#once again flooding my tags with more content than the actual post | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

isa-ghost · 1 year ago

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@staff out here once again saying the dumbest, most untrue shit about their site in the universe. When the fuck are you guys going to listen to your userbase? We’ve been telling you things that ACTUALLY could improve this site for eons and again and again you start trying to speak Miserable Corporate Data-Mining Hellscape at us like we’ll be stupid enough to listen.

Maybe read the above reblog and rethink this trillionth post spewing utter bullshit. I don’t know where you get your analytics for these claims, assuming they aren’t completely baseless (which wouldn’t surprise me), but I have never read something that fails to understand the Tumblr climate more in my entire 6+ years of being on here. Tumblr is SO INSANELY EASY TO USE. Literally any site is “hard to use” if you’ve only been on it for like 3 days and haven’t taken the time to fuck around and find out how it works. Have y'all seen ANY of the super helpful, lengthy posts from veteran users giving new users tips on how to have a good time and use this site properly? I swear to god we do a million times more work than you bumbling shitheads do when it comes to user experience. It’s laughable.

And on the note of new users, do you like. Realize that Tumblr has become a SANCTUARY SITE? Reddit is crumbling under greed, Twitter I don’t even have coherent words for without turning this into a novella. And guess where the users on those sites who don’t want to be tormented by algorithms, ads, and other corporate soulless “content” bullshit escape to? HERE. Why and how the hell are you going to sit here and claim Tumblr is failing and confusing and clunky when you’re getting floods of refugees from other falling sites who are immediately in love with the climate and culture here? I’m seeing nothing but positive feedback from posts that cross my dash and yet here you are claiming there are masses of users saying Tumblr is a terrible site with awful interface. Which is blatantly false.

You know what parts of Tumblr have become terrible and clunky and hard to use? The ones you changed despite there being nothing wrong with them, like the tags or moving tons of shit around on the mobile app. For the umpteenth time: Start following the concept of “if it ain’t broken, don’t fix it.” Time and time again you’ve made completely unnecessary and at times totally tone-deaf changes to Tumblr as if there aren’t countless posts with bullet points of ideas that would ACTUALLY improve how Tumblr works; some which have existed for longer than some of us have been on this site because there have always been certain features users widely agree would be amazing to add.

Like the above reblog said: stop treating your users like they’re stupid and incapable. In fact, that attitude feels like you’re implying users are brainless and need constant streamlined and instant content no matter it’s quality or source, like a bunch of needy monkeys straight out of some dystopian sci-fi movie. STOP. Tumblr isn’t a fucking feeding trough and we aren’t pigs who’ll just devour whatever gruel you put in front of us be it ads or actual user-made stuff. We know how to curate our own experiences on here and we do it well. We do it strictly. We even implement add-ons made by fellow users to make doing so even easier, since you can’t. We curate our things CONSTANTLY.

For once, just actually fucking listen to input from your users for once. Put out feelers, ask questions, just SOMETHING properly communicative that takes genuine and intelligent effort so you can get REAL, factual feedback rather than taking these ridiculous leaps in thought and action based off claims that your core userbase cannot for the life of themselves figure out where the fuck you got them. Maybe if you did this, you’d stop being met with nothing but venom and spit in your faces from every user who sees you spout this kind of stupid shit.

Oh, and, as always: Maybe forget dicking around with things that don’t need changing on this site and START TAKING ACTUALLY EFFECTIVE STEPS TO ERADICATING YOUR STUPID FUCKING BOT PROBLEMS. If we started a drinking game where every user takes a shot every time you start fiddling with something on this site that doesn’t need to be fiddled with instead of solving the bot problems somehow finally, Tumblr would ACTUALLY collapse then because we’d all die of alcohol poisoning. You can start being actually useful instead of spouting out buzzword-ridden capitalism algorithm bullshit that’s untrue about the site literally any time. We’re all waiting.

Tumblr’s Core Product Strategy

Here at Tumblr, we’ve been working hard on reorganizing how we work in a bid to gain more users. A larger user base means a more sustainable company, and means we get to stick around and do this thing with you all a bit longer. What follows is the strategy we're using to accomplish the goal of user growth. The @labs group has published a bit already, but this is bigger. We’re publishing it publicly for the first time, in an effort to work more transparently with all of you in the Tumblr community. This strategy provides guidance amid limited resources, allowing our teams to focus on specific key areas to ensure Tumblr’s future.

The Diagnosis

In order for Tumblr to grow, we need to fix the core experience that makes Tumblr a useful place for users. The underlying problem is that Tumblr is not easy to use. Historically, we have expected users to curate their feeds and lean into curating their experience. But this expectation introduces friction to the user experience and only serves a small portion of our audience.

Tumblr’s competitive advantage lies in its unique content and vibrant communities. As the forerunner of internet culture, Tumblr encompasses a wide range of interests, such as entertainment, art, gaming, fandom, fashion, and music. People come to Tumblr to immerse themselves in this culture, making it essential for us to ensure a seamless connection between people and content.

To guarantee Tumblr’s continued success, we’ve got to prioritize fostering that seamless connection between people and content. This involves attracting and retaining new users and creators, nurturing their growth, and encouraging frequent engagement with the platform.

Our Guiding Principles

To enhance Tumblr’s usability, we must address these core guiding principles.

Expand the ways new users can discover and sign up for Tumblr.

Provide high-quality content with every app launch.

Facilitate easier user participation in conversations.

Retain and grow our creator base.

Create patterns that encourage users to keep returning to Tumblr.

Improve the platform’s performance, stability, and quality.

Below is a deep dive into each of these principles.

Principle 1: Expand the ways new users can discover and sign up for Tumblr.

Tumblr has a “top of the funnel” issue in converting non-users into engaged logged-in users. We also have not invested in industry standard SEO practices to ensure a robust top of the funnel. The referral traffic that we do get from external sources is dispersed across different pages with inconsistent user experiences, which results in a missed opportunity to convert these users into regular Tumblr users. For example, users from search engines often land on pages within the blog network and blog view—where there isn’t much of a reason to sign up.

We need to experiment with logged-out tumblr.com to ensure we are capturing the highest potential conversion rate for visitors into sign-ups and log-ins. We might want to explore showing the potential future user the full breadth of content that Tumblr has to offer on our logged-out pages. We want people to be able to easily understand the potential behind Tumblr without having to navigate multiple tabs and pages to figure it out. Our current logged-out explore page does very little to help users understand “what is Tumblr.” which is a missed opportunity to get people excited about joining the site.

Actions & Next Steps

Improving Tumblr’s search engine optimization (SEO) practices to be in line with industry standards.

Experiment with logged out tumblr.com to achieve the highest conversion rate for sign-ups and log-ins, explore ways for visitors to “get” Tumblr and entice them to sign up.

Principle 2: Provide high-quality content with every app launch.

We need to ensure the highest quality user experience by presenting fresh and relevant content tailored to the user’s diverse interests during each session. If the user has a bad content experience, the fault lies with the product.

The default position should always be that the user does not know how to navigate the application. Additionally, we need to ensure that when people search for content related to their interests, it is easily accessible without any confusing limitations or unexpected roadblocks in their journey.

Being a 15-year-old brand is tough because the brand carries the baggage of a person’s preconceived impressions of Tumblr. On average, a user only sees 25 posts per session, so the first 25 posts have to convey the value of Tumblr: it is a vibrant community with lots of untapped potential. We never want to leave the user believing that Tumblr is a place that is stale and not relevant.

Actions & Next Steps

Deliver great content each time the app is opened.

Make it easier for users to understand where the vibrant communities on Tumblr are.

Improve our algorithmic ranking capabilities across all feeds.

Principle 3: Facilitate easier user participation in conversations.

Part of Tumblr’s charm lies in its capacity to showcase the evolution of conversations and the clever remarks found within reblog chains and replies. Engaging in these discussions should be enjoyable and effortless.

Unfortunately, the current way that conversations work on Tumblr across replies and reblogs is confusing for new users. The limitations around engaging with individual reblogs, replies only applying to the original post, and the inability to easily follow threaded conversations make it difficult for users to join the conversation.

Actions & Next Steps

Address the confusion within replies and reblogs.

Improve the conversational posting features around replies and reblogs.

Allow engagements on individual replies and reblogs.

Make it easier for users to follow the various conversation paths within a reblog thread.

Remove clutter in the conversation by collapsing reblog threads.

Explore the feasibility of removing duplicate reblogs within a user’s Following feed.

Principle 4: Retain and grow our creator base.

Creators are essential to the Tumblr community. However, we haven’t always had a consistent and coordinated effort around retaining, nurturing, and growing our creator base.

Being a new creator on Tumblr can be intimidating, with a high likelihood of leaving or disappointment upon sharing creations without receiving engagement or feedback. We need to ensure that we have the expected creator tools and foster the rewarding feedback loops that keep creators around and enable them to thrive.

The lack of feedback stems from the outdated decision to only show content from followed blogs on the main dashboard feed (“Following”), perpetuating a cycle where popular blogs continue to gain more visibility at the expense of helping new creators. To address this, we need to prioritize supporting and nurturing the growth of new creators on the platform.

It is also imperative that creators, like everyone on Tumblr, feel safe and in control of their experience. Whether it be an ask from the community or engagement on a post, being successful on Tumblr should never feel like a punishing experience.

Actions & Next Steps

Get creators’ new content in front of people who are interested in it.

Improve the feedback loop for creators, incentivizing them to continue posting.

Build mechanisms to protect creators from being spammed by notifications when they go viral.

Expand ways to co-create content, such as by adding the capability to embed Tumblr links in posts.

Principle 5: Create patterns that encourage users to keep returning to Tumblr.

Push notifications and emails are essential tools to increase user engagement, improve user retention, and facilitate content discovery. Our strategy of reaching out to you, the user, should be well-coordinated across product, commercial, and marketing teams.

Our messaging strategy needs to be personalized and adapt to a user’s shifting interests. Our messages should keep users in the know on the latest activity in their community, as well as keeping Tumblr top of mind as the place to go for witty takes and remixes of the latest shows and real-life events.

Most importantly, our messages should be thoughtful and should never come across as spammy.

Actions & Next Steps

Conduct an audit of our messaging strategy.

Address the issue of notifications getting too noisy; throttle, collapse or mute notifications where necessary.

Identify opportunities for personalization within our email messages.

Test what the right daily push notification limit is.

Send emails when a user has push notifications switched off.

Principle 6: Performance, stability and quality.

The stability and performance of our mobile apps have declined. There is a large backlog of production issues, with more bugs created than resolved over the last 300 days. If this continues, roughly one new unresolved production issue will be created every two days. Apps and backend systems that work well and don't crash are the foundation of a great Tumblr experience. Improving performance, stability, and quality will help us achieve sustainable operations for Tumblr.

Improve performance and stability: deliver crash-free, responsive, and fast-loading apps on Android, iOS, and web.

Improve quality: deliver the highest quality Tumblr experience to our users.

Move faster: provide APIs and services to unblock core product initiatives and launch new features coming out of Labs.

Conclusion

Our mission has always been to empower the world’s creators. We are wholly committed to ensuring Tumblr evolves in a way that supports our current users while improving areas that attract new creators, artists, and users. You deserve a digital home that works for you. You deserve the best tools and features to connect with your communities on a platform that prioritizes the easy discoverability of high-quality content. This is an invigorating time for Tumblr, and we couldn’t be more excited about our current strategy.

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hawkinsindiana · 2 years ago

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better now

ALMOST PARADISE - PART FOUR: CHAPTER FIVE OF NINE

pairing: steve harrington x henderson!reader

word count: 8.2k (you’re welcome)

a/n: oh boy................ here we go. graphic descriptions of blood, violence, and injury written by both ms. ruby and myself. i’m attempting not to use links here in this post in the hopes that this chapter will actually show up in the tags for once! i’m certain y’all already know who ruby is and you can find my masterlist link on the homepage for my blog! okay thanks! ENJOY

Your free hand is searching the ground for a weapon, a rock, anything.

With two limbs restricted, there's little you can do to protect yourself from the swooping bat that seems perfectly content with tormenting you, its claws now dripping with blood from your shoulder. It flies above you, scratching at your shirt and shredding the fabric. With your skin now exposed, the attacks tear your flesh with every slash. You’re crying, tears collecting at your chin from the pain and stress.

When you blindly swipe at the bat while trying to protect yourself, it dives.

You despise the way you can feel its teeth digging, making home into your back with a terrible screech. It takes another second to realize the noise had actually come from you, lips parted in pain as another scream tears from your throat. It nessels in deeper, eating away at your muscle while its claws are digging into your skin.

You’re babbling, vaguely aware you’re calling for help — for Steve. You don't know what's happened to him but you don't have time to speculate, finally finding a stick with a sharp enough end to do some damage. You thrust it into the tentacle wrapped around your wrist, relief flooding you when it squirms and releases you. You plunge it towards your thigh where the other vine keeps you held taut, but the bat is still buried deep in your skin.

You must be going crazy — you can hear the others calling your name. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to come after you, would they?

But when you stumble to your feet, you catch a glimpse of Eddie as he comes up behind you, who then mutters perhaps the semblance of an apology. The pain in your back begins to grow, worse than before. He’s beginning the painful extraction.

You know not to bite down on your teeth, as much as you want to; judging by the intensity of the burning that spreads through your muscles, this is gonna hurt. Instead, your eyes are pinched shut, jaw continuing to tighten while Eddie moves behind you.

The pain, while constant, ebbs and flows — some moments are worse than others as he tries to remove the creature from you with minimal injury. The fangs refuse to budge, digging into your back even more as it struggles to keep hold while Eddie tugs at it. Whimpers spill from your lips, prompting the boy to mutter more panicked apologies. You can barely hear the shuffling of his clothes and the flapping of the bat's wings over the sound of blood rushing to your thumping head.

You attempt to use your free hand to hit the monster, but your arm doesn’t reach far enough; you’re unable to prevent its claws from continuing to scratch at your shirt in its frenzy, breaking the surface of your skin over and over again.

Finally, Eddie manages to get a good grip — with a quick exhale, he yanks back on the tails as strongly as he can muster. The pain, incomparable to anything you have ever felt before, forces your eyes to shoot open with your vision blurred by black spots and doubles. A guttural cry echoes out of your mouth as the creature is ripped from your back; you feel strands of muscle and skin tearing from your body.

Your scream of agony catches Steve's ear through all the chaos, cracking his heart in two — he had let his focus drift from you. Not again. Please, please not again.

Just as he turns his attention away from the bat in his own grasp, he watches Eddie hold the struggling monster in mid air. You come to your senses and change your grip on the stick you wield, turning your body before jamming the sharpest end through its chest and impaling it a few inches onto the wood, splattering your face and hair with a dark inky liquid. The wings flail for a few extra moments before it falls limp and you pull, removing the creature from Eddie's hands.

Fueled by rage, you swing the stick with such force the dead bat shoots off the end, rolling a few times in the dirt when it lands on the ground. You stagger back a couple steps before meeting Eddie’s wide gaze in a silent thank you. All his eyes convey is one thing — holy shit.

You can’t feel anything but the burning pain that runs through the torn nerves in your back. Your shirt has been fully ripped open, allowing the cold wind that whistles through the Upside Down to meet the hot blood that coats your skin crimson. Eyes pinched closed, you try to ignore the pounding in your head as it grows once more, a thrum loud enough that it takes a moment before Steve’s voice is reaching your ears.

Your eyelids shoot open, drinking in the sight of him as he moves towards you. Your gaze is instantly drawn to the wounds that litter his stomach and curl around his neck, bouncing between them as you struggle to focus — bile begins to rise in your throat.

The stick clatters onto the ground as you drop it carelessly. No instinct is stronger than the one that pushes you towards Steve. But you stumble, knees weak and pain dragging you downwards. Instantly, Eddie grasps your forearms in order to keep you from sinking, mumbling assurances as he helps you stand. Steve rushes the last few feet to meet you.

His hands hover momentarily, afraid his touch will hurt more than help; you don’t waste a moment, your fingers greedily clutching his own so tightly. It’s an anchor to the pain — reassurance of the fact you’re both still alive. Steve squeezes back just as strongly, as if affirming you’re still here in front of him.

Steve whispers your name, lost for any other words except that one. He had heard your screams, yelling for help, calling for him while he was losing oxygen; it’s stuck on a loop in his mind. The sounds of your tortured cries… he’s never going to be able to forget them. Steve can sense the apologies beginning to bubble up, feeling desperate to say something — anything — to make up for his inability to save you yet again.

Your hands move from his to cup his jaw, your bottom lip quivering as your eyes scour his face, taking in the defeated look that glazes over his irises. You can already predict what he’s thinking. You want to make it better, pull him closer into an embrace and tell him there was nothing either of you could’ve done differently. This new force of evil… none of you could’ve ever expected this. You’re in over your heads — hilariously underprepared.

Before either of you can speak, your focus catches over Steve’s shoulder at the storm above. Another swarm of bats swoops in your direction, flying with the intent to finish what had been started.

“We need to go,” You say, voice raspy from being ripped raw in your suffering. Eddie and Steve follow your eyes, spying the bats in the sky and neither disagree — especially when Nancy pipes up, pointing towards the forest in the distance for cover.

Robin can’t take her eyes off of you, an utterly terrified expression on her face that she doesn’t even try to shake. In order to take a step forward, you have to shove away any thoughts of your searing back; you can rest when you’re in cover.

Steve is already looping his arm around your hips to support you, head dipping back to see the damage and to ensure he isn’t touching any of your injuries. You watch his expression contort, distress and torment shuttering across his face as his eyes trail back to yours, completely brokenhearted. You force your lips into something reminiscent of a smile, head nodding subconsciously to try and comfort him.

“I’m okay,” You whisper, your voice shaking, echoing the words from earlier. Steve nods, his expression betraying that he doesn’t believe you at all. He still murmurs it back — to you or himself, you can’t tell.

“You’re okay.”

You hook one of your arms around his shoulder for additional support as you begin to move. The first few paces are slow, careful not to step on any of the vines that coat the bottom of the lake; who knows which one could squirm and latch onto you? Your body aches from pain and shivers from the freezing temperature, but there’s no time to think about that right now. Steve glances nervously between you and the increasing volume coming from the swarm of creatures that descends from the sky; you’re not gonna make it at this rate.

Nancy notices it too, her fear growing as they get closer. They’ll be on top of you if you don’t start moving faster.

“We have to run now!” She shouts. Without another thought, you move your hand to Steve’s, clasping his palm. His skin is slick, coated in sweat and god knows what else, but you manage to maintain a firm grip as you tug him forwards, leading him into the forest after the others. You should be able to lose the monsters in there.

