#scrape me off the damn ceiling

[holdmytesseract]

... what the future holds ...

Daryl Dixon x fem!Reader

Summary: One look at Maggie's ultrasound picture is enough to question your future - and Daryl's...

Warnings: fluff, suggestive smut (it gets really spicy), talks of babies

Set in Season 6!

Word Count: 1,4k

a/n: Lil' story is done! This was planned to be a drabble, but well... 😆 I love how it turned out, though!

Right up your alley, @dixons-sunshine ? 🤗

Daryl Masterlist °☆• Masterlist °☆• Echoes of Hope Masterlist

The van jolted softly underneath your body, as you leaned against Daryl, who was sitting beside you; head resting against his shoulder. You were on the verge of sleeping in, when he suddenly gently squeezed your upper arm with the hand he had wrapped around your shoulders. Tiredly, you lifted your head and looked up to him; blinking. Daryl didn't say a word and just nodded at his hand, who held out a little quadratic picture to you.

Sitting up a bit, you took from Daryl's whatever it was he was handing you. Since you had been on the threshold to dreamland, your brain needed a moment to catch up and grasp what you were looking at...

It was an ultrasound picture.

Lifting your gaze, you were met with a smile from Glenn, who sat opposite you. You couldn't help but to smile back at your friend, before you took another proper look at the picture - at the future. You positively couldn't wait for another wonder after Judith to join the big family everybody had grown into. Sure, the world was dangerous, but had it ever not been dangerous? Of course in different kinds of ways, but nevertheless...

You ran your thumb over the picture; so engrossed in the miracle you were looking at, that you didn't notice Daryl watching you. He saw the never-ceasing smile on your lips. The happiness radiating off of you. The shimmer in your eyes - and perhaps, the archer had detected something else... Longing. Something that threw him quite a bit off track and caused his heartbeat to quicken.

You took a last look on the precious, life-changing picture and handed it on to Abraham, who took it from you with a small smile himself. Then you slid back into Daryl's embrace; resting you head against his shoulder once more. This time, though, you were facing him with a smile. One corner of your boyfriend's mouth twitched up into a soft smile as well.

Words were never exchanged. He just gave you another squeeze and pulled you closer.

The first word you spoke with each other was that night after the meeting Rick had convened. It was already quite late; almost midnight.

You were laying in bed and reading a book; secretly watching Daryl undress. He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped out of his shoes and jeans with a grunt - and you noticed immediately that the feeling you already harboured in the church was resurfacing... Something was on his mind. You just couldn't pinpoint what it was – yet...

Once undressed to his black underpants, he slipped inside the bed and underneath the sheets; making himself comfortable beside you on his back, hands crossed behind his head and eyes directed at the ceiling.

You watched him for another moment in silence, before you decided to make your move. Putting the book aside, you slowly inched closer and placed a hand on his cheek; letting his scruff tickle your palm, as you propped your chin up on his biceps. "Daryl... What's bothering you, huh? Tell me." "Nothin'. 'S jus'..." The archer shook his head slightly, before his blue-grey eyes settled on yours. "I... I saw the way yer were lookin' at tha' picture..."

You frowned a little bewildered. "You mean Maggie's ultrasound picture?" Daryl nodded; chewing on his lower lip. You raised an eyebrow and smiled softly. "Why? How was I looking at the picture?" You saw the love of your life swallowing hard; trying to scrape all his bravery together and say the word out loud.

"Longingly. Ya looked at tha' picture longingly, 'n..." He stopped to take a deep breath. "N now I ain't gettin' that damn thought outta ma head." "Which thought?" You asked as you gazed deeply into his eyes; trying to read him.

"Tha'... Tha' yer might, uh, wan' this, too..." The archer finally said; gnawing on his thumb now. "I-I mean settlin' down, 'n, uh... Start a family..." His voice was barely above a whisper and his cheeks held a deep crimson colour. He avoided your eyes; breaking eye contact.

As for you, you felt like your heart had just skipped several beats. Not just one... "Wha'?" You almost croaked out. "Y-You mean... Having a-a baby?" Daryl nodded hesitatingly. "Yeah, uh, would ya... Would ya wan' tha'?" "Would you?" You shot immediately back; not answering his question.

Once again was the man biting his lip; the gears in his head turning - you could tell. After a long moment of silence, he shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Dunno, darlin'. I... 'M not exactly daddy material, ya know. 'S not in ma nature. Didn't have a good role model after all..." "I have to stop you right here, Dar..." You shook your head and moved to prop yourself up on your elbow; palm gliding from Daryl's cheek, down his neck and stopping on his chest. "You haven't noticed, have you?"

The archer blinked; clearly not following your words. "Notice wha'?"

A soft smile spread over your face. "How good you are with Judith. How sweet and caring. You're perfect daddy material, Dar... In my opinion anyways."

Daryl said nothing, was apparently speechless. He just looked at you for an seemingly endless moment, before he found his voice again. "Ya never answered ma question, Y/N..." He whispered. "Would ya wan' tha'?" Your eyelids fluttered as a blush crept on your cheeks. "I-I... Yes. I always... wanted kids." Your boyfriend swallowed hard; deft, calloused fingers scratching his goatee covered chin. "A'right, lemme rephrase tha'..." He said and took a deep breath; voice trembling slightly. "Would ya... Would ya wan' tha' with... with me?"

Once again tugged a smile at the corners of your mouth; your eyes gazing deeply into Daryl's as your fingertips gently caressed the skin on his chest. "Daryl... I wouldn't want that with any other man in this world. Only you. There has always been only you." "Yeah?" Daryl croaked out. "Ya ain't jus' sayin' that so I dun feel bad?" You couldn't help but giggle and shake your head again. "No, you sweet idiot. I'm not. I really would want that with you. I love you, Daryl."

The archer lifted a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear; the other landing on your hip. "Yeah, I love ya, too." You smiled and dipped your head to slot your lips perfectly against his; kissing him leisurely. Only a few seconds passed, before Daryl's other hand travelled to your hips as well; biceps bulging softly as he pulled you closer, until you ended up on top of him. Both bare legs straddling his sides and lips still connected.

Soon enough started Daryl's hands to wander once more and slipped underneath your sleep t-shirt; feeling your soft skin underneath his palms - and that was the moment you pulled back from the kiss, before this went any further.

The archer's hands immediately stilled on your ribs; mere inches away from the swell of your breasts as you silently stopped this. Blue-grey eyes looked up at you; clouded with desire, love, worry and a touch of insecurity. "Everythin' a'righ', darlin'?" Daryl's husky voice urged to your ears. You nodded and twisted your bottom lip between your teeth, as you sat back on your heels - and Daryl's crotch, which caused a low grunt to escape his lips, alongside a muttered curse. "Damnit, woman..." "You never answered my question either, Dar," you prompted; completely ignoring the obvious and instead tracing the tattoos on his chest with the tip of your pointer finger. "Would you want to start a family? With me?"

The man underneath you clearly had a hard time focusing and setting his thoughts straight, but once he did, another soft blush spread across his cheeks. "W-Well, if, uh, if tha's somethin' ya wish for, I-" You shook your head and pressed your pointer finger against his lips; shushing him. "Uh.Uh. I asked what you want. This isn't just about me."

Daryl just looked at you again, then started to nod softly. "I won't lie to ya, darlin'... The mere thought of becomin' a daddy scares the shit outta me, but... Yeah... Yeah, I can imagine startin' a family with ya." "You sure about that, Dar? You don't just say that to please me?" You teased him, just like he did earlier. The archer just scoffed. "Nah. I mean it." You couldn't help but giggle and lean down to kiss his nose - what interpreted the archer as an invitation to catch your lips with his.

Daryl smiled; fingertips starting to map out the dips and curves of you body once again. When he reached the back of your bare calves, he stopped and gently nudged his nose against yours; breaking the kiss you shared. "Does tha' mean we, uh, start tryin' for a baby now?" You shrugged your shoulders and gave his sides a little squeeze with your legs. "You tell me."

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[ghostlyglimmer]

Lockjaw

Summary:

Missing for three weeks, Danny finally escapes, only to be found dead and taken to a funeral home. But death isn’t the end—Danny awakens on the embalming table with his jaw wired shut and terrifying new powers. Disoriented and desperate, he must find his way home, knowing nothing will ever be the same again. CW: Gore

Chapter 1: Bring me to Life

By GhostlyGlimmer

Anita Grayves stretched her back, each vertebra popping with a satisfying crack as she exhaled a long sigh. The dim, sterile light of the embalming room cast a clinical glow over her as she donned her PPE, the familiar rustle of the fabric and snap of the gloves a ritual she knew too well. Her technician, Dalton, rolled in the gurney with the next client, the wheels creaking slightly on the cold tile floor. With deliberate care, he unzipped the black body bag, revealing the still form inside.

Danny Fenton, just seventeen years old, lay before her. His once vibrant eyes, now milky white and clouded, stared unseeingly at the ceiling. The raven-black hair that had probably once been meticulously styled was now disheveled, a sharp contrast to the pallor of his skin. He was small for his age, almost fragile-looking, and Anita couldn’t help but feel a pang of sorrow as she gazed down at him.

But it was the Y-shaped scar on his chest that made her pause. Her brow furrowed in deep thought. She had seen countless autopsy scars in her career, but this was different. The coroner’s report had mentioned it wasn’t a typical dissection; it was a vivisection. The word sent a chill down her spine. She had heard stories, whispers of unsanctioned procedures, but she never thought she’d be the one to witness the aftermath.

Taking a deep breath, Anita began the embalming process. The familiar hum of the pump filled the room as she attached the trocar to his abdomen, starting the slow, methodical draining of blood from the body. The crimson fluid seeped out, replaced with embalming chemicals that would preserve what remained, ensuring the semblance of life for his final viewing.

With the embalming fluids circulating, she moved on to setting his face. It was important that he looked peaceful, almost as if he were merely sleeping. She began with his mouth, loading the needle injector with a barbed-tipped wire. The tool clicked as she pressed it against the maxilla, the wire piercing through the bone with precision. She repeated the process with the mandible, then twisted the wires together, securing his jaw in place. There would be no risk of it coming loose during the funeral, sparing his family the distress of seeing him slack-jawed in the casket.

Next were his eyes. Anita carefully pulled back his eyelids, reaching for the eye caps—small, clear discs with barbed spikes on the inside. They would help his eyes maintain a natural, slightly closed appearance, preventing the sunken look that so often accompanied death. She was inches away from placing them on his clouded eyes when her stomach let out a loud grumble.

“Damn it,” she muttered, the sudden urge reminding her of the coffee she had downed earlier.

Reluctantly, she pushed back her rolling chair, the casters scraping against the tile. She stripped off her PPE, each piece coming off with a practiced flick, and headed for the bathroom. The small, clinical space echoed with the sound of her footsteps as she entered, the door clicking shut behind her. She hurried through her business, then paused at the sink, methodically scrubbing her hands. As she looked up into the mirror, her reflection stared back at her—haggard, with dark circles etched under her tired eyes. She grimaced, making a mental note to try and get some sleep tonight.

Just as she turned off the faucet, the lights flickered, followed by a low, otherworldly groan that seemed to reverberate through the walls. Anita froze, her heart skipping a beat. It was a sound unlike anything she had heard before—something between a wail and a whisper, as if the air itself was being torn apart. A chill ran down her spine, and she stood there, paralyzed, staring at her own reflection, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

