up not calling Robin and not going to the beach. He wound up at the tattoo shop again, this time in the light of day. It was busier now, the sound of whirring tattoo machines filling the space along with music that Steve is fairly certain comes from Twisted Sister. Billy wasn’t anywhere in sight, but the door in the back of the shop was closed. Was that his office? Did Billy have an office now?

The woman at the front counter seemed a little skeptical as Steve approached, his eyes never leaving the back door until he was right up at the counter. “Hey, um. Is Billy in today?”

“And who are you?”

Good to see Billy kept company with the same level of people skills as he did. “An old friend.”

“Billy doesn’t have old friends,” she answered immediately, raising one eyebrow as if to ask why he was still sticking around. Suddenly the entire place really didn’t seem like his kind of scene—he stood out in perfectly clean jeans, a white shirt with little stripes on the sleeves and a red vest. Steve stuck his hands in his jean pockets like that might somehow help him navigate the situation. “What do you really want?”

He had to wonder how much of Billy’s past he’d told this woman. They clearly were close, if she was willing to protect his privacy this intensely. Did she know he was hiding from the government?

“Can you just,” Steve sighed, trying to reign in the bubbling irritation threatening to boil over. “Can you tell him that Steve came in?”

That seemed to do the trick. The woman’s entire expression changed, morphing into something more akin to shock than the cool deference she’d worn before. “So you’re that Steve then,” she spoke lowly, like she hadn’t really intended to say it out loud at all. “Wait here.”

So he’d at least told her about him. The fluttering in Steve’s chest was something he hadn’t quite felt since he was still in high school, figuring out that yeah, maybe he did find some guys hot. And sure, maybe one of those guys happened to include Billy Hargrove, who wasn’t all that bad once you got past his defense wall. 

“Everything healing alright, Harrington?” 

Hearing Billy’s voice still took his breath away, like the first time he’d seen Billy step out of that slick blue Camaro in the Hawkins High parking lot. Even then he’d known the man would change his life, Steve just hadn’t anticipated it would ever go like this. 

“Huh?” Oh, tattoo. “Yeah, yeah it’s great. It’s really uh...healing. Well. It’s healing well.”

Billy nodded slowly, eyebrows raised as he watched Steve completely short circuit. “Good. There something you needed? I have some schedules I need to work on.”

Why was he here again? Steve scrambled to find something that would keep Billy out here with him, could get him some more time to talk. There was so much he wanted to say and even more he wanted to hear, and yet Billy didn’t seem like he wanted any part of it. Just one more time, please. “Well, you did so well on the first one I thought I should get another. Tattoo, I mean.”

“You want another tattoo.”

“Yep,” Steve confirmed, fighting the urge to wipe his sweaty palms against his jeans. “That’s why I’m here. For a tattoo.”

“Most people wait a few weeks for the first one to heal, and to see if you even like it.”

“I’m not most people,” Steve fought back, wincing at the desperation beginning to hint at the edges of his words. “Look, no one back in Hawkins can do this nearly as well as you. I just, I trust you.”

Steve could see Billy weighing his options. Finally he sighed, nodding his head and guiding Steve over to one of the setups in the far back corner, away from prying eyes (and ears). 

“What do you want this time?” One look confirmed everything for Billy. “You still have no idea, do you?”

“Absolutely not.” 

“You didn’t come here for a tattoo, did you?”

“I definitely did,” Steve said, offering up the arm that the first one had been done on. “Ink me up, big guy.”

That pulled out a snort from Billy, though he quickly schooled his expression into mock sternness as he answered, “Don’t ever say that again.”

“Then tat me up already!”

“You are the dorkiest person I’ve ever met, and I had the misfortune of meeting the nerd herd,” Billy laughed, beginning to trace something out in his notebook. 

“Hey, that’s my nerd herd you’re talking about.” Though it had been years, Steve couldn’t help but smile at how easily they fell back into this. He could have imagined only days had passed since they’d talked, sipping beers and sharing kisses when no one was looking.

Billy was keeping the design a secret. He’d shaved Steve’s arm and placed the stencil, firmly telling the man not to look until he was done. Because Steve trusted him. 

“I surf.”

The statement came out of nowhere, far enough into the process that the steady sting of the needle had lulled Steve into a sort of trance. He blinked away the fogginess, turning to look at Billy at the statement. The other man hadn’t stopped working, like it wasn’t a big deal that he’d offered up something of where he’d been the last six years. Like he trusted Steve, too.

“Are these all your boards?” Steve asked.

“Some,” Billy said. “Some are from friends. That's what I did for a couple years, just surf. Helped with some of the physical shit.”

“Yeah, I know how that is,” Steve answered, mind immediately going back to the nearly four weeks he spent laid in bed recovering from the emotional devastation of losing Billy and the, maybe more pressing to some, physical devastation of actual Soviet torture. There was also the time after they’d gone into the Upside Down, when he’d practically collapsed from the literal fucking bites taken out of him the second he knew Vecna was gone. “I saw on one of the boards...you go by Billy St James now?”

“My mom’s maiden name,” Billy answered. “They suggested I change it, you know, after the demon monster impaled me.”

“Not funny.”

“You could get rid ‘a Harrington too. Feels good cutting ties with shitty dads.”

It did sound tempting. Childhood had been defined by ‘living up to the Harrington name’, being the best heir to the legacy, and being perfect, in every sense of the word. How relieving it must feel to finally shed the name that burdened him for so long. Steve could already imagine the pride he’d feel in changing it, ensuring that the Harrington name would end forever and all with him. 

And yet, Steve knew he could never do it. Harrington was also the name Dustin called him when they were bickering, and it was the name Robin used when she was worried about him but trying to pretend not to be. It was the name Billy, even now, still called him despite having called him ‘pretty boy’ and ‘princess’ on the first day they met.

There was a history there, and no matter how badly Steve wanted to wipe away any trace of his parents, he couldn’t wipe away the one family who’d actually given a shit about him.

“Nah, think I’ll hold onto it a little longer. Been hit in the head so many times I don’t wanna confuse myself.”

Billy’s scowl wasn’t something to mess around with. It was strong enough to clear rooms if he wanted, and this close, it rendered Steve completely silent. “Cut it out, would ya?”

“Cut what out?” Steve practically whined, the only thing keeping him from throwing his hands up in frustration being Billy’s large hands holding onto his left arm as he worked. He’d been doing so well, trying to navigate all the things Billy didn’t want to talk about, all the things that would spook the other man before Steve was ready to say goodbye. What had happened now?

“I hated that shit when you did it before, hate it even more now,” Billy snapped, turning the machine off and dutifully beginning to wrap Steve’s arm.

“Billy, do what? I’m not a mind reader.”

“Stop sayin’ all that shit about what a dumbass you are, or how no one actually needs you around. It’s fucking exhausting and sad as shit. You know how much breath you could save if you thought something good about yourself every once in a damn while?”

“I get it, message received,” Steve rolled his eyes, though the warm feeling spreading through his chest hadn’t gone unnoticed. It was the kind of conversation that had stopped the second Billy was gone—suddenly the only people around were the ones who tossed around ‘idiot’ and ‘dingus’ and ‘airhead jock’ like they weren’t knives to be buried deep in his chest. “You know, most people are actually nice when they give a compliment.”

“I’d rather die,” Billy shot back, smirking at the clearly doe-eyed look Steve was giving him. “You don’t want nice.”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Steve said as he followed Billy back over to the counter. “I know you’re a big softie at heart.”

“Harrington,” Billy warned, though only smiles decorated his face. 

“Come see the beach with me,” Steve blurted out again, hoping the long pause Billy spent staring at him meant an agreeance.

“I can’t, pretty boy, you know that,” Billy sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “But you should go, show off that new ink.”