Your throat burns from the air. You find yourself wondering how long you’ll be able to breathe this in for, especially if the gate is unusable and guarded by dozens of those things. You have no way of defending yourselves. This couldn’t be worse.

Steve almost stumbles behind you, but he catches himself just in time before you both tumble into the dirt; you hold onto his hand even tighter after that. Your bare feet sting from the cold ground as you sprint, small rocks and twigs embedding themselves into the soft skin on your soles. When you finally catch a glimpse of Skull Rock beyond the line of trees, you feel relieved. Some shelter, at least temporarily.

Just as the swarm of bats reaches the forest, the five of you huddle together beneath the overlapping boulders; thankfully, it doesn’t seem like they’re very fast, especially if you were able to outrun them. The sound of their screeches continues to grow as you all go silent, minus the heavier breathing from Steve and you.

Steve crouches behind you with his chest pressed to your back, an arm wrapped around your middle to keep you close and tucked under the warmth of his body; the pads of his fingers are splayed out across your stomach. One of your hands grasps his forearm tightly, the other’s tucked into the curve of his elbow, relishing in the proximity as you hear the bats scour the trees for the group. Steve’s pants hit your shoulder as he struggles to catch his breath, still grappling with how close he was to losing you.

He forces himself to focus on the feeling of your skin on his, the heartbeat coming through your fingertips, the expanding of your lungs — all reminding him that you’re still here. He could cry out of relief, just drop his forehead into the crook of your neck and sob, but you’re not out of the woods yet.

Once the growls of the monsters have dissipated, Eddie’s the first to stand, his legs wobbly from running over the rough terrain, “You’re telling me you guys do this regularly?”

Nancy huffs, brushing dust and grime from her hands, “Well, not exactly.”

When you begin to move, Steve shifts and rises as you do. You keep your hands around his arm as you stand before pushing a deep breath into your chest. You look over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of him and as he straightens, you watch his skin begin to pale, the blood draining from his face. Instinctively, you grab onto both of his biceps, watching as he staggers in your grasp. Maybe his wounds are worse than you previously thought. You start panicking.

“Steve? Steve, I need you to sit down for me, please? Okay? Just… please,” You’re rambling, voice wavering as he loosely holds your arm, easing him back against the adjacent rock wall. He hisses in pain at the contact but appears relieved to be able to rest.

The holes in his stomach bring tears to your eyes, angry and red against the rest of his body. The wounds are steadily leaking blood and you feel your throat close up at the sight. Your hands tremble as your fingers skim the tender surface of his abdomen, nerves so shot and overwhelmed you’re not sure they’ll ever be able to stop.

You glance around at the others, eyes eventually landing on the two girls. Your voice is weak, a tear cascading down your cheek as you look to them, begging for their help, “Nancy, Robin — one of you… please, please I need something.”

Neither of them react, both in shock at the sight of Steve slowly bleeding out in front of them. You snap, the intensity of your tone rising exponentially as you grow even more desperate, unable to process that your love is dying beside you, “Fuck! Just one of you, help me!”

They remain frozen for another moment and you curse again, enraged that out of everyone, you’re the one who’s leaping into action. You should be unable to comprehend the mere thought of Steve with such an injury. Instead, you’re on your knees prepping to rip your already mangled shirt to bind the wound. You can vaguely feel the tears that drip off your chin but you get to work, knowing time is of the essence. Finally, this seems to set Nancy into motion; your movements halt at the sound of her shirt tearing.

“Use this,” She offers, voice tight with emotion and extends the cloth. You take from her gratefully.

Despite the trembling in your hands, you manage to wind it around Steve’s waist, hushed apologies spewing from your lips as you pull it tight. Steve exhales heavily, pain leaking into his wince and he lets one hand grip onto your shoulder, bracing himself while you bind the wounds. Your teeth grit, trying not to give away that he’s clutching onto a nasty gash gifted to you by that creature.

You tie the bandage as tightly as you can manage, which means it isn’t as snug as you’d like it to be, but it’s better than nothing. Steve’s head is thrown back in pain, eyes squeezed closed and you’re relieved when his hand releases its hold on your shoulder. The two of you slump, Steve sitting back on his heels and he peels open his eyes, chest panting hard through the exertion of his injury. Your exhaustion drives you to lean forward, putting all your weight on your shaking arms instead of relying on your back.

Steve notices the blood on his hand, eyes darting between it and the shoulder he had clutched; they widen in shock and horror.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to…” He trails off, still sounding winded. You take the pause to place your hand on his knee; it’s the largest movement you can manage.

“S’okay,” Your words slur together, fatigue filling every one of your limbs, “Was an accident.”

Robin finally moves her legs, stumbling towards you two and crouching as she flicks her head back and forth, unsure who to focus on.

“Holy shit, you guys,” She says, “Holy shit. Is this a bad time to say you’re like… a crazy power couple or something?”

Steve, through his weariness, still manages a glare at the girl; you take it as a good sign. Robin doesn’t stop her overflow of words.

“Genuinely, holy shit, your back looks so gross right now,” She begins to ramble, clearly freaked out and eyes fused to the injury you sustained.

“Did you know that there’s a spot on your back like two inches to the left that would’ve just, paralyzed you, like immediately, if it got hit? Which is like, thank god that didn’t happen! Cause there’s like a thousand important nerves and junk in your back and-”

“Thank you, Robin,” Steve interrupts curtly, his eyes firmly fixed on you. You’re thankful when Robin gets the sense to close her mouth; you can feel the familiar bile rise again, the reality of your wounds crawling over your skin in a shiver.

Even though you’re exhausted, you despise the feeling of the tattered, wet shirt against your skin. With your arms and hands still shaking, you grab the hem and pull it up over your head, discarding it somewhere to your left. It’s ruined anyway, might as well just leave it here.

Steve hates to admit it, but Robin’s words managed to light a fire of worry in him, now overly concerned about the state of your wounds. He rests his hand on your uninjured shoulder, tapping it gingerly to catch your attention. He’s still breathing deeply but he can feel his heart rate beginning to slow. Steve gestures slightly with his chin, voice soft as he speaks, “Lemme see.”

With his help, you fight through the fatigue and turn to face away from him. What he’s met with is far worse than he imagined.

The upper right side of your back is covered in scratches, some deeper than others due to the bat slashing at you with its claws. A few of them bleed, small lines of blood trickling down the expansive and exposed skin of your back; blood has begun to pool into the band of your bra, staining the fabric.

But the worst of all is what lies in the middle of all of that — a chunk of your skin is missing, peeled away and frayed due to the creature’s firm grip on your body. Some of the muscle is gone, leaving a deep hole in your back. Robin was right; another two inches to the left and the monster would’ve been snacking on your spine, severing important nerves. The thought flips Steve’s stomach.

Steve’s quivering fingers hover over your back, unsure of how to help but unable to pull his eyes from the worst of your wounds — something this deep needs to be sterilized and stitched properly. But for lack of supplies, Steve settles for binding it same as you did his.

“Rob,” He begins, motioning to Robin’s shirt. When she furrows her brow in confusion, Steve gestures to his own bandage.

“Oh!” She exclaims, “Yes, right.”

She keeps talking as she rips it, not nearly as neat as Nancy’s but it’ll do, “You know I’ve never owned a crop top and I wouldn’t have ever bought one but guess what? Happy accident!”

Steve still manages to curl the corner of his mouth at Robin’s ramblings, taking the torn fabric with a grateful smile. He cautiously places his hand on the slope of your waist, serving as a warning for what is coming, but also an attempt to soothe you.

“Arms up,” He instructs, voice low, giving you a moment to remove your limbs from your sides. Regretfully, there’s not as much fabric to work with, so Steve can only wrap it around you once before having to tie it off. He hates how you wince when he pulls it taut; your palm instinctively comes up to settle on his knuckles, silently wanting to stop the pain.

Steve twists your wrist so he can intertwine your fingers when you turn your head back to him, desperate for even a moment of comfort. He gives all he can — a gentle squeeze of your hand and a delicate kiss to an unmarked patch of skin on your shoulder.

“All done,” He promises quietly. He’s thankful Robin’s shirt is black; he has no doubt that the fabric is greedily soaking up the blood from your wound. You nod a bit in response and catch a glimpse of Steve’s face behind you. He looks as tired as you feel. You hate seeing him like this. Unfortunately, it’s a sight you’re familiar with.

The corner of your mouth curls up at the thought you have, desperate to try and cheer him up, “So you uh… think this is more fun than the last time we were here?”

Your comment actually manages to get a chuckle out of Steve. His head dips, chin nearly touching his chest as he allows himself to grin for just a moment. Then he’s nodding at the memory from last fall, back when it was still warm enough to make the trip out here, and a flush creeps up his neck.

“No, definitely not.”

When he meets your gaze, he gets flashes of the life he craves with you; the domesticity you’ve gotten tastes of over the past few months. He’s never needed it more than he does right now. When will this end? When will the pair of you be able to take a break? When will you no longer have to see each other in such a state — bruised and bloodied?

The apartment, Steve thinks. As soon as this is over, he’s taking you and getting out of here. You’ve both given enough. You both deserve a life better than this. You deserve a life better than this — rumors and scars and trauma that’ll always be tied to this town and what you’ve done to protect it. Hawkins doesn’t deserve you.

You forgot Eddie was here. He’s watching from afar, perched on top of one of the rocks, hands tightly woven into his wet hair as the gravity of the situation finally hits him. As he speaks, Steve’s wrapping his arm around your waist; you sling one across his shoulders. You move slowly and carefully to ensure the pair of you can get to your feet and stay that way. Soft mumbled assurances are shared between you as you hoist each other up.

“Are we gonna… are we gonna be okay?”

Nancy frowns, “What do you mean?”

It seems like Eddie tries to control himself with his answer, but it certainly doesn’t come across that way. He bursts, gesturing wildly to what surrounds you.

“This! All of this! Is it okay for us to be breathin’ any of this shit in?”

He pauses, eyes going wide, “Oh god, I’m gonna get cancer. Go infertile or some shit. Jesus-”

“Eddie! Shut up!”

Your voice does just that. He goes silent, staring at you from a few yards away.

“I hate to break it to you but that’s the least of our problems right now,” You continue. You’re using that stern tone of voice reserved for your brother or the other teens. It hides your exhaustion as you scold him.

“Until we get the hell out of here, I’m gonna need you to keep it together. We can’t draw any extra attention, especially if Vecna knows we’re here. Which he probably does. Understand?”

Eddie nods once, his words quiet, “Y-Yes ma’am.”

You nod too, “Good.”

With a deep sigh, you turn your focus to the others and swallow the pain and fatigue; now’s the time to plan. The group of you settle on making the trek back to Nancy’s to retrieve her guns; you can already feel the toll the hike will take on your body. You want nothing more than to sleep for days on end, wrapped up in clean blankets without a single care in the world.

Before the five of you can begin the journey, something whooshes past you and lands right in the middle of Steve’s chest. It takes another second for you to realize it’s Eddie’s vest, discarded and thrown to Steve as a sort of peace offering. When all he’s met with are confused glances and bunched up brows, Eddie shrugs.

“What? You gotta cover up, dude.”

For a moment, Steve seems sort of appreciative, until he remembers you standing beside him — now topless once more and slightly shivering. Steve frowns a bit and uses his free hand to gesture to the leather jacket as well. Eddie pouts, but gives in, “C’mon man, you seriously need both?”

When he tosses it over Steve catches it swiftly, now prepared to snatch it out of the air, and immediately turns to offer it to you. The hand that Eddie just used gestures through the air half-heartedly, almost like he’s disappointed by his own decision, or lack thereof.

“Oh, right yeah. Probably should’ve done that first. Sorry.”

If it wasn’t Eddie Munson’s jacket you were wearing, Steve would think you look hot as hell. Well, it’s not like he doesn’t think that, the feeling’s just a bit dampered knowing that it’s some other dude’s clothes you’re wearing. He makes a mental note to scope one out for your birthday or something — black leather is a good look for you.

Following a rather frightening experience with some kind of interdimensional earthquake, you’re finally able to begin the journey to the Wheeler’s. But Robin’s not so keen to let that go undiscussed; her already frazzled mind is spinning.

“Nobody’s mentioned anything about… earthquakes, have they? Like that’s totally a new thing, right?”

You look briefly over to her before refocusing your attention on the ground, “No, that must be new.”

You can’t believe it, but you think you’d prefer fighting a Demogorgon again instead of all these new threats adding wrinkles to your plans. First it was Vecna, then Demobats (as you’ve lovingly decided to call them — you think your brother would be proud), and now tremors in the Upside Down. Whatever it is that Vecna’s plotting, you’re not a fan. It’s imperative you figure it out and soon; something tells you it is far more dangerous than him murdering a handful of teenagers. There’s far too much that’s new about this time in order for it to be a coincidence.

“But I mean, Nance is our resident Upside Down expert. If anyone would know, it’s her,” You raise your voice just enough to catch the attention of the brunette walking slightly ahead. Nancy manages a small smile at your words, glancing back at the pair of you as she slows to meet your pace. When Robin looks over to you with a curious expression, you elaborate.

“Well, she’s the only one of us who’s been here before.”

“Oh! Right,” Robin says, maneuvering awkwardly to simultaneously duck under a tree branch and avoid stepping on a vine, “I don’t know how I forgot that.”

Nancy inhales before pulling on the edge of her blouse, now frayed, “It was a long time ago. Even I forget sometimes.”

The last word is much softer than the others. It goes unnoticed to Robin, but you’d recognize that tone of voice anywhere — a similar one you’ve used many times, one that could only be understood by someone who’s been through this just as many times as her. When her eyes catch yours on the opposite side of Robin, you can see it as well. The trauma, the sadness, the sleepless nights, the fear of loss. You and Nancy are far more similar than either of you give the other credit for, or maybe it just went unrecognized until now, gazes locked in the middle of an alternate dimension. With that thought, you can’t help but wonder if there’s a possibility Steve and Nancy would’ve been able to make their relationship work — you immediately decide not to pull on that thread.

You might not be best friends anymore, but your heart is warmed to know that you and Nancy have been able to heal. In a strange way, Steve and Nancy used to be synonymous in your mind; when you thought of one of them, thoughts of the other followed. Your previous jealousy overflowed into your relationship, your mind desperate to cling to the feeling you had grown unfortunately familiar with. Even though you finally had what you wanted — the love you’d been hopelessly chasing after — a part of you buried deep was eager to ruin it. You’re thankful Steve did everything in his power to prove it was you that he wanted; that certainly made it easier to forgive and forget.

And Nancy? Well, she’s just happy you and Steve found each other. Although she hasn’t seen much of your relationship, it’s impressed her how much the both of you have matured. Even though they had their differences, it’d be hard for Nancy not to admit that Steve’s a good guy — he deserves someone who can pour an overwhelming amount of affection and care in his direction. In retrospect, all Steve did was love her. He might not have always done it properly, but he tried his hardest with what he was given. For that, Nancy thinks some part of her will always care for him. She can respect that now.

“Oh, congrats on the apartment, by the way.”

Nancy’s comment confuses you a bit. You don’t remember telling her that, nor do you think Steve would’ve. Not that it’s a problem that she knows, of course. But out of the corner of your eye, you spot Robin’s nervous grin — she looks between you and the ground anxiously.

“I… may have told everyone I know.”

Her response gets a chuckle out of you, one that you immediately regret. Your back seizes up in pain at the movement, but you’re able to keep the grimace at bay. It doesn’t go unnoticed though; Robin catches the falter in your voice, now concerned about your health once again. You misunderstand her worried brow.

“It’s fine, Robin. I don’t mind. It’s funny everyone keeps finding out even though the only person I’ve told is my brother. But I’m assuming Steve told you too.”

“The second he picked me up for work,” Robin recalls, “I wasn’t fully in the car yet!”

Another laugh from you — this one much more sentimental. Your chest lights up at the thought of Steve being so excited to tell his best friend that the words just burst out of him. You have to suppress your smile or you’ll get relentlessly teased for it.

“Are you nervous?” Nancy asks, her tone light but curious, “I mean you’re gonna be living with a guy.”

Robin cringes at the thought. You almost snort at Nancy’s playful disgust, “Please, you live with Mike. And I’ve dealt with Dustin. I’ll pick Steve over either of them any day.”

Nancy grins at your jab while stepping over another vine, “That’s fair. Touché.”

Girl talk in the middle of the Upside Down is both disorienting and comforting. It’s nice to have something to distract yourself from the chaos for a little while, even if it is occurring in the closest thing to Hell. A flash of red lightning cracks across the sky.

“This never gets any easier, does it?”

Robin’s question, breaking the fresh silence, guides both your gazes to the girl in between you. You know how she’s feeling. You’ve experienced this four times now — four times you have witnessed horrible things that will haunt you for the rest of your life. Each experience gets harder and harder to carry with you. It makes you wonder how this will weigh on your conscience, but considering the events of Starcourt forced you to… kill another person, you don’t know how it could get much worse.

You shake your head, “No. It never does. You just…”

Your eyes glance between the girls to your right, both as solemn and tired as you are.

“You hope you can find others to help you through it.”

Your boyfriend must be rubbing off on you because that has got to be the cheesiest thing you’ve ever said. As tacky as it may be, you mean every word, which is maybe even worse. Robin’s face does light up a bit though, so you suppose it’s worth it.

“You mean Steve, right?”

You roll your eyes at Nancy’s joke, sarcasm dripping all over your tone, “Well… I guess yeah but I meant you two. I thought us ladies could have a nice bonding moment together but whatever.”

The three of you laugh together in harmony, Nancy now a bit sheepish as she replies with a soft apology.

As you’re getting some well-deserved girl time, Steve’s mind is swirling.

How could he have let this happen to you again? For a third time?

Something in the back of Steve’s head tells him that this was different — neither of you could’ve prepared for what happened. This isn’t his fault as much as it isn’t yours; you would’ve followed each other through that gate no matter what. But still, Steve finds himself reliving every single moment, focusing on the most awful parts just to make himself feel worse. Maybe he deserves to wallow in this guilt for a while.

Your cries for help reached Steve’s ears through the chaos; they torture him even now as he watches you walk a few yards ahead. But when he was finally freed from the Demobats’ tight hold… he didn’t go straight for you. He should’ve. You’re everything to him.

Instead, your life was saved by Eddie. Of all people, Munson was the one that rushed right to your aid. Steve doesn’t know jack shit about percentages or probability, but he figures it’s pretty safe to bet that you wouldn’t be here if Eddie hadn’t stepped up. Steve swallows harshly before switching his gaze from you to the other boy; he can’t believe he’s about to do this.