Ȃ̵̢̡͕̲͍̺̬̩̪̯͖̝̤̱̖̮̼̝͎̭͇̖̥̫̒̈́̔̃̎̄̌̿̍͘̕͝A̵̡̨̙͇͚̥̦͚͙̘̝̤͎͙͒̽̃̒́́͛̉̂͋͝ͅÄ̶̧̨̢̛̛͖̭̠̤͈͈̘͔̣͔̱͇̱̜̯͎͚͍̩͚̺̦̜͑̑̓͂͋͌̄͜͠͠͝Ą̴̧̢̢̧̢̝̱̻̥̹̖͕̦̠̬͙̭̜̣̱͓͚̗̗̬̮̙̤̲͇̟͚̣̜̜̼̹̻̮͇̟̤̹̩̬͕͖̖͙̤́̈́̓́̾ͅͅA̷̧̡̢̨̧̩͙̥̥̘̘͚̞̣̮̣̯̮͔͚͈̤͙̦͈͕͙̣̳̝͈̩͙͇̲̳͈͈͖͙̦̥͈̗̠̖̣̐̇̇̆͒͂͗̃̾̀̆̈́̽͆̆̕̚Ą̷̧̨̥̠̦͙͍̘̬̥̘͕̦͚̫̣̱̤͎̹̰̣̥̰̥̟̘̜̗̪̫̘̤̱̈́́͐̌͛̄̀͆́̓͂͛̈́̇̉͜͝͠Ą̸̢̡̞̻̪͎͔͕̠̗̖͈̲̯͓̜̝̭̼͎̟͕̀̌̀̈́̑̏̑͐́̋̄͌̏́̈́͋̈́̊̋̓̓̀̏̏̀͝͝ͅA̷̧̡̧̧̛̛̠̘̻̮̱̦̠̦̣̫̩̬͚̦̳̮͙͎̞̞̗̮̩̩̪͓̩̻̪̱̰͉̼̮̞͖̒͋͐́͒͗̒̋̑͂̅̎̾̀̓̔̋̇̈́͑̆͐̌͌̑̌̋̅̔͘̕̚͝ͅA̴̛̛̛͙̮͌̌̅̀̊̅́̉̈́͆̅͑̐̏̄͆̈͗̒͐̓́̀͊̆̔̅̄͂͊̃̍̽̈́̊͌̀̿͛̓̈́͗̆̓͋̈̑̚̚͝͠͝͝À̷̢̧̡̢̙̪̰̮̼͙̣̜̭̦̞͓̩̝̣̙͕̞͙̳͇̦͉̼̜̠͈͔̰̺̟̜̳͍͚̥̺̫̈́͛̾̌̊́̿͊̈́̑̓͌̕̕͝ͅA̷̧̨̧̧̧͍̦̖̖̭̪̭̞̦̹͎͈͕̖̮̙͇̪̥̣͕̪̫͓͙̖̜̙͍͉̭̺̘̰̞̰̯͓̔̐̂͋͋̀̓̍̓̉͑̇͊̊̃̈́̌̅͑͆̍̑̋͑̍̔̂̒̀͗͌̇̂̆̈́̂́̈́̉̀͗́̐͛̇͆̂̀͂̔͐͛́̈́̉̃̕͘͝͝͝͝ͅĄ̷̥̗͕̙͍̭̠̮́̈̀͗̈̏̅̓̓̄̈͆̄̈́̃̌͒̓͑͐̉̔̉́͗̌̍͆́̍̆̕̚͘͜͝A̷̧̙͓̫͚͐͐̉̈́̾̍̇́͋̎̆͒̆͒̋̌̕Ą̵̨̡̧̧̢̢͓̯̤̹͙̘͈̹̭̥̪̬͕̜̦̠̻͓̫̤͈̜̣̲͙̬̦̣̺̖̞̗͎̙̙̩̯͍̱̥̝̖̅̀̋͊̇̉̔̈́̈́͗̇͗̈́͋̇̆͐͌̽̓̾̀̀̀̏͒̑̉̔͂̚͜͜͜ͅͅA̸̧̡̨̡̢̻̜͓͚͖̞͚̜̞̙̻̥̠̞̰͔̠̗͎̝̖͇̳̎̀̄̌̒̓͒̐̎̚͠Ạ̴̧̢̫̣̻̬̮̙̫̯̪̙̻͈̟̪̳̅͆͗̌̓̒̍͗̅͊́̏̃͐͑̃́͆̒̍̓̍̈̔͑̾̽̽̐͗̂̑̋́͌̚̕͝͠͠͠Å̵̧̨̢̡̛̯̻̬̻͈̩̹̜͓͎̣̜̥͔̜̩̟̞͓͓̠̬̬̟̜͓͓̲̻͚̟̦͇͓̰͕̲̝̳̺͕̝̭̣͕͈̥̲̪͎͎̻̟͚̖̋͋̀̋́́̊̎̐̀͊̑̊̾̓̈͛͒̄̊̀̕̚͜͠͝ͅͅA̶̛̛��͈̻̺̲̤̳̖̋̓̀͋́͗̀͒̃̈́̉̅̉̉͑͑̋̅̃͒̎͋̎̏́̓͌̆͋ͅȦ̵͖̪̘͛̋͒͠͝ͅĄ̴̧̨̢̛̦̱̦̺̩̞̟̲̻̬͈̪̖̬̯̝̝̲̰̣̩̯̫͈̫̪̜̳͇̮͖̪̱̠̹̤̰͓̭͕̥̹̣̀̅̉̒̃̽͊̆̊̈́̄̐͌́̓̾̓̍̌͑̓͌͊̾̊̂͒͌̀̔͒̕͘͘͘͜͜͝͠͝ͅÄ̶̢̢̱̯̰̟̙͇͔̰̗̜̦̤̪̟̞̪͍̞̟̠̰̗̬̖͎͓̰̫́̈́̊̈́̒A̷̧̢̢̛̹͇̩͎͎̥̱͔͉̞͍͕̠̮͔̭̪͔̜̜̘̰̞͇̱̙͖̮̞̖͉͚̯̟͙̞̫̭͔̰̞͙̗̱̹̺̰͖̭̮͚̪̩͒͑̽̉̋̔͗͗̃̊̀̽̾̿̒̍͗͑̇̅̒͛̈́́̍̿̒̾̊͋́̃̃̈́͂̔̀͐̿̆͌̑̐̀̚͜͝͠ͅͅA̴̡̢̢̧̡̧̛̯͔̭̝̪̰̳̭͚̗̣̼͕̗̟͈͔̩͖̪̖̪͈̝͉̭̭̝̳̘̠̬̩̰̳̳͍̘̫̪̓̀̾̉́̿͂̓̾̎́͐͑̄̉̿̈̍̅̎̏̈́̓͘͝͝͝͠͠͠͠ͅA̶̙͇͎̤̓̿͗́̄̔̆͋̋͆̒̔͐́̽̄͒̎̏͛̂̅̒̋̽̈̋͂͐͐̎̅̌̋̾͑͌͋͐͘̕̕͝͝Ḁ̶̧̡̨̡̢̛̛̰̫̰͓͍̥̝̤̤͕̟̬͕̺͔̻̯̗̠̺̯̬̲̠̳̗͇͇̖̳̙͈͖͕͚͖̖̟̻͉̼̈̈͆̉͊̃̐́̎̊̌́̆̓͆̈̉́̅̆͌͐̽͌̀͒̽̌̿͐̀̽̈́́͋̑̕͘̚͜͜͠͝͝͠ͅA̷̡̨̢̛͕̟̜̰̼͔̠͉͈̼̫͚̟͈̻̖͛̍̍̇̑̐̓̓̀͠Ą̷̱̲̱̳̦͔̥̼̠͕̠̟͎̣̘̮͉̖̗̙̗̞̣̟̈́̾̽̿̍͌̚͘͜͠A̴̡̛̹̗̥̯͇̥̙̣̙̜̰̪̰̘͈͐̌̃̓̌̾̿̃̈͒͋̃̐͒̔̍̈́̓͑̓́̔̔̒͂̐̉̀͋͆͌͂̾͘͘͝͝͠͠Ā̶̡̛̛̖̳̟͕͖̻̲͓̦͈͓͚͈̺͍͙̲̗̒̐̍̂̆͋̈̃͑̽̉̓̃̇͘Ą̴̨̛̣͓̞̪̱̰̜͂̏̀̆͒̀̿͆̑͊̿̈́̑͋̀̌̾̀̈́̾̽̈̈́͐͊̀̒̈́̇͒̈́̀̐̌͒͋͌͊̉̂͒̄̒̇̇̐̕͘͘͘͠͝͝͝͝͝Ā̷̛̛̬͙̠͉̰̼̼̦͉͕̤͈͙̯̈́̿̅̊̋̽̈́̓͌̈́̏͋̍͌͑̆́̄̂̍̿̉̑̈́͊̀͐̈́͋́͆̌̉̀̔̂̍̍̾́̔̕̚̕̕͜͜͝͝A̷̡̧̡̢̨̡̡̢̢̘͉̭̠̖͈̠̭̖̞̭̞͎̤͚͕͔͖͚͇͇̯̟̝̪̖̦͙͙͇̳̪̼̮̫̥̲̲̙͔̟̭͈̺̺͚̬̱͓̠͒̎́̒͐͋͒͂̍̈́̅̐̇͜͜͠Ą̷̢̡̢̢̛̲̝͉͓̺͉̣͇͖̺̜̝̗̹̥̩͎͔͕̦͉͍̜͉͔̫̟̥͓̯̬̖̣͙͍̭͇͔̱̺͈͈̱͗̓̽̒̐͂̓̿͒͊̓̌̅̈́̉̅̓̎̈́̎͗̈́̍̌̒̂̈́̋̐͋̓̆́́̈̇̂͐̔͘̕͝͝A̴̢̡̛̭͈̺̥͇͓̟̻͔̪͇̝̰̱̮͇̦͕̞͙̘̤̻̺̐̎̇̉̓́̐͂́̀͌̽̋̒̀̋͊̀̾͒̓̇̽̂́͛̓̀̓̄̉́̅̀̾͒͌̈́̐͐̑̈́͒́̌̈́̿̽̾̃̽̀͋͛͘͜À̶̡̧̧̨̨̛̛̮̹͓̥̠̱̱̯̪̹̹̮̳͔̞̫̗̹̘͙͙̝̘̳̠̠̳̱̺̗̳̬̰̤̩̖͙̬̥͔̬͈̭̳̬̻̼̐̎͌͆̎̈́̀͆͌̒̅̾͂̋̍̏̈́͛͆̓̊͐͊̄̀̂͐̽̓̍͊͆̚̚̕͜͠͠͝͝Ą̷̧̛̛̛̛͈͖̞͓̱̦̬̣̭̗͍̤̣̦̯̪̹̘̟̙͈̼̬͑̿͊̈͑͛͒͗̑̀͆̏̒̓̃̊̏̐̉̿̄͒̂͛̈̀̂̈͋̀͗̃̆̏̾̏͐̂͂̊̈́̏̐̉͆̂̍̓̚͘̚͘̕͝͝͝͝ͅͅÁ̴̡̢̧̢̩̰͔̰͈͖̬̯̱̙̱̣̭̟͇͙̦̭̣̱͉͇͚̗͌͋͘͜Ä̵̧̛̝̘̼͇̬̭̼̬̠̞̩̩̜̤̰͙͔̼̬̟̟̫͓̥͇̱͕̦̜͙͚̪͚̩̱̟̗̥͙͇̩̞̬̞̗̥̻̘͓̹̻̰̫̙̯̗̹̹́̐͐̎̇̿͗̊͂̏́̂̋̀͆̆̾̄͑͑̽̌̈́̄͋͋̈̂̆̐̀́͌́̎̋̅͘͜͝͝͝͝͠ͅA̷̧̢̡͇̣͈̥̻̗͓͈͖͔̭̩̪͎͍̻̥̝͈̝̭̤͍̘̺̥̲͉̰̦͓̫͇͓͙͙̣̼̫͇͛̋͒͐̄́̔̓͐̅͒͆̏̅̎̇́̚̚͜͜͜ͅ

Anita jolted at the horrific sound, the air around her vibrating with an unnatural, bone-chilling resonance. Her hands flew to her ears in a desperate attempt to block out the noise, but it was too late. A searing pain shot through her head, her vision darkening as her eyes rolled back. She crumpled to the cold, sterile floor, her body limp, blood trickling from her ears and pooling beneath her head in a dark, crimson stain.

Meanwhile, Danny Fenton’s eyes shot open in terror. His pupils contracted painfully against the blinding fluorescence of the room, his breath catching in his throat. His mind, sluggish and disoriented, struggled to make sense of what was happening. His hands moved instinctively to his face, rubbing his eyes as if trying to erase a bad dream.

But this was no dream.

As his vision cleared, he looked around, taking in the stark white walls and the cold steel surfaces of the embalming room. The air was thick with the acrid scent of formaldehyde, stinging his nose and making him gag. Panic surged through him as he realized he was completely naked, save for a thin cloth draped haphazardly over his waist.

But it was when his gaze fell on his chest that the true horror set in.

There, etched into his skin, was a large, brutal Y-shaped scar, stretching from his shoulders to his pubic bone. The sight of it made his stomach churn. His face contorted in terror, a scream tearing from his throat, raw and primal. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, each one more desperate than the last, as he clutched his head in his hands, trying to comprehend the impossible. The room seemed to close in around him, the sterile environment suffocating, the silence after his scream deafening.

Danny was alive—but something was horribly, irrevocably wrong.