“Hey, no flirting in the shop!” the woman from before shouted over, “Can we go back to when you were pining for the rest of your life or whatever?”

Billy tilted his head to stare at the ceiling, like he couldn’t quite believe this was his existence. Pining? So he had thought about Steve in those six years, enough that even this woman Steve had no idea existed knew about him. Maybe there really was some hope, after all, if he could keep talking to Billy without scaring him off. 

All it would take was time, and luckily Steve had plenty of that. 

It became a pattern: wait a few days, walk down to the shop and convince Billy to spend an hour giving him whatever new design the other man could think of. After the second—a small smattering of wildflowers that Steve wished he could recognize to decipher the meaning of—Steve knew Billy was the best person to make the decisions for what art would cover his arm. And art it was, because soon enough Steve’s arm resembled a canvas, full of little mismatched designs that just seemed to work together, despite none of it having been planned out in the first place. But while Steve loved the tattoos, nothing quite measured up to the time he got to spend with Billy. 

They didn’t talk about Hawkins again—in fact, Billy seemed intent to ignore that he’d ever lived there at all, shutting down near completely if Steve accidentally brought up someone they’d known. So instead, they talked about Billy’s days spent trying to find a new couch for his apartment, and all of the silly tourist attractions Steve had visited on his trip from Indiana. They talked about how Billy had used his government hush money to startup the shop, and how the people working there became the family he’d always dreamed about.

They found a balance that worked for them, until the night Billy finished Steve’s impromptu sleeve. The last design was taking longer, leaving Billy to offer to close up the shop after everyone left. It was just them in the building, listening to Steve’s old tape again because ‘Billy, you gotta give me a break with some actual music.’

“What’re you gonna do now that we finished?” Billy asked, wrapping up Steve’s bicep and discarding his gloves. 

Steve didn’t know, and really he didn’t want to think about it because now he had no excuse to see Billy anymore, no way to convince the man to stick around him. There was nothing after this, no plan except to eventually get back to the only place that he had once called home. The only place he knew to go was the eternal safety net of his old hometown. 

“I don’t know yet,” Steve answered in the only way he knew how, shrugging as they walked the familiar path back to the counter. “Might finally get to the beach.”

“You still haven’t gone?” Billy asked, eyebrows raising.

It wasn’t for a lack of trying. Every morning Steve had gotten up, and tried to put on swim shorts and a t-shirt, but every time he couldn’t leave the motel room. Something was stopping him at the door, keeping him from walking down to that beach alone. It was always meant to be his goodbye to Billy, his only way to try and move past the night when he froze in time for six years. Now that Billy wasn’t just alive but standing right in front of him, living where they’d once promised to run away together.

“Haven’t gotten around to it.” It was the easiest answer to give, the only thing he could say without revealing everything laying underneath the surface.

In the next moment, Billy was grabbing his keys and heading for the door of the shop. He stood outside, waving for Steve to hurry up like he was just supposed to understand what was happening. “Well?” Billy huffed when Steve was too slow, jingling the keys at him.

“What’re we doing?” Steve asked, watching Billy lock up the shop the second he cleared the door. 

“What d’you think we’re doing? We’re going to the beach.”

The beach. They were going to the beach. 

“But...but isn’t it closed at night?” Smooth, Harrington. Steve could feel his cheeks heat up at Billy’s laugh, trying to press a scowl to his own face but knowing it couldn’t have come across as all that intimidating.

“C’mon, pretty boy. You’re really gonna start following the rules now?” It was a goading if he’d ever heard one, some kind of jumpstart that Steve even now felt sparking him to life. He could practically hear the unsaid words on Billy’s lips, the where’s King Steve gone to now? in those blue eyes.

It was impossible to say no to Billy Hargrove when he really wanted something, when he took on such bright playfulness that spelled out trouble with every smirk. So he allowed himself to be guided to the water, unable to take his eyes off of Billy as though he were under a trance. 

It was quiet out there, just far enough from the city to dull out the noises and lights of a Friday night. The only sound was that of the waves lapping up at the sand in front of them, water spilling over their ankles before drifting back out to the ocean. The moon was out, nearly full and giving them enough light that Steve could see Billy’s face beside his. They’d sat down in the sand after Billy had warned Steve not to get his healing tattoos wet. Steve didn’t know the last time he could sit like this with someone else, simply co-existing in such a peaceful environment without anything to worry or think about. They weren’t talking, but really they’d never needed to be talking constantly, rather finding peace in being near one another.

“It’s beautiful,” Steve spoke up, turning to face Billy. 

“It’s home,” Billy breathed out, fingers of his far-sided hand digging into the sand. “I’m glad you’re here, Steve.”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting soft now,” Steve teased gently, maybe to hide away the heavy feelings stirring in his chest. 

“Never,” Billy answered, staring at him with such intensity that Steve couldn’t look away, captivated by every emotion that was too heavy, too conflicting, even to begin to read. All he knew was that in the years they’d been apart the feelings they’d had for one another hadn’t faded. 

When Billy leaned in, Steve didn’t move. He couldn’t, paralyzed by shock and the strange fluttering in his stomach. Being kissed by Billy felt like having life breathed back into him, like he was somehow moving but not quite alive since that summer. Steve held onto Billy tightly, fingers digging into his shirt like if he let go then the man would drift away from him. 

It only lasted a few seconds, but when they parted both men were breathless. 

“I thought we wouldn’t get this again,” Billy admitted, blinking dazedly like he was trying to wipe away the feelings washing over him. 

“Yeah,” Steve said, chin dropping a little. Tell me about it.

“Kept wondering what you were doing, if you’d found someone to make you happy,” Billy explained. “Thought maybe I’d see you eventually, here. Thought you’d have the little shitheads with you, though.” His jaw tensed up all at once, the stiffness stringing through his neck and shoulders until Steve wondered what it was that Billy was thinking about now.

“They’re not little anymore, and they’ll let you hear it every day if you called them that,” Steve tried to laugh through the heaviness against his chest. “Dustin and Lucas are off at college, too busy with their smart people classes to pick up a goddamn phone. Mike is helping out with Eddie’s tour—yeah, Eddie Munson. It’s a long story. But El, the girl you saved? She’s been traveling lately, trying to see as much of the world as she can now that we don’t have to worry about the lab coming after her. Will went with her, because apparently they moved out to California and became best friends. They’re all old now, they outgrew their babysitter.”

“You forgot one.”

“What? I didn’t—Oh. Oh shit,” Steve hissed, regret and cold realization seeping over him until he wondered if it would be better to just run now. Billy didn’t know, no one had known to tell him. “Billy, I don’t...Billy, the Upside Down didn’t stop after Starcourt. It came back, and we had to...Max, she...”

Billy’s expression darkened in an instant. “What happened to my sister, Harrington?”

He was messing this all up, ruining what had always meant to be a sweet moment. “Oh God no! No, no, Max is fine, I promise. She’s more than fine, she’s happy,” Steve rushed out, hands waving about as he tried to prove his point. “But last time, the only way we could put a stop to everything is if she...Fuck, I don’t even know how to explain it. Vecna, the monster we were fighting, targeted her. We tried to help her but she got hurt.”

“How hurt?” Billy’s hand was running over a spot on his abdomen now, right in the center. Though it had been years, Steve could imagine clearly the way a monstrous tentacle had stabbed him straight through the spot. He couldn’t help but wonder if Billy was still feeling it even now. “Steve, how hurt is she?”

“She was, she was in the hospital for a while. Like, a really long time. But she woke up, and she’s been doing so well lately. Max just moved in with Lucas, I think when they come back to Hawkins over their break they’ll tell us they’re engaged,” Steve rambled.

“Steve.”