“Hey, Eddie,” Steve starts, whispering harshly to grab Eddie’s attention as he picks up the pace a bit; his stomach aches from the movement. It takes the second muttering of his name for Eddie to finally spin, halting in his tracks until Steve’s beside him.

Eddie’s heart pounds a bit harder inside his chest, instinctively glancing forwards to catch sight of you before Steve speaks again. After what happened on the way to the lake earlier, he prays this turns out differently — he doesn’t have much hope.

Steve’s thoughts are caught in his throat; he doesn't know why swallowing his pride is so difficult. With you it’s easier — you make everything easier. After a couple of seconds of gathering himself, Steve finally continues.

“Look, I just… I want to thank you,” Steve anxiously rubs his jaw, eyes focused slightly down onto the vine coated dirt in front of him, watching his every step, “For, y’know, jumping in after us. And… for saving her. Seriously, I owe you for that.”

Steve’s voice grows a bit stronger at the mention of you; he glances up once again, observing as Robin and Nancy walk beside you. Robin has a hand hovering over your back, ready to try and catch you if you stumble. Nancy must’ve just said a joke, your eyes glint as you turn to meet her gaze; you’re laughing.

“Hey man, you saved your own asses back there. Henderson? I mean, phew,” Eddie says, spinning one of the rings on his fingers as he keeps trudging forwards, “I just got the bat off her. She took care of the rest. And you? With your Ozzie move?”

Steve chuckles slightly — you certainly can take care of yourself. He has no idea what the hell an ‘Ozzie move’ even means, but he assumes it’s a compliment due to the tone of Eddie’s voice. When Steve doesn’t understand the reference, Eddie continues albeit slightly dejected, “All I’m sayin’ is that what you two did back there was pretty metal.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth curls up, “Yeah, yeah she’s something else.”

Eddie scoffs, like his words don’t do it justice, “You’re tellin’ me. I mean… what Hargrove did is messed up, dude. It’s stupid that asshole could say shit like that and get away with it.”

Steve shines the flashlight to his right, peering over at the twisted forest beyond. Eddie can sense that the deceased shouldn’t be brought up anymore, told by Steve’s refusal to reply and the way he clenched his jaw before he looked away. Who knows how many times you and Steve have discussed him; that thought sends a pang of guilt through Eddie’s stomach now that he knows the truth.

He steps over a vine, “It’s stupid that anyone could believe any of it either… that I believed it. I mean she’s not…”

Eddie chooses his next words very carefully, now hyper aware of what Steve Harrington’s capable of. Sure, Dustin always mentioned how you two were a pair of badasses but prior to about four days ago, Eddie would have rather died than admit either one of you had any merit. After today? Shit, he thinks he’d defend you both in front of the rest of the town.

Eddie can’t come up with something that he’s one hundred percent sure won’t offend Steve, “Well, you know what I mean. It’s all bullshit, man.”

Despite the careful choice of words, Eddie winces after they leave his lips — Steve manages to get even tenser beside him, knuckles turning white around the flashlight. God, he hates that word.

Eddie barrels on, only hoping he’s not digging himself into a hole, “I mean you’d think me of all people should know that not everything that gets churned out of the rumor mill is true.”

Steve can hear the regret in his words, grateful to be distracted from the bubble of anger that had boiled up inside, making his head roar and vision hazy. Eddie spares a glimpse at the boy beside him before tracking back to your figure, still close to the other girls and talking quietly between each other.

“Feels shit, dude. Knowing I gave those rumors time of day when you guys were out here fuckin’…”

He can’t find a word to encompass all the shit you’ve dealt with in the last couple years, so he waves his hand out to the slimy forest around them in explanation, “Savin’ the world and all.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say except you should feel shit because the fierce instinct to lash out at anyone who was stupid enough to believe those lies about you is bone deep in him. He doesn’t though, only purses his lips and swallows the bitterness with a nod.

“Seriously, I can’t believe you guys have managed to survive this shit three times already,” Eddie continues, voice tinged with awe as he tilts his head back to observe the unnatural sky above. He lets it drop forward again, “I mean, I failed math but statistically, I think one of you should be dead by now, man.”

It’s a fact; you have all been lucky far too many times and even though Eddie’s tone is light, it brings the tightness back to Steve’s throat. It’s like a delayed wave of grief, a chilling feeling digging under his skin and burying itself in his heart, cold and dark, as Steve realizes just how close he came to losing you tonight. What had Robin said? A few inches to the left and you would have been gone. Gone.

Steve finally speaks once again, coughing to shut away the emotion that threatens to overtake him, “Trust me, I know. I mean I… I wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for her.”

That statement carries multiple meanings even though he only intends to reference one thing. Who knows where he’d be if he hadn’t done the same as Eddie — ignored the rumors and let you speak for yourself. Steve shudders at the thought of him living out the past three years without you by his side, without falling absolutely obsessively head over heels in love with you. You might’ve fallen first, but Steve fell even harder.

“Y’know the, uh, the mall didn’t actually burn down last year,” Steve starts. He immediately trips over his own words, realizing the error he made, “Well, it did burn down but it wasn’t wh-”

“Yeah, I think I’m startin’ to piece it together,” Eddie manages a slight smile as he interrupts, once again gesturing blankly to their bleak surroundings. Steve appreciates the joke.

“Long story short, we got stuck in this… weird maze beneath the mall that I honestly don’t remember most of. But we got separated and…”

By the way Steve trails off, Eddie can tell that whatever happened down there must’ve been horrible. It shudders across Steve’s face for a moment before he squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s trying to force back a memory and the tears that accompany it. Steve pushes it away with a sigh and steps over a vine, “She got shot trying to escape and-”

“Henderson’s been shot?”

Eddie’s interruption was a bit louder than he was expecting, but his reaction is genuine shock. He swallows harshly at the glare Steve sends him.

“Sorry, continue.”

Steve shakes his head as he ignores the impulse to roll his eyes, “She got us out. All of us. Dustin, Erica, Robin, and I. She saved us. She saved me. I’d like to be able to return the favor. I owe her that much at least.”

He doesn’t know what comes over him; with his voice much softer, he admits something he’s never spoken aloud.

“I have this… this fear that I won’t get there in time. I’d never forgive myself if she died or fuck, even just got hurt and there was more I could’ve done. More I could’ve protected her from, or… whatever I don’t know, it’s stupid.”

Suddenly, Eddie understands the aggression Steve displayed in the forest earlier — his impulse is to defend you at every turn. Your life is already a horrible blend of trauma and grief, and Steve Harrington is the one who’s determined to make it easier for you to handle.

Maybe you’re not the only one Eddie was too quick to judge.

“You’re a good guy, Steve,” Eddie mutters nervously, “I don’t think everyone would be as willing to do that as you are. She’s lucky to have you.”

The genuine tone of Eddie’s voice nearly makes Steve stumble — he’s not used to someone other than you assuring him that he’s genuinely changed. Sure, Robin told him once and maybe Dustin a while back, but every time it’s not you it still catches him off guard. Other people — people not inherently close to him — are still capable of noticing that he’s trying to be better.

Before any sort of choked out appreciation can leave Steve’s lips, Eddie’s speaking again.

“Y’know I was having a hard time coming to terms with the shit Buckley’s been telling me about the two of you, but with everything I’ve seen? She’s actually pretty damn spot on.”

Eddie falls silent, and Steve hates that he’s being goaded into keeping this conversation going; curiosity pushes the words out of his mouth.

“What did she say?”

Eddie smirks only a bit.

“Just some crazy stuff about not believing in soulmates but that if there were any, you two are probably gooey enough about each other to fit the bill. Casual stuff. But I mean, Henderson jumped right in after you, man. Like there wasn’t even a thought in her head it was just… like an instinct or something.”

Eddie shrugs, as if to reinforce the point, but none of this feels casual to Steve at all.

Soulmates?

As much of a romantic as Steve is, the idea of soulmates has always seemed a bit… much. Sure, there’s probably some people and personalities better suited for each other than others, which makes sense to him. But the thought that there is one perfect person out there for everyone, almost as if they’re destined to be together — well, he almost snorts at the thought. It’s sort of ridiculous.

Eddie’s right; it does sound crazy. You and Steve weren’t predetermined or fated or written into the stars, which is a conclusion that’s made his heart ache on more than one occasion. He wouldn’t have you if all of this hadn’t happened, and he hates to be reminded of that. The bond between you and Steve was forged, beaten and hammered into shape by events out of your control, like flaming metal out of a furnace. At first it was red hot, easily pliable as you made space in your lives for each other and learned what it meant to love them; Steve taught you more than you were expecting and vice versa. But as you’ve settled into your relationship, your love has become unyielding — it won’t move for anything, tough iron crafted to withstand any wear and tear. Resilient, powerful, and strong.

No, you and Steve aren’t soulmates. But when his eyes drift ahead to watch as you carefully walk ahead of him, he suddenly finds the word palatable. Almost fitting.

He supposes soulmates can be forged too.

“Leave it to Robin to make it dramatic,” Steve manages to say, mind swirling and he hopes the grime of the Upside Down hides any of the color in his cheeks. His throat goes dry.

As if you can sense it, your gaze spins to land on the boys behind you. A small smile pulls at your lips when you notice Steve’s eyes already on you. Something muttered to Robin and then you’re turning fully to face him and walk forward. He suddenly feels like he’s suffocating; there’s still a softness in your irises when you look at him, regardless of the events over the past few hours. As you approach, Eddie gets the hint and quickens his pace, leaving the two of you to yourselves.

“Hey,” Steve greets while your hand wraps around his arm, the pair of you now walking in tandem.

“How’re you feeling?”

His face softens at your look of concern; he’s still slightly overwhelmed by the conclusion he just came to, but he hopes it doesn’t show. Your touch made him forget all about the pain in his abdomen. Steve grins lightly, adoring the way you tug yourself closer to him.

“Better now.”

He means it — heat rises to your cheeks at his sincerity. You avert your gaze down to the forest floor for a brief moment, “When we get back, I’ll clean it for you.”

Steve hums before leaning over to press a kiss to your temple in gratitude; there’s no other way he’d rather have it.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” He mumbles against your skin, “I’ll do the same for you, yeah?”

You nod as he pulls away, your grip on him tightening at the sentiment. He wants to give you the same level of care you provide to him. Your chest warms with the thought, even though you’re surrounded by freezing cold temperatures.

Steve dips his head, brow furrowing for a brief second, “How about you? How are you doing?”

You shrug a bit, “I’m okay I guess. I’m just…”

You pause before huffing; you’ve been bottling this up ever since you took shelter at Skull Rock.

“Just mad we’re probably not gonna get any of our stuff we left on the boat back. I really liked those sneakers. And I bought you that sweater! That was a good color on you. God dammit.”

The last word is whispered under your breath once you’ve finished your small rant. Steve can’t help but smile at your frustration. He’s not quite sure what he expected you to say, but he’s glad it was that. It’s brightened him up, even if just for a quick minute or two. He decides to humor you.

“Hmm, that’s true. I did like that sweater.”

Steve leans into you, dropping his voice to ensure it stays between you, “But I liked it better when you wore it.”

You let out a small laugh — that was one of your favorites to steal. You swear that he used to add extra sprays of your favorite cologne on it when you weren’t looking. No matter how many times you wore it, it always managed to smell like him. It’s childish and stupid, but you want to have a funeral for Steve Harrington’s beloved yellow sweater.

Your smile turns into a familiarly teasing one, “No, you liked it better when I was taking it off.”

That earns you a proper chuckle. Immediately, Steve has to banish the images and memories that flooded his brain with your words; it doesn’t work so well. It’s unfair how easy it is for you to rile him up.

Before he can respond with another smart anecdote, the ground is shaking beneath him. Thankfully, this tremor doesn’t last as long, but it caught you mid-step. While the others may have been able to take a moment to steady themselves, you fall backwards, the shock forcing your hold on Steve to loosen. An awful whimper leaves you as you land on the ground, your wound taking the brunt of the impact. The second Steve gains his bearings, he’s kneeling beside you.

He curses under his breath as he tries to hoist you up with minimal pain, but it’s no use; your back is now burning in agony, the torment twisted across your face. Even your shoulder cries out in anguish as you raise your arm to hang onto him. The same level of pain you felt initially has returned.

Steve tries not to let his worry overwhelm him, but it’s difficult when you shudder at every step and tears threaten to overflow at your lash line. With an arm firmly hooked around your waist, he guides you forward, soft encouragements whispered as you struggle to stay on your feet. He’s got to get you out of here.

—

taglist (CLOSED): @stevebabey / @hannarudick / @crazycookiecrumbles / @jennifersminds / @l0ve-0f-my-lifee-blog / @loove-persevering / @daddystevee / @thecaptainsgingersnap / @let-the-imaginationflow / @agentsimmonsfitz / @im-a-stranger-thing / @mikariell95 / @pilunb / @luvzatte / @royalestrellas / @ultrunning / @poutfull / @yoheyyosup / @duchessdaisybat / @sassisaluxury / @beththebubbly / @i-bitch-you-bitch / @captainstilinskis / @juliebean247 / @rexorangecouny / @pass-me-jeez-it / @steveshcrringtons / @halefirewarrior / @jointhehunt67 / @peanutem / @ketchuplukehemmo / @mlmarint / @moronphilia / @emmegirl827 / @lookalivesunshine-x / @elite4cekalyma / @marjoherbo / @just-my-fandom / @idumpyourgrass / @alafolieee / @mochminnie / @phantomalchemist / @dustyblueboo / @alonewolfsblog / @ggclarissa / @hufflepuffing-all-day-long / @bippityboppitybabe / @readinthegarden12 / @stxtch72 / @random-girl-army / @thatawkwardlittlefangirl / @lovinnoya / @graciehams / @i-mmunity / @gothmingguk / @fangeekkk / @octaviackles / @hot-mess-express99 / @sarahcameronswife / @the-local-toast / @kamala-khann / @the-passionate-freak / @mjtalksaboutanything / @circesstars / @astroponyo / @lostinwonderland314 / @yeswhatever33 / @raggedyoldwitch / @chaoticsteve / @walkin-in-hawkins / @live-the-fangirl-life / @aspcun11 / @lionfart / @petty131313 / @jinxed-jk / @jureuminho / @slipawaylrh

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x henderson!reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fanfic #almost paradise

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animatedrapture · 4 years ago

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"𝖐𝖎𝖘𝖘 𝖒𝖊 𝖘𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖑𝖞" — suna rintarou ;

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: suna rintarō is so much more than his bored eyes, the blunt between his lips, and his tendency to slack off—luckily, you're one of the very few people who know this; especially after he comes home to you sullen after finding out he didn't make it to the olympic players.

𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖘: female reader. fluff—established relationship. angst if you squint. comfort. mention of drug use. like, one swear word.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 2k

𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖙'𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊: in lieu of the influx of toxic stoner!suna content, i offer you a piece of appreciation towards him and all that he is. i was meaning to post this in my new blog but i thought there's so much of you here who would appreciate and need this more. written on a whim at 1AM and didn't proofread so for any errors, gomen. repost because tumblr tagging hates me. cross posted on ao3 under the same username. original post here. this was written before we got information that he actually made it to the olympic team. furudate really told me to stfu, huh?

It's you who find out first that there is truly so much more to Suna Rintarō than his expressionless exterior, sleepy eyes, and bored gaze towards even the most ridiculous situations. It's when his self assured stance dwindled as he walked towards you once upon a time, introducing himself first before asking you for your number.

"My number?" You echoed his request, trying your best not to gawk at his attractive features and six foot two stature towering over you so easily; making you feel oh so small. (Which is funny, given that you were already standing straight on your heels.)

"If you don't mind, 's cool if you say no," he replies, tearing his gaze from you as if he was actually anxious you'd say no.

It's funny, really. It's not every day a famous pro-athlete known for both his good looks and skills walk up to you, asking for your number and actually considering you'd say no to him and his pretty features—in fact, nevermind that he was pretty, it was more the fact that he wasn't so full of himself to actually think you wouldn't say no.

That's what makes you nod your head; your heart already beating right out of your chest as he gives you a lazy grin and his phone to press your number in. When you're done, you hand it back to him and you mentally pat yourself at the back for not visibly trembling.

"Y/N?" He reads your name from the contact information, and good God, did your name sound so beautiful coming out of his mouth. He doesn't wait for your reply anymore, looking back at you from his phone, the lazy smile still across his lips as if he knew it was a heart killer.

"Thanks, I'll text you later," is the last thing he said before he walked away from you.

It didn't take long for you to fall in love with someone like Suna Rintarō—underneath his detached personality also lied someone who was truly passionate with the things he set his mind to, gave his time to. Like you or volleyball or the video game he's been waiting to release for a whole month—it only had to be something or someone who was special enough, then, he would give it his all.

The smoke that filled his lungs occasionally did nothing to lessen your own intoxication of Suna Rintarō and his passions—because every exhale, his dark green eyes would meet yours and oh so easily, he offers you that same lazy smile yet one that was dripping with affection.

"Should you even be smoking that, Rintarō?" You had questioned him before, about the second time you've seen him put the rolled blunt in between his soft lips, inhaling it.

"It's a once in a while kinda thing, you don't actually think I'd sacrifice my career for this don'tcha?" He grins at you, amusement flooding his usually bored eyes — now glazed over with the effects of the weed—from the way he gazes at you with an eyebrow raised.

It's when you realize that Suna Rintarō was independent and knew what he was doing—did what he did with full awareness, full control, full flexibility. It's as if who he was in court was who he was in person as well.

"You're really interesting, y'know that Rin?" You had mumbled against his chest once before, it was at the first few months of dating—he had one of his arms around you with you cuddled on his side, watching a movie from his couch.

"Yeah?"

"I mean—you've always been so good at what you do, huh? But you still work for it."

"What makes you say that?" You can feel him looking down on face against his chest.

"C'mon, don't be silly. You were scouted at middle school and you only got better as you grew up!" You say, finally moving your head to meet his gaze.

But all you get is a flick on your forehead and his low chuckle, "'s not that deep, y/n," he answers.

But you already knew better.

Suna isn't one for words, and no matter how much you insist that he was beyond the description of words, he only rolls his narrowed eyes at you. You find out Suna Rintarō, your boyfriend, was a huge inspiration during your sixth month together when you finally met his little sister.

It's hard to say it wasn't amusing how snarky she was, just as he was to his friends whom you've met a few times before—Atsumu and Osamu Miya, you remember. She's quick with her tongue, easily retorting back to her brother's comments.

"Are you sure you didn't just pay Y/N-san to be your girlfriend, nii-san?"