Ȃ̵̢̡͕̲͍̺̬̩̪̯͖̝̤̱̖̮̼̝͎̭͇̖̥̫̒̈́̔̃̎̄̌̿̍͘̕͝A̵̡̨̙͇͚̥̦͚͙̘̝̤͎͙͒̽̃̒́́͛̉̂͋͝ͅÄ̶̧̨̢̛̛͖̭̠̤͈͈̘͔̣͔̱͇̱̜̯͎͚͍̩͚̺̦̜͑̑̓͂͋͌̄͜͠͠͝Ą̴̧̢̢̧̢̝̱̻̥̹̖͕̦̠̬͙̭̜̣̱͓͚̗̗̬̮̙̤̲͇̟͚̣̜̜̼̹̻̮͇̟̤̹̩̬͕͖̖͙̤́̈́̓́̾ͅͅA̷̧̡̢̨̧̩͙̥̥̘̘͚̞̣̮̣̯̮͔͚͈̤͙̦͈͕͙̣̳̝͈̩͙͇̲̳͈͈͖͙̦̥͈̗̠̖̣̐̇̇̆͒͂͗̃̾̀̆̈́̽͆̆̕̚Ą̷̧̨̥̠̦͙͍̘̬̥̘͕̦͚̫̣̱̤͎̹̰̣̥̰̥̟̘̜̗̪̫̘̤̱̈́́͐̌͛̄̀͆́̓͂͛̈́̇̉͜͝͠Ą̸̢̡̞̻̪͎͔͕̠̗̖͈̲̯͓̜̝̭̼͎̟͕̀̌̀̈́̑̏̑͐́̋̄͌̏́̈́͋̈́̊̋̓̓̀̏̏̀͝͝ͅA̷̧̡̧̧̛̛̠̘̻̮̱̦̠̦̣̫̩̬͚̦̳̮͙͎̞̞̗̮̩̩̪͓̩̻̪̱̰͉̼̮̞͖̒͋͐́͒͗̒̋̑͂̅̎̾̀̓̔̋̇̈́͑̆͐̌͌̑̌̋̅̔͘̕̚͝ͅA̴̛̛̛͙̮͌̌̅̀̊̅́̉̈́͆̅͑̐̏̄͆̈͗̒͐̓́̀͊̆̔̅̄͂͊̃̍̽̈́̊͌̀̿͛̓̈́͗̆̓͋̈̑̚̚͝͠͝͝À̷̢̧̡̢̙̪̰̮̼͙̣̜̭̦̞͓̩̝̣̙͕̞͙̳͇̦͉̼̜̠͈͔̰̺̟̜̳͍͚̥̺̫̈́͛̾̌̊́̿͊̈́̑̓͌̕̕͝ͅA̷̧̨̧̧̧͍̦̖̖̭̪̭̞̦̹͎͈͕̖̮̙͇̪̥̣͕̪̫͓͙̖̜̙͍͉̭̺̘̰̞̰̯͓̔̐̂͋͋̀̓̍̓̉͑̇͊̊̃̈́̌̅͑͆̍̑̋͑̍̔̂̒̀͗͌̇̂̆̈́̂́̈́̉̀͗́̐͛̇͆̂̀͂̔͐͛́̈́̉̃̕͘͝͝͝͝ͅĄ̷̥̗͕̙͍̭̠̮́̈̀͗̈̏̅̓̓̄̈͆̄̈́̃̌͒̓͑͐̉̔̉́͗̌̍͆́̍̆̕̚͘͜͝A̷̧̙͓̫͚͐͐̉̈́̾̍̇́͋̎̆͒̆͒̋̌̕Ą̵̨̡̧̧̢̢͓̯̤̹͙̘͈̹̭̥̪̬͕̜̦̠̻͓̫̤͈̜̣̲͙̬̦̣̺̖̞̗͎̙̙̩̯͍̱̥̝̖̅̀̋͊̇̉̔̈́̈́͗̇͗̈́͋̇̆͐͌̽̓̾̀̀̀̏͒̑̉̔͂̚͜͜͜ͅͅA̸̧̡̨̡̢̻̜͓͚͖̞͚̜̞̙̻̥̠̞̰͔̠̗͎̝̖͇̳̎̀̄̌̒̓͒̐̎̚͠Ạ̴̧̢̫̣̻̬̮̙̫̯̪̙̻͈̟̪̳̅͆͗̌̓̒̍͗̅͊́̏̃͐͑̃́͆̒̍̓̍̈̔͑̾̽̽̐͗̂̑̋́͌̚̕͝͠͠͠Å̵̧̨̢̡̛̯̻̬̻͈̩̹̜͓͎̣̜̥͔̜̩̟̞͓͓̠̬̬̟̜͓͓̲̻͚̟̦͇͓̰͕̲̝̳̺͕̝̭̣͕͈̥̲̪͎͎̻̟͚̖̋͋̀̋́́̊̎̐̀͊̑̊̾̓̈͛͒̄̊̀̕̚͜͠͝ͅͅA̶̛̛͕͈̻̺̲̤̳̖̋̓̀͋́͗̀͒̃̈́̉̅̉̉͑͑̋̅̃͒̎͋̎̏́̓͌̆͋ͅȦ̵͖̪̘͛̋͒͠͝ͅĄ̴̧̨̢̛̦̱̦̺̩̞̟̲̻̬͈̪̖̬̯̝̝̲̰̣̩̯̫͈̫̪̜̳͇̮͖̪̱̠̹̤̰͓̭͕̥̹̣̀̅̉̒̃̽͊̆̊̈́̄̐͌́̓̾̓̍̌͑̓͌͊̾̊̂͒͌̀̔͒̕͘͘͘͜͜͝͠͝ͅÄ̶̢̢̱̯̰̟̙͇͔̰̗̜̦̤̪̟̞̪͍̞̟̠̰̗̬̖͎͓̰̫́̈́̊̈́̒A̷̧̢̢̛̹͇̩͎͎̥̱͔͉̞͍͕̠̮͔̭̪͔̜̜̘̰̞͇̱̙͖̮̞̖͉͚̯̟͙̞̫̭͔̰̞͙̗̱̹̺̰͖̭̮͚̪̩͒͑̽̉̋̔͗͗̃̊̀̽̾̿̒̍͗͑̇̅̒͛̈́́̍̿̒̾̊͋́̃̃̈́͂̔̀͐̿̆͌̑̐̀̚͜͝͠ͅͅA̴̡̢̢̧̡̧̛̯͔̭̝̪̰̳̭͚̗̣̼͕̗̟͈͔̩͖̪̖̪͈̝͉̭̭̝̳̘̠̬̩̰̳̳͍̘̫̪̓̀̾̉́̿͂̓̾̎́͐͑̄̉̿̈̍̅̎̏̈́̓͘͝͝͝͠͠͠͠ͅA̶̙͇͎̤̓̿͗́̄̔̆͋̋͆̒̔͐́̽̄͒̎̏͛̂̅̒̋̽̈̋͂͐͐̎̅̌̋̾͑͌͋͐͘̕̕͝͝Ḁ̶̧̡̨̡̢̛̛̰̫̰͓͍̥̝̤̤͕̟̬͕̺͔̻̯̗̠̺̯̬̲̠̳̗͇͇̖̳̙͈͖͕͚͖̖̟̻͉̼̈̈͆̉͊̃̐́̎̊̌́̆̓͆̈̉́̅̆͌͐̽͌̀͒̽̌̿͐̀̽̈́́͋̑̕͘̚͜͜͠͝͝͠ͅA̷̡̨̢̛͕̟̜̰̼͔̠͉͈̼̫͚̟͈̻̖͛̍̍̇̑̐̓̓̀͠Ą̷̱̲̱̳̦͔̥̼̠͕̠̟͎̣̘̮͉̖̗̙̗̞̣̟̈́̾̽̿̍͌̚͘͜͠A̴̡̛̹̗̥̯͇̥̙̣̙̜̰̪̰̘͈͐̌̃̓̌̾̿̃̈͒͋̃̐͒̔̍̈́̓͑̓́̔̔̒͂̐̉̀͋͆͌͂̾͘͘͝͝͠͠Ā̶̡̛̛̖̳̟͕͖̻̲͓̦͈͓͚͈̺͍͙̲̗̒̐̍̂̆͋̈̃͑̽̉̓̃̇͘Ą̴̨̛̣͓̞̪̱̰̜͂̏̀̆͒̀̿͆̑͊̿̈́̑͋̀̌̾̀̈́̾̽̈̈́͐͊̀̒̈́̇͒̈́̀̐̌͒͋͌͊̉̂͒̄̒̇̇̐̕͘͘͘͠͝͝͝͝͝Ā̷̛̛̬͙̠͉̰̼̼̦͉͕̤͈͙̯̈́̿̅̊̋̽̈́̓͌̈́̏͋̍͌͑̆́̄̂̍̿̉̑̈́͊̀͐̈́͋́͆̌̉̀̔̂̍̍̾́̔̕̚̕̕͜͜͝͝A̷̡̧̡̢̨̡̡̢̢̘͉̭̠̖͈̠̭̖̞̭̞͎̤͚͕͔͖͚͇͇̯̟̝̪̖̦͙͙͇̳̪̼̮̫̥̲̲̙͔̟̭͈̺̺͚̬̱͓̠͒̎́̒͐͋͒͂̍̈́̅̐̇͜͜͠Ą̷̢̡̢̢̛̲̝͉͓̺͉̣͇͖̺̜̝̗̹̥̩͎͔͕̦͉͍̜͉͔̫̟̥͓̯̬̖̣͙͍̭͇͔̱̺͈͈̱͗̓̽̒̐͂̓̿͒͊̓̌̅̈́̉̅̓̎̈́̎͗̈́̍̌̒̂̈́̋̐͋̓̆́́̈̇̂͐̔͘̕͝͝A̴̢̡̛̭͈̺̥͇͓̟̻͔̪͇̝̰̱̮͇̦͕̞͙̘̤̻̺̐̎̇̉̓́̐͂́̀͌̽̋̒̀̋͊̀̾͒̓̇̽̂́͛̓̀̓̄̉́̅̀̾͒͌̈́̐͐̑̈́͒́̌̈́̿̽̾̃̽̀͋͛͘͜À̶̡̧̧̨̨̛̛̮̹͓̥̠̱̱̯̪̹̹̮̳͔̞̫̗̹̘͙͙̝̘̳̠̠̳̱̺̗̳̬̰̤̩̖͙̬̥͔̬͈̭̳̬̻̼̐̎͌͆̎̈́̀͆͌̒̅̾͂̋̍̏̈́͛͆̓̊͐͊̄̀̂͐̽̓̍͊͆̚̚̕͜͠͠͝͝Ą̷̧̛̛̛̛͈͖̞͓̱̦̬̣̭̗͍̤̣̦̯̪̹̘̟̙͈̼̬͑̿͊̈͑͛͒͗̑̀͆̏̒̓̃̊̏̐̉̿̄͒̂͛̈̀̂̈͋̀͗̃̆̏̾̏͐̂͂̊̈́̏̐̉͆̂̍̓̚͘̚͘̕͝͝͝͝ͅͅÁ̴̡̢̧̢̩̰͔̰͈͖̬̯̱̙̱̣̭̟͇͙̦̭̣̱͉͇͚̗͌͋͘͜Ä̵̧̛̝̘̼͇̬̭̼̬̠̞̩̩̜̤̰͙͔̼̬̟̟̫͓̥͇̱͕̦̜͙͚̪͚̩̱̟̗̥͙͇̩̞̬̞̗̥̻̘͓̹̻̰̫̙̯̗̹̹́̐͐̎̇̿͗̊͂̏́̂̋̀͆̆̾̄͑͑̽̌̈́̄͋͋̈̂̆̐̀́͌́̎̋̅͘͜͝͝͝͝͠ͅA̷̧̢̡͇̣͈̥̻̗͓͈͖͔̭̩̪͎͍̻̥̝͈̝̭̤͍̘̺̥̲͉̰̦͓̫͇͓͙͙̣̼̫͇͛̋͒͐̄́̔̓͐̅͒͆̏̅̎̇́̚̚͜͜͜ͅ

As Danny’s scream echoed in the sterile room, he froze, realizing something was terribly wrong with his voice. It wasn’t his voice. It was distorted, hollow, like a death rattle echoing from the depths of a crypt. The sound made his skin crawl, every hair on his body standing on end. It was the kind of voice that belonged to something not of this world—something dead. He slapped his hands over his mouth, horrified, tears welling up in his cloudy white eyes.

He felt something hard under his lips and pulled them open, trembling fingers probing inside his mouth. His breath hitched when he encountered metal wires, woven cruelly through his teeth. Panic surged through him, and he tried to wrench his jaw open, but it wouldn’t budge. A sharp, searing pain shot through his skull, and he winced, the realization of his confinement crashing down on him.

Tears streamed down his face, his entire body quaking with fear and confusion. Sobs wracked his fragile form, the reality of his situation suffocating him. This couldn’t be happening—this had to be a nightmare. What the hell was going on? Why was he connected to this machine? Why was there a grotesque wound carved into his chest? And why, oh God, why was his jaw wired shut?

His mind spiraled, grasping desperately for memories, for anything that could explain this horror. But everything was a blur, a foggy haze that clouded his thoughts. He couldn’t think straight, his head pounding with the effort of trying to piece together the fragments of his shattered memory.

But through the chaos, one thought pierced the fog: he needed help. He needed to find his family, his friends. He clung to the memory of them like a lifeline, the only clear images in his fractured mind. Sam and Tucker—they would know what to do. They had always been there for him, through every strange and terrifying moment of his life. If anyone could help him make sense of this nightmare, it was them. He had to find them. He had to get out of here.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Push

A little Flying Fish one-shot thrown down on my commute. Less plot, more vibes, but inspired the fact my tiny Scott keeps enduring this Situation:

And not at all that a certain someone not too far away may have tried to approach a certain thing in a certain way. Nope…

Featuring One Idiot Flyboy and One Wise Fish

💙💛💙💛💙💛💙💛💙💛💙💛💙💛💙💛

“Better not let the Virg see you limping about like that old man.”

Damn observant squid. Scott immediately corrected his gait and strode purposefully into the kitchen.

Ow. Ow. Ow. Damn it.

Gordon followed, because GORDON.

“What? I just had a wrinkle in my sock.”

“Uh huh.”

“Yeah ‘uh huh’. Now it is gone.”

“Course it is.”

Scott set the coffee machine running and for a few blissful seconds conversation was made impossible by the sound of grinding beans.

It also handily covered the noise of him cursing the entire physical therapeutic profession under his breath.

Sadly, between them Brains and Virgil had upgraded this to be the most efficient coffee-production mechanism on the planet, and the excuse was gone before Gordon got bored and left him alone.

Who was he kidding? Once the limpet latched on… a different tack was needed to scrape him off. And after all, attack is often the best form of defence…

“So, how’s your back after the super-sub rescue, Fish?”

“Getting there. I know the drill now. Slow and steady, just gotta be careful not to rush or over-extend it. The physio helps…”

Gordon had an eerie way of making an ellipsis audible.

“Good good, keep it up.”

“Thank you, Mr Motivator.” Gordon perused the range of noxious-coloured energy drinks in the fridge and in a clearly fake-casual voice threw the return grenade over his shoulder:

“How’s your physio going?”

“Fine. Good. Smashing it actually.”

“You don’t smash physio, bro.”

“I do.”

“Oh. Well, you’ll have to give me some pointers. For example, how to smash it so hard you appear decidedly more uncomfortable you did yesterday… I can tell by your posture - that ain’t no sock wrinkle, Scoots.”

Scott immediately stood up straighter and took a long gulp of scalding coffee to disguise the wince.

Gordon raised an infuriating eyebrow.

Scott eyeballed him impassively and took another swallow, just to make sure his throat lining was entirely obliterated. No point doing things by halves.

The raised eyebrow was replaced by an even more irritating expression of concern.

“Hip dislocations take a while bro… and your leg very nearly parted company with the rest of you… there was a lot of swelling in that joint. Give it time.”

Scott shrugged.

“Is all good, I’m nearly there. As soon as I get full rotation, I’m back in the air.”

“I knew it!”

“There’s nothing to know.”

“You’re trying to fast track it! It’s meant to be a GRADUAL extension of range! Faster isn’t always better, you great lanky donut!”

Scott didn’t have to listen to this. So he spun on his heel and made for the desk. He absolutely did not wobble and tip the rest of his coffee down his sleeve as his treacherous pelvis made a ridiculous fuss over nothing.

An even more treacherous part of his brain wondered if his little brother didn’t have a point. Scott threatened it with hyper-specific lobotomisation.