“She’s blind, now, Billy. Max can’t see, and she uses crutches to get around most of the time unless she’s being stubborn,” Steve explained, reaching out for Billy’s hand and smiling sadly when the man let him take it. “I hate that it was her, that she had to get so hurt but...she’s really, really happy. She’s recovering well, she and Lucas have been better than ever, and she’s starting to paint, which...Max is amazing.”

Billy scrubbed his free hand over his face—once, twice, three times as he took in everything Steve told him. “But she’s...she’s okay?”

“Yeah, yeah she’s okay,” Steve reassured him, squeezing Billy’s hand once until he looked over at him. “Really, I wouldn’t lie to you about this. She has good and bad days, sure, but there is nothing that could stop that girl. She still misses you, though. Won’t really talk about it, but...I know she’d want to hear from you, to know that you’re okay.”

“Her and Sinclair, huh?” Billy asked, clearly avoiding the pointed suggestion Steve had made.

“Yeah,” Steve laughed, “they finally figured their shit out. I thought I’d be in a retirement home before they worked it out.”

“Sounds familiar.” Billy’s face was softer now, something of a smile tilting up his lips. 

“It does, doesn’t it?” Steve chuckled, “How long did it take us?”

“Longer than it should’ve. We got there eventually.”

“A couple of fights later.” 

“Hey, you can’t say we weren’t passionate,” Billy chuckled, no doubt imagining the same moments Steve was on the basketball court, by their cars in the parking lot, out by the Quarry when no one was watching.

Laughter blossomed between them, the sound rising and mixing with that of the waves, and though it would take time Steve knew in that moment that they’d be okay.

They ended up back at Billy’s apartment, after. It was far more spacious than what Steve was expecting, but the simple explanation of ‘government hush money’ had cleared that up quickly. The place was cleaner than Steve expected, decorated sparingly and with just enough signs of life scattered throughout. 

It shouldn’t have surprised him when Billy kissed him again, but Steve gasped as his back pressed against the bedroom wall. Billy was gentle—a far cry from the rough, bruising touches they’d once given each other, a lifetime ago—hands on either side of Steve’s face. This was more rushed than the previous, Billy pressing insistently against him until he was flattened against the wall. 

Steve held on to him too, hands finding the short curls at the back of Billy’s neck. “I like this,” he murmured, tugging lightly and relishing in the gasp it pulled from Billy. “Your hair, I like it.”

“Yeah?” Billy’s lips moved to his neck, causing Steve to tilt his head back against the wall, lips parted and eyes raised to the ceiling like he might find some salvation there. His hands moved to Billy’s waist, tugging closer as the man covered what felt like the entire expanse of Steve’s neck in marks. 

“Yeah,” Steve breathed out, “it’s a good look.” 

The second Billy’s leg slotted between his thighs, pressing so close it practically begged for Steve to rock against it, Steve thought he might combust. He groaned, eyes fluttering closed only long enough to realize he missed the sight of Billy focused entirely on him. That look of arousal had always been one of Steve’s favorites—Billy’s tan cheeks flushing with color, pupils wide, and the first signs of sweat along his hairline. 

It all shuttered to a stop the second Steve’s hands reached for the hem of Billy’s shirt. Within seconds Billy’s expression shuttered closed and his hands wrapped around Steve’s wrists, not tight but warning. 

“Hey, what happened?” Steve asked, watching as Billy’s expression pulled even tighter. His eyebrows pulled together, eyes looking low to not meet Steve’s gaze. “You can talk to me. Do you want to stop?”

“No, I don’t,” Billy immediately answered. “I just—Stevie, if you’re expecting what I looked like before you’ll be disappointed.”

The scars. Steve had seen them plenty of times in the weeks they’d spent together at the shop, sweeping across Billy’s hands and arms. He’d seen what had happened in real-time, too, and could imagine now what was leftover from the scene. 

“You must think pretty low of me, huh?” Steve said lightly, not once letting go of Billy’s shirt. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Billy’s lips and smiling at the surprised look it garnered. “I finally find you after six years, and you think I’ll run off because of some scars?”

Steve gave a testing little tug of the hem, and though Billy’s hands stayed wrapped around his wrists he allowed the motion. With one hand he held onto Billy’s, lifting it to give a gentle kiss to one of the marionette-string scars there. “They proved you survived, how could I hate them?”

“Steve,” Billy nearly whined out.

“Do you trust me?” His voice dropped lower, hazel eyes never once leaving blue until Billy was nodding.

“‘Course I do, pretty boy.”

So Steve pressed his fingers to Billy’s chest and pushed, soft but insistent until the backs of Billy’s knees hit the bed. “Lay down for me.”

“Think you can tell me what to do?” Billy raised one eyebrow, lips still parted like he wanted to rile Steve up. It was a familiar game, the push and pull between them that only served to make Steve fall even further for the man. 

“I just did, didn’t I?” Steve returned just as easily, smirking as Billy listened and laid down on his back. “There’s a good boy.”

“Watch it,” Billy warned, though the little shuffle of his hips hadn’t gone unnoticed. For another time, Steve reasoned out. Tonight was about relearning each other, the games could wait.

Steve took his time climbing atop him, straddling Billy’s hips, leaning forward until he could kiss him again. It had been ages since the last time he’d done this, and only briefly did the sparks of insecurity pop in his head. Would Billy be able to tell that he was out of practice? What if he couldn’t be as good as he’d once been, would Billy be disappointed?

Except, it took exactly one look at Billy’s face for all of it to wash away. He looked like he’d found an angel, lips parted and head following Steve minutely when he broke the kiss. 

“You’re gorgeous, you know,” Steve told him softly, hands running over his clothed chest until they could grip the bottom hem again. “It’s not fair, really, that I get to see you for the first time twice.”

This time when Steve lifted Billy’s shirt, there was no resistance. In fact, his back arched to help Steve pull the fabric up and off of him, discarding it somewhere behind them. Aware of the eyes on him, Steve tried to rein in his reaction. He’d seen what had happened, had been standing feet away when Billy had single-handedly held off the Mind Flayer long enough for El to get away, but even that couldn’t have prepared him for seeing the large expanse of scarring across Billy’s abdomen. More of him was scarred than not, large starbursts of white in the center of his sternum, his sides, his chest. Lines like those on his arms spread out like wires from the bursts, crisscrossing in across nearly every inch of Billy’s chest. 

Steve wanted to cry at the simple fact that Billy would be reminded of what happened to him forever. It wasn’t easy to hide away and forget about, no way to cover all of it up and pretend. He’d survived, but he’d been alone and hurt and even now was more affected than anyone ever was let on. It wasn’t fair, Steve wanted to scream at whoever would listen. He’d gladly march through the Upside Down again if it meant sparing Billy from any more hurt at the hands of it.

“Like I said,” Steve finally spoke up, lips pressing against the first large scar on the right side of Billy’s chest. “As gorgeous as I remember.”

Billy’s entire body was tense like he was waiting for his worst fears to be confirmed at any second. Steve had no intention of doing so, though, instead sure to show Billy just how much he loved every inch of his body. He loved him, loved that they were getting a second chance when it had once seemed so impossible. He could only hope Billy understood, could see it in his eyes every time he looked his way. 

The gasp Billy let out as Steve’s tongue flicked over one of his nipples was intoxicating, causing white-hot electricity to run through Steve’s body down to the tips of his toes. A pleased smile warmed his face as Steve reached up to lightly pinch the other, watching as Billy actually goddamn whined, his back arching into the touch. 

“You’re a fucking tease, Harrington,” Billy hissed out, hands reaching up to grab at Steve though the man quickly knocked them away.

Lifting his head enough to make eye contact with Billy, Steve couldn’t help but wink. “You say that like you’re surprised, Hargrove.”

“Fuck you.”