"Nah, you still jealous I came out prettier than you?" Suna bites back, a teasing grin plastered across his face. His sister only scoffs, looking back at you.

"You can tell me if he blackmailed you to come here!" She attempts to whisper. You're not sure whether you should be worried or continue to laugh, but you do neither as you choke on the drink you were sipping on right as she told you this.

"Shit, Y/N," Suna curses as you cough, your throat burning at the drink's intrusion, but Suna's quick to rub soothingly against your back as he offers you his water, his eyes glazed over in panic.

"You okay?" He asks when you stopped coughing, and you nod in response—throat remaining slightly sore. Suna lets out an aggravated groan, "Be careful next time," he manages to scold you, but oddly enough, his words remain saccharine.

There's something about the way that his little sister doesn't seem the least bit surprised with his reaction that somehow lets you know that perhaps, Suna Rintarō might just be quite the caring brother behind closed doors.

After that, it was when Suna excused himself to take a call from his manager, leaving you with his sister.

"Hey, nee-san, promise you'll take care of Rin-nii? You won't break his heart, will you?" His sister asks, eyes gleaming with something akin to hope, expectation, wonder. It easily takes you by surprise.

"Don't you worry, I'll promise I'll take care of him, promise I won't break his heart," your voice easily softens, nodding. His little sister's gaze remains on you, as if she's assessing you and as if she would easily tell whether or not you meant the words that came out of your mouth.

It makes you hold a breath until she nods slowly, smiling at you lightly just as Suna comes walking back, eyebrows raised, knowing he must've missed something.

"Whatcha girls talkin' bout?" He asked as he slipped back on his seat beside you.

"None of your business, obviously," his sister quickly answers.

They're truly quite similar, it's enough to make you smile and get through meeting his little sister until both of you dropped her off back to the train station.

"What'd she tell you?" Suna nudged you after seeing her train leave.

"Nothing, Rin," you answered with a wide smile, leaning up to place a chaste kiss against his lips—yet just as you pull away, one of his hands has found its way behind your neck, pulling you back to him.

You never thought a kiss could feel so loving before—but it really seemed as if Suna Rintarō had a knack for proving you wrong, over and over again.

It was the day that the Olympic team was announced when you see so much more of Suna Rintarō. Quick like the blink of an eye, or lightning that leaves the thunder chasing it; Suna felt the exhaustion, the pressure, the burnt-out feeling that's been repressed in the back of his head. It comes to him, crashing down like boulders not just on his shoulders but weighing down every part of his body.

Did he lack somewhere? He wonders. Where did that lacking end and start? What could have he done? Was it training, where he spent most of his time now? Suna had end up seeing you less and less since the drafting of olympic players started and you've been nothing but patient.

What was he supposed to tell you? After all the time it has stolen away from you—that he didn't make it?

When he opened the door to your shared apartment, he doesn't look up at you with a relieved sigh as he usually would—he avoids you gaze entirely, he avoids your observing eyes from the couch you sat on, watching him slowly shrug his shoes off.

"I'm just gonn—" he started, about to make an excuse to avoid looking at you.

"Prepared your bath, Rin. C'mon," Suna hears you say but it doesn't sink in his head, watching you take his hand, leading him to the bathroom.

Suna remains silent as he looks down on the bath you prepared for him, warm and inviting.

"Meet me in the kitchen when you're done, okay?" He hears you say, followed by the echo of your footsteps walking away.

You easily understand that Suna Rintarō was more than his talents, his efforts, and every little thing about him when you feel his large arms wrapped around you, his broad chest pressed against your back and his face buried on the crook of your neck. His fresh scent right out of the shower engulfing you and invading your senses, flooding you with him.

"'m sorry, bunny," he mumbles.

"You have nothing to be sorry about, Ri—"

"It's odd, thought I'd pull it off, thought it'd be nothin' if I didn't make it. Don't know why I'm so upset right now," he continues, cutting you off, "Been so patient for me too, bunny. Thought I'd be nice to make you proud, ya know?"

Your sigh comes out sharp from the heavy feeling from your chest, not knowing what to do to make him feel better—like he did with you, always knowing his way around your low moments.

You wriggle out of his arms, making him grumble until you fully face him. He looks back at you with a small frown, eyebrows furrowed, watching your expression.

"I'm always proud of you, Rin. Olympic player or not, you make me so proud," you speak softly, your hands cupping each side of his face.

"Don't even get why it matters to me this much, it's just—" it was your turn to cut him off, tipping your toes to press a lingering kiss against his lips. Suna smiles against your lips, carrying you to sit on the kitchen counter like he always did—knowing you always would have to tip on your toes to reach him.

Soon, the lingering kiss turns slow and passionate—lips softly grazing the other, and it feels more like pouring the heavy weight of love out of your chest and into the other. A kiss so loving, so reassuring, so passionate—the kind that easily takes your breath away and makes your mind go blank. When Suna pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing heavily. You smile at him because it's all you can do when your heart feels like it's going to leap out of your throat just to offer itself to him entirely—and Suna smiles back at you, pecking your lips before wrapping his arms around you again, resting his chin on your shoulder.

You run your fingers through his hair, hoping it would help soothe him, and then you say, "I promise that you'll make it next year, Rin. I'll be with you now, and I'll still be with you then."

It only makes him hold you tighter, closer to him, "I love you, Y/N."

"I love you, Rintarō. You deserve the world and all the stars in the galaxy."

"'s too bad there's nothin' more I need than you, then."

That's what Suna tells you—Suna, who was smoke in his lungs, dumb videos of the twins to blackmail them with, little mistakes, bored eyes, and lazy attitude. The same Suna who was slow kisses, passion, and genuine smiles reserved for you—the same Suna who gave his passions his all, the same Suna who held you securely in his arms every night, the same Suna his little sister admired. Most of all, the same Suna Rintarō you loved with every beat of your heart, every fibre of your being.

📞 violet is calling... all content featured belongs to ©️ animatedrapture. do not plagiarize, repost, or modify.

#suna x reader #suna rintarou #haikyuu x reader #suna #haikyuu #suna rintaro x reader #haikyuu imagines #rintarou suna #suna fluff #haikyuu fluff #suna Rintarō #;cloud #IM SO PRESSED!!!#so anNOYED!!#GODDAMN HAD TO REPOST

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beehindblueeyes · 2 years ago

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So, I'm new to the The Black Phone tag, I pretty much have only been following you (your info posts are amazing. I love them so much) because almost every other blog I found only published Grabber fics. Now, after finally getting to see the movie, I decided to check the tag a little more ( hoping to find people talking about the movie and maybe a fic or to about what it was like after the movie or a more in depth about Finneys days in the basement), but I can only really find X Readers

Like, the movie was amazing and the implications in it and the possibility to explore what haplened next are so fascinating, but all I can find are either Grabber x Reader or the ghost kids x reader. I... Am I insane? For hoping there would be more to it than that? I don't mind fics, but really?? Nothing about the trauma? The PTSD?? Finney snapped someone's neck for Pete's sake!

I'm sorry for ranting, you're just the only blog for this movie I've found that actually talks about the movie

Hey! Sorry I didn’t answer this sooner I just have a bunch of school work to do and I can’t post as consistently/often as I did over the summer sadly. And once again thank you 🥺 it means a lot to know I make stuff people genuinely enjoy (esp because a lot of reblogs lately don’t comment or say thing I the tags so I never know).

Ok don’t even get me starteddddddddd! I made a post about this a while ago and it’s really just gotten worse. It’s the fandomization. NOPE gets to have fanart and people talking about the movie and it’s details and we don’t sadly. And your right, for the most part the tags been X. Reader and little else. I like to point out details and make fics exploring the little things and the character arcs for myself and all those who like it but at the end of the day I’m only one person in the sea of content. I get drown out. Something something make the stuff you wanna see you know?

In my old post I also talked about the fandom when the movie first came out and there wasn’t that many of us… it was great! It was talking about the movie, making art, jokes , commentary etc. A bunch of people talking about and making stuff for a movie they really enjoyed and then it got more popular… not that the movie doesn’t deserve that popularity just that it brings out the real wild and off topic people, someone said It before me but it’s the honest to god IT 2017 treatment where all the analysis, fanart etc gets washed away by content that is so ooc it’s practically ocs alongside X reader and being REALLY creepy about a cast of kids. 😫

Part of me wants to say that the reason is… well Kids. I know the content I made when I was 13 and irs similar (not that I’m a old man or anything just I’ve grown as a person and literally). Edgy for edge. Not quite fully grasping the character or knowing how to character study so just going off fan interpretation (which… see fandomization). Etc. Not to say everyone else is a bad writer or is a child but a influx of the stuff currently flooding tags gives me the vibes 🤷‍♀️

Idk man, there’s a few more like me but we all get drowned out.

#asks #slightly bitter #I’m also not trying to be the fun police I just want to talk about the movie and find other people like me #without digging through piles of X reader of modern headcannons..#the black phone #black phone #the black phone 2022 #fandomization #fandom problems

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strawwritesfic · 3 years ago

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Brock Rumlow x Female!Former SHIELD Agent!Reader: Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Fried

Summary: All old flames grow cold eventually–Excepting, of course, yours.

Rating/Warnings/Tags: T (bad language, torture, physical abuse, beating, brainwashing, post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier)

Fic Trade Prompt: “Don’t make my job too easy~ ;)” Plus, I got to pick the character to write for this time around.

Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Fried

You awoke with a start in complete darkness with one hell of a headache pounding through your skull. Where you were and how you’d got to wherever that was you didn’t know, but it didn’t feel like you’d come along willingly. A multitude of invisible cuts stung up and down your body; your stomach felt as though it had had its contents punched out of it recently; and maybe you couldn’t see to confirm this, but you were pretty sure your left eye was swollen shut. Worst of all, every cell inside of you felt dry and hot and buzzy, as though you’d spent the evening before playing test subject for a new line of Tasers.

But what had happened mattered very little in comparison to your present predicament. You could catalog injuries once you were definitely safe. It didn’t take long for you to decide that your current location wasn’t that. Straining your ears, you heard nothing. No hum of electricity. No faint whir of a security camera. No chattering from anyone keeping guard. Eerie, you thought, until you decided to stand up…

…and found your arms clamped tightly to a couple of armrests. You had not realized that you were sitting down in an actual chair until you were unable to lift your wrists. Try as you might, no matter what angle you used, the restraints wouldn’t budge. Your ankles were in a similar state. Gritting your teeth, you mentally prepared to dislocate the bones. Nothing you hadn’t done before, but never a pleasant prospect. On the count of three. Three…two–

“Good morning,” came a deep voice from another corner of the room, “sweetheart.”

The sudden appearance of someone in your cell was not what caused you to freeze. No, you only stopped your attempts to get loose because you recognized the voice. You squinted into the dark. Still you could hear no breathing, see nothing further than the pitch black two inches from your nose. But then again, this man should have been a ghost.

“Brock?” you asked, voice raspy. Sounded (and felt) like you’d been smacked in the trachea, too.

A rumble of laughter answered you, but no footsteps. “I don’t go by that name anymore. But it’s good to hear you haven’t forgotten me entirely. Thought you might have, the way you’ve been treating me.”

Those three sentences were all it took to force the shock out of your system and flood it instead with frustration and anger. You clenched your fists into useless balls, rattling your cuffs as you did.

“I haven’t been treating you any way,” you said. “Not since INSIGHT. Not since Hydra.”

You glared in the direction from which Brock’s voice had issued, but still you could see no sign of him. Wherever you were, there were no windows. He had to be there, though; you hadn’t heard him move away or out. Sure enough, when he spoke again, he sounded close by:

“Don’t pretend that you leaving had anything to do with either of those.”

“Oh yeah? And why else would I leave you? Because you’re such a wonderful person, I’d be a fool not to stay?”

This time, the silence that stretched out after your final question lasted long enough for you to start wondering if Brock really was in there with you. He always did know how to stay silent and still–a boon working as the head of STRIKE–but even he had to shift sometimes, even he had to breathe. Maybe he had an intercom rigged up. You tried to hold your breath to listen for him again to no avail. Then you did hear a breath, a long, rattling almost laugh.

“Oh, I don’t know.” A click sounded just before the room was flooded with light. Your eyes snapped shut to avoid the pain that surged through your already throbbing head for what little good that did. “How about this?”

It took you a few seconds to force your eyelids back open. Sure enough, your left would hardly move. Through what remained of your field of vision, you could not see much through the sudden haze of light–not much outside of a dark shape in the corner of the huge room, that was. You blinked, and the figure came into focus: a dark-haired man sitting against a wall of security deposit boxes, and wearing thick, dark armor. As soon as your gaze reached his face, Brock grinned.

“Normally I wear the mask.” He stood, gesturing to a helmet sitting by his feet. It, too, was black, but with a skull blasted across its face in white paint. Then Brock kicked the mask to the side and strode purposely over to where you were clamped to the chair. “But I don’t need to wear it for you. No secrets between us, [Name]. Isn’t that right?”

Up close, you could see his features better even through your damaged eye. However you looked, you definitely looked better than Brock. His face was a twisted mass of reddened flesh. As you took his new appearance in, he drew closer, leering down at you. You shrank away, but all this did was make him chuckle.

“I thought so. Couldn’t stand to be with someone so ugly, could you?”

You swallowed thickly. “I didn’t see that before I left.”

Brock laughed again. “You’re a damn shitty liar. Always have been. You think I didn’t know? You think I was deaf and dumb under all those bandages? You think I had any delusions that my girl would stay by my side after Captain America demolished a building on top of my fucking face?!”

His voice rose in volume and intensity, and with each sentence, he thrust himself further into your personal space. You made yourself stay in place, though your heaving chest betrayed your fears.

“I left because you were working with Hydra, Brock,” you said, willing your voice to stay even. “Because I don’t want to be with a terrorist–”

“Terrorist!” he shouted, and for one blessed moment he stepped away from you. Unfortunately, he was soon back and closer than ever, his nose practically pressed to your own. “I’m a mercenary, sweetheart. I work for the highest bidder, and don’t you go pretending you’re not just the same as me.”

“I’m not like you. I don’t work for Hydra. I don’t work for SHIELD anymore either. I’m doing real work, good work, with the–”

“With the Avengers. Yeah. I heard.”

Despite his claims to have already known about your present employment, Brock appeared put off by the news. He turned away from you, pressed his hand to his mouth, and shook his head. You took advantage of his distraction to again attempt to get at least one hand out of your shackles. Too bad they seemed to be made for someone much, much stronger than you.

And then Brock was back, smiling so widely that his eyes turned to half-moons inside their scarred lids.

“I was good to you, wasn’t I? Brought you flowers, like a good boyfriend. Took you out for dinner. Walked you home from work, cuddled with you at night, bought your goddamn tampons! And what did it get me? What good did any of that do?”

To that you had no proper response. All you could do was stare, captivity momentarily forgotten in the light of the dawning realization that your ex-boyfriend had gone completely insane. Yes, Brock had done all of those things for you, for years. You had been happy with him for all those years. You had thought you’d been lucky to be with the guy that headed STRIKE, one of SHIELD’S golden boys, the most handsome man in the whole organization. All the same:

“I don’t date Nazis,” you snarled.

“Is that what you think I was? A Nazi?” Brock shook his head, but then seemed to drop the subject, his mind wandering as his dark eyes traveled up above your head. “Never let the higher ups take you in, either. Wasn’t like they didn’t want to. Good enough to be an Avenger, Agent [L Name]. Could’ve had you conditioned by someone who knew what they were doing, and we would have never been in this mess.”

“What mess?” you asked, if only to keep Brock talking. A little further, and you thought you might have a chance of dislocating your wrist just enough to slip out of Brock’s restraints.

Brock said nothing.

“Brock,” you said once more, “what mess?”

He seemed to only then remember you were there. His eyes drew slowly down until he was staring right into yours, seemingly oblivious to your desire to get free. “

Tell me you still love me, [Name],” he said, sounding almost normal.

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me you still love me,” he repeated. “Tell me you still love me, and none of this has to happen.”

“None of what has to happen?”

“Just tell me that you’ll take me back! The rest of it doesn’t matter. Just tell me that you still love me!”

You mustered all of your energy, looked Brock dead in the eye, and spat in his disgusting face. He froze.

“The man I fell in love with was just that–a man.,” you said breathlessly. “What are you? Some burnt shell, that’s all that left. Not even enough courage to take me on face to face. You’re pathe–”

One thickly gloved hand shot out viper-fast and put your jaw in a vice grip. Brock’s lips pulled back into a snarl that gave way to another laugh that raised the hairs on the back of your neck.

“Careful, [Name]. I brought you here to kill you. Don’t make my job too easy.” He winked, a gesture that you did not return. His smile faded as his fingers gripped your chin even tighter. “Either you’re leaving here mine, or you ain’t leaving here at all.”

“And what is that supposed to mean? You’ve been babbling since you got me here. Tell me what your plan is, if you’re so proud of it.”

He considered you for a long moment–too long. Your jaw ached; you could feel his fingers pressing bruises into your skin. At last, he released you, then gestured up to where he had been looking only a few minutes before.

“You’re sittin’ in a real special chair, darling,” he said as your own eyes traveled upward.

Your heart gave a great thud as you realized exactly where you were. You’d seen the Winter Soldier’s files, and unless you could get out of there, you were screwed.

“Brock–”

“See, this here bank’s a front for Hydra,” Brock went on as though he couldn’t hear you. Who knew? He was far gone enough that maybe he couldn’t. “But they dropped it like a hot potato after Rogers fucked over Project INSIGHT. Once upon a time, they used to strap Cap’s old war buddy into this and fry the living daylights out of his skull. Only saw it done a few times myself, but how hard could it be?”

“You wouldn’t.”

His new, predatory smile returned. “Wouldn’t I? How do you know I haven’t already done it? That’s what this setup is for, after all. Memory loss. And I want you back pretty damn bad.”

He had a good point. Your head definitely felt like it had been put through the ringer–but unless a lot more time had passed than your body could account for, you still had all your memories. In fact, you had enough memories to know that you weren’t about to beg this man for your life.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” you said in as dangerous a voice as you could muster.

Brock ignored you, walking over to where a very obvious lever had been installed near your chair. Before you could say anything more, he pulled it, and your chair–Bucky’s chair–shifted slowly backwards. The mechanism above your head jolted to life, then drifted down toward your head. Only then did Brock answer you:

“Who’s gonna come for you? SHIELD? Don’t make me laugh. They know about us. They’ll think you were in on it all along. A Nazi terrorist, just like you said. Always spouting the company line. And the Avengers?” Here he did laugh. “Think they got better things to care about than where you slipped off to in the middle of the night. Never got in the habit of staying in one place too long, did you?”