Little Mr Got-Straight-As-In-Physio slid under his shoulder and took a good proportion of his weight just as he stubbornly stepped forward again. Blinking frustrated moisture out of his eyes, Scott heartily wished it hadn’t helped as much as it did.

“Pretty sure you’re meant to use the crutches for a little longer yet too, huh?”

The groan escaped before he could stop it.

Gordon manoeuvred Scott to the couch. Scott’s right hip point blank refused to resist and the rest of his body meekly followed.

He dropped on to the couch, yelped, muttered a few words Grandma would have disapproved of and then stared mutinously at the ceiling.

He was so very Done with it all.

Little brother cocked his head to one side and then handed him a fluffy cushion. A hot pink fluffy cushion.

THE hot pink fluffy cushion.

He looked up at the one person who really and truly Got This. Gordon smiled and inclined his head towards the much loathed eyesore he must have brought up its home from the infirmary. Prescient little guppy that he was.

Scott glared at the cushion. Then pressed his face into it and screamed and shouted for what could have been thirty seconds or thirty hours.

Eventually he was spent. Taking a couple of shaky breaths he sat up and threw it with all his strength across the room. It hit the wall of the stairwell and dropped out of sight.

“Better?”

“Mmhmm.”

Gordon gently lowered himself on to the couch and looked down at his hands, slowly flexing his fingers, one by one.

“Sometimes I was so crushingly bored with all the teeny tiny increments… it felt like I was going backwards… so I’d push until it hurt. Like, really hurt. Because at least then I had something to fight. Then at least it would be interesting, you know?”

Scott nodded, quietly. Then rested his head on Gordon’s shoulder.

“Think I’ve made it worse.”

“Yeah. You’re an idiot. Runs in the family, I guess.”

Gordon ruffled his hair and Scott growled.

“You’ll get back on track, bro. Just might have made it a bit of a longer one.”

Scott couldn’t summon up anything more profound than a sigh.

“Y’know… I could always keep you company. When you’re doing the exercises, I mean. Could make a game of it or… or something. If you wanted, I mean… you don’t have to if it wouldn’t…”

“It would. I’d like that.”

“Cool. Team Hip Flexion is Go!”

Scott made a valiant attempt at the audible ellipsis thing.

“The Upright Knee Raise Crew? The Abduction Gang? Aaah I’ll work on it…”

For the first time in what felt like weeks Scott’s mouth twitched into a grin.

“I’m going to regret this aren’t I?”

“You can bet on it.”

[catscidr]

Imagine Yandere Dottore x puppet like reader 🤭

i got carried away (again) im sorry lmaogsnfs(ɾ⚈▿⚈)ɹ this isnt as yandere as u would expect it to be for a dottore post bc i love me some good slow burn and character development but its fine its still dottore ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ cw: dottore tinkers with reader's inner stuff (literally), he gets weird about it includes: gn!reader, dottore, pantalone and dottore's clones mentionned for like a second wc: 1,5k

You and Dottore had a simple routine; once a week, he would fix you up from whatever had happened to your body and mechanical system from adventuring in the past seven days and, in exchange, you would let him look and poke around your intricate mechanisms so he could learn more about machines and artificial life in Teyvat. He was, first and foremost, a scholar after all. 

However, he’s been getting a little more handsy and has seemed almost... worried the last two times you came back from your trips. 

...Worried in his own way, of course. 

The doctor wasn’t afraid to make you uncomfortable and, when he found a particularly harmful anomaly in your body, he could be even more insufferable. Nothing that you couldn’t handle- being mostly made up of elemental energy and cables gave you a pretty resistant body- so his change in attitude only irritated you more than it hurt. His hands, usually covered by surgical gloves, would lack the latex material to move aside your plates, leaving fingerprints all over the sides and corners. You voiced your annoyance with his behavior but, in normal Il Dottore fashion, he simply disregarded your complaints. 

Today was no exception; you had just come back from a trip in Liyue, exploring the depths of the Chasm and underground mines, and came back to his lab covered in that gross, dark goo. You weren’t experiencing any side effects from the substance thankfully, still, the doctor argued that there had to be something wrong somewhere. The dirt stuck to your clothes and had no intentions of coming off when you rubbed at it (you considered bugging the Regrator to pay for a new outfit because there was no way you were going to lose your hard-earned mora just because a hilichurl decided to fling a handful of that filthy mud at you), but that was the extent of your problems. You kept insisting to the doctor that you were fine, that you just needed a good, long, scalding hot shower to scrape the dirt off of your artificial skin, but he just wouldn’t let it go. 

You had taken off your overcoat, the extra layer being in the way of his handiwork and had tossed it somewhere on his desk in petty revenge. He paid no mind to the small mess you made of his workspace, his attention purely on you- or rather, his attention purely on a stubborn stain on the bottom of your neck, trickling down to your collarbone, stopping right before your inner layer of clothes. Right where that damn hilichurl had struck you. 

“Do I need to send a segment with you every time you go out or will you stop putting yourself in situations where you get all fucked up and have to crawl back to me?” he grumbles dramatically under his breath, loudly enough for you to hear. Purposely. 

With your head thrown back, tilted away from him to allow him the space to open up your neck panel to clean your inside system from the goo that had seeped through the cracks, you can do nothing but groan in annoyance, done with his passive aggressive comments demeaning your competency. 

“You keep saying that, but I doubt you or your clones would be able to keep up with me. All you ever do is stay holed up in your lab. How would a hermit possibly be of help to me?” you huff, staring up at the ceiling.  

Suddenly, you feel your hand clench and twitch repeatedly and you wince in discomfort. Glancing down, you see Dottore’s unamused and irritated gaze boring into you as he pinches the wire in your mechanism responsible for hand movement, a silent threat for you to tone down your attitude. 

“What? It’s true!” you double down stubbornly, smacking his fingers away from you with your free hand. He scoffs, irritated, but doesn’t respond. He had better things to do than to prove himself to you, anyways. While he sulks, you bring your (previously twitching) hand up to the light, rolling your wrist and wriggling your fingers to make sure he didn’t damage anything. 

“Next time I’ll just ask one of your clones to patch me up if you’re so pissed that I come see you when I get back from my trips,” you scoff, placing both hands flat on the vivisection table you were sitting on, leaning on them as you look at him with a raised brow. You can feel the tension radiating off of him, his jaw clenching as he straightens his back, looking (glaring) back at you. 

“Don't,” he says simply, taking a step towards you and bringing his hands back up to your throat to finish the job he had started earlier- getting rid of that pesky mud. 

You feel the atmosphere shift as clear as day. You may not be human, but you were pretty in-tune with emotions and how they worked; which was why you were even more confused as to why the Harbinger was acting this way. Tilting your head back to let him do what he was doing just a few minutes ago, you break the tense silence. 

“Then stop being on my case,” you huff, closing your eyes to let him do what he had to do. You hear him hum in response and hold back the urge to scoff at him and his childish antics. 

Dottore diligently and silently cleans the crevices of your neck and throat, nimble fingers fixing damaged wires and placing things back where they should be so everything is in order once more. With his usual mask absent, his face was impossibly close to your throat, almost inside of your puppet body as he studied how you worked. Instead of blood flowing through veins and creating a pulse, you had electro energy flowing through you, mimicking the veins you lacked. When you inhaled, a weak wave of energy would flow up the left side of your body, and when you exhaled it would go back down, and rinse and repeat. Dottore watched the process, pensive, while you stared at nothing, bored out of your mind. 

“Are you done yet?” you ask quietly, legs itching to hop off the metal table. Dottore stays quiet for longer than usual, lost in thought. 

In a flash, he puts his entire hand beneath your chest from the opening in your neck. His fingers brush something rubber-y in texture, digging deeper between your chest plate and the mess of cables mimicking a spine. You make a garbled noise of surprise, roughly pulled out of your thoughts and yank his hand out, face flushed with embarrassment and something akin to fury (but not quite). 

“What the fuck was that?!” you hiss, hand still holding his wrist firmly. Dottore watches the way his hand prickles with electro as it fades in the air, his eyebrows furrowed and expression indecipherable. Crimson eyes flicker back up to meet yours. You can't help the shudder that passes through your body, swallowing a lump in your throat nervously from the intensity of his gaze. 

“I wonder how your body would react if you were injected with hydro energy,” he murmurs to himself, still staring right at you. “Would you let me find out?” he asks, voice slightly louder than before. 

“Would you let me do more than just observe your inner machinery?” he asks. The Harbinger takes a step forward. 

“Would you let me toy with you?” 

Dottore, now staring down at your sat figure, carried an aura you couldn’t decipher. With his body blocking the overhead lighting, it almost looked like his hair was reflecting the buzzing fluorescent lights of his lab, icy hair surrounding his head like a gentle halo. You feel your mouth get dry, rendered unable to respond. 

“Only come to me. I’ll learn how your body works, inside and out. No one is to see you like this,” he whispers, face eerily still. “Not even my segments. I’ll behead them in front of you if need be.” 

Dottore held his face mere inches away from yours, his ragged breath tickling your cheeks as it made the stray strands of hair flutter. Your eyes never left his, not even when he brought one hand up to your face, sliding across your cheek to tangle itself into your hair while his other hand glid across the cables inside your chest cavity in uncharacteristic fondness. Though his fingers were gentle and soft, his eyes didn’t betray the flicker of something sinful. 

“Would you like that? To be able to study their innards,” he says in a sickly-sweet tone. You study his face; his eyes, usually swimming with irritation and contempt, held a hint of something akin to devotion. 

“Let me study yours. Let me pull you apart completely and then put you back together. I’m not satisfied with simply looking anymore,” he hisses, eyes widening. “I want to mark you from the inside. So let me.” 

You couldn’t find the will to protest. 

[brandyllyn]

Silk from their soul (06)

The Ghoul / Cooper Howard x f!reader [no use of y/n]

Rated: Teen (series will be explicit) Words: 1.2k Summary: Sleepwalkers

Series Masterlist My Masterlist

He can see her ass.

He doesn’t bother trying not to look. There’s just the two of them in the small room, her stretched out on the bed while he sits with his back to the wall across from her. There’s no blanket to speak of and she’s lying on top of the ancient cot facing away from him. He’s still not sure what happened but she shifted a while ago and the skirt of that little sundress had ridden all the way up to her waist.

He was a saint for not touching her.

It was a few hours til morning yet, she’d let him sleep longer than he actually needed. While he was hefting himself off the bed she had yawned, stretching her arms to the ceiling and making parts of her body do some absolutely fascinating things.

No harm in looking.

His hands move as he keeps one eye on her, an ear turned towards the hallway, waiting for the inevitable footsteps. If someone doesn’t try to rob them tonight he’ll eat his hat. Fingers far too used to the work refill his shotgun shells, checking their weights and deciding if the contents are still any good with barely any input from his brain.

And those damn thighs keep calling to him.

They’re edible, is what they are. Two prime pieces of grade-A meat. Of course he’d stare, his mouth was practically watering.

“It ain’t you,” he mumbles to his cock. “You ain’t had a vote in a long fucking time, ya hear?”

It does not. It twitches in interest as she sighs in her sleep, thighs rubbing together. It’d be the work of a moment to cross to her - hell he wouldn’t even have to get off his knees - set his teeth to those perfectly rounded asscheeks and bite. Not enough to break the skin, but enough to turn those little sighs into moans.

Yeah, his cock was definitely looking to cast a vote.

He felt almost light-headed, hormones his body hadn’t made in decades suddenly swimming in his system. With a hacking cough he takes a hit of chem, hoping it might resettle his balance. It does, a little, enough that his fingers stop twitching her direction.

A floorboard creaks.

The Ghoul cracks his neck, setting his hat to the side and resting the end of the shotgun on his knee. Another creak, then the shuffling of boots outside the door. It opens slowly and he clocks three men standing there, two he recognizes.

“Well now, I was beginning to think y’all weren’t ever gonna show. D’you come to party or just watch?”

The man in front stops suddenly, single eye scanning the room. It’s nearly pitch black, barely any light coming from the hallway either. Ever one for the dramatic, the Ghoul scrapes a match across the floor, letting the flame light up his face before he sets it to the end of a cartridge.

“Now, ordinarily, I might let y’all off with a warning seeing as you’ve only made some regretful decisions thus far. But it seems to me a group of fellas like yourself could only have one reason for breaking into a lady’s bedroom in the middle of the night.” He drops the shell into the shotgun, chambering it one fluid motion. “And I cannot abide that kind of man.”

The shell is a special cocktail of his own, a mix of chemicals and tar that burns hotter than acid and sticks to everything it touches. The effect is quick - no need to burn the place down - but aggressive.

The sound of the blast is deafening in the small room, the screams of the two men the shell explodes onto nearly as bad. Next to him he hears a muffled “What?” before he rolls to his feet and places himself between the wakening woman and the door.

“Does anyone else have something they’d like to add to the conversation?”

The screaming continues, even though the fire has burned out. He can see patches of bone where the mixture ate through face, neck, and arms. Smiling to himself he takes a step forward, gently pushing the trio away and closing the door.

“Y’all should go take care of that, and stop that caterwauling.”

“What happened?”

One strap of that dress of hers has fallen and he reaches out to fix it without even thinking. He can almost hear the scrap of his leather gloves on her skin, too much rough against all that softness.

“Just a group of townies looking to make friends. I disabused them of that notion.”

She looks confused, still blinking away sleep. “You shot them?”

“Look here, when it comes to charming the locals you’ve got me beat by a mile - but when a fella needs to be reminded of his manners a bullet has a more lasting impact.”

She groans, burying her face in her hands. “I knew this would happen.”

“You knew they were gonna come up here, and yet you were sleeping there sound as a babe?”

“I knew it was a risk,” she groans again, “kind of comes with the territory.”

“And yet I found you prancing your way through the wasteland alone, looking like that.”

“I’m not alone, I have you.” He barely gets to revel in that statement before she frowns. “And what do you mean, looking like that?”

“Sweetheart, you look like a six course meal in that getup. It’s a wonder no one ain’t gobbled you up already.”