“We’ll get to that, too,” Steve grinned, moving back to continue his worship of Billy. He took his time, working his way down Billy’s chest and stomach, paying attention to every scar he passed until his lips brushed the waist of his jeans. By the time he was done, Billy was practically writhing under him, hips shifting under Steve’s and hands tangled up in his hair. 

Those hands gave an insistent tug to Steve’s hair the second he reached for Billy’s jeans, drawing a hitched out moan from Steve. “Get up here,” Billy demanded and Steve couldn’t help but listen until their faces were so close that their noses nearly brushed. “Wanna see you too, pretty boy.”

No, not yet. 

Steve fought back a wince, wishing Billy would have let him get his mouth on him before asking for this. Because maybe, just maybe if Billy was already wrought with pleasure he wouldn’t notice what rested under Steve’s own shirt. It may have been hypocritical to think, but Steve’s appearance had once been everything. He’d been King Steve, praised for his golden boy charm and even more golden looks. After that he’d been Billy’s Pretty Boy, constantly told how perfect and soft and wonderful he was. And he’d loved it, he did. Even now he could feel himself melting under such warm praise but he couldn’t help but think that he wasn’t that pretty boy anymore, that there were some things that the demobats and Vecna had taken away forever. 

“Where’d you disappear to?” Billy asked, thumb reaching up to rub at the space between Steve’s furrowed brows.

“I’m not—,” Steve tried to explain, throat catching around the words. “I’m not the same either. It’s not pretty anymore.”

“Hm,” Billy hummed, large hands already tugging insistently at Steve’s shirt. He allowed it to happen, keeping his eyes closed as Billy said, “Think I’ll be the judge of that one, sweetheart.”

Steve jumped at the feel of Billy’s palm resting flat on his stomach, off to the side where a demobat had once sunk its teeth in and torn. The other came up around Steve’s neck, fingertips gently rubbing over the line he normally kept hidden by high-collared shirts.

“What did they do to you, pretty boy?” Billy whispered out, and the softness with which he spoke cracked something within Steve. His face contorted as he felt the first stinging of tears building behind his eyelids. His hands dug into the sheets on either side of Billy where he held himself aloft, shaking his head a little as if that might help to compose himself.

His head sunk until his forehead pressed to Billy’s chest, and Billy allowed him to do so, hands moving to wrap around him in a tight embrace. One rubbed his back, the other coming up to its familiar hold in Steve’s hair. Steve could feel Billy’s fingers find the rough scarring on his shoulder blades from being dragged halfway across a different dimension, rubbing gentle circles into the numbed skin.

Steve’s entire body shook, and he felt his warm breath stutter out against Billy’s skin. It was easier to manage like this, eyes closed and his entire world narrowed down to Billy. “We went down there. The Upside Down, we were there.”

“Shit, Steve.”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve laughed wetly, wondering only briefly how they both had ended up crying. “I never minded taking a hit if it meant protecting them, but this...I misstepped, and I get this.”

“It’s okay,” Billy tried, his voice tight with his own tears. “What happened to scars being a sign of survival, huh? It goes for you too.”

“This was all I had.” Steve’s hands found their own holds on Billy, their bodies tightly together as Steve’s face shifted to hide in Billy’s neck. It was easier to let it out, easier to be honest about the parts of himself he’d been hiding away for years. “Everyone else moved on eventually, everyone stopped needing me. They left and recovered the best anyone could. You did, too. You have this whole life out here, and I...I’m still in Hawkins. I barely finished school, I don’t have any real skills or hobbies, and I can’t even be good for my looks anymore because who the fuck would wa—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Steve,” Billy spoke, voice firm but not once threatening. One hand was tucking itself under Steve’s chin, coaxing him away from Billy’s neck and up enough that they could face each other. “Don’t.”

“Billy,” Steve sighed, feeling the heat of embarrassment rise up in his cheeks. 

“Hey, I mean it. Do you have any idea what it felt like to see you walk into my shop that night?” Billy asked, brushing away Steve’s hair from his face and tucking it behind his ear. “You make me feel alive again, Steve. You make all of it feel worth it.”

When Steve couldn’t find it in himself to speak, Billy continued. “I need you as much as you need me, you got that? Everything...everything’s been about you.”

It was too much all at once, and yet everything Steve had needed to hear for the last six years. No one had ever made him feel quite so wondrous as Billy, who might as well have been the sun and stars himself. 

“This one,” Billy spoke lowly, thumb brushing over the wildflowers tucked into Steve’s forearm, “was because you wore that shirt into the shop. It reminded me of sitting out in that field together in Hawkins, and you called it our first date because we’d gone a whole three hours without cracking any jokes at each other.”

“You remember that?” It had been in their senior year, when spring was just beginning to warm the air and wildflowers took over every inch of free space in Hawkins. They both had gone there independently, each searching for a tiny escape from the problems they were facing and instead finding each other. It was one of the first times they’d spoken kindly to each other, the first time Steve had looked into Billy’s eyes and thought this was someone he could love. His heart burned bright at the knowledge that he’d have a piece of that memory on his skin forever. 

“I remembered your smile, how it felt like you warmed me up from the inside out with one look,” Billy admitted, his hand moving to another one higher up on Steve’s arm. “And this one, for the birthday party you tried to throw when you found out no one ever remembered mine.”

“I still celebrate it, every March,” Steve whispered, feeling like he was beginning to see Billy in an entirely new way all over again. 

“See? That’s what I mean.” Billy reached up with his other hand, wiping at some of the stray tears left on Steve’s face. “You’re unlike anyone else, Steve. You saved me when I needed it, let me help you now.”

He could do that. Steve could picture himself staying here, settling into this city that had already felt like more of a home than Hawkins had felt in the last decade. Maybe Billy would find him something to help with at the shop, or maybe he’d find some new job to love without the oppressive fear that the Upside Down would reopen at any moment. They’d both seen each other as they were now, and neither one had run away. They could be happy out here, together.

“Just tell me what you need, pretty boy,” Billy finished, and all at once with complete surety, Steve knew the answer.

“I need you,” Steve answered, holding onto Billy and never wanting to let go. “I want you, please.”

“You already have me, Steve, you’ve always had me,” Billy said, moving them so Steve was the one laying on his back on the bed. “That’s too easy.”

“Take care of me,” Steve continued, feeling a smile work its way onto his face through the tears. How could he not smile, when Billy was looking at him with such adoration even through his own tears? “I want all of you.”

“Are you sure?”

Steve nodded, never more sure of anything else. 

And Billy was careful with him, hands touching all the right places and mouth leaving bruised marks all down Steve’s neck and chest, filling him with equal parts burning arousal and overwhelming, intense love. It may have been years, but both of their bodies knew the way, rocking together at an easy pace, neither one rushing for the moment to end. If either one of them let a few tears slip, no one pointed it out. All Steve could focus on was Billy’s hands holding him steady, the feel of Billy’s warm back under his fingers, and the waves of pleasure that threatened to burn through him as Billy pushed impossibly deeper inside him. 

It was like the rest of the world fell away, leaving only them as they at last came home to one another. The moment he finished, Steve saw stars dance across his vision, lips parted in a loud, trembling moan that sent Billy over the edge as well. He hadn’t even noticed when Billy had gotten up until he was sitting on the bed beside Steve, cleaning him up and wrapping him up in his arms. 

He came to a few minutes later, resting against Billy’s back, those large arms wrapped around him and hands resting on his stomach. “You back with me, Steve?” Billy asked, chin resting gently on Steve’s head.

“Never left,” he answered, giving Billy a cheeky smile. “Never again, I’m staying here.”

“Wouldn’t want you anywhere else.” 

They lay together all night, sometimes talking about what had happened in their lives apart, other times simply enjoying feeling so close to each other again. Eventually, they’d fall asleep, the first restful night either would have in six years. There was still so much to figure out, so much that they hadn’t thought of beyond their dream of escaping together. But that was okay too.