He was right. He was right, and what was worse, begging was beginning to seem a better and better option the longer the whirring in the chair went on. You rattled your wrists, rattled your ankles, arched your back to strain with all your strength against your bonds, but nothing moved or loosened. Of course it didn’t. This machine was built for a super soldier. What were you compared to Bucky Barnes?

Brock Rumlow’s haunting laugh started up again in nearby. His hand reached out to press your shoulder back hard against the backrest.

“Don’t worry so much, [Name],” he said. “I might not have the finesse to pick and choose what you forget, but it’ll all be over soon either way. When you wake up, we’ll either be back together or–well, you’ll believe that we are when I tell you. I’ve got big plans for us. Real big plans.”

You opened your mouth to retort. How, you didn’t really know–but any possibility of a retort vanished the very next second. All that came out of your lips was a scream as the surge of electricity from HYDRA’s brainwashing device slammed into your head. You opened your mouth again, and let out another scream. Brock chuckled one last time before he gave your shoulder a final squeeze.

“Welcome back to the dream team, [Name],” he said, but Brock Rumlow had vanished from your thoughts. The whole world had vanished from your thoughts. If you weren’t lucky, neither of them were ever coming back. Everything from there on out was pain and order, order and pain.

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itsclydebitches · 3 years ago

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Thoughts on RWBY and Community Driven Content

Hi, everyone! I wanted to toss in my two cents on the recent conversation sparked by Jakeysfics’ post (easily found in the RWDE tag. Apologies for not linking, but I believe Tumblr is still hiding posts with links?) and I decided to make a post of my own just to avoid adding to a bloated reblog chain. That, and I wanted to focus on an aspect other than the points others have already articulated. (Namely, the acknowledgement that conversation will inevitably grow stale after such a long hiatus and the problem with using offensive language—“circlejerking,” “proper analysis,” etc.—to make an otherwise valid point in a community who is small in part because of harassment.)

Taking a totally wild guess here, but I’m probably one of the “same two guys” people are sick of seeing in the RWDE tag, simply because I do tend to post daily, the majority of my posts are answering asks, and those asks tend to be quite repetitive in regards to their content. I want to be upfront in saying that I’ve been anxious about these things long before they were publicly called out. There was a period of time when I rarely used “RWDE” because I didn’t want to flood the tag with my posts, which led directly to non-RWDE fans leaving comments and asks going, “You need to put ‘RWDE’ on this. We don’t want to see it.” There are times when I tackle asks from the most recently submitted downwards, but there are other times when I’ll deliberately skip asks I want to answer because, “I already talked about this recently. People don’t want to hear about it again.” I’m also very aware of when I still get repetitive in my discussions, belaboring the same main points, using the same examples, offering the same advice to fix things in the future. More than once I’ve deleted asks I’ve spent the afternoon on, or left things to stagnate in the drafts folder, or just worry about reception after I’ve posted because damn, Clyde, don’t you have anything new to say?

I don’t mean for this post to come across as a pity party, or me looking for reassurance. Far from it. Rather, that anxiety and the recent, overt acknowledgement that at least one person is responding negatively in the way I’ve feared they would has made me question why I continue to do this kind of work anyway. Especially when, as established, the harassment can, at times, feel like it outweighs everything else (even though I also think that’s the anxiety talking, often blowing up a few, hostile voices to make them feel larger than they actually are). So if I’m aware of the problems with repetitious content, alongside that other, very large negative, why not just… stop? Or at least slow down and only post the “proper analysis” that might receive less heat from RWDE and non-RWDE alike?

Basically, this discussion made me think about why I write metas—specifically short, prompted metas like answering asks—and the answer I kept coming back to was, “Community.”

Sure, there are lots of other reasons to write out our thoughts (venting, understanding, scratching that itch), but none of those reasons are inherently responsive. If I wanted to write RWBY things solely to get them out of my head, I could scribble them in a personal journal and tuck it away. But I don’t. I post on a public, microblogging website because I hope that other people will interact with my posts and, as a result, help me form social ties that emotionally enrich my life. And it worked! Many of my closest friends on Tumblr are people I met through the RWBY fandom and my online social circle is filled with even more acquaintances whose [Pyrrha voice] “Hello!” in the form of likes, reblogs, comments, or asks absolutely lights up my day. I post because I want to connect.

Arguably, I want to connect more than I want to produce “good” content. I mean, obviously I want to do that too—they theoretically go hand-in-hand, with good work generating a larger audience to interact with—but if I’m ultimately prioritizing connection, asks are the ultimate example of what Tumblr has to offer in that regard. Someone took time out of their day to write me, wanting to spark a conversation. That’s amazing. What do I care if I’ve had this conversation before? Or if others don’t necessarily find watching our conversation to be the most interesting thing out of their day? My goal is to connect with them (however briefly and however “stupidly,” given that we’re talking about a webseries), not necessarily to craft a product that others find sufficiently entertaining. That would be like if someone came up to me irl and went, “Hey, Clyde! I just watched Buffy. Did you like the finale?” and my response was, “Sorry, but I already discussed that with another friend two days ago. And someone else last week. Plus, don’t you realize how old that show is? We’ve moved on! However, I recorded our conversation and you’re welcome to listen to it if you want. But if you want to discuss something with me, it’ll have to be new enough to fulfill the entertainment needs of anyone listening in.” That’s... weird, right? I can’t speak for anyone else, but my irl friendships are built on rehashing the same conversations and debates (especially now that the pandemic has severely limited our experiences. There’s little new in our lives to share). You’ve already heard about the time I got lost in Japan? You’ve already heard my thoughts about how great The Secret of Monkey Island is? You’ve already heard my rants about Moffat’s Doctor Who?

And I’m going to hear all the things I already know about you, presented in a slightly different way, with perhaps a slightly new perspective, with any repetition forgiven because it’s more about spending time with you than being entertained by the content itself. Why would online friendships function any differently?

Actually, I think I have an answer to that. We expect them to function differently because the evolution of the rest of the Internet has warped our idea of what Tumblr is all about. Meaning, I gain nothing from prioritizing “good” content over just interacting with people because I enjoy interacting with them. Producing new content to attract more followers will not land me advertising deals like it might on Instagram. Producing new content will not make me more appealing to a YouTube algorithm, leading to people sponsoring my work. This is not a Twitch stream where viewers are donating provided my vid is interesting enough to entertain them. I don’t even have a $1 Patreon connected to my metas. Basically, online content—even explicitly, copyrighted fandom content—has become so monetized that people approach any work with the mindset of, “What is this doing to entertain me? With the expectation that, if it’s good enough, I’ll give that creator money, or support that will somehow lead to money,” rather than, “There’s a content creator making cool stuff as a hobby. If I like them I’ll stick around, if not I’ll leave.” There’s no benefit to me agonizing over producing content that’s new and super polished (except for some kind of personal pride) because I don’t treat my RWBY-ing as a side job. Yet many people now treat fandom as a professional production that has failed if it’s not crafted with that audience enrichment in mind. I’ve seen this primarily in regards to fanfiction—Why isn’t your work at the standard of the increasing number of profics? Why aren’t you writing for the largest audience possible? How dare you create something that’s niche and primarily for you/your friend group?—but I’m seeing it crop up with metas too. Especially given RWBY critics’ prominent place on YouTube, there’s this pervasive sense that a fan has failed if they’re prioritizing content that they like, rather than catering to Patreons, or the top rated comment on the last vid.

And to be clear, I get it. 100%. There have been plenty of times when I’ve popped into the RWDE tag, hoping for something interesting to pass the time, and am then disappointed that people are still talking about the Thing I’m Not Interested In. Or there are only asks that rehash my exact thoughts on a matter. Or hell, there’s no new posts at all because, as said, this community has become a “circlejerk” largely because other, diverse voices have been scared away. RWDE has become a group made up of people who are a) into RWBY, b) are critical to one extent or another of RWBY, c) are stubborn enough to keep posting despite the harassment, d) choose to post on Tumblr (already a comparatively smaller site), and e) have the time and inclination to post with some frequency. With that number of caveats, is it any wonder that fans are saddled with the same, repetitive content? But even if RWDE were a massive, prolific group with a variety of voices… I’d still be spending a good chunk of my RWBY time answering asks because that’s one of the best and easiest ways to connect with others. I don’t post here because doing so will get me a paycheck, or earn me some sort of Internet clout (can you imagine trying to brag that you’re “famous” on Tumblr? LOL). I do it because I love fan communities, I love RWBY, and I love when those two things slam together for a good time in this hellish, pandemic-ridden world. Creating posts that others would consider appropriately unique works of written art comes secondary because I have no incentive to prioritize that over my own enjoyment. That’s why things like commissions exist. The artist draws what they want to draw up until someone says, “I’ll pay you to draw this specific thing that I’m looking for.” Or the positive response from the community is worth drawing something you’re meh about: “I don’t care for this ship, but these hundreds of people are so happy to see it so sure, it’s a gift!” The Tumblr RWDE community is not paid and a large chunk of the fandom is hostile to any work we produce, so there’s no reason to post anything other than precisely what we want. If others are (understandably) unhappy with the echo chamber this produces, they need to make the change. Start producing the content you want to see and help to make the community more welcoming so that others, in turn, feel like posting “proper analysis” (which, notably, takes far longer and is far more work) will get them something other than an anonymous message saying to kill themselves.

Basically, I answer asks about the same things because clearly, people care enough about those things to keep sending in asks. Sometimes repetition occurs because someone just got into the fandom, or doesn’t realize I have discussed this before… but more often than not, it’s just because people want to connect over shared ideas, even if we’ve already connected over them in the past. You like talking about this thing, I like talking about this thing, who cares if we’ve talked about it together before? Let’s do it again and have some fun.

#suicide tw #rwde #rwby #fandom #writing #mymetas

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nomsugayoongi · 3 years ago

Text

Off My Face.

Pairing: Jungkook X OC female (nameless)

Tags: fluff, slight angst, eventual smutty smut, softJK.

Disclaimer: So, I literally created a Tumblr to post this mess. There are already a bunch more parts written which I can post if wanted. Haven't written anything in ages so be nice and forgive my overwhelming JK softness. :p

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Who's that?" She asked, leaning against the wall next to Namjoon. He raised an eyebrow as he scanned the room, clearly confused. "Who?" He replied. "The purple haired dude that just walked in. Over there by the door. Black jacket." She muttered, squinting through the darkness. Namjoon chuckled and looked at her like she was crazy. "What do you mean? It's Jungkook." He said.

She gasped and squinted even harder. "Eh??" She squeaked. "That's not Jungkook. Look at the hair. It's...long, and there's way more tattoos there than Jungkook has and..." Her rebuttal died mid sentence as Mystery Purple Hair moved out of the shadows of the doorway and she saw him clearly. It was indeed Jungkook but he looked...different. She'd only been gone a couple of months but apparently that was all it took for Jungkook to transform himself. He looked...older. He appeared to have shed his "puppy" look and what was stood across the room from her was nothing but man. Hot man. Jungkook scanned the room, stopping to talk briefly to Jin before he caught sight of her. His face broke into its token bunny smile and he said something to Jin who nodded before he made his way across the room. "You're back!" He grinned. She gulped quickly, paying absolutely no attention to the nose dive her stomach was currently doing into her shoes as he approached her. "I'm back" she confirmed, returning his smile. He strode straight over, scooping her up into a bear hug. "How was England? Did you miss us? Are you happy to be back?" Jungkook asked, setting her back on the floor and pulling back. She nodded. "Massively. England was...England. Cold, wet, grey, joyless. But nevermind that, what happened to you? Someone leave you alone with a Sharpie?" She teased, pulling his right arm out by then wrist and turning it over to indicate his new ink. He chuckled. "I like them" he shrugged. She glanced up, catching his big brown eyes then gasped again. A silver bar now pierced his eyebrow. "And you've poked holes in your face. Was nobody watching the maknae while I was away?" She teased. Jungkook rolled his eyes and grinned. "Welcome home" he said, pulling her into another hug. She spent the evening catching up with her boys. Laughing riotously, eating great food, regluing herself to Suga's side and wondering why she ever felt the need to go back to England. If anything, the trip back to her country of origin had done nothing more than cement the fact that there was nothing there for her anymore. Her life was here. Her family was here. Her family was the people all gathered in this house. She felt utterly content and beyond happy to be back. However, there was a niggling little something that was putting a crimp on her perfect homecoming. She could not, for the life of her, pry her mind off Jungkook. And as the evening drew to a close and one by one, the guys started retreating to their rooms, the noise died down and her thoughts got louder. What had happened to him? What had happened to her that she couldn't focus on anything but him. He was just Jungkook. She'd known him years. He was one of her family. He meant the same to her as the others. But her mind was screaming and his name was the only thing it was saying. It was approaching 3am. Suga had passed out hours ago and was fast asleep sprawled along one side.of the corner sofa next to her. The room was in total darkness except for the flicker of light from the TV screen. Namjoon was half asleep on her other side. Hobi, Jin, and Jimin had gone to bed already. V was sat at a table opposite tucking into some Ramen with Jungkook. Both engrossed in their conversation and their noodles, she allowed herself to study him in the flickering light. His hair was considerably longer than when she last saw him and now coloured a deep purple, Contrasting strongly against his flawless skin and framing his face perfectly, then resting just above his shoulders. Her urge to run her fingers though it was making her hands restless and she fidgeted uncomfortably on the sofa. She swallowed hard, her eyes skipping over his features. Pretty brown eyes, newly pierced eyebrow which really suited him, cute nose, sensual, slightly pouty lips that broke into the most disarming smile, strong jawline, slender neck. She tried to swallow past her increasingly dry mouth as she became painfully aware of her heartbeat, thudding more and more erratically the longer she looked at him. She reprimanded herself silently, arguing in

her mind that this was ridiculous. He was Jungkook. It didn't matter that her stomach rolled uncomfortably every time he looked at her. It didn't matter that she wanted to trace every line of the dark ink that snaked his arm with her fingertips. It didn't matter that all she could think about was running her nose slowly along his jawline, inhaling the scent of his skin as she clenched his soft, long hair in her fingers. It didn't matter that there was nothing she wanted more than to disappear in him. Her nose brushing his, close enough to feel his warm breath between them, his lips parted, hers skimming gently along his, hot, heavy breath, the pressure of his soft lips yielding to hers, the taste of his tongue. His hands, strong, firm, sliding slowly down her back, hitching up her shirt to touch skin as he pulled her closer. Her eyes fluttered, her breath caught in her throat, stomach churning. What the hell? It was Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook. This couldn't be happening. She snapped back into herself so suddenly she wondered if she'd actually fallen asleep. Her heart was racing. Tae and Jungkook were looking at her when her eyes finally focused on a solid object. "Bad dream?" Tae asked with an amused smile. "Did I fall asleep?" She muttered, genuinely confused. She kept her gaze locked firmly on Tae. She could see Jungkook out of the corner of her eye but was terrified that whatever had just happened to her was written all over her face. "Well you just jumped out of your skin so I figured you had." He replied. Her face was burning. She could practically still feel Jungkook, smell him, taste him. She needed to get out of here. She jumped up, causing Suga whose head had been resting against her knee to flop unceremoniously back onto the sofa, waking him with a start. "HUH? He yelped. "Erm....sorry Shugs" she muttered, ruffling her hair and trying to get her bearings while still carefully avoiding looking at Jungkook at all. "I need to go...pass out" she grumbled, heading straight for the stairs without looking back. She knew that exit was highly suspicious but once into the safety of her room, she didn't care. She leaned against the door, bracing it with her body as though she expected someone to try kick it in. The air was cool and refreshing thanks to the open window and she breathed steadily, trying to return her thumping heart to a regular rhythm. "Oh this is not good!" She whispered. --------------------------------------------------------------------- The following morning came far too quickly after a restless night. She just couldn't settle. Her stomach was in knots. What the hell had happened last night? What was that half awake fantasy business and why was it replaying in her mind like an iMax movie with full surround sound and smell-o-vision. She dreaded leaving the confines of her room for fear of running into him. Just the thought of seeing him made her stomach churn. "This is stupid!" She grumbled to herself, throwing her legs off the bed defiantly. "I will not be a prisoner in this god damn room for nothing. Last night was...a one off. Everything is fine. I will go downstairs, I will see Jungkook and he will just be Jungkook. No weird romance movie slideshow, no flutterings, thoughts or desires of any kind. Just...normal" Even she didn't really believe her whispered self pep talk but she feigned conviction anyway. She slid out of bed, pulled on ripped jeans and a hoodie and approached her bedroom door. With a deep breath, she reached for the handle and practically threw herself out of her room. Her determination was not only building by the second but she was also flooded with a sense of defiance. She jogged down the stairs, ready for the day ahead. Looking forward to hanging out with the boys and having a lazy day. She could hear the faint murmer of chatter as she approached the kitchen. Hobi was up for sure and maybe Namjoon. She strode into the kitchen with a bright smile. "Morning guys!" She was greeted with a chorus of responses and scanned the room. Hobi making coffee. Namjoon leaning on the