She looks down at herself and purses her lips. “It is a tradeoff.”

“For what?”

Her mouth opens for a moment like she is going to answer then clicks shut. “It’s… thank you. For protecting me.”

For a moment he considers telling her he hadn’t been. That he was just guarding his stuff. Or that it was tit for tat since she had taken the first watch. But it wasn’t true - alive and unharmed included by other people. So instead he simply grumbles, “Don’t say nothing about it.”

Sighing, she lies back on the bed, stuffing her pack under her head with her feet facing the wall. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to get back to sleep.”

“Well, if you ain’t gonna use it…” he moves to the cot, shifting her legs so he can stretch out, back propped to the wall.

She snorts, closing her eyes. “Tell me a story.”

“You looking for some once upon a time fairy tale shit?”

“No,” another one of those low laughs, “you’ve been around a while, tell me something that happened… here.”

He considers her for a moment, stretched out next to him. There’s about a dozen better ways to pass the time that he can think of offhand, but quite a few of them require him to be the kind of man he swore never to be. He didn’t have many lines in the sand, but that was one. Faded and brushed over as it was - it weren’t like he had much of a call to use it.

“You ever seen a naked mole rat fuck a Brahmin?”

That laughter would have to be enough.

☢ ☢ ☢

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[hitlikehammers]

POV: when your boyfriend accidentally overhears you spilling all your (very misplaced) insecurities about him leaving you for the white-picket-fence love he ‘deserves’

aka: CONCLUSION ☄️ hold me oh so close (you’re the sanctuary) 2/2 (and still 100% for @pearynice on her birthday🎉)

✨previously: “I just gotta believe that loving, even for just a short time’s worth it, when it feels like this,” and Eddie does believe that. Deep down, even if it’s alongside doubting and hurting. Eddie believes it, else he’d have run ages ago. Loving Steve Harrington is worth it. “Ed,” Wayne starts his tone a little off, a little…probably tied up in the something Eddie doesn’t have a clue as to what he nudging at, still, but whatever it’s— Eddie thinks he about shoots his head up through the ceiling of the trailer—which would be a goddamn shame because again: new trailer, still a draft, doesn’t need a hole—when he hears the clatter of something heavy not more than ten paces behind him. Which places it still in the kitchen, where he is but only just. Eddie whirls, heart pounding, ready for the worst— And his eyes lock with Steve’s. Steve, who it appears has placed one of his mother’s fancy-ass pie plates covered in aluminum foil near the phone in the corner by the door. Which he’d have opened, y’know, with his key. Because they lock the doors now, still, just in case. But Steve has his own key, and— Oh. Oh, that might have been what Wayne was nudging toward.

“You,” Eddie barely breathes out, and if his heart was pounding for fear a second ago it’s…it’s doing a thing he’s pretty sure isn’t normal, maybe is wholly unprecedented in all of human history of some shit, and he, he—

“Unintentional,” Steve grins a little sheepish at the plate he’d set on the counter, clocking that’s how he’d given himself away, why Eddie was panting a little for the adrenaline rush and the also not just or even primarily about the adrenaline rush; “but like—“

But like then Wayne’s scraping his chair against the linoleum instead of his spoon against his mug, standing up and dropping both into the sink before he clasps Eddie’s shoulder, squeezes, then crosses over toward Steve, does the same and asks low don’t eat it all without me, yeah? and Steve laughs, matches the fondness Wayne aims at him as he lobs back like we’d start without you and Wayne hums his approval before grabbing his truck keys, muttering something about needing cigs—which Eddie’s knows damn well he doesn’t—and then he glances at Eddie with that look, and, and…

Oh, Jesus.

The door’s barely closed behind Wayne before Eddie turns in his chair, knows his knees aren’t gonna hold him just now if he stands, there’s this under-the-skin kinda trembling he can feel that might be his heartbeat or might be his bones quaking apart because, like, Wayne had been looking at him the whole time like that and—

“How long have you been standing there?” Eddie barely squeaks out, it’d be a weirdly humiliating sound either way but it’s not because Eddie can barely process anything over the raucous thunder of his own goddamn pulse because how long has Steve been standing there and, and—

How much did Steve hear?

“Long enough,” Steve finally answers after spending a little time playing with his lips between his teeth in a way that normally drives Eddie a little crazy, but right now he’s a little too nauseated for it to hit.

“Longer than I’d have liked, because the things I heard,” Steve’s voice cracks as he shakes his head, and he looks so crushed, so pained and Eddie feels both sensations wash over him and settle in deep and at ten times the intensity, the weight because Eddie’s caused it. Eddie’s own words fucking made this and he—

“But it was at least as long as I needed, so that I could hear ‘em,” and Steve’s crossing to him, now, crouching a little so grip Eddie at the forearms; “because I needed to hear them.”

Eddie turns, hides his face which makes him feel sick because this is Steve, there are no moments he doesn’t want to see him, to drink him in, to refresh the permanent etching of the whole of him on the insides of Eddie’s eyelids, the ephemeral tangle of Eddie soul so he’ll remember for always what this felt like, what love can be.

For when it’s gone.

“Eddie,” Steve reaches, gathers Eddie’s hands so strong, but sure and so gentle, like he wants to…preserve. So as to keep.

Eddie barely keeps down the seizing tremble to sob, but the cost of doing so cuddles in his stomach to the point where it settles even worse.

“Babe, I needed to hear it,” Steve’s hands tighten on him, thumb stroking back and forth against the pulse in Eddie's wrist; “but now I need you to hear this, okay? Really hear it, please,” he brings Eddie’s hands closer so one of his own can hold both of Eddie’s so he has one free to grasp Eddie’s chin and lift it up, catch his eyes:

“Can you do that for me?”

And that’s the silver bullet: there’s nothing Eddie wouldn’t do for this man.

So he nods. And if a tear he didn’t notice falls when he blinks, Steve’s hand darts immediately to wipe it clear.

“You still think I want a Nancy,” Steve breathes, a lament and a realization rolled into one, that clenches tight in Eddie’s chest.

“You still think it, don’t you, still have this idea of what that was and what that meant, when the real-life Nancy wasn’t even this idea you have of a Nancy and, and then fuck, then the reality of it, like when me and her were anything?” Steve huffs something…bitter out, not toward Eddie and that’s the thing, isn’t it: Steve and Eddie aren’t perfect, and they fight loud and hard sometimes but they’re never bitter, they don’t swipe dirty.

They love—

“God, we were stupid,” Steve shakes his head and oh, well, yeah, maybe Eddie was stupid to fall so far and so deep fucking knowing the lines and limits and flipping them all off nonetheless but—

Then he looks, and Steve’s regretful. Nostalgic in that way where you think of a thing from the past for the lessons you learned for it, the ones you’re grateful for.

And oh.

Oh, Steve didn’t mean them, he meant himself, and…and her.

“You still think that,” Steve bends his chin to press lips where his thumbs have been, and to hold, and to speak against the delicate skin: “after everything.”

It’s not an accusation. It’s not disappointment. Eddie feels both, though: from himself, toward himself.

“Steve,” Eddie doesn’t mean it to come out like a moan. He swears. He swears he doesn’t mean it.

And yet.

“Come here,” Steve’s springing to his height and drawing Eddie first against his middle, tight to the low-center of his chest where the pulse of him echoes like a bell to toll and the he sinks into the comfort in that sound runs through him like cool rain for just an instant before hands are lifting, guiding him to stand and he stumbles a little but he goes nowhere, because Steve won’t let him, won’t ever let him.

All that perfectly placed trust in this man, never proven wrong.

“Will you come here?” Steve murmurs, watches Eddie’s feet and glances up through his lashes to his eyes, down and back, down and back as he leads them to the couch; knows this space like his own, like his home and that shivers through Eddie’s body—it feels right. Like it could’ve been forever, in another world.

But in this world? Steve asks if Eddie will come with him.

“Always.”

Forever the answer. And so he does.

Steve pulls him close, so close, almost in his lap as he curls against Eddie and gathers his hands again, squeezes to conduct his attention—like it could ever stray.

“I need you to listen to me,” Steve breathes so close to Eddie’s ear, hit on his neck; “I need you to listen, and believe me when I say it.”

All Eddie has in him just that moment is to nod, but fuck, does he nod, nods until Steve kisses the side of his head and tucks him under his chin, where Eddie can feel his blood move along by accident.

But it doesn’t feel like an accident.

“I used to think I fucked up with Nancy,” Steve’s saying, and Eddie can hear it as a whisper as well as he can feel it rumble under Steve’s throat; “and I did, but it was like,” he swallows hard, and Eddie feels that too; “it felt like I was the only guilty one, like I had take to all the blame, that it meant,” and Steve’s breath catches, he tenses, his heart trips a little, speeds a little and Eddie can’t not kills at the swell of his Adams’s apple, then the bump of his pulse, to nuzzle the tip of his nose in between, and Steve’s hand threads in Eddie hair: holds him near.

So fucking near.

“That it meant I was the problem, that I was built wrong,” and Eddie sucks in a breath that hurts but not nearly as much as those words, the implication that Steve ever; “that I was like my parents,” and no, fucking no: Steve is ten times most people in the whole world but in comparison to his fucking parents? Jesus fuck, numbers don’t go high enough to compare how much he outstrips them—

“That my love was only ever gonna be bullshit.”

And Eddie can’t help it. He whimpers when he wants to be still, be quiet and let Steve say what he needs to, let him ease Eddie down gently and make the end of this feel softer than it should, than it will with time but with a kindness no one in the world would ever show Eddie Munson—he wants to respect Steve’s space to say his piece but bullshit—Eddie’s come to trust and care for Nancy Wheeler, wonder of wonders, but fuck if he isn’t tempted to slash her tires and shred her drafts right before her deadlines for at least…ever. For fucking ever, because that’s not even in the same reality of enough of a punishment for saying, for doing what she did to this man’s precious fucking heart and if anyone here is bullshit, she’s—

He doesn’t realize how heavy his breathing has gotten, or how tunneled his vision, until Steve reaches a palm out and cradles his neck: an anchor. He’s quiet, and breathes like a light in the dark to follow home until Eddie can see straighter.

He is such…such goodness that it’s hard to do anything but reorientate the whole of him just…just to Steve.

“And I wondered, for a little while, if I put Nancy on this pedestal?” Steve speaks so soft, pressed now against Eddie’s brow, forehead to forehead. “Like she was something better, above me, and could…balance me out. Make the wrongness better. Worthwhile.”

Impossible. Impossible because she couldn’t, she’s not sufficient. Impossible because there’s no wrongness in Steve Harrington. Impossible because Steve’s more often than not the most, if not the only, worthwhile anything Eddie sometimes knows at all.

“But the reality,” and Steve’s tone, it’s…it’s different now. More…sure, maybe; “the real truth,” and yes, yeah, more sure, it’s a certain thing: “is we were stupid kids who saw horrible things, and we were hurting,” and Steve’s head turns just enough to brush lips against Eddie’s temple before bowing back against Eddie’s forehead, both of them breathing the other’s breath now.

Unbearably intimate. It always is but…but like this—

“Sometimes you lash out when you’re hurting,” Steve says simply, leans trusting into Eddie as he does, so forgiving of things that scarred him so deep; “sometimes hurting back, whatever way you can, is the only thing you’ve got.”

Eddie almost can’t comprehend it; is almost infuriated by its dismissal. But there’s…finality that feels like comfort.

Eddie doesn’t understand why, though, or, or how.

“And she was never, above me,” there’s this almost-smile in Steve’s voice then; “her love wasn’t better than my love,” and that’s the true thing, the most true thing maybe, the thing Eddie knew all along without a single shred of doubt:

“And my love didn’t need to be evened out. It was fine. I was fine.”

Then the pièce de résistance:

“My love’s enough just as it is.”

And Eddie wants simultaneous contractions, so deep and so much he can feel them tearing apart something vital in his chest: because he wants to rail, wants to push back on it because that’s not true, that’s too small: Steve’s love is perfection. Steve’s love is the only evidence Eddie’s ever seen that there might be a benevolent god in the universe somewhere, to allow for the tingly giddy joy that floods him under the warm beat of Steve’s love and if Eddie gets that from this love, limited-time-only though it’s offer might be, then Jesus H. Christ, Steve’s love? Enough?

That’s a fucking insult of the kinds Eddie’ll go account a hill tall enough to die on in defense of that love’s—this man’s—impossible, ineffable worth.

“Especially now,” Steve’s easing Eddie’s grip on him finger by finger—he must have grasped hard, squeezed so so tight when Steve shortchanged anything about himself as only just enough but it s a soft loosening, and he’s not letting go in the slightest, and his lips are set soft with a curve at the corners like maybe he knows that underneath Eddie’s indignation, he’s fucking proud of Steve for getting this far, for making progress that big: the know it clear enough to say it like the foundation fact it is when it took so long to unwrite the lies of a lifetime: yes.

Fuck yes, Eddie is proud of the man he loves who is more than fucking enough, who deserves the whole world.

And Eddie’s not the whole fucking world; Steve deserve so much mo—

“Because now,” Steve’s speaking again, and Eddie promised to listen, to believe like either was ever in question, like the cells in Eddie’s body don’t reorient themselves specifically to be near Steve, to cluster closer to Steve to soak in all of Steve—

“Now, this time, it’s this, this totally sincere thing, it’s this wholly honest, this absolutely genuine, like, timed in the rhythm of your heartbeat kinda thing I’ve never felt before and,” Steve rambles a little but it’s so earnest, so heartfelt where Eddie, or Robin—often their ramblings are just tangled-up tangents but this, from Steve: this is intention atop intention, a mountain of certainties vying for dominance to get the first foot out his mouth and into the world to make itself known.

“My love was always enough, but,” Eddie doesn’t like the ‘but’ on instinct, must scrunch his face or fail to catch a little whine for it because Steve’s hand in his own—still there, still there—but Steve’s still-there hand knows immediately to strokes Eddie’s knuckles, to soothe and to ground because Steve does love him in his way for as long as he’s willing, as long as he wants and it’s perfection, so far exceeding enough.