After all, they had a lifetime to figure it out.

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[cambria-writes]

Happy Sunday Hellions! 🥰 I’m not like, entirely happy with how this one turned out, but like, lmao, when am I ever?? I hope you like it either way, and if you do, please let me know! I also proofread this about four times but if I’ve missed anything you can absolutely scream (politely) at me about it. I’m bilingual native in two languages and sometimes they kind of. Get cross-wired. So that happens. pairing: eddie munsonx reader rating: PG13 for now, each chapter rated individually warnings: guns (still), mention of past attempted suicide, mention of past self harm, so much swearing, criminal activities (breaking and entering), reader knows how to pick locks because we all pick up weird hobbies when we’re home alone and bored word count: 2,956

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𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕱𝖔𝖚𝖗: 𝔇𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔢

It’s a good thing your parents aren’t around for the weekend. You have no idea how you’d be able to explain the fact that people like Nancy Wheeler, Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson are all around your table and aren’t trying to one-up or kill each other. Even having a tenuous understanding of the situation makes it strange to see all these kids in your house.

Everyone’s mostly quiet while waiting for Lucas and Max. The radio has remained suspiciously quiet for the past twenty minutes. You’re tempted to grab the damn thing yourself and see if Sinclair will respond, but just as you start to reach out across the table, the door bursts open.

“What the—be careful!” you call out, standing abruptly. You’re about to nag at the kids more when the redhead you assume is Max nearly runs over to the table.

“You,” she points at both you and Eddie. “Are in huge trouble. Someone already called the cops.”

“Fuck,” Eddie breathes, turning around and running his hands through his hair.

“Double fuck,” you say, slumping back down in your chair. “How does anyone know—”

“Well for starters,” Max begins, putting her hands down on the table. “Eddie’s van’s still in front of his place, and one of the nosy old bats saw you,” she nods at you. “With a gun, yelling at Eddie to get in your car. That’s probably the worst look for you.”

Eddie groans and slams his hand against the nearest wall. Max is right—though it felt like the safer option to take the gun out just in case, you hadn’t even thought of the possibility that someone would see you and misinterpret the situation. Not that it can be helped; how the hell else is anyone supposed to interpret what they saw?

“Do you know if they found—if they saw...” You try to ask, biting at your thumbnail.

“No body reported last we heard,” Lucas answers. “But if someone called the cops, the first place they’re gonna check is the trailer, so they’re gonna see her sooner or later.”

Steve and Dustin immediately start picking up bags and packing up the walkie.

“You gotta get out of here,” Steve says, throwing your duffel bag at you, which you barely mange to catch. “They’re gonna be barging through your front door in no time, and you cannot be here when they do.”

“Where are they even gonna go? And how? It’s not like she can use her car, they’re just gonna track it down wherever it is,” Mike says, waving at you and Eddie, though Steve is already at the door and pulling it open.

“Right now that doesn’t matter! We all need to get the hell out of here!”

The plan isn’t really so much of a plan as it is a very vaguely thought out ghost of an idea.

Steve keeps the lights off on his car when he drives off, you and Eddie in the back seat and Dustin riding shotgun with the radio. You gave your keys to Nancy, who promised not to bang up your car but also gave you no indication as to where she’d leave it, which isn’t exactly a huge reassurance.

You paid good money for that beater and you’d like to find it in one piece once everything blows over.

“Was there anything around Chrissy at all?” Dustin asks, halfway twisted around in his seat to look back at you and Eddie. “Particles or dust or something?”

“Nothing,” Eddie whispers, arms wrapped around himself, eyes set to looking out the window to his left. “It was like she–she was in a trance or something. I couldn’t wake her up.”

Dustin looks to you for confirmation. You manage a short nod.

“She started floating and then just... slammed up into the ceiling,” you continue quietly, twisting your fingers in your lap. “I dragged Eddie out of there when her–when she...”

“When her bones started snapping,” Eddie finishes through clenched teeth, and you’re relieved you don’t have to keep trying to talk around the lump in your throat.

“So it’s like she was under some kind of spell,” Harrington says, and you barely catch him looking back at you in the rearview mirror.

“Or a curse,” Dustin mutters, looking straight at Eddie.

“Vecna’s curse.”

“Wait a second,” you interrupt, leaning forward in your seat and looking back and forth between the two. “Vecna? The lich? That’s shit’s a game man I don’t–”

“They’re the best names we have for this stuff right now,” Dustin says, waving you off. “Demogorgons, demodogs, the mind flayer, Vecna; that’s probably not what they’re actually called but they look and act like it so it’s just kind of whatever.”

“And absolutely not the point,” Steve says, pulling over by the side of the road. He’s driven you out to Lovers’ Lake, though you’re not entirely sure why. “The point is that there’s something that’s starting to kill people and we have no idea how or why.”

Ignoring Steve, Eddie leans forward between the two front seats and points a ways ahead, to a dark house. “That one. That’s Reefer Rick’s place. He’s back in jail so we can probably crash there without anyone noticing.”

Steve nods and Dustin turns back around to face forward, grabbing the walkie talkie.

“We’re at Lovers’ Lake, we’re taking them to Reefer Rick’s place.”

“Copy that,” Mike’s voice crackles through. There’s the vague sound of a struggle, and Nancy’s voice is the one you hear next.

“Keep the lights off, don’t make any sound, and stay away from the windows. Got it?”

Dustin looks back at us both.

“Got it,” you whisper, and Eddie just nods his head.

“They got it,” Dustin confirms. “I’ll leave this walkie with them just in case. We’ll see you back at base.”

“Base?” you ask. “Where the hell is base?”

“Mike’s place,” Steve answers, pulling up next to Rick’s place and pulls on the hand brake. Turns back around to face the two of you. “If you need anything, if anything happens,” He grabs the walkie talkie from Dustin’s hand, and shoves it into yours. “You let us know. Anything, lights being weird, if you,” he points at you. “Hear that clock again, anything.”

“Aye aye, captain,” you mutter, and turn to Dustin. “Is he always this damn bossy?”

“Yeah usually he’s actually worse–”

“What the hell–”

The banter is interrupted by Eddie getting out of the car. You can see him pull out a pack of cigarettes as soon as he shuts the door behind him.

“...thanks. For everything,” you say, unbuckling yourself and opening the door. Wave the radio in front of you. “I’ll keep in touch if more weird shit happens. Can you let us know when you find anything?”

Steve and Dustin give each other a look. You don’t like the implication behind it.

“Sure,” Dustin eventually says, turning back to you. ”Just... keep each other safe?“

You nod, getting out and closing the door behind you. Steve doesn’t waste a second to back up and drive away the same way he came. You sigh and run both hands down your face for a second before turning to the house and making your way to the front door.

“Hey, woah, what are you–” Eddie trails behind you, tossing his smoke to the ground.

“Hold this,” you say, shoving the duffel bag into his arms. You dig through your jacket pocket for a second before pulling out a small leather sheath.

“Please tell me that’s what I think it is,” Eddie says, taking a few steps closer as you walk up to and crouch in front of the front door.

“If you’re guessing a set of lock picks,” you start, popping open the flap and pulling out the tension wrench and an angled pick. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

“You know that’s actually kind of hot,” Eddie remarks, crouching behind you to try and get a better look at what you’re doing. You scoff and focus on trying to get the last two pins to click in place. You sigh in relief once you get the lock to turn smoothly.

When you turn the knob and open the door, you take a theatrical bow and motion for Eddie to walk in first.

“After you, my fellow wanted criminal on the run.”

Eddie snorts and shoves your duffel bag back in your arms. You lock and chain the door one it’s closed behind you.