counter. Suga slumped at the kitchen table. Jimin and Tae chatting as they poured orange juice. No Jungkook. She ignored the wave of relief and made a beeline for Suga, ruffling his hair as he grumbled sleepily against the table top. "Morning Shugs" she grinned. Namjoon was looking at her quizically. "You seem...better today" he mused. She raised a questioning eyebrow at him as she squeezed passed Hobi for the coffee pot. "Better?" He nodded with a look of amusement. "You were...weird yesterday. Not yourself. You seemed...distracted." he said. She shrugged and shook her head. "Jetlag probably. I felt kind of out of it to be honest. Just needed to be home and sleep" she replied, nonchalantly. Namjoon wasn't buying it at all and she could tell by the look on his face but he nodded as though he accepted her reasoning. She stayed in the kitchen with the guys, filling them in on her trip back to England and what had happened during the 3 months away. She got so caught up in it that she didn't think about Jungkook at all. That was, until he came down. She was halfway through her bowl of cereal when he padded into the kitchen. Barefoot in black shorts and an oversized white t shirt showing off his tattoos. His long hair deliciously tousled. He was still sleepy eyed but he looked warm and...inviting. She dropped her spoon, clattering loudly against the table making everyone turn and look at her. "Whoops. Butter fingers" she mumbled sheepisly. Everyone carried on with what they were doing apart from Namjoon who was looking from her to Jungkook with a smirk. "Jetlag come back?" He teased. She could feel the heat rising to her face and hoped to every deity under the sun that she wasn't blushing. "Never dropped anything before?" She questioned. He shrugged and chuckled playfully. His gaze was casual but she felt like he could see every thought in her head. She pushed her half eaten cereal bowl away from her and leaned back in her chair. She was trying to look casual but had an inkling that she was failing miserably. Suddenly Jungkook was right behind her, leaning over the back of her chair to reach for her unfinished cereal. His hair tickled the side of her face and the faint fruity smell she associated with him flooded over her. Her breath caught sharply. Her heart kicking into double time. It lasted literally seconds but it seemed like an age before he straightened up with his stolen breakfast. He flashed her a bunny smile and wandered over to the fridge to grab milk. She realised she'd been holding her breath the entire time and let out a quiet huff. Namjoon's smirk had turned into a full blown grin. Flustered, she stood from the table and exited the kitchen. Maybe she'd find some solace in the lounge. She flopped wearily onto the sofa, closing her eyes and exhaling slowly. Damn. It didn't make any sense. How in the hell had Jungkook turned from bunny to honey overnight. A few more tattoos, an eyebrow piercing and slightly longer hair didn't change him that dramatically. He was still the exact same Jungkook she'd known for years. But...he wasn't. He was hot. Like...painfully, sinfully, stomach clenchingly hot. Had he always been this hot and she'd just not noticed? She knew he was attractive in the general sense. She worked for BTS. She saw the effect he had on women every day of her life. But... she'd never been one of them. He was just...adorable, sweet, regular Jungkook. Now one trip to England had turned the world on its head and there was nothing regular about him. She groaned with annoyance, closing her eyes. She was going to be objective about this if it killed her. She'd always been close to all the guys. Each one had a different facet to their personality that made them so very dear to her. Yoongi was a part of her. She loved him completely. Namjoon was her confidante. She could talk about anything with him and absolutely trust that he'd never give her anything back but honesty and understanding. Jimin was her sunshine. He could brighten the darkest of days with no effort. Tae was her sweetheart. One of the most

genuine, lovely people she'd ever known. Hobi and Jin made her laugh until she couldn't breathe on days when laughter seemed a million miles away. And Jungkook was a bunny. Sweet, playful, easy going, her gaming buddy. They were all integral to her. But NEVER in a romantic sense. It seemed almost laughable to her to put romance and any one of them in the same place. It just wasn't that thing. Ever. They were family. More than simple, fleeting romance. They were her ride or die. None of the others had changed a bit. She still loved them completely. She'd still die for any one of them. But now Jungkook wasn't so much tiptoeing as stomping in huge obnoxious boots into a whole new territory for her. Him and romance seemed intrinsically linked. They went together like water and ...more water. She couldn't even look at him without her mind throwing up a million different scenarios, none of which were located even remotely near the friend zone. She pictured him as he was when he walked into the kitchen. Objectively, that was just early morning after not a lot of sleep Jungkook. Not like she hadn't seen him like that a thousand times before. But this morning he was different. Sleepy, disheveled, soft and warm, relaxed, comforting and so so sexy. Jungkook and sexy were not two words that went together. Now she couldn't separate the two if her life depended on it. God, he was sexy. Like, lose all thought, toe curling, scream into a pillow sexy. Her mind raced, presenting her with thoughts to only fuel the fire. Him laid in bed, languid and comfortable, snuggling into him, feeling his body heat, legs entwined, burying her face into the back of his neck, smelling his hair as he grumbles happily, rolling towards her with a sleepy smile, his eyes still closed, skimming his fingertips up her arm until they stop on her neck, his thumb slowly stroking along her jaw, his lips meet hers in a lazy kiss, still halfway between sleep and waking, sweet to begin with, gentle, his lips brushing softly as he's pulled from his sleep, then teasing as he realises what's going on, his lips part, his tongue tickling her lips, asking for entry which is happily granted. His hand moves from her neck back down her arm until he finds her hand. Their fingers entwine as he rolls her onto her back and straddles her, lifting her hands to pin them either side of her head. He's more forceful now, tongues brushing together, his kiss deep and heady. A soft moan of contentment rumbles in his throat. He breaks the kiss, her eyes flutter open to see him on top of her, hair falling into his eyes as he scrunches his nose up in a wide smile. "Good morning" he whispers. "Everything ok?" A voice broke her from her daydream and her eyes snapped open. Namjoon was stood in the doorway of the lounge with the same grin he'd been sporting when she'd left the kitchen. "Peachy. Why?" She responded with a tight smile. "You're being weird again. If I didn't know better I'd think you and Jungkook hooked up" he shrugged. "WHAT?" she squeeked. Her attempt at casual fell completely flat. She sounded more like she'd just been stung by a bee. Namjoon laughed heartily. "Something's going on. What it is?" He questioned. She considered brushing it off but this was Namjoon. He could read her like a children's book. She swallowed hard, suddenly needing to say everything in her head out loud to a human person. Maybe that would make her realise how dumb it was and restore her sanity. She sighed heavily and noticing the expression on her face, Namjoons grin faded into a look of concern. "Can we talk?" She muttered. He frowned, nodding. "Of course. What is it?" He asked. She looked around and ran her fingers though her hair. "Not here. Outside?"

#jungkook #jungkook x reader #jjk #bts namjoon #bts fanfic #bts #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #bts ot7

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light-yaers · 4 years ago

Text

No Saints: Chapter One

This content is explicit and is 18+

Warnings: Graphic sexual content, violence, implied effects of PTSD, death and explicit language.

Read on Ao3 here | Fic Masterpost

A/N: Hey everyone! So, after some consideration, I’ve also decided to post each No Saints chapter on individual Tumblr posts, as well as Ao3. I know some people like reading things on Tumblr and it must just seem easier if there are actual chapters uploaded to here as well. I’ll be posting them all over the next few days and then we’ll be all caught up!

This also means that I can now have a TAG LIST, so if you’d like to be notified for when Chapter Nine comes out, then please tell me and I’ll tag you when I update next.

Once again please excuse any small spelling or grammar mistakes. No beta we die like men.

Word Count - 7.3k

Chapter One

Working as a mechanic on Nevarro didn’t often gift you the visual of friendly faces, and that was no different with the Mandalorian—he never showed his face. You wouldn’t know his smile even if he decided to wake up one day without slotting Beskar all over his body.

But you knew his stance, the broadness of his shoulders, his preference for short range blasters with the safety close enough for his index finger to reach before firing at will. You didn’t really know people on Nevarro, but you knew their weapon of choice.

It was knowledge that had ended up being valuable, both to your survival, and to that of the Mandalorian.

“I’ll pay you for this information,” He offered bluntly. He never begged, nor did he show his true emotions within his modulated voice very often. The only vague emotion you’d seen him give off was anger—seething and insatiable— the first time he’d ever approached you for a repair.

“What good will this information give you?” You asked, genuinely. “I don’t know their names, this is hunter country. No one ever gives away their identity,”

“A weapon needs someone doing the firing,” He replied simply.

You agreed to his terms, partly from the initial fear that he would harm you, think you to be working against the Guild, but also from the generous sum he was willing to give you for every piece of information you passed onto him.

And thus, began a sort-of partnership that you’d never expected.

You were no saint. You knew the damage done by the goods you willingly sold to trained killers, assassins, Guild members. You saw the bodies dragged from their ships to the Guild, you saw the bounties that went out, kicking and screaming and spitting at their captors—

You saw the blood and dirt and flakes of flesh with every weapon upgrade or repair, but now, you didn’t bat an eye. It was business, it was your livelihood, and it was good money, thanks this this agreement with the Mandalorian that you’d made a while back.

Mando arrived back on Nevarro every few weeks. His condition was always subject to review; sometimes he flowed through your doors, ready for a quick exchange; other times, he took his time with it, sitting opposite you as you went through the recent repair logs, discussing the types of people that came through your doors.

Over the months, however, he always ended up sticking around for longer periods of time. Whether it was from earlier exhaustion, or the normalcy of having a conversation that didn’t end in bloodshed, you didn’t mind. He was the only constant in your life, splitting up your weeks and months when, before, honest interaction had basically been at zero.

“Are you not worried?” He asked one evening. It was late, and your shop was technically closed. You’d awoken to the subtle clicks of your entrance being lockpicked, hoisting yourself out of bed in nothing but your nightwear and grabbing the blaster you kept by your pillow.

You’d rushed to the shop front, aiming your blaster right at his chrome covered head. He’d raised his hands immediately, not once going for his own weapon. The feeling in the pit of your stomach as you lowered your weapon hadn’t been one of anxiety, but of warmth—he trusted you enough not to grab his weapon, not to even incline that he was going to shoot you.

“Worried about what?” You replied, flicking through the logbook.

“A bounty escaping, knowing that you shared this information,” You stopped flicking through the pages, freezing slightly where you sat opposite him. You sensed his sudden unease, deciding to look up directly into his visor.

“Tell me this, Mando,” You began. “What’s my name?”

He looked at you blankly, but you liked to imagine what facial expression he pulled beneath his helmet. In this moment, you imagined he was almost panicking, trying desperately to think back at what your name could be. It’d been over six months, yet names were never properly discussed. His silence proved that he’d just realised this.

“See? You don’t know it. My face is somewhat known here, sure, but my name? I try not to share it as much as you try not to show your face,” You sent him a raised brow smirk. Innately, you felt you had a responsibility to come across stronger than you looked, which is why you shoved down those subtle flickers of anxiety that arose from his question.

Sure, you had those doubts, anyone would. But living on Nevarro, doing what you did, it was an element of the job that you simply had to expect. You suspected Mando also knew that feeling well.

“You’re single-handedly keeping me in business, Mando,” You chuffed, almost sadly, but kept up an unbothered attitude. “I wasn’t going to turn this down and all these months down the line, no matter the danger, wouldn’t change that.” You ended, and you could have sworn you heard him breathe out, almost as if he was relieved that you knew these conditions from the beginning.

You kept flicking through the logbook, until you finally stumbled across a repair. “Here it is,” You perked up, shuffling yourself round so Mando could see the book over your shoulder. Your index finger grazed the page, just underneath the line he was looking for. “Repaired his blaster pistol last month. He didn’t look like a hunter, more like a scared blurrg, from what I can recall,”

“Young? Old?” Mando questioned.

“On the young side, definitely. Looked more like a runaway than anything else,” You added, feeling a strange pang of guilt in your chest. Usually, you divulged the weapon information of other hunters gone rogue, wanted by the Guild; assassins and thieves, or whatever other dirt washed up on Nevarro and in your shop.

This, however—you remembered him. He was young, he was scared, shaking like a newly born calf when he’d bumbled into your shop.

“That fits the bill,” Mando stated, before rising from his seat. You followed suit, making your way back round your front work desk and slotting the logbook beneath it. You tried to keep your expression blunt when you turned back to him, but you couldn’t help the wave of overthinking that landed in your brain.

You stared at him, leaning against the desk until your shoulders rose to cover your neck. You couldn’t stop yourself from letting out a sigh, but evidently that was enough for you to get the Mandalorian’s attention.

“What?” He spoke harshly, in the same old modulated boom you were used to hearing. You forced yourself to stay still, trying desperately to find his eyes beneath the abyss of his dark visor, but of course it was no use.

“Don’t break into my shop next time,” You diverted your emotions. “Just knock if it’s after hours,”

Mando nodded once, the moonlight gleaming off the chrome that surrounded his face for just a second, before disappearing once more. He shuffled a leather gloved hand through his satchel for just a few seconds, before approaching you at the work desk.

Unceremoniously, he placed your pay in front of you, each credit dropping with a small ping against the metal surface.

“See you,” Mando said bluntly. You nodded in return, before the Beskar covered man left your shop swiftly, shutting your door gently on his way out. You stared at the credits disapprovingly, before going to relock the door behind him.

You forced yourself to shuffle through your pay, counting the credits so you could note them in your budget, but you furrowed your brows as you finished rounding them up. You must have counted them wrong—there were an extra five hundred credits than what you’d agreed with the Mandalorian all those months ago.

Shaking your head, you went about recounting them, only to get to the same exact outcome. Was it an honest mistake in his counting, or had he overpaid you? Tipped you, helped you, heard the way your voice had almost faltered when you’d told him he was keeping you afloat?

You were awash with a new type of conflict—somewhere between thanks and extreme anger. The thanks were certain; he’d listened, and he hadn’t needed to do that, but he’d done it anyway. The anger; this implied you owed him now. As much as you’d come to enjoy his occasional visits every few weeks, the man was still an utter mystery to you. You didn’t want him to have the option of springing up in here and asking for a favour, knowing that he’d done one for you prior.

But there was still a warmth—it came subtly and out of the blue often, when you were around him. You could have slapped yourself at how fast it came this time round, taking you by surprise and speeding your heart rate up beneath your ribs.

He’s a bounty hunter. Get over it.

You placed your usual cut in your savings bundle, in the safe by your bed, but the extra five hundred stayed out of that bag. You shuffled back into bed with no indication of tiredness flooding over you again. All you saw in the static darkness of your grimy bedroom was the outline of that damn helmet—

And the wonder of what lay beneath.

The next week and a half was long and soul-crushingly slow. You’d had about three repair requests total, completing them all in a matter of hours, not making more than a few thousand credits from the sales. Nevarro had seemed restless recently, with less hunters returning to the Guild for more pucks. Maybe it was just a slow week.

Mando arrived back in the evening again, after you closed your doors early for the weekend. The sunlight trickled over Nevarro sparsely, but that evening was particularly warm, so you decided to have some fun.

Your shop had a back courtyard, nothing major, but you’d transformed it into a mini-firing range a year or so back. You were firing a classic blaster when you heard him approach from behind you—you jumped out of your skin at the sight of him, blaster raised, defensive stance donned.

“I told you to knock, Mando,” You boomed out, clutching your heart and switching the safety on your blaster immediately. Mando raised his arms in subtle apology, but you could have sworn you saw the subtle shake of his shoulders beneath the Beskar.

“You sounded... busy,” He spoke, and you squinted at him, feeling your cheeks flushing. The bastard was laughing. He was silently giggling beneath his helmet, the only indication of his lapse of stoicism being from the tiniest movement of his chest and shoulders, almost indecipherable.

You shot him an amused scowl. “Did you—,”

“I locked it,” He replied, already knowing what you were asking. You gulped down surprise at his immediate response, turning back to your makeshift firing range and trying desperately to calm yourself down.

Now, you were a strong woman, that was no question. But the constant mystery of the last six months in Mando’s presence had provided you with more than you’d bargained for. Was it a reflex to suddenly feel invested in this guy’s life after a while? To want to know his backstory, his missions, his favourite breakfast food or blaster style?

The extra credits from your previous trade had only increased these feelings. What was it about a man in a mask? Or, more specifically, what was it about Mando?

And now, as you awkwardly struggled with the safety on a blaster you’d been firing since you were twelve fucking years old, all you could think about was the tone of his voice as he’d said I locked it.

“You shoot?” Mando questioned, moving round to stand next to you. You shot him a smirk, trying to conceal the thoughts within your head.

“I don’t just repair blasters, if that’s what you mean,” You could have cringed at how cocky you’d sounded, but it was too late.

“Show me,” He spoke. He didn’t demand it, but the way his voice arched it was as if he could make anyone do anything he said, just from the steadiness of that modulated drawl.

You did as you were told. You shook off your limbs subtly, before flicking off the safety and aiming at the targets you’d made. In flashes of green, you hit one, two, three targets with ease, right in the centre of their bullseye.

You changed it up, feeling a surge of confidence, or perhaps the want to impress this stoic man. Skilfully, you flipped the blaster in your hands until it had transferred to your other hand, firing another three times on the same targets and hitting them dead centre once more.

Your index finger clicked the safety on, before you stood in place, admiring the shots you’d fired.

“Try this one,” He said beside you, before he plucked the blaster from your hand and replaced it with this own weapon. You looked it over as it slotted into your grasp. It was heavier than yours, bigger, with a more distanced safety, probably because of the hand width that the Mandalorian possessed.

You furrowed your brows at his blaster, smiling at the way the steel glinted. It was well cared for, polished and gleaming, but slightly worn away around the trigger. Well-used. His own personalised weapon.

You raised the blaster towards the targets, all too aware of the way that chrome helmet was tilted towards you. You steadied your arm, applying just the right amount of pressure against the trigger, before it fired in quick succession—

You analysed the blast fire, the weight, the wind, fixing your trajectory upon impact with the trigger in a matter of milliseconds. When you stopped firing, overseeing the new collection of burning holes in the targets, you realised you’d hit them all dead centre again.

To your delight, or to your utter amazement, Mando let out a low, long whistle from beneath his Beskar.

“That’s a custom weapon,” He spoke afterwards, moving to stand before you. “Not many people could change their shooting style like that to fit the blast radius,” It was the closest thing to a compliment that you’d ever heard him offer.

You stayed silent as he replaced his blaster with your own once more, sheathing his weapon before his visor looked straight into your soul. It was shameful, how you realised you could probably stand there and analyse the chiselled and curved edges of his helmet for hours, how if you focused strongly, you could see him breathing beneath his heavy armour.

You forced yourself to step back, looking back towards the shop. “Right—business,” You said, heading inside immediately with Mando following on your tail.

You dropped your blaster on your work desk, grabbing the logbook and getting ready to flick through it once more, before Mando spoke up.

“I seek no information today,” He revealed. You froze, before slotting the logbook back beneath the desk slowly, trying to wrap your mind around his reason for visiting you.

“Okay,” You said, upon rising from beneath the desk once more. All of a sudden, you remembered his money—burning a hole in the safe in your room. You perked up, slapping your hands on the desk for lack of what the fuck to even do before getting round to almost scolding this man. “Then, I have a bone to pick with you,”

Mando dropped himself onto his usual stool, flicking his cape behind him and leaning back in subtle comfort. You swallowed, trying not to interpret anything from his clearly at ease behaviour, before heading to your bedroom quickly.

“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” He spoke up from the shop floor, and your heart skipped. Was that an attempt at a joke? At some comedy? You had to stop yourself, as you got to the floor and riffled through your safe for his overpaid credits, from allowing a warmth to spread through your gut.

You wanted to curse, as loud as you could. Had it really been that long that you were getting flustered over words from a Mandalorian? Undoubtedly the most hostile and unwelcoming people the galaxy had?

Or, was it just Mando himself that had you overthinking every sentence, every visit?

Credits secured in your fist, you made your way back out to the shop, dropping yourself opposite him and grabbing his arm suddenly, not stopping to think that this man could probably break you in half with his bare hands.

You dropped the credits in his gloved hand, sitting back as he stared at the pellets he now cradled in his palm.

“Not what we agreed,” Is all you said in explanation, picking up a tankard of water and sipping some down your throat, for lack of knowing how to cover up your neon cheeks after the exchange. The weather. It’s just the heat.