“But this is different from that other love,” Steve’s speaking it low, like the sound waves at that pitch will sync with something elemental inside Eddie’s DNA, inside the cadence of his blood—like he’d want that for some reason, like he does want that, here and now:

“Because it’s so much bigger, and stronger, and real in this whole new way,” and Steve’s lifting Eddie’s hand to his lips, doesn’t have to look to know the way anymore, presses them dead center to the middle and oh, oh it’s everything, Eddie melts a little and his heart’s still pounding almost painfully but it’s singing a little, forever weak and willfully so for Steve, Steve’s touch, Steve’s love—whatever kind, for however long, this real and tangible thing Eddie can see and feel that’s more than he never dared to conceive of, to think he could hold and—

“I love you, Eds.”

And Eddie’s brain does him the courtesy of stopping before his heart does. Y’know: undercuts the capacity to panic where your blood stops pumping and it’s all just white noise inside the whole of you. Because your brain’s already offline anyway.

Helpful little trick of timing, really.

“I thought maybe it was too soon, and I was waiting to say it until you were ready, maybe,” Steve’s looking at him with this potent swirling mixture of apprehension and hope but all of it bundled up in that patent resolve of his, the thing that slays the monsters and corrals the children and reached that first time cup Eddie’s jaw and draw him all the way in; “maybe in case it ended up that you never were ready, but fuck,” and Steve’s breath huffs out of him like something pushes it, like something’s swelling up inside and squeezing on his organs, making the basic necessities of living a struggle and Eddie feels included to reach, to help and soothe but Steve might still look a little hesitant, but, but—

More than anything, the hope’s shining bright enough in the cracks to start winning out.

“Fuck,” Steve exhales with maybe the last of what’s left of his oxygen before he lifts his gaze and goddamn if those eyes are big enough, golden enough and swimming full enough to drown Eddie by default in something so much bigger than what he understand even the concept of love to be but it doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t make sense, Eddie isn’t the dream, he’s not what’s Steve waiting on, but Steve’s hands aren’t just on his anymore, Steve’s hands are tangling with his hands and drawing Eddie’s up under his chin and Eddie can feel him breathing, thinks maybe he can feel his pulse against the skin but it’s hard to tell when Eddie’s own is such a riotous thing, and—

“If I was ever waiting for love, the real thing, the thing right here,” and he squeezes Eddie’s hands tighter, almost nonsensical; “right here,” and he kisses the pads of Eddie’s fingers and holds there close, long and warm like there’s something magnetic there, something worth staying to savor before he leans, holds eddies hands in the bare space between them as his gaze meets Eddie’s and locks there: Eddie couldn’t look away if he tries and then Steve breathes—

“It’s you.”

And Eddie must have heard wrong, same as his lungs, which tighten up to stalling, to causing real goddamn pain behind his bounding heart now because that’s not right, that’s not right—

“Up and down, through and through, forever and,” and Steve’s breath catches, and his eyes fly to Eddie’s, wide not like he surprises himself but like he’s unsure of something, when Eddie’s unsure he’s not fucking dreaming, or maybe goddamn dead and this is his afterlife, his undeserved reward; “umm,” and Steve licks his lips, but never wavers from looking at Eddie like hes the center of the universe, and more than that: some universe Steve wants:

“Always,” he breathes; “forever and always.”

Then he cups both of Eddie’s cheeks and and frames his face, cradles him like he’s dear beyond reason, like every word he said is law and love and light:

“It’s you.”

Eddie cannot fucking breathe.

“So, yeah,” Steve huffs, breathless himself; “that’s, umm,” and he pulls back a little, enough to run a shaky hand through his hair for nerves, and Eddie’s wants to stop him, wants to catch him and bring that hand to his lips but he’s frozen, he’s shaken, he’s stunned because he’s been so sure, he’d been so sure there was an expiration date but Steve had never spoken of one before, then here he’s said always and forever, over and again and both words, every time, were truths where Eddie’s knows Steve’s tells for anything less—these were truths but Eddie’d been sure—

“Guess that’s me pulling my heart out, too,” and Steve gestures between them, chest to chest and Eddie shudders, feels the motion move in his blood somehow: facts. Truths. This man, right here, being brave—having heard Eddie’s words he thought were confessions aimed elsewhere and not shying from them, put handing them back, offering his heart now and how, fucking, fucking how—

“And you can do whatever with it,” Steve sounds sure of that too, almost resigned but mostly resolute; “but Eddie?”

And then he smiles. Soft. Warm. With so much love.

“That’s been true from the start.”

That—

You can do whatever with it.

Like…as if Eddie’s had that heart from—

“Because it took like a second to know it was yours,” Steve spells it out plain, like he knows Eddie will struggle to take it it; he grabs Eddie’s hand and flattens it to his chest, lets him feel the frantic flutter as he exhales fierce:

“That I was yours.”

And between the words, and the certitude; the passion and the pulsing heart under his palm—all of Eddie’s conviction that that this was slowly creeping toward and end, it just…it’s like he held it in that hand.

And the steadfast pump of Steve’s heart breaks it to dust, banished far to nothing.

Eddie’s breath comes back in an incredulous laugh that’s no without tears.

“Mine?” he breathes, hand still on Steve’s heart, eyes trained on Steve’s own, unblinking. Still so close to disbelief.

“Yours,” Steve nods, covers his hand again and presses in. “All of it. Long as you want it.”

“Always,” Eddie answers almost before the last word fades; “always,” and it’s in claiming forever on offer beyond all imagining that it starts to register, to bleed into him full as he chokes out: “I never could have,” then he shakes his head, stacks another hand to Steve’s chest, needs the grounding. The assurance.

And then—

“Mine?”

Steve’s voice is small, but he’s leaning to Eddie’s pulse at his jaw, just the brush of his lips and Eddie shivers, but he turns a hand to drag Steve’s own to his heart, too, because good fucking god—

“Oh fuck,” Eddie breathes, arranges Steve’s fingers to every points around the beating so it’s complete, and fucking proprietary:

“Only yours,” he vows, wholly and complete; “past the day I goddamn die, Stevie,” and he means it, he means it: “only ever been yours.”

And it’s true, and not only because Eddie didn’t really understand love before loving Steve taught him. It’s that, but then: somehow beyond the size of words—it’s also more.

And when Steve leans to kiss him full on the lips, nothing they haven’t spent these last months doing every goddamn day, more chaste even than they’ve been for ages: it doesn’t shift the plates of the planet, or the motions of the tides.

It shifts the way the solar system rotates, the way the universe expands.

Steve tastes like what it means to be alive.

And they stay that way, they lower onto the cushions of the sofa and hold so fucking close, kiss so fucking sure like promises and their celebrations, their renewals and their rebirthings all in one. They kiss until air becomes meaningless, until their lungs burn as much as their eyes, until kisses tears away is commonplace and then spent entire, the moment held close and ushered through as a softness, a commitment to come another unwavering, and then they’re getting the, their breathing is calm and their bodies are pressed like they were made to mould into one perfect shape. They smile stupid at one another, the relief eclipsed in pure fucking joy, now, as Steve nips around Eddie’s face, down how next, to his collarbones: playful. As Eddie twists the soft strands of Steve’s hair and caresses beneath where they fall when he lets go, they start again.

“What kinda pie did you bring?” Eddie asks idly after minutes, probably not hours—they’re still alone and yeah, Wayne knew what he was doing when he left but it’s his day off. And he does love Steve’s baking.

Gets to love Steve’s baking now forever, and Eddie’s not settled enough to resist burying the full width of his grin in Steve’s shoulder for it: another forever-privilege he’s still acclimating to the marvel of.

“Apple,” Steve answers, stretching his neck back so Eddie can fit more fully, more close. “Wayne just said pie, but, I know the deer got your tree,” which they definitely did, the cute little woodland-terrorists, Eddie bought them a salt lick and everything to try and sway their violence. No dice.

“We should look at what it takes for a fence, man,” Steve muses before he reaches, grabs Eddie’s hand to pull it to his lips for a kiss so he can keep Eddie’s face burrowed safe in his neck but still love on him this way all the same as he adds with a knowing grin in his tone, tangible where Eddie’s hand lingers on his lips:

“Plus I know apple’s your favorite.”

And Eddie, he can’t help it, it’s all so fucking much so he, he kinda has to—

He giggles. He giggles, and he tucks himself a little lower, straight to Steve’s chest so tight and he wraps his arms around this man he gets to love, and love with everything, with no end in the cards at all, not ever: he laughs as Steve wraps his arms around him in kind without hesitation, fits around him with no intention of sifting anytime soon, because, because…

An apple pie life. A picket fence love.

Eddie’s heart cartwheels in his chest and he pulls Steve closer, wills him to feel it too, to know what it holds.

All that it holds.

Steve’s arms find some magic way to hold him tighter in kind, like he wants his chest pressed into Eddie’s to share permanent real estate, to meld into one single beating-breathing symphony and…yeah.

Yeah: Steve fucking knows how far this goes, can’t see the end either.

And he somehow wants that, relishes it, smiles so fucking blinding when the lift their heads again and kisses even fucking deeper right up until they hear the gravel rumble and the engine cut and it’s time to slice the goddamn pie, and brew another pot of coffee to go with it, and, and…

And talk about how hard it might be—or how amazing, maybe, even—to put up a fucking fence around an apple tree for the long haul.

also on ao3 🖤

✨permanent tag list (comment to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme

[kis3memore]

Wicked Games

introduction, chapter 1

Summary: Chris is suffering from a nasty addiction and is desperate to find the right person to help him get out of it.

Warnings: slight smut, male receiving, cursing, drug use, alcohol use

WELCOME!! I was scared to post this, but then I was like, you know what? fuck it let’s do it. Anyway, this is my first EVER series on here I’m excited and nervous at the same time!

I hope you all enjoy this introduction!.. ig I’ll call it that.

...

"Watch your teeth," Chris tells the girl who is currently on her knees in front of him, she looks up at him as he grabs a fist full of her hair guiding her head up and down. He throws his head back, "Fuck, there we go, much better,"

He looked back down at the girl as she swirled her tongue around the tip of his penis, making him groan. "Come on, don't tease me," He huffed, turning his head towards the door as he heard shuffling and laughter. He looked back at the girl who was still going to town on him and let his eyes roll to the back of his head, leaning his head back and looked up at the ceiling, feeling dizzy as his vision started to spin and all the laughter from the other side of the door seem far away.

Of course, it was edibles, a joint, and only who knows how many shots he was gone. But to him, he felt amazing, like nothing would feel better than how he felt right now. He loved every minute of his high and wished it would never go away, but it did, and that's when he turned miserable again.

He does take knowledge of his bad addiction, every time he thinks about it he feels about cleaning up and staying sober, but he always ends up not taking his own advice. What's terrible is that he blames people for his addiction, "nobody cares to even help me sober up or even care to encourage me to stop," He felt alone in this world and is in desperate need of someone to save him, he doesn't care who he just wants that somebody to care about him.

His high was ruined when the girl on her knees in front of him decided to scrape her teeth on him once again, he winced looking down at her, "Yeah, you're done here," He pushed her off of him earning a confused look from her. He picked up his pants, buttoning them back up, "Go bite someone else's dick," He hated when his high was ruined, it put him in a bad mood, but that didn't stop him from getting high again.

He walked out of the room, leaving the girl shocked, probably still on her knees. He didn't care.

"Smoke some, drink some pop one"

The song blasts through the house, which holds a party every year school starts. The house belongs to one of the popular hockey players, who invites Chris to every party he hosts. This is the time and place where Chris can easily let loose. He makes his way back to the corner where he always goes with his best buddy, Nate.

"Oh wow, that was quick," Chris laughed, eyeing the joint that was held in between Nate's fingers, "Give me that," He pointed to it. Nate shook his head, moving it away from him, "Nah, you stole my first one. You ain't taking this one," Chris's face dropped, "I almost got my dick eaten off, and you're seriously doing this to me?" Nate's eyes widened as he heard what Chris told him, but then he laughed, shaking his head.

"This is legit the second time you almost went dickless," Nate said to him. Chris looked away from him, watching people walk in and out of the house, "Just give me that damn blunt," He heard Nate scoff, taking another hit before passing it to Chris, who gladly took it from his hand, "Thats what I thought," Taking a hit immediately, Nate shakes his head eyeing him as he does so. The look he gives Chris is mixed with concern and disgust, He's worried about his best friend's health and his addiction, but also disgusted with himself, the guilt he feels washes through him constantly as he is always the one to supply him with stuff and never has the guts to say no.

Chris looked back at the crowd behind him, his eyes landed on someone he couldn't stand, and his face turned sour from even looking at him. Taking one last hit, he passed the blunt back to Nate.

"Life of the party arrived," Chris said, turning his head again towards where "the life of the party" was. Mateo Hansley, on the football team, everyone knows him, but Chris despises him ever since he found out his ex was cheating on him with him. To this day, his ex still tries her all to get him back, and he sometimes finds himself considering it, but Nate pushes him back from it, telling him it's not a good idea, "Oh how cute, I'm surprised his stuck up girlfriend is not with him," Chris looked back at Nate, "Who's that?" He asked him.

"You don't know? Y/n Laurier, snobby little bitch, cheer team," He still didn't have a clue, squinting at Nate, who sighed, looking over at Mateo, "Best friends with the girl you took to the room over there," Chris now had his eyebrows raised, "Damn well, I hope she knows her bestie loves to bite off dicks," Nate laughs at him shaking his head, finishing off the blunt before he gets up from his seat, patting Chris's shoulder, "Lucky you still have yours,"

"Come on mister I'm always feining, I think we need some air and maybe touch some grass while we're at it," Nate said to him as he began to walk through the crowd and towards the door that led to the back yard, Chris rolled his eyes. "I think I'm okay," He muttered, taking the seat where Nate was sitting before he got up. He observed the crowd in front of him, looking at the people dancing, taking shots, smoking, and seeing people making out with one another.