It’s hard to navigate a house you’ve never been in when you can’t turn a single light on, but Eddie doesn’t seem to have too much of a problem. When you notice he’s easily several feet ahead of you, you throw the bag over your shoulder and grab onto one of his sleeves when you catch up.

“Jesus Christ, warn a guy!” He whispers harshly, caught off guard.

“I have no idea where I am and I can’t see shit, dickhead,” you whisper back, getting a firmer grip on the leather sleeve. “Lead the way.”

Eddie leads you down a hallway into what you assume is a bedroom. There’s barely enough moonlight for you to see by, but at least you can somewhat navigate on your own. You put your duffel down on the floor by the door and crouch down to pull out the shotgun, checking to make sure it’s loaded. Looking around, you stand and put it down on a cluttered desk wedged in a corner. Pull out the pistol from your waistband, double check the magazine, and put it next to the shotgun.

“I don’t like this,” you mutter, making it to the edge of the bed and sitting down with your elbows on your knees. “Wait no, I fucking hate this actually.”

“You’re telling me,” Eddie says, sitting next to you on the bed, shoulders nearly brushing. “You could probably get away with putting all of this on me, you know,” He continues, turning his head to look at you.

“Fuck that,” you bite, massaging your temples. “I’m not gonna turn you into a fucking scapegoat for my own sake, Munson.”

“I’m just saying–”

“What you’re just saying is that you expect me to treat you just like everyone else in this stupid fucking place does,” you spit, sitting up straighter and staring at Eddie. “Have you ever used a gun?”

“No, but–”

“Have you ever shot at anyone?”

No answer. He stays quiet when he turns his head up to look at you from his hunched position.

“Have you?” He asks, frowning.

You don’t answer him back, either. Instead, you lean back behind him to grab one of the pillows at the head of the bed and throw it on the floor.

“What are you doing?” He asks, slowly standing up.

“I’m taking the floor,” You say, nudging the pillow with your foot so it’s next to the head of the bed on the floor. Peel off your jacket and the hoodie underneath.

“The hell you are,” Eddie argues, stepping in front of you and very much getting in the way of your lying down.

“Get out of the way, man,” you complain, throwing your head back. “I just wanna lie down. Quit the chivalrous shit.”

“Take the bed.”

“I’m not gonna,” you insist.

“Why the fuck are you fighting me on this?”

“Maybe because I’m very much not in the mood to have another fucking shitty nightmare where I see more people die again?”

You hate the way Eddie’s glare immediately softens at the mention of your nightmares. Curse under your breath and turn around to shove the palms of your hands into your eyes.

“Don’t pity me, dude,” you grumble, crouching back down to your bag, rummage through it to find the oversized shirt you... had originally planned to wear at Eddie’s place.

What a change of plans.

You throw your jacket and sweater at him and tell him to turn around.

“What? Why?”

The speed at which he turns away from you when you wave the shirt in your hands would probably have been funny in literally any other situation. You peel the Smiths’ shirt off and shove it back into your bag and pull on the looser, worn Metallica tee you’d stolen from your brother. Walk over to tap Eddie on the shoulder, and once he’s jumped out of his skin and turned around, grab your outerwear from his arms and nod your head for him to get out of the way.

“I still don’t like it,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed to toe his shoes off.

“Didn’t expect you to,” You reply quietly, pulling your hoodie out of your jacket and sitting down next to the pillow. When you lie down, you throw the sweater over your legs and pull your jacket over around your shoulders, and turn away from the bed.

“You don’t, like, snore in your sleep, right?” Eddie asks, after you hear him lie down in the bed.

“If I do, it can’t be worse than you.”

He snorts, and there’s a long moment of silence after. You don’t think he’s fallen asleep, yet. You probably won’t be able to sleep for a good while either. Not only does the fear of being projected into another bullshit extra-dimensional nightmare turn you off the idea of unconsciousness, but the thought that someone might, for some reason, track you down here while you sleep is equally terrifying. There’s no real way to exonerate either of you without sounding absolutely crazy.

People might believe you. Eddie’s right; if you decided to blame everything on him the cops might actually buy it. But there’s no way the “town freak” would ever get away with something like this. Regardless of whether or not he’s actually to blame.

“Why’d you stop coming over?“

Eddie’s voice is so quiet when he asks that you barely even register the question. You hear him turning over in the bed to face your back. You close your eyes and take a deep breath.

“It wasn’t just you,” you answer, turning around to face him. He’s pulled himself over to the edge of the bed to be able to look at you. “Do we really need to be doing this right now?”

“I mean, no, but,” he starts, and you can vaguely tell in the dark that he’s twisting his tongue. “We’ve got time to... we’ve got time, so I figured...”

You sigh and sit up, turning around on the floor to properly face Eddie, and cross your legs.

“Gimme your hand,” you demand, holding your hand out.

“Why..?”

“Just gimme your damn hand, Munson.”

He relents and extends his hand out to you. You grab him by the wrist with your right hand, and bring it palm-down on your left forearm. There’s a moment of silence while you let his fingers run up the scar, from your wrist to your elbow.

“You didn’t see me my graduation year because my mom decided to homeschool me when I got out of the hospital,” you explain quietly, pulling your arm away and closer to your chest. “I haven’t seen anyone from school since then.”

“I’m sorry, I had no idea.” You scoff.

“Yeah, no one did. That was kind of the point,” you answer,with a sarcastic edge, and can’t keep the venom from your voice. “Keep the family embarrassment away from the public eye. That’s why I work at the library. No one sees me there.”

It’s quiet again for a bit. If you really try, you can hear a toad or two croaking outside. A little bit early for them to be out, but the familiar sound eases the tension in your shoulders, even if it’s not by much.

“You should swing by Hellfire next time,” Eddie suddenly says, having laid back on the bed. “Jeff would probably be stoked to see you again.”

You almost laugh. “Jeff? He’s the one who tried to convince me that ‘blinker fluid’ was a thing.”

Eddie does laugh, now. Something in your chest feels a little looser.

“Yeah, he actually managed to convince Gareth one time. Dude was pissed.“

You can’t help but smile. “Yeah that sounds about right.” You take a deep breath and sigh, and close your eyes. “You wanna sleep in shifts?”

You hear Eddie hums while he thinks it over. “Probably not a bad idea,” he eventually says. You hear the mattress shift under him, and the sound of his feet hitting the floor. “Take the bed then,” he says, making his way over to the desk to grab the shotgun, by the sound of it. “I’ll take first watch.”

You don’t have it in you to argue. “Sure,” you agree when you get up. “But put the shotgun down, dude. Do you know how much sound that shit makes? Someone’s definitely gonna call the cops if they hear that go off. Emergency use only.”

“Fine,” Eddie grumbles, and you hear him very gently but the gun back down. “I’m assuming a baseball bat is an acceptably quiet weapon, mother?”

You throw the floor pillow at his face and miss spectacularly. You hear him kick it away when it lands at his feet. “Shut up, asshole. Just don’t make too much noise. We’re trying to pretend we don’t exist, not imitate a fourth of July celebration.”

You hear crackling next to you on the floor.

“You two still up?” It’s Max’s voice. You rush to grab the walkie talkie.

“Yeah, yeah we’re both awake,” You reply hurriedly. “What’s up?”

“Bad news,” she says slowly. “The cops are at the trailer. Wayne stopped by for some reason and… They just found Chrissy’s body.”

@anothermunsonsimp​ @doratheignora​

Lemme know if you want to be tagged for the next update! 🖤

[writertothemaximum]

is it alright if you can make a male reader version of the high!rinne amagi x reader fic? only when you’re ready to write the full thing, of course :]

Note: This pretty much the same as the Rinne/Reader fic posted a while ago, just now with male pronouns, and male uh, parts. A lot of stuff has been reworded, but I hope it does the trick! Thanks for reading!