“I upped your pay,” He retorted.

“Bullshit, Mando,” You retaliated, allowing a few chuckles to escape your lips. Your face softened then, as you looked over to him, sitting awkwardly, still not knowing what to do with the returned credits. “Your money is your money, Mando. I’m fine with what we agreed,”

His fingers finally clasped around the credits, as his body went back to relax against the wall once more.

“Your shop,” Mando began. “You said I keep you in business,”

“That doesn’t mean I want more of your credits. Owning a washed-up weapons repair shop on kriffing Nevarro isn’t ideal, but neither is being a bounty hunter,”

“You’d earn more as a hunter with the way you shoot,” Mando replied instantly. You perked your brow, sending him a small smile.

“Are you saying I’m not a good weapons mechanic?”

You almost burst out laughing with the way Mando straightened himself, immediately being on edge. His fists tightened, almost as if he was suddenly overthinking if he’d insulted you or not.

“N-no,” He partially stuttered out, but you couldn’t keep your laughter contained. You burst out in giggles, overseeing his complete lack of sarcastic understanding. It was endearing; it made him appear more human.

“Joke, Mando. It was a joke,”

He relaxed after that once more, albeit more hesitantly. He went to slot the credits back in his bag placed on the floor, and as he did so, you allowed yourself to indulge. Beskar gleamed as he leant down, showing the twist of his torso and outlining strong triceps on the small amount of him that was unarmoured.

His neck was slender, compared to the size of his helmet. You wondered how the hell he wore that thing constantly. It didn’t look light, nor did you expect it to be all that comfortable.

If he saw you gawking when he rose once more, he didn’t make any indication of noticing. To avoid revealing what you’d been doing, you moved to cross your legs as a save. “So, why’re you here?” You finally asked, remembering that he had no reason to have visited you.

Mando tensed up slightly at your question, but not enough to come across as surprised. He’d already admitted to not needing information from you today.

“Habit,” He replied honestly. His one-word answer cut through you like a knife, striking your core and filling it with that warmth one again. It wasn’t often that you felt exposed, but sat opposite him, in your home, hearing him be so unapologetically honest had simply made those thoughts rise to the forefront of your mind once more.

You wanted to know him, but you also knew that asking him these things would result in nothing good.

You forced yourself to swallow down these rising wants, to push them away completely, before putting on a small smile. “That’s a funny way of saying that I’m your only friend,”

All effort to force those feelings away dissolved, as soon as you heard the low, modulated chuckles from beneath his helmet. They floated through the room, along with the image of his shaking shoulders and tight chest as his laughter tumbled to the floor.

You felt your cheeks flush immediately, knowing that it would be a noticeable blush. You grabbed your tankard, bringing it to your lips as you continued to indulge in looking at him, as he calmed down from the small burst of laughter that he allowed himself to show you.

There was something pulsing within you that you simply couldn’t contain; that want; that desire, after so long without knowing anyone on this godforsaken planet. Before you could stop yourself, words were already tumbling from your mouth.

“I don’t see many people on this planet, besides you,” You admitted. Mando slowly turned his visor to you, making it known that you had his full attention.

You immediately felt too vulnerable, resulting in you standing from your seat and heading round to your work desk, slamming the tankard down on the top. “It’s... well, it’s nice. I hope that, even if you don’t need information, you continue to come by,”

You held your breath as soon as you stopped talking, too afraid that you’d overstepped a line. Not that this transaction with him had ever been professional, but you knew Mandalorian’s were inherently focused on their job, and their job only.

When he didn’t reply, or move, or do anything, you started to panic. You played it off as best as you could, by downing the rest of the water in your tankard and averting your gaze to beneath your work desk, like you had the immediate need to start taking inventory.

Mando rose a few moments later, grabbing his satchel and placing it over his shoulder. The breath caught in your throat as he approached your desk. You almost gasped as a gloved hand reached for your forearm, dragging it out to hover in front of him.

He dropped the five hundred credits into your palm as your eyes flicked over his helmet at light speed. He stepped back, removing his grip from you and placing his visor upon your face one last time, before turning on his heels and heading for the door.

He unlocked it, but didn’t open it. You felt your pounding heartbeat as he cleared his throat.

“It is,” He let out lowly. “Nice.”

The door swooped open and shut behind him gently before you could say anything in return.

He didn’t come back the next week. You wondered if you’d scared him off, if your tiny confession of enjoying his company was too much.

You thought back to the way he’d said the word— Nice— as if it wasn’t something that was often spoken in his vocabulary. For a man of little words, you were increasingly amazed at how he managed to convey things with his body alone, being weighed down and covered up by Beskar at all times.

The credits still weighed on you. You’d given them back to him, you’d made yourself clear, but then he’d given them back and left without a trace.

You prayed to some god out there that it wasn’t a Mandalorian way of saying goodbye. From what you knew of Mandalore, which was very little, you knew they weren’t the gift giving types, but it still made you think.

Yet all that he’d done, despite the deal, the trade of information and the abrupt middle of the night awakenings, those small attempts at light-hearted banter and void visits had given you just a shred of hope.

People on Nevarro were cut-throat, you knew that better than most after making your home there for so long. That’s why this shook you to your core, sparking this unlikely partnership with someone such as Mando.

Stars, you missed him. It sounded ridiculous when you said it in your head, but you did. Contact was little to none on this planet.

You didn’t speak more than a sentence to people needing repairs. You didn’t sit down and talk, and fuck, the loneliness was something you were used to— yet six months of regular meetings, even just to trade information, had offered you a warmth you hadn’t realised you’d missed—

Until he was gone.

It wasn’t until three weeks later that you ventured out of the shop, certain that you were going mad. You hardly frequented the bar at the entrance of the city, choosing to stay safe and locked away in your small isolation inside the shop, but the absence of people was sucking you dry.

You entered the bar, making sure not to seem out of place. It was still an odd feeling, seeing people sitting around and drinking. You knew a lot of the locals— returning customers for repairs, all of which were hunters.

Perhaps there was some unspoken understanding that you weren’t to be touched, as the small nods of hunters hit you when you accidentally met their eyes. It almost made you feel known, but at the same time you hadn’t felt much since that last conversation with the Beskar clad hunter.

You were heading towards the bar when a voice rang out behind you. “Miss!” You swivelled on your heels, hitting his eyes.

It was Greef Karga. You knew him, everyone on Nevarro did. He was the Guild contact here, the one that most hunters got their pucks from for the next job.

“Karga, hello,” You replied, not politely, but not harshly. Being polite got you nowhere on Nevarro, and you knew that despite his smiles and willingness to be friendly, Karga was a snake in the grass.

“Drink?” He questioned, and you found yourself accepting his offer. You made your way to his booth, slotting yourself in opposite him. He grabbed a bottle of blue liquor from the floor by his feet, clicking at the droid behind the bar for glasses. “What brings you here? You don’t usually venture from your establishment,”

You regarded him, all too aware of the blaster on your hip for safety.

“Slow few weeks. Fancied a change of scenery,” You replied bluntly.

“Ah yes, business is slower than usual currently,” He admitted. A droid placed two shot glasses on your table, scuttling back to the bar. Karga swiped them towards him, uncorking the bottle and filling up both glasses. “But your repairs are stellar, and I hear your custom blasters are best sellers,”

He dragged a glass towards you, which you took once he’d taken his hand away. You swilled the liquid around, trying not to look too despondent.

“Parts are sparse,” You admitted. “Fewer hunters need new gear. I’m starting to think there’s someone better than me on Nevarro,”

Karga let out a coarse laugh, which you first mistook for a chesty cough. His smile was indication enough, however, of the funniness he obviously though that required.

“No, my dear, there’s no one better,” He replied. You chose to ignore him calling you dear. Opposite you he raised his glass to the sky, prompting you to do the same. “To good business in future,”

You nodded at him in response, before downing the blue liquor in one gulp. It burned as it slinked down your throat, hitting your stomach and causing a warmth to spread through your gut. Nothing like the small conversations the Mandalorian gave you, but it made you feel something— and that was in short supply around here.

Karga sighed in refreshment after slamming his glass back on the table, but his gaze fixed on something behind you as you deposited your glass back down. “Ah, Mando!” He exclaimed.

Your heart stopped.

You stayed utterly frozen in place, feeling a mixture of anxiety and adrenaline surge through you.

“That was fast. I wasn’t expecting you back for another few days at least,” Karga continued.

You tried not to let the hurt surge through you. So, he had been back since your last meeting. He’d been back, and he hadn’t come to visit. You tried to rationalise your hurt— he held no obligation to stop by the shop, he held no responsibility, yet— you wished—

You wished he would have.

“I trust you know our resident weapons mechanic,” Karga continued, gesturing to you. You forced yourself to turn round and look at him— face to face. His helmet stared at you blankly in response, and you wondered what expression he held beneath.

Maybe it was annoyance, thinking he was finally rid of a nobody mechanic from the inner city.

Maybe it was surprise, or hurt, or pain. You knew that despite the immense effort you were putting in to keep your stare blunt, he’d see right through you.

“Yes,” Mando replied after what seemed like hours. You turned back to Karga, pushing your glass to the middle of the table in dismissal.

“Thanks for the drink. I’ll be going,” You got up swiftly, standing in front of Mando after leaving the booth. He looked down at you, chrome visor focusing on your eyeline. You found yourself flicking your eyes from the left and right, as if you could see the placement of his eyes beneath the helmet—

Then you looked away.

You sauntered out of the bar, ignoring exclaimed farewells from Karga as you booked it out of the bar, heading straight back to the shop. Your strides were fierce, your heart pounded painfully beneath your ribs and you couldn’t stop yourself from balling your fists.

You felt like screaming, but you kept your mouth shut and your jaw tense. You felt like punching, kicking, pounding something, but you didn’t, instead opting to breathe it out as you entered your shop and slammed the door shut behind you.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

You yelled at yourself to calm down, to accept that it was nothing. God forbid, you’d gotten worked up over the smallest indication of human interaction, from a man whose face you’d never fucking seen, no less.

It was stupid. You’d long grown out of enjoying fairy tales, and this wasn’t one. You were a grown woman, hyper-fixating over a six-month long dodgy deal with a bounty hunter that you didn’t fucking know— not really, anyway.

In a frenzy, you unsheathed your blaster, heading out to your courtyard. You fired at will, not stopping to aim your blaster or even try to hit the targets. When that got dull, you actually started to try—you positioned your feet parallel to your shoulders, straightening your spine and extending your neck—

You fired, hitting the targets dead centre every time, just like normal.

You fired until your trigger finger began to ache, until the incessant anger and hurt in your chest had dissipated to a low roar that you could manage in other ways—with the bottle of Coruscant whiskey that you only saved for special occasions; big deals, good months, and, evidently, to feel something other than red, hot and seething anger.

You went to sheath your blaster, when the hairs on the back of your neck pricked up—

You turned swiftly, raising your gun and keeping your eyes wide open. You faltered when you saw the familiar glint of moon rays on chrome. Mando stood in the courtyard doorway, just as he’d done the last time you’d seen him.

Your elbow buckled, dropping the blaster to your side as you kept yourself composed. You stared him down like you were unbothered to see him. You had a feeling he knew that wasn’t the case, though, and if he’d been there for a few minutes before then your incessant firing would have proven otherwise.

“Mando,” You spoke first, keeping your voice steady. “What information do you need this time?” You kept it professional, not wanting to think back about the way you’d been so blatantly vulnerable to him before. He probably thought you to be childish, over-emotional, idiotic.

You’d rather he thought you to be that, than weak.

“What were you doing with Karga?” He demanded it this time. His voice was low, lower than usual, despite the modulator. You sheathed your pistol, stepping towards him once. He didn’t move aside.

“Drinking,” You stated the obvious. You made a move to try and get past him, but a Beskar covered forearm leant up against the doorframe, stopping you even more so.

“He’s bad news,” He continued. You let out an annoyed scoff.

“I know who Karga is. Kriff—I live here,” You accidentally let your annoyance travel through your words, making it exceptionally clear that you were pissed, if it hadn’t been obvious before.

You grabbed his forearm, tugging it away from the doorframe and pushing your way inside. He let you pass eventually, watching as you grabbed a bottle of whiskey from beneath your work desk. You jumped up onto the desk, letting your legs droop over the side as you uncorked the bottle.

It was silent. You could tell he was trying to find something to say, to bring up the obvious tension, but you also got the sense that Mando didn’t often apologise.

Why should he? He didn’t promise to come back.

He hadn’t promised. You had no idea why you were so ticked off, yet there you were—seething, angry, hurt, perhaps on the brink of tears, but possibly relishing in the fact he’d come to the shop after your little encounter. You felt sick at your own feelings.

“Are you... mad at me?” He spoke finally. The breath caught in the back of your throat. His hesitation made it clear; he didn’t often delve into the workings of others. He was being kind by even asking you about this.

You felt like a dick. All of a sudden, you could see even more so that you were being incredibly irrational. Weeks of zero contact had turned you into a moron. A lonely, overthinking moron.

You glanced up at him, holding the whiskey between your thighs. You let out a sigh.

“No,” You let out. “I’m sorry. It’s been... a strange, few weeks,” You chuckled slightly after speaking, bringing the bottle to your lips and taking a small gulp. “Loneliness is a disease, Mandalorian,” You added, taking another sip and slotting the bottle back between your thighs.

Mando moved from the doorway, striding towards you slowly. You stayed in place, focusing on the warmth that the whiskey provided you with. You finally looked up when he stood before you, not close enough to slot between your hips, but close enough for your knees to graze against Beskar.

He reached out for the bottle, grabbing it from between your thighs and making his way around to the main shop. You went to turn, but the leather of his gloved hand slotted itself between your jaw and your neck, pushing your gaze to the back of the shop.

“Don’t look,” He told you, warningly.

You did as you were told, all the while counting your shallow breaths as they quietly shook from within your body. You heard the subtle glug of the bottle, the drip as the liquid sloshed around within the glass, and then the bottle was being slotted back between your thighs from behind.

Mando’s arm wrapped itself around you as he made sure it was back in place, his glove grazing over the top of your thigh and skimming your waist as he retracted his arm back. You’d be lying if you didn’t relish in those small touches.

They set your skin alight, despite there being no skin-to-skin contact involved. It was the closest he’d ever come to you, allowing the gentler side of himself to appear. You’d never see him this way; guard down, a softness to his voice and his unknowing gaze.

You knew that he’d just raised his helmet to take a sip of whiskey—that was enough to make you gulp back the desires within your gut. You couldn’t believe he’d felt comfortable enough to do that around you. You hesitantly turned, waiting to see if it was allowed, but fully turned to him when he didn’t push your gaze away like before.

You swivelled on the top of the desk, bringing your legs round to droop over the other side, while Mando grabbed his usual stool and dragged it closer to you.

He sat, sighing slightly as he did so, before looking up at you sat before him.

“Solitude,” He spoke. “I prefer that word,” His voice was soft. You knew he was tired just from the way he spoke; he was exhausted.

“Solitude implies a sense of peace,” You replied, stepping carefully over your words. “Do you feel peace in your ship, all alone?”

“Do you feel peace in this shop?” He hit back with, avoiding your question completely. You were about to say no, but you stopped yourself. This shop was all you had, all you knew. Your choice of loneliness, over solitude, was an obvious indication of the way it made you feel, and you wanted to bet that Mando knew that, but—

Without this life, you didn’t know where you’d be.

“It’s all I have,” You admitted, finally. He nodded subtly, not moving his visor from your face.

“And this,” He said, gesturing to the Beskar he donned. “Is all I know. This is the Way,”

You looked down, swinging your legs back and forth for lack of what to do. You wanted to know more—you always wanted to know more about Mando, that was a given. But right now, you wanted to ask him everything.

“Is that why you stopped coming here?” The words trickled from your lips pitifully, but you had no choice but to accept that you’d spoken them.

Mando was silent for a few moments, but he made no indication of looking away from you. You wondered if, beneath the helmet, he was actually looking at you. Maybe he was zoning out, or was focused on the wall behind your head instead.

“I feared continuing to visit you would become a habit I could no longer break,”

There it was—that warmth. It erupted within your gut, winding its way up your spine and neck, circling down your limbs and to the spot between your legs that you always chose to ignore. You tensed up immediately, forgetting about the whiskey bottle between your thighs as the sensation only increased the wobble of your upper thighs.

“Like you said,” Mando continued, and you could have sworn that his voice sounded strained. Like he was holding back, like his body was almost forcing him to stay quiet. He stood suddenly, causing a small gasp to leave your lips involuntarily, as he strode forward to slot himself partially between your legs. “Loneliness is a disease,”

You went jelloid when a hesitant hand was placed on your thigh—

Stars, it’s been a while.

You were slowly beginning to unwind, as Mando placed his other hand on the opposing thigh, slotting himself further between your legs. As much as you wanted to speed this up, to feel skin touch skin, you didn’t know if that was actually possible for the Mandalorian.

“M-Mando,” You stuttered out, but it only made his grip tighten around your plump skin. You instinctively raised your hands to his chest, feeling the smoothness of his Beskar. “Just— wait,” You managed out, despite all of your senses not wanting him to stop what he was doing. His visor shot to your face quickly and his hands fluttered away from your thighs.

You wanted to cry— that’s not what you’d meant—

You swiped your hands across his Beskar chest plate, reaching down for his large forearms. You heard the breath hitch in the back of his throat, as a small moan escaped his modulator.

You placed his arms back on your legs slowly, but he still looked on his guard, wondering what you had to say.

“Loneliness is a disease,” You spluttered out. Your cheeks were flushed a neon red, and you could feel the rapid heartbeat erupting from beneath your ribs. “It’s— overwhelming,”

When he didn’t move or speak, you wanted to kick yourself. Had you done it again? Revealed something that was too much and reduced yourself to a vulnerable mess? For a moment, you thought Mando could smell the weakness within you, but even you didn’t realise you’d unwind this fast at the most subtle of touches from the Mandalorian.

You froze when he raised a gloved hand to pinch your chin. His thumb was firm but gentle, his other fingers curled just beneath your jaw, and his stare was unwavering.

Stars, your whole body throbbed at his touch. You wanted more, but you also didn’t want it to end as quickly as it had started, and you’d meant what you’d said— overwhelming. It was a red, hot heat that you hadn’t felt in years, it was something that you’d have to get used to again, and from the fumbling touches that Mando gave you, you felt he might be in the same boat.

His thumb slowly made its way to your mouth, gliding back and forth over your bottom lip. You were positively glowing, feeling the intimate touch of the hunter for the first time after what seemed like months of fantasy—

You’d had dreams of him, falling asleep to the image of his helmet or the way he slumped on your stool every so often, so desperate to see what lay beneath his armour.