"You look lonely," He sat up straight and looked around, trying to figure out if he actually heard that or if it was just his high messing with him, but no, he found someone actually sitting next to him, A girl he had never seen before, she looked at him with raised eyebrows, he looked back at her with the same expression, he opens his mouth to say something back but she beats him to it, "I'm real, and I'm really sitting next to you" She laughs at him, he does the same rubbing his forehead while shaking his head.

"Um, are you okay?" He snaps back to reality for a bit, looking behind her at the group of girls taking shots together, the girl next to him stays staring at him, waiting for him to speak, Wow this guy is high in the clouds, her mind said. "Oh yeah, I'm perfect! Also, I’m not alone I'm with my friend," He smiled at her answering her question, watching her nod awkwardly, You can just get up and walk away you know.

He wondered why she was still sitting here, getting annoyed a bit. "So, like, the real question is, what are you doing here alone?" he asked her this time. Her eyes traveled all the way down to his shoes, examining him like he were some object. He looked away from her quickly, biting his lip so that he wouldn't curse her out.

"I'm not alone I'm actually with my boyfriend, but who knows where he is right now," She shrugged letting out a breath, he looked at her suspiciously now, "And who's that?" The question came out of his mouth slowly. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, "Mateo Hansley," She answered, and he widened his eyes. Speak of the devil, holy shit.

"I need to touch some grass," he mutters before getting up quickly and walking away. She sits there confused, watching him walk out the door leading to the backyard. "Stoner," she shook her head but then shrugged. Standing on her feet now, she continues to search for her boyfriend.

…

oh wow, yall read the whole thing???? was it good at least???

thank you so much for reading the introduction to my first series!! it’s short i know, but the chapters will be long, let me know what you guys think of it so far!

[cainache]

saw you wanted steve request & i love your steve angst.

steve with obvious reader who is unaware of the upside down but is slowly starting to freak out and get a little upset at steve from keeping it form her.

he’s my liar ♱ steve harrington

Hawkins, 1986

The phone call was worse than any kick to the gut. He hadn’t wanted to call you. It was late. You were sleeping and the last thing he wanted to do was bother you with his bullshit. But he was so damn scared. So damn terrified that he wouldn’t see tomorrow, so he called you. Shaking in his skin.

He needed to see you. Now. Selfishly.

You had rushed over without a problem, only living down the street. It was a short bike ride. One you hadn’t minded, even if you were livid with him and his disappearance act.

You had heard the news. Everyone had. Eddie Munson was missing. Chrissy Cunningham was still dead. Jason Carver was now missing. Max was in the hospital. So many others were dead. Half the town was in shambles.

And you didn’t know a thing of the truth.

You hadn’t seen Steve in two days. Every call went unanswered. Every visit to his vacant home left you leaving without seeing him. You’re not surprised by this, he does it all the time. Disappear. It’s happened like once every year since you’ve gotten with him. This year makes number three.

And when he does come back to you, there’s always a million apologies on his tongue and faded bruises on his skin. But tonight, everything is at its peak. Right in front of you. The red ring around his neck. The chunks of skin missing from his abdomen. Small littering cuts. You’re simply staring at him as he leans against the bathroom sink. There’s a towel low around his waist and his hair is wet and dripping. You can’t even be mad at him when he looks like this. You don’t fucking understand.

He hasn’t met your eye in a while.

“I’m sorry,” he suddenly whispers. It’s all too quiet in the bathroom. The steam from his shower is making you dizzy. You suck in a breath before you can cry. He’s looking for your eyes now. You wave a hand at him, staring at the white of his towel. “Can you just let me get the first aid kit, please?”

He winces at the way you sound. He moves, his back scrapes the wall as you bend down to shuffle around under his bathroom sink. Steve tries again, sick to his stomach. “Honey—” You can’t right now.

Your eyes screw shut as you grab onto the kit. “Steve. Please. Just go sit on your bed. I.. I need a minute.” He swallows, thick. He nods, even though you can’t see him. He pulls on his fingers till they ache as he walks the short distance to his room. He sits right on the edge of his bed, staring at the door. Waiting for you.

You stand after a second. Your eyes meet yourself in the mirror. Your face is caked with sleep. Your eyes are teary. You frown and shut the light off as you head for Steve’s room.

He perks up when you appear, it’s accompanied with a small wince. Your frown deepens as you take a seat next to him. “You.. You should lay back, so I can cover these easier.” He just nods. He lays back and you still won’t reach his eyes.

It’s quiet for a while. The only noise is your sniffles, crinkled plastic, and Steve’s occasional whispers. You don’t even have it in you to say soft sorry’s. You’re confused. Scared. Worried. Angry. And Steve’s here, breathing heavy as you look down at his ripped skin. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he whispers. His eyes are glued to his ceiling.

You stare at his moving abdomen. “Looks pretty bad, Steve. There’s.. Theres teeth marks? Your skin is literally missing here..” Your finger gently moves to point and you flinch in surprise when he takes your hand in his. Your eyes are forced to meet his. He looks guilty. You’re still frowning.

“I’m sorry I called you. I.. I know I’ve been a dick. I know I’ve been gone. But honey, I’m okay. I’m here. Things are fine.”

You stare. Your jaw clicks. You want to rip your hand from his hold, but you love his hold. You need his hold right now. The reassurance. “Things are not fine, Steve.” You seethe, eyes watery slits. “Fucking look at you!” He frowns at your tone and your words. He knows he shouldn’t have called you, but he needed to see your face.

Your other hand waved towards his day old wounds. “What.. What even are these? Where did you get them! There’s damn teeth marks, Steve! I don’t get it!” You can’t sit, you stand during your vomit of words. Your anxious and your hand is still in his. Never too far.

He lets go of your hand slowly and sits up himself. He frowns as he looks at you. Tired. Chest moving quick. You look terrified. He wonders if he looks around the same?

“Honey, I can’t.. I just can’t explain it. I don’t know how.”

You glare at him. “Steve, I can not keep doing this? You’re like a damn mystery! God, whatever you’re doing is painful! Look at your stomach! That’s insane! It’s making me sick!”

He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t tell you the truth. He won’t. You can’t die. He can’t have that. He has to keep you far from it all. He lets out a breath, “I am okay.”

You’re heavy breathing, hands balled up into fist down at your sides. You stare at the bandages that take up a lot of his skin. “I’m okay,” he whispers again as he stands. He towers over you as his hands coat your fist. He squeezes gently. He takes you softly into him. Your eyes screw shut, you’re scared to touch him. He kisses your hairline. You cannot do this.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

You can say you won’t do this for a million times and it will never be true. If he calls, you’re here. Even if he is a liar.

[jinxedbychaos]

Echoes of Insanity Ch. 2

Bound by Chaos

No summary as I'm not good with those

Jinx (Powder) x Twin sister

Past-

Playing by the canals of Zaun, I chase after Powder, her laughter coming out as she zigzag around me, trying to stay just out of reach. The clouded water glistens in the dull light, the distant sound of Zaun's factories a familiar sound in our daily lives. Vi sits on a rock nearby, her eyes never leaving us, a small smile on her face as she observes.

vi's in charge while our parents are at work, and even though she tries to put a tough front, she cares about keeping us safe.

Suddenly, Powder darts behind me, determined to catch up to me. I try to run faster, but my foot catches on a rock hidden in the dirt. making me fall to the ground. pain stings through my knees as I land hard, scraping them raw. tears start to fall off my eyes, and I can't help but let out a chocked sob.

Powder gasps, immediately scared that she might have hurt me. "Ash! I-I didn't mean to, I was just tryin to catch you!" She speaks in a shaky, panicked voice.

Vi already besides us "It's okay, Pow. Accidents happen" Vi says, glancing at her, then back at me with a reassuring smile. "besides some scraped knees wont stop Ash, right Ash?"

you sniffle, wiping away the tears and nodding slowly. Vi grabs a piece of tissue out of her pocket an gently starts cleaning the blood off my knees. She leans in blowing some air on the scrapes like our mom does when we get hurt. "See? all better".

Powder shuffles closer, still looking guilty. She reaches for my hand, her lip quivering. "I'm sorry, Asha. I didn't mean to…" Her eyes shiny with unshed tears, and i can see how guilty she feels.

i squeeze her hand, giving her a small, watery smile. "I-it's okay , powder" I mumble, trying to reassure her. feeling a little more steady now that Vi's taken care of me.

Vi stands and offers her hand to us. "come on, why don't we go home. I'll teach you a new game on the way" she says with a smile, her tone light, trying to lift our spirits.

I grab her hand, already feeling the excitement bubbling inside me at the thought of learning something new from Vi, Powder clings to the other hand.

The scrape on my knee long forgotten, as I follow my sisters, even in the bad times, being together makes everything feel just right again. Vi squeezes our hands, pulling us gently along, and I can't help but feel safe and loved, all the pain fading away under the warmth of their presence.

---------------

Present-

Vi uncovers a large garbage pipe hidden in the ground and quickly scans the area for enforcers.

"Oh, man, not again! I just got this shirt-" Mylo whines, but he's cut off as Vi shoves him into the pipe with a swif kick. Claggor follows, then Powder and me, with Vi coming last.

We slide through the dirty, narrow pipe, letting out startled yelps as we descend. At the end, we tumble into a pile of garbage in an underground disposal area.

"Thought last time was the last time we were gonna do this." Mylo grumbles, pulling a piece of trash out of his hair.

"Well, this time's the last time." Vi replies

"Guys, what was that? What the hell happened back there?" Claggor ask, still looking a bit shaken.

everyone suddenly turn to face powder and me. surprised by the accusation, we both try to defend ourselves.

"We didn't do anything!" Powder blurts out. "We didn't touch anything!" I quickly add.

"you could fill a damn library with all the things you didn't do" Mylo snaps, glaring at us.

Just as I'm about to fire back, Vi cuts in.

"Guys, we just emptied a Piltover penthouse right under the enforcers' noses" She climb out the pile of garbage "so, if you're done beating yourselves up, let's get this home"

We walk thtough the dimly lit disposal area until we find a trapdoor in the ceiling Vi drags some boxes with the help of Claggor an climb up, pushing the door open. she helps Powder and me out first, Then follows.

We step out onto the streets of Zaun, unaware of the two boys following us. As we pass by a boy casually rolling a barrel back and forth with his foot, he smirks. "nice haul?" he asks.

"you could say that" Mylo replies, looking smug.

Vi shoot Mylo a disapproving glare.

"I heard there was some action across the river" the boy continues, flipping a coin between his fingers.

"is that so?" Vi replies, about to move on, but two boys suddenly appear in front of us, blocking the way.

"But now you're, you're tracking this mess of yours through my streets." the boy says

"your streets? what makes you think-" Vi starts to snap, but Claggor quickly interrupts

"listen, we don't want any trouble, okay?" Claggor says, trying to defuse the situation.

One of the boys smirks "hear that, Deckard? They don't want any trouble."

"you know, in my experience trouble finds you" Deckard say, signaling toward Vi. "There's no reason this has to get ugly. How about you share a little taste of your treasure there, and we'll call it even?"

"No, no, no We worked to hard to-" Mylo starts, but Vi cuts him off, placing a hand on his shoulder before stepping forward to face Deckard.

Taking the bag off her shoulder, Vi asks "just a taste?"

"just a taste-" Deckard begins, but before he can finish, Vi swing the bag into his face, knocking him to the ground.

I jump, startled, and I can feel Powder do the same. suddenly, Vi tosses the bag at us, Powder grabbing it.

"huh" Mylo and Claggor grunt in unison, snapping into action and getting ready to fight.

Deckard groans and pushes himself up, his expression turning fierce. one of his friends rushes to Mylo, shoving him to the ground and starts landing punches.

Powder and I watch in shock, taking a few steps back, trying to distance ourselves from the chaos.

Claggor quickly moves in, shoving the boy off Mylo, but on the other side, deckard lunges at Vi, throwing wild punches. She fights back, each hit landing with brutal force.

Powder and I stand frozen, watching in horror as the fight unfolds. I see Powder fall to the ground, sitting back in fear.

Claggor punches one of the man in the face, throwing him back. he crashes to the ground right in front of us, his eyes locking onto ours and then the bag. Panic floods through me, and I grab Powder's arm "Run" I shout. Powders puts the bag around her and we run down an alley, the thug chasing after us.

back in the street, Vi, Claggor and Mylo are still fighting. unaware that we've taken off. Vi manages to knock Deckard to the ground, while Claggor is shoved against a wall. He grabs a handful of dirt and throws it to the face of the thug. The boy stumbles, and Claggor takes the opportunity to bring him down.

Meanwhile, Mylo is struggling beneath another thug, taking punch after punch. Vi rushes to his aid, grabbing a wooden plank and smashing it over the guy's head, knocking him out cold. the three of them stand, bruised but victorious, ready to leave the scene.

As they begin to walk away, Deckard, clutching his side, stumbles to his feet and pulls out a knife. "wait!" he says in pain.

Vi turns around, stepping closer to him. she leans down, staring him dead in the eyes. "wanna se how that ends?" she asks, her voice low and dangerous.

Deckard meets her gaze but says nothing, staggering back as he decides against pushing further.

Vi straightens up and glances around, realizing something "Where's Powder and Ash?" she asks her voice tense.

Meanwhile, Powder and I sprint through the narrow alley, not daring to look back, our breath coming in ragged gasps as we keep running, fear driving us forward.

We threw some crates in the way, desperately trying to slow the boy chasing us. "Oh! You little…" he grunted as he stumbled but kept running.

We darted through the cluttered alley, our breath heavy and frantic. When we reached a dead end blocked by boxes, we quickly hide behind a wall, trying to quiet our panting. Powder clutched the bag tightly, just we it seems like the boy might turn the other way. we accidentally knocked over a wooden plank.