Rinne Amagi x Male Reader

Summary: You mostly just expected to pick your friend up from a club, the last thing you thought was to get hit on by some wasted guy. Although, he certainly looked familiar…

Word Count: 2k

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24045316/chapters/59423728

Warnings are under the cut for containing nsfw/18+ content

Warnings: nsfw/smut (18+), sex under the influence of drugs, bisexual Rinne, sub!Rinne, slut!Rinne, male!reader, fellatio, choking, anal fingering, non-sexual pissing, excessive amounts of cursing

The first thing that hit you when you entered the club was how dark it was. How through all the flashing lights, you couldn’t see a thing. How the wall of heavy bass rang noiselessly back and forth into your head, bouncing to the beat of its own drum. The shaking of the wall of people undulating like a wave, bouncing endlessly like the ocean.

It was 11:30 p.m. already and your friend called you, waking you up, to drive her home. At least it wasn’t 3:00 a.m. like last time. This is why you told her to stop going to raves all the time. It was rotting her brain.

You had waited outside for twenty minutes already, but a part of you felt overwhelmed by everything in front of you. How everything was so dark until the lights flashed, how everything was so quiet because you couldn’t hear anything but bass, drums, and bass. There was an electrifying energy to it all and you felt it sap away at you like a leech.

Sticking your hands out to feel around you, you noticed that there were clear paths around the main crowd. Maybe if you could go around you might have a chance at finding her. You hoped she wasn’t off puking in a bathroom stall. Well, it might not be so bad, at least that way it wouldn’t be in your car.

There was a gray-haired boy shouting on stage. He had a very long tongue. He looked a lot like the dude from that idol group, Crazy B. You wondered if people like that really went to clubs like this. You wondered if a part of it was outing all the stress they went through, how difficult it would be to explain where they went, explain where the pictures came from. Although, you supposed, people like that might just not care.

You felt a hand against your shoulder and you turned around.

A six-foot-tall black shadow loomed over you.

“God, your skin is so soft,” you heard him saying.

Was he talking to you? It looked like he was shouting, but you couldn’t really tell. You couldn’t really hear anything, it was so impersonal.

The man started to attach his body to you, getting very close into your personal space. A part of you was worried that he was going to grind against you, although there was a lot worse and he didn’t seem to be particularly harmful, if not a little touchy. His skin was absolutely burning, frying as it touched your skin. Did he have a fever?

You pulled away, worried that there was something wrong with him, but he just got closer again.

The lights flashed on him.

Redhead, huh.

“Look, buddy, I got to find my friend, could you get off me,” you shouted, worried that trying to talk to him would make your throat scratchy.

The bass dropped and he leaned down in, to get close to you.

“I think I’m in love,” he said, screaming into the void. “You know I’m usually not into butch girls, you got such a nasty expression. I’d tap that.”

What the fuck was he going on about? Was he shitfaced? He didn’t smell like alcohol. Normally your instincts would have you get the fuck away from someone like this, but he seemed cute and you were a little bit pent up. Anyways, with him all trashed like that, it would be difficult for him to fight back. Sighing, realizing that this was now your problem, you dragged him into the room closest to your right.

Turns out it was the bathroom.

A sense of relief hit you as soon as you realized how much better it felt to be under constant light and less noise. The music was still pumping blood into your head, you smashed him into the wall, pinning him down.

You finally got a good chance to look at his face. There were beads of sweat pouring down his headband.

This was Rinne Amagi, there was no doubt about it. Clinging to you. High off his ass.

It was a little difficult to not want to take advantage of this situation.

“What the fuck are you on?” you asked, dryly.

“Mo~lly~” he said, singing out each syllable, completely ignoring the music blasting in the distance.

Ah, well that explained it. You hoped your friend chose a clean strain this time.

You grabbed him by the collar and shoved him into one of the stalls, chucking him onto the ground, just short of the toilet seat. You wondered how gross that ground was, you wondered how many people had vomited on it, how many people shot up in here. You hated it here, your friend would have to hire a ride next time.

Rinne leaned forward, grabbing awkwardly at your chest, like he was trying to grope you. Your chest wasn’t particularly sensitive. It’s not like you had tits or anything. You’d never had another guy do that to you.

“Huh?” Rinne asked, furrowing his brow. “Your tits are kinda flat, Jesus christ.”

You frowned at him.

“You know I’m a dude, right?” you asked, somewhat deadpanned.

Rinne blinked incredibly slowly, letting all the blood rush back into his head. Frustrated and high on energy, his hand shot up and ruffled through his hair, scratching at his scalp. He took a deep breath.

“I kinda thought you were masc for a girl. Fuck, guess I’m gay now,” he said, ending with a sigh. “Wouldn’t be the first time, actually.”

Smirking, Rinne sank to the floor, mouthing at the front of your jeans, playing with the zipper.

“So, uh,” he said, his eyes lolling forward. “You wanna get sucked, sir?”

Sighing, you pulled down your pants and underwear, grabbed his head, and stuck your dick, still somewhat flaccid, into his mouth.

As Rinne was too surprised to respond, you decided to push into his lips. At least the warmth felt good around your shaft. He was supporting your body weight, at least. He wasn’t pushing you off.

“Come on asshole, didn’t you say you wanted to suck me off?” you asked, your tone harsh, your length beginning to harden in his lips.

That’s when you felt the tongue and everything started feeling better. He started by sucking his cheeks inwards, creating a nice seal around your dick. Sloppy and wet, Rinne began to move. Putting one shoe against the toilet rim, you straddled his face, adjusting so that you could shove your dick further down his throat. You heard slight choking sounds, the man clearly not used to this.

Not getting enough friction, you grabbed the back of his head and pushed it against you, his whole face smothered by your crotch, his nose resting pleasantly in your pubes. You felt his breath heave, struggling for air. You slammed your hips into his mouth, cutting off any circulation, cutting off any hope of him being able to breathe.

It felt so good to have him choke against you. That look in his eyes. Piercing blue, piercing through you as he was deep-throating you, struggling, in pain. It felt like minutes that you had him there, sucking against you endlessly, gagging, choking.

You felt it all rise at once and you came down his throat. You grabbed his hair and pulled him off of you, his face smeared with thick fluid and a wide grin, cum seeping from his lips.

“Damn! That wasn’t so bad!” Rinne shouted, laughing, slapping his leg. “Where else do I find men like you?”

He was still kneeling on the ground. He was really hard. A part of you wondered if it was a blow-and-go sort of deal or if Rinne expected more. Well, it wouldn’t be too difficult to take care of him when he was like this.

“Up your ass,” you said, answering his question sarcastically. “Now get on the seat and turn around.”

He grabbed your hand, his own still burning, blistering with heat. He licked it, your jizz still smeared across his face.

“How is your skin so tingly? It’s so cold, like an ice-cube. I want to keep touching you…”

You grabbed his shoulders and twisted him around, having him lean over the metal flusher. It wasn’t your first time by any means, but it was certainly your first with someone this trashed. You wondered if he’d even be able to keep his dick up or if the drugs even affected that. You fumbled with the jacket around his waist, his belt, and his zipper before finally pulling his pants down. You figured that you weren’t the first person to be frustrated at how much shit he had on.

It was quite the sight when you got a good look at his ass. It was definitely as toned as you had expected, but a little fattier than it looked on the outside. You put your hand around it and gave it a squeeze, not having much give. He had a nice ass. It made sense why it was so easy for him to slut around like this.

“You got lube?” you asked. “I’m gonna finger you, okay?”

“Jacket pocket,” he responded, barely hesitating.

Of course he had lube in his jacket pocket. You fished it out, avoiding the bags of pills. The bottle was almost empty, too. Lube crusted onto the side, it looked like he never bothered to even close the lid. Squeezing hard, some spat out onto your hand.