“You’re overwhelmed?” He needlessly questioned. The way his voice trickled all over you was enough to make your body surge towards his once more. You had to stop yourself from reaching for his waistband, overcome with a hunger that you hadn’t been expecting. “It’s okay. We have time,”

With five simple words you could have collapsed to the floor right there. All too soon, his touch vanished from your skin. You leant forward has he removed himself from you, stepping back while you tried desperately to get his touch back.

The whiskey bottle between your legs slipped suddenly, toppling from its place between your thighs as you realised you’d started to open your legs wider where he’d stood between your hips. You grappled at air to try and stop it falling, but it fell from the desk—

Right into a skilful gloved hand. Mando gripped the bottle with a ferocity that you knew he’d wanted to grip you with, before stepping forward once more. He slotted the bottle between your thighs once more, but right in the nook of your upper thighs—

You shivered uncontrollably as both hands came to cradle your thighs, pushing them together to keep the bottle in place.

You watched, defeated, as he picked up his satchel from the floor and slung it over his shoulder, staring at you atop the desk when he was ready to leave.

“If I see you drinking with Karga again, I won’t be as gentle,” Despite his efforts to keep his voice strong, you heard the breathy way he spoke.

It filled you with a confidence that had disappeared as soon as he’d first placed the bottle back between your legs.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” You challenged. You couldn’t stop yourself from sending a smirk his way, and it had the desired effect—

Mando dropped his helmet to the floor as the most subtle of groans escaped his lips. He swivelled and turned, heading for the door immediately afterwards.

He opened it, letting in the cold Nevarro air. You watched as he slinked out of the door, pulling it shut from the outside—

And then there was silence. You breathed out a shaky breath that you didn’t realise you’d been holding, grabbing the whiskey and taking a large gulp as you tried to regain your composure fully.

You went to bed that night utterly elated, his chrome visor appearing behind your eyes all the same.

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izzabeean · 3 years ago

Text

Chapter 18 : Awakening

SUMMARY

There's a lot to unpack.

pairing : ushjima x f!reader / oikawa x f!reader / iwaizumi x f!reader

genre : angst + fluff

word count : 3,446

content : profanity

tags : alternate universe - college/university, post-break up, friends to lovers, pining, slow burn

a/n : a/n: I'm sorry this took too long, I've been needing a mental health break with how busy life has become. This chapter is a bit rushed just because I wanted to post it before next week since I've been MIA for so long.

masterlist

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Slowly turning the key, your head starts to spin as you push the front door open to an empty apartment and a mixture of emotions surge through you. Relief that the repairs for your apartment are finally complete and you can move back to the comfort of your own home. Yet sadness swells in your chest at the realization you’ll be alone.

It’s weird. The natural response would be to get out of Oikawa’s apartment as soon as possible, sick of his antics and constant harassment. But for some incoherent reason, a part of you feels hesitant.

This heavy sensation in your chest drags you down as you walk into your apartment -- it seems so much more burdensome than when you left. Everything still feels fresh.

An agonizing pain mixed with confusion emanates off the walls flashing you back to the night Ushijima ending things. Your anxiety grows stronger as you picture his piercing hazel eyes glowering down at you after asking for you back. It's seemingly getting more and more difficult to make a decision as each moment passes and you're feeling inexplicably hopeless. It's a terrible idea to get back together with him -- just remembering that night makes you sick. We need to talk still haunts you accompanied with his unbothered, stoic expression... Your heart starts to race trying to make sense of what you’re feeling.

Why is everything suddenly so difficult?

You clench your fists so tightly your knuckles turn white. Why does he even want you back? This isn’t something that he should take so lightly, he hurt you. Though you strongly feel anger festering within, a voice keeps whispering in your ear to take him back. You can’t tell if it’s what you truly want or it’s just the fear of disappointing your parents even more.

“How’s it looking?”

Your manic thoughts are pushed away with Oikawa as he walks further into the apartment to take a look around.

The flood -- you’d forgotten about that morning until this moment. Your heart starts beating faster as the memory rushes to the forefront, not just from the panic and frustration of waking up to a submerged apartment, but to the moment of the warmth under the covers with Oikawa’s firm body pressed up behind you. Had Oikawa been holding back the entire night you spent together? Of course, you didn’t know how long he’s had feelings for you, so surely if he did at the time, it must have been absolutely tempting to make a move on you. But why didn’t he? Truthfully, if the situation was switched then you would’ve taken the opportunity to…

“Not bad,” you answer, trying to force an honest smile, but Oikawa sees right through you.

“Why do you do that?” Oikawa says, his voice is tight on the cusp of irritation.

“Do what?” you respond quickly, hoping that he will just let this one go. But he doesn’t.

“Force yourself to smile like that,” he grunts. “You’re not good at hiding when you’re upset.”

“I’m not--”

“Bullshit,” he retorts with a harsh tone.

You bite your tongue, even more conflicted on what to say.

Oikawa sees that as he analyzes you, he knows it’s not easy for you to talk to him about stuff. “Is something on your mind?” he asks softly, drawing his frustration back.

It’s hard to process, you’ve felt this heavy feeling for so long, you thought it was normal. The only time you’ve felt any reassurance is in Oikawa’s presence, yet for some reason, today the aching is much more prominent. Everything feels so nerve wracking. You know he likes you and yet, it makes your heart throb.

“My parents,” you start with your voice a little shaky. “They think they know what’s best for me...”

“For the internship?”

“Yeah,” you reply quietly, eyes fixed on the ground. They also think they know it’s best for you to be with Ushijima, but you couldn’t tell Oikawa that. “Everything’s all set up and it could make me successful but…”

You turn away from him so your face is out of his view. The silence stretches between you for a moment. You feel oddly vulnerable, like the slightest touch will shatter you into pieces. If only it was easier to explain the constant pressure you receive from them, you might've tried to laugh about it upon telling him, just to make things a bit lighter. But, it wasn’t something you were ready to dig into.

“Then what do you want?” Oikawa asks, breaking the quietness.

The age old question that’s been going through your head this entire time. Truthfully, some answers seem so vivid now. You don’t want that internship… It’s not something that will excite you in any form. You want to work to achieve something and this feels like it’s just being handed to you because of your parents. There’s no drive for it.

But as for Ushijima, well...

“I don’t know,” you utter, shaking your head. “I don’t know if I ever will.”

“You’ll figure it out, I know you will,” Oikawa hums, before walking up to ruffle your hair.

Even as he pulls his hand away, his touch is still lingering, forcing you to catch your breath at the sudden surprise. His words are warm and caring as if he truly believes everything will fall into place. You want to believe him. Even the warmth in his eyes almost sways your skepticism, you can feel affection in them, but you can’t seem to grasp onto the hope he has. At this point you’re too stunned to even say a word as you allow your emotions to control you.

“When are you moving back in?” he asks, bringing you back to reality.

“Probably in the next couple days,” you breathe then pause staring at him for a bit while feeling your entire face burn up. An undeniable tension floats in the air and you're struggling to understand if it’s just your mind racing or it’s actually there. The way he manages to get your heart racing out of nowhere, the look he gives you when his chocolate eyes gaze at you, makes you want to melt… “Can you help?”

“Of course.”

------

Now that Iwaizumi is gone, it’s only standard for you to sleep in the guest bedroom. You’re not sure why a room down the hallway was more uncomfortable, but here you were tossing and turning unable to fall asleep. Of course you have other causes to your insomnia, like the pressure of deciding whether or not you should move forward with the internship and whether or not you should get back together with Ushijima. But at the very moment, your head can’t seem to wrap around the idea that Oikawa is just down the hall.

You’ve been living with him for awhile and now you decide to be nervous about it, you think.

Tucking your head under the covers, you take a deep breath inhaling the soft scents of softener and linen, a deep contrast to the sweet scent of citrus mixed with a tinge of oak in Oikawa’s room -- which you’d noticed shortly after is the essence of Oikawa. You clench your jaw, y our brain is all messed up from everything going on. Not to mention it's strange, the way Oikawa’s been so generous lately -- sweet without being boastful or bothersome, completely unlike himself. You’re not sure what you were expecting after your “fight”, but it probably wasn’t this.

You won't be sleeping anytime soon, so you get up and grab your coat, hoping an evening walk will put your mind at ease.

The night is dark and calm as you walk down the street, sidewalk lit by a streetlamp every few steps. Though quiet, your thoughts are louder than ever, pounding at your head hounding you to make a decision. As the cool air picks up and nips at your face, you quickly shove your hands in your pockets full of tissues and a cartridge. Pulling it out, you’re reminded of the evening you first bought the pack of smokes, how your agony ripped you apart to the point you had to turn to a bad habit. The recollection of relief pulsing through your body after inhaling the rich smoke tempted you as you open the pack and take out a stale cigarette that’s a bit crumpled.

The emptiness sets in and your eyes begin to gloss over as you think of what you should do next. For a moment the stress of your future can temporarily disappear with one breath, but how disappointed would Oikawa be if you did so.

That evening, when he called you in the midst of your smoke, he didn’t even know what had happened, but he was still there in a way. His voice echoes your head as he slurs that he hopes Ushijima makes you happy… It makes you hot and flustered. Oikawa always just wants what is best for you. Even if it didn’t benefit him…

You crush the cigarette into your palm and with that a shiver went down your spine. The heavy feeling in your chest seemed to lift itself a little and you almost thought you were standing a bit taller.

------

Fiddling with your pen, you look up once again at the time; class is almost over. Oikawa sits beside you, seemingly locked in on the professor's lecture. It feels unfamiliar to see him taking notes, attentively listening -- his concentration is normally as lacking as yours. Today your attention span is the worst it’s ever been trying to hone in on the dull monotone voice that booms across the class.

Then an idea sparks.

Quickly you try to grab the pen that Oikawa is writing with, but his reflexes are too swift for you as he jerks it away from your reach. A loud obnoxious screech from your chair lurching forward interrupts your professor in the middle of his lesson.

“Y/N, is everything alright?” the professor asks, while everyone’s eyes turn to you.

It’s awkward as you scoff under your breath, but sit up and readjust your seat.

“Y--yes, everything is good,” you say before having the professor return back to his stale lecture.

You let out a sigh while your face gets all flushed. The taste of desperation coats your mouth and it’s so overwhelming that you had to go to uncomfortable lengths just to feel the slightest bit of normalcy between the two of you. There’s just something about the way his irritation spikes through his tight-lipped smile and balling of fists while his eyes glare at you. You missed it.

Suddenly, a quiet snicker sounds beside you. In the corner of your eye, you can see a softness in Oikawa’s appearance and he's slightly smirking. You try not to make it obvious that you notice, but it makes your heart melt a little.

The remainder of the lesson, you continue to replay the way Oikawa’s lips almost turned up to a smile. You wish you got more of a reaction out of him, but it was enough to reassure things. When the professor gives his final dismissal, Oikawa pops up to pack up his belongings. There’s this longing of wishing you could sit beside him longer as you slowly collect your things.

“Ushiwaka is here,” Oikawa says, gesturing to the doorway.

You glance at the doorway noticing a familiar figure poking his head in. His eyes survey the classroom and before meeting yours, you quickly dart them away.

“Are you kidding?” you say under your breath, quickly zipping up your bag, feeling a flash of irritation course through your veins. “I’ll be right back.”

Oikawa raises his brow as he watches you speed towards Ushijima. He knew something like this was going to happen. It was only a matter of time.

But you weren’t pleased with Ushijima’s appearance.

"What are you doing?” you fume, you were quite pissed off as you pout your lips in petulant annoyance.

“I wanted to walk you to your next class,” Ushijima admits so nonchalantly it grinds your teeth.

"N--no," you reply, losing your focus to Oikawa walking by. “No, I don’t need--”

“I need to make up for the time we’ve lost together,” Ushijima adds, eyes locked on to yours that are wandering past him looking at Oikawa who’s getting further and further away.

"I-- I can’t. Please just… I need more space,” you sputter before swallowing hard your body leading to Oikawa’s direction.

"Take whatever time you need, I'll be waiting,” is what you think you heard from him as you catch up to Oikawa, but you don’t really care because your heart feels like everything you did in the moment was unlawful. You didn’t want Oikawa to get the wrong idea, and you feel like he might have, it makes you sick. Just when things started to repair with him, Ushijima just had to sweep in.

“What did he want?” Oikawa asks, his gaze ahead. “Did you finally accept his proposal?”

“What? No," you answer, trying to catch your breath.

“You’re really taking your time with this aren’t you,” he mumbles. “You better figure it out quick, he’s not going to wait for you forever.”

“He can wait,” you say to which Oikawa glances at you.

You get to a fork in the hallway that branches off to your next class or leads to outside the building. Oikawa raises his hand to bid farewell, but you stop planting your feet and take a deep breath.

“Toru.”

He stops and looks over at you…

“Can you come with me…. to my parents?” you breathe. “I don’t want to do the internship. I just don’t want to go alone to tell them.”

Hesitant of his answer, you wait for his response.

“I’d be happy to.”

----

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” you whine, abruptly stopping on the sidewalk in front of your parents house. The sun hides behind the dark clouds, almost seeming like a sigh that you shouldn’t move forward with your plan, but gently touches your back.

“It will be alright,” Oikawa says softly as you try to push away the heat of his touch.

You’re sure that because Oikawa is here with you, you can go through with it. Even if you’re on the verge of retreating, it’s in fact, much more relieving to have him support you on the sidelines.

Every ounce of you pushes your body forward towards the front door. The ominous illusion of a stone cold castle looms over you as you press your finger to the doorbell. The anxiety starts to build up as you look back to Oikawa. He gives you a smile and your face is hot, worried about what's to come from this conversation.

The door unlatches and slowly opens.

“Oh, hello,” your mom says, eyes wide yet narrow glaring down at you. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Hi,” you respond shyly. You wanted to grab Oikawa’s body to shield you from your mom’s unpleasant aura, but of course you plant your feet. “This is Toru Oikawa.”

Looking back at him to check in and see if he too is incapacitated from her energy. But he isn’t.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says with a bow.

“How charming, come in!” she greets.

Oikawa straightens up, smoothing out his shirt before fixing his hair. Your eyes widen in awe - his calm confidence is visionary. You didn’t remotely feel comfortable around your mother and Oikawa is smooth and endearing. You're definitely always bringing him with you when you have to see your parents.

Your poorly hidden anxiety is noted on Oikawa’s behalf as he raises an eyebrow and flicks you on the forehead.

“Don’t stress!” Oikawa smiles.

Entering into the house, you two take off your shoes and make your way into the dining area where your mom awaits you. The rooms feel remarkably lifeless and empty.

“Where’s dad?” you ask, taking a seat at the dining table as Oikawa follows suit, sitting next to you.

“Oh working again, doesn’t know when to stop,” your mom sighs. Her eyes trail to Oikawa and her gaze feels so much softer compared to the daggers she throws at you. “Would you like some tea? Water?”

Her gaze lingers as she patiently waits for an answer.

“Thank you, but I’m alright,” he replies.

She turns to you and your heart leaps out of your chest, her stare feels like it could drag your soul out of your body.

“No, I’m fine,” you say, voice shaky as you swallow hard, forcing the next couple words out of your mouth. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the internship.”

Your mom’s intimidating demeanor drops immediately, her eyes twinkling with excitement while taking a seat across from you.

“Oh they’re so delighted to have you,” she croons. “They’ve even made you a care package in anticipation of your arrival!”

“See, the thing is…”

Your mom’s blissful face cuts.

“What’s wrong,” she says, making the question more of a blank statement.

“Nothing’s wrong, I just--”

“You think a mother wouldn’t know her own daughter.”

“It’s just--”

“Spit it out.”

You hold your breath, not sure how to present it. Looking at Oikawa, his eyes are full of affection and reassurance, you’ve come this far and you can’t back out of it now.

“Are you quitting?” she murmurs, gazing at you with a stern, cold look on her face.

“I’m sorry,” you say, trying to cushion the blow. But her eyes grow with more displeasure.

“Excuse me,” she hisses.

The air cuts thin. You’re quiet upon hearing the disappointment in her voice, and can understand why she’d be absolutely mortified.

“All that your father and I have done for you,” she barks. “This is how you repay us?”

I knew this was going to happen, you think to yourself as the worst case scenario seems to be on track with her reaction.

“I want to find somewhere else to intern,” you breathe, scared your words are just going to start a war. Her eyes have blaze in them won’t go out. There’s so much passion to make you like her, but even more successful, despite you going against her wishes. Something in her aura makes you want to run, but running is all you’ve ever done. It’s time to face your fears. “Please, let me explain.”

She doesn’t speak, her scowl says everything as she leans back in her chair, arms crossed against her chest.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot, ever since I first went in for the interview,” you begin trembling. “Everyone was so welcoming and so excited to have me, but something just doesn’t feel right.”

“So you’re going to be selfish and only think about yourself?” she argues.

You recognize your anxiety from earlier stirring in your stomach. Your mom isn’t the easiest person to speak to, especially when her face radiates failure and suffering, this is quite possibly the most horrified you’ve seen her.

“It’s not what I want to do with my degree. I want to look somewhere else that will make me feel more fulfilled.”

“What you want is a mistake,” she thunders.

Her words are like knives digging into your heart. She just seems so distraught, and obviously cares about your future, but you can’t do this anymore.

You stand up from the table and bow deeply. “Will you please trust me? That’s all I ask.”

The room is silent as tension fills the air, you don’t really know what to expect as you shut your eyes tight waiting for a reaction. You’re expecting to be yelled at-- not to mention a shock wave of embarrassment protruding through you in front of Oikawa. The moment is painful and you don’t know what to do. You remain in the deep bow waiting.

“Alright. You don’t need to be so ridiculous, bowing...” she mumbles. You stand up and she has her hand clasp to her forehead. “You’re father’s going to kill me, but alright.”

Your heart rate increases, uncertain what she means by that, because you thought you’d misheard her.

“I guess it’s about time you’ve made your own decisions,” she says. “I was beginning to believe you’d continue to go along with it, but you’re your own person now.”

Shock and confusion washes over you, mixed with hope and excitement. You press your palm to your heart wondering if it’s about to beat out of your chest.

“Just don’t come crying when nothing goes your way,” she adds.

Letting out a huge breath, your lips upturn to a smile.

“Thank you,” you say. And it’s genuine.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu angst #haikyuu fluff #haikyu x reader #oikawa tooru #oikawa x reader #oikawa x y/n #Ushijima Wakatoshi #ushijima x reader #ushijima x y/n

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