"No, no, no, no!" I whispered, trying to grab the plank before it fell but it hit the ground with a loud bang.

Making the boy tur toward the noise.

Panic flooded me as I searched for any scape. Powder, clutching Mouser, quickly started loading it with nails, her hand shaking. A few nails falling to the ground. "Come on, Mouser, I need you!" she whispered urgently, her voice trembling.

I glance back at her, heart pounding, as she throws Mouser toward the boy's feet. We both held our breath, watching, hopping for a miracle. The parts turning and clicking together… then pink smoke burst out with a small pop.

disbelief crossing our face as the makeshift bomb failed. The boy smirked and started walking toward us, his eyes locked onto the bag.

We back away scared, our backs hitting the railing. In a split second decision, I unclipped the bag from Powder and I throw it into the river, the boy goes to grab it but fails and watches as the bag sinks.

As the boy is distracted, I grab my sister's hand and we bolted, weaving through the alleys, running as fast as we could until we finally reached the meeting spot. Vi, Claggor and Mylo were already waiting for us.

"Powder! Ash!" Vi called out when she saw us, and we ran straight to into her arms, hugging her tightly.

"Where's the bag?" Mylo ask, looking around, concern quickly filling his face as he realized it wasn't with us. Vi glanced at us too, frowning.

Still catching my breath, I stutter "He… he was following us" "He was going to catch us." Powder ads.

"I-i threw it into the river." i say with guilt.

"You did what?!" Mylo yelled, his frustration boiling over.

"we're sorry" Powder and I say in unison, both of us felling the weight of our mistake. Powder looked down, her voice small as she speaks "I tried to stop him with Mouser, but… it didn't work."

"Who saw that coming?" Mylo shots back, putting his arm up.

"doesn't matter. The stuff's gone" Vi interrupted "at least least you two are okay" she said softly, putting a hand on our shoulders.

Vi walks over to the building's door and pushes it open.

"Okay? what about us?" Mylo complained. "I get my face bashed in, and the just get a pass?" He continues as well all stepped inside.

"yup" Vi replies flatly, closing the door behind us.

We crowded into the old elevator. Vi lowered the lever, turning the flickering lights on as we began our descent into the Undercity.

Powder and I leaned against the railing, the weight of guilt heavy on our shoulders. Mylo still fuming.

"Every time" Mylo grumbled, glaring at us "Every time they come, something goes wrong." he pointed at our direction "They just jinx every job"

Powder and I are about to defend ourselves when Vi cuts in.

"Just drop it Mylo" Vi says, starring straight ahead as the elevator slower to a stop. The doors cracked open, and she pulled her hood up, stepping out into the streets of the Undercity.

We follow her, weaving through the crowded streets filled with vendors and people. At one of the stalls, Mylo steals some fruit from a sleeping merchant, stuffing it into his pocket with a smirk.

we continued down the streets until we reached The Last Drop. without a word Vi pushes the door open, and we all slipped inside.

✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪

Ch. 1 - Ch. 3

There should be another chapter by Sunday.

Don't forget to leave likes and to repost

[kind-of-crazy-butthatsokay]

I'm here

Summary: Natasha holds you as you fall apart.

Pairing: Natasha Romanov x Reader

(No use of descriptive words for Reader's appearance. If you do stumble across one, please let me know and I'll immediately find a more inclusive alternative)

Warnings: 18+, mental breakdown, work stress, feeling overwhelmed by everything, tears, lots of tears, hurt/comfort, fluff, hugs and kisses, Natasha being a perfect human being and pure soul

Word count: 1.1k

Author's note: Comforting fluff and angst for everyone who just needs a damn break from life. I wrote this for @romanoffsbish because I wanted to give you something nice 🖤 I hope you like it ☺️😳

...

Your hands blindly reach out for your caffeinated drink of choice, downing the last dregs before pushing the empty container to the side with a grumble.

You blow out an agitated sigh, eyes narrowing at the papers scattered across your desk. The black letters are barely readable in the dim light ofyour laptop screen.

Your eyes are burning, lids heavy as you fight to keep them open. You can't stop now. There's still too much to do, too many things to take care of. They just keep piling up, as soon as one thing is crossed off the list three new ones are added and you are drowning in the attempt to stay on top of the ever growing work load.

The sky outside your window is dim, the last rays of light vanishing on the horizon as the bright artificial lights of civilization take over the evening sky.

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. Your teeth dig into your lower lip as you look at the mess of unfinished work spread out in front of you. Tears rise in your eyes and you tear your gaze away from the papers to stare at the ceiling.

Heavy breaths rattle in your chest as your throat starts closing up, the overwhelming pressure of life swamping you.

Your fingers desperately twist the fabric of your shirt and you can't keep the tears from falling. They roll hotly down your face, collecting at your trembling chin before sliding down your throat and wetting the collor of your shirt.

“Fuck,” you curse breathlessly, your voice shaky and unsteady. “I can't do this anymore. I just can't.”

Giving in to the tears you slump forward, elbows resting on the desk as you bury your face in your clammy hands. There's no holding back the mental breakdown bearing down on you with crushing might.

“God, I can't,” you sob, shoulders shaking with grief and overwhelm.

Broken sobs shake your body, tears dripping down your face, snot clogging up your nose and mixing with the tears.

You are so caught up in losing your mind, you don't hear the scraping sound of the front door or the whisper of quiet footsteps drawing closer.

“Sweetheart?”

You jerk up, startled by the sudden sound of a voice. Your heart starts pounding in your chest and you do your best to wipe your teary, snotty face with your shirt before glancing over your shoulder.

Natasha stands in the doorframe, her soft, red hair pulled up into a messy bun. She eyes you with concern, a sad slant to her full lips as she studies the part of your face that she can see from her position.

“Hi,” you choke out nasally, still trying to compose yourself. Natasha isn't supposed to see you like this. Weak, messy, desperate.

“What's going on, sweetheart?” she calls out softly and approaches until she stands next to you. One of her warm hands comes to rest on your shoulder, but you turn your head away, not wanting to reveal your puffy, tear-stained face.

Natasha is having none of it. She pulls your chair away from the desk and reaches out to grasp you chin between her fingers, forcing you to face her.

“What has you so upset, hm? What can I do to make it better?”

“It's nothing,” you try to deflect, squirming in her grip. But she doesn't allow you to turn away.

“It's not nothing if it makes you cry. Tell me.”

“It's stupid. Just... too much work. I have so many things to do and I don't know where to start. No matter what I do, I can't stay on top of all of it and it just keeps getting more,” you start, reluctant at first, but as soon as the first few words are out, it's as if the floodgates have been opened.

“I barely have time to relax, all I can think about the tasks still waiting for me, the neverending list of things that need to be done and I just can't- I'm tired, I'm so tired. I can barely get out of bed in the morning but I still can't sleep when I go to bed at night. There's just too much, too much to do, too many thoughts in my head, too much- I can't I don' wanna-”

The breakdown is in full swing now and the tears resurface as you crumple under Natasha's gaze.

The red-head moves quickly, pushing her hands under your arms to keep you from folding in on yourself completely. She hoists you to your feet before taking your place on the chair and pulling you into her lap.

“Shhh, it's okay. I got you,” she whispers, one hand stroking up and down your shaking back while the other holds the back of your head, tucking you comfortably into the crook of her neck.

You mindlessly burrow into her embrace, arms winding around her body to have something to hold onto while you fall apart.

Natasha holds you through all of it, the tears, the choked sobs and violent trembling shaking your exhausted body. She coos calming words at you, kissing the top of your head and humming to you to bring you down to earth.

Eventually, your sobs quieten down, tears slowing and allowing you to see more clearly.

“You're okay, I'm here,” Natasha mumbles, giving your body a little squeeze.

You stay silent, head tucked away in the crook of her neck as your breathing slowly calms down and grows more even, matching Natasha's steady breaths.

“I- I just want a nice, easy life. Is that too much to ask,” you croak out tearily, voice muffled against Natasha's skin.

The red-head hums, her hands slowly caressing your back.

“Not at all,” she says after a moment of silence.

You scoff, though there's no bite behind it. You're too wrung out to feel upset.

“Then why is everything so difficult? Why is everything more than I can handle,” you ask, not expecting an answer. Natasha gives one anyway, but not one you expect.

“We'll figure it out, love. Make plans for you, charts and lists to keep track of things. Keep everything managable,” she says and kisses the side of your head. “I'm here for you.”

The sincerity in the red-head's voice makes you tear up again. You cling to her and rub your face on your shoulder, brushing away the tears that threaten to fall.

“Thank you,” you mumble and turn your head enough to kiss her neck.

“You're welcome, sweetheart,” Natasha replies softly, slowly rocking the two of you in your desk chair. “Now rest. I have you.”

Closing your tired eyes, you do as Natasha tells you, drifting off into a deep slumber in the loving embrace of your girlfriend.

...

:'D

I need Natasha so bad, pleeaaase *whines*

[sunshine-and-moonshine]

Au Where I Make Cod Characters Act Like Characters I Simp For From Other Fandoms

Requested: No

Warnings: Blood Drinking, Voyeurism, Ghost has 3 sons (all fully grown and 25+, their names are Payton, Quentin, and Rowan), small bit of ✨spice✨, Dub-Con touching, Reader is called “Wife” and “Woman” in Soap’s part (if you know who Eddie Gluskin is, you know why), torture, tarantula, tarantula crawling on the reader, mentions of gore, blindfolding, abduction

Ghost - Lady Dimitrescu (Re8)

Ghost stares down at you, on your knees before him, shaking in fear while looking entirely out of place on his expensive rugs with your dirty and tattered clothing, covered in filth from the village outside, scratches all over. Looked like you had tumbled with a Lycan or two, he was almost impressed that you had survived such an encounter.

Ghost sighed as he sipped his wine, the rich taste of a maiden’s blood soaking into his tongue, a burst of beautiful flavor on his senses, like fireworks behind his eyes. He looked to you before looking away again, golden eyes narrowed like a snake’s. He was pretty sure you wouldn’t make good wine. But looks could be deceiving, perhaps he should sample you to be sure?

He heard you squeak and his attention snapped back to you, agitation melting away when he saw that one of sons was was currently kissing and sucking along your neck while another was pushing his hand into your pants, the third palming at your chest while nuzzling his face against yours. Surprisingly gentle for his boys, it seemed that they liked you more than the usual manthings.

He sighed again, deciding that maybe he could keep you around, if only to amuse his rowdy boys.

Soap - Eddie Gluskin (Outlast: Whistleblower)

He saw you. He saw you he saw you he saw you. He knows you’re there, hiding from him. You heard him chase you up the stairs, slammed the door in his face, damn near breaking his nose before locking it behind you. He had to break it down, an easy feat but it had given you plenty of time to hide from him. No matter, the room was only so big.

“Come out, Love. You’re hurting my feelings.” He cooed into thin air, hoping to soothe you like you were some sort of wild animal that got trapped in the asylum. “I just want to love you, can’t you see that?”

Something shifted to his right, he jumped towards it, scraping his elbows on the cement only to find it was a kitten darting through the rubble. He clicked his tongue, annoyance beginning to take hold when his patience started to wain.

“Darling, stop running from me! We’re going to miss the ceremony!” He called, standing to his full height again, brushing dirt off of his makeshift vest. “I want to make an honest woman of ya! Marry ya and fill you up with my bairn.”

Another shift, this time inside a locker. He took care not to focus on it as he checked his pocket for the spare lock he kept for situations just like this.

“You’ll look so pretty, swollen and full of me. And our babes will be so beautiful. I hope they look like you.” He said, trying to make it look like he wasn’t walking towards you, his fingers clenched tight on the lock, stroking the smooth metal. “Maybe with my eyes though. Just a little bit like me so everyone knows who ya belong to.”

The lock clicked in place and he felt your panic in the air before you showed it, but then you were banging on the inside of the locker, chanting a soft “no” again and again like that would get you out of this mess. If he looked close enough he was sure he could see your tears.

“There you are, My Lovely Wife.” He purred happily.

König - Asa Emory (The Collector)

König watched as you squirmed, silent as the grace as you sniffled and sobbed, frightened beyond belief. You’d woken up chained to a ceiling by your wrists, stripped naked save for your panties and the blindfold over your eyes. You couldn’t even remember how you’d gotten here. One moment you were in bed, the next? Here.

And the worst part was that something was crawling on you, sticking to your skin no matter how hard you tried to shake it off, making it’s way up your body. Every step it took with it’s furry legs sent you further into a panic attack. It only amused König as he watched one of his beloved tarantulas walk upon your skin. It made for a lovely picture, he’d have to do this again sometime.

He just couldn’t help himself when he saw you, all wide eyed and scared as he chased you through your house, dead family members and pets all over, slipping in their blood and guts with every turn. He didn’t even know you were home when he started laying his traps. Didn’t even know you existed.

But he was glad you were there. From the second he saw you, he wanted to know what you looked like naked, blood running down your body as he touched you, made you enjoy his touch. He got so excited that he ended up slamming your head into the ground a little too hard when he wants to knock you out. He hoped your brain didn’t suffer too much damage, he wanted you to be able to remember this. Remember your fear.

Maybe he’d paint your pretty face after this, just to watch your tears ruin the makeup, smearing it down your face as he fucked you, all pain and no pleasure. Poor little Fehler. His little Bug.

You shouldn’t have come out of your room.

Alejandro - Brahms Heelshire (The Boy)

He could hear you, trying to stifle your sobs as you crawled under barbed wire and through bramble, your sniffles of pain and fear echoing in his ears. It was almost…cute, how you thought you were being quiet. But so sad for you, Little One, he heard you loud and clear.

His hand clasped around the back of your neck, pulling you out of the bushes and into his arms no matter how hard you squirmed and squealed, pushing at him with your cut palms, bits of glass and thorns digging further into your open flesh. He’d need to bandage that for you.

He cooed in your ear, trying