He seemed relaxed enough, so you started with one finger. You weren’t sure how often he had taken it up the ass.

“Haaanghn~”

The sound he made was rather lovely. Well, at least it seemed like he liked it.

“God, your dick feels so good~” he moaned into the room.

It was a single finger. You just came. What human would be able to get it up again that quickly?

Sighing, you inserted another finger. His insides were so loose. Clearly, he was comfortable enough to do something like this, clearly, he could have taken more if you were more prepared. He squeezed around you, as if he was caressing a dick, making sure that you felt good, making sure that his ass got as much friction as he possibly could around you. Everything felt like it was on fire, burning, melting, scorched around your fingers, overheating, overwhelmed by warm emotions.

When you pulled your fingers out a bit, you could hear him whine.

You slapped his ass, hard, and he half about choked up a lung. It was a good sound. He was making a lot of good sounds. A lot better than the washed away, thumping bass in the distance. It almost didn’t bother you anymore. If anything, it was a good beat to move your fingers in and out at.

You reached around to grab his dick, burning just like how the rest of his body was. How out of it was. How distracted he was getting. He was starting to bang his head to the music. You were worried he was going to smash it against the metal flushing valve.

Like a noodle in boiling water, you felt him start to go limp in your hand. Rinne still moaned, his ass still clenching around you. He groaned and warm liquid traced down your hand. You didn’t even wait till the smell hit you to shove him off.

His whole body slumped over the toilet, his hips pointed straight down at dinghy tap water. You could hear the stream of liquid pour out as he pissed himself.

You pinched your nose so you didn’t have to smell it.

“Yeah, that’s it, I think you’re done for tonight,” you said, wiping your hand on your pants.

“Aw, fuck,” he groaned out, his voice as sloppy as his body.

Reaching into your pocket, you took out an old receipt and wrote your number on it, letting it float down and land peacefully on his back. Sighing, you slammed the stall door behind you, groaning about the fact that you still had to find your friend.

[dungeons-are-too-cold]

Reaching Out 

Summary: An Alternate Universe where the BAU team actually helps Spencer when he is dealing with his addiction. 

Warnings: Drug withdrawal, sewer-slidal ideation, self harm (scratching and hitting head against the wall), general angst, cursing

Author's note: This is just a short one, I'm hoping to maybe continue this with a few more short installments if you like it!

Word Count: 752

~~~~~~~~

"I think you really should go, kid. It can't make it any worse"

"Morgan, I don't think you understand how much I hate going. It doesn't help. In fact, I think it's making things worse."

Spencer paced rapidly around his living room while Derek watched him from the couch.

"Come on, man, you think I don't know what it's like?"

"Actually, I know you don't know what it's like. When was the last time you actually talked to someone about your own feelings? When was the last time you let someone in, huh? You don't exactly have the best track record. And even if you did know, even if by some fucked up universal anomaly you could feel EXACTLY how I feel right now, you're not in the group. I am surrounded by a bunch of people who couldn't even imagine what I have seen or been through, what I did back there. FBI or not. No one else was in that cabin. No one else can make it go away."

"You need to go, Reid."

"What I need is for you to shut up!"

With that, the young doctor fell to the ground, hopelessly scratching at his arms as he pushed up his sleeves. When the scratching didn't seem to ease his anxieties, and he started drawing blood, Spencer switched to banging his head against the wall.

"Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!"

"Woah there, pretty boy, can't let you do that." Morgan lunged off the couch and tried his best to cradle his friends head away from the wall. Much to his surprise though, Spencer could be quite strong when agitated like this.

"DON'T TOUCH ME," he screeched as Morgan laid a hand on him. Reid scrambled away on his hands and knees and started banging his head against the nearest door frame. "It's like every inch of my skin is on fire right now, and you're making it worse! Just leave! Let me die here, god, please just let me die." Spencer couldn't stop shivering, like he had been standing in the snow for too long without a coat on, but was dripping sweat as if he was stranded in the middle of the desert. Weakly, he closed his eyes and went back to banging his head over and over and over again.

Morgan inched his way closer to Spencer when then young man shut his eyes. Before he could sense the new intrusion, Morgan had slipped a pillow behind Reid's head. Startled, he threw his eyes open and a strangled scream, this time something incoherent, escaped his mouth. Reid was losing his mind and his voice.

"Hey, Spence, it's okay. I'm not gonna touch you. I just can't have you banging your head like that. Now, I don't want to surprise you, so I'm telling you now that I have to call someone." Spencer let out a heavy sob as Morgan told him this. He pressed his feet hard into the ground, leaning against the door frame like he wanted it to swallow him whole. All he could do was vigorously shake his head, his voice aching to tell Morgan that he was okay, but he couldn't find the words. Instead, finally giving in, he slumped down into his friend. Morgan gently approached Spencer with his hand, carefully starting to run his fingers through his hair. Spencer sobbed under his friends touch and pulled himself closer laying his head on Derek's thigh.

Trying his best not to disturb the boy in his lap, Derek reached for his cell phone.

"Hey, Hotch. Yeah, I'm with Spencer right now... No, I actually- sorry this is such short notice- I actually need you to come pick us up. The kid needs to get to the hospital, but I don't want to leave his side, even to drive. He needs someone right now..." Spencer pulled himself up so he could wrap his arms around Derek's waist, Morgan never waivering with his hand in his hair.

"Okay... Yeah we are at his apartment. Thanks, Hotch... Okay see ya, man. Thanks again"

Morgan's now free hand went into Spencer's hair and his other hand began to rub small circles on the kid's back.

"Hotch will be here soon, okay kid? He's gonna help get you to the hospital."

Dejected, Spencer nodded, pulling his legs into the fetal position and shivering. Derek pulled a blanket off the couch just in reach and laid it over the agent in his lap.

"You're going to be okay."

~~~~~~~~

I hope y'all liked it! let me know if you want a part 2 of hotch arriving or the hospital! 

It might take me a few days, I’ve kinda hurt my wrist with all the typing I’ve been doing (because I am chronically online lmao) but I’d love to continue this if anyone wants to see more 

[thowawayuntilfurthernotice]

Not the least bit surprised to find out that the asshole who created that document and made that call out post is a 4chan user.

The fandom had no issue with throwing the entire crew under the bus because this isn’t the first time they threw a bitch fit about art or harassed a crew member.

And again, just so we’re clear, you’re allowed to feel disgusted by NSFW artwork. But that doesn’t change the fact that the artwork that was featured in that document was posted on private locked accounts. Accounts that most of the fandom didn’t even know existed until recently.

You aren’t protecting minors by exposing them to porn, driving someone to self harm isn’t heroic, it’s fucking gross and amoral.

This type of shit isn’t new, we’ve seen this happen many times over the years in various fandoms. But the fact that it still keeps happening is what drives me up the wall, you’d think that after all of the shit that went down in the Steven Universe and Voltron fandoms that people would stop and go “Hey, maybe we shouldn’t repeat the same mistakes over and over again” but nope! It’s all just one never ending cycle of bullshit and toxicity.

I’m just......so fucking tired.

I’m tired of seeing fandoms go through the same bullshit life cycle, where it starts off cool and welcoming before it quickly turns into yet another toxic puritanical echo chamber, where everyone is thrown to the wolves while the crowd is constantly screaming for blood to be spilt.  

Really don’t know if I can go back to Amphibia right now, I was planning on doing a rewatch of the series and I did commission some fan art for an art print, but after all of this bullshit I think I may need a long break from anything Amphibia related.

Don’t get me wrong, I still love the show, but the fandom is a giant dumpster fire right now.

Oh, and if you think The Owl House fandom is immune to this kinda bullshit then you’re wrong. Because someone is gonna try to pull this same stunt with The Owl House crew and it’s gonna be a billion times worse. So yeah, better start preparing for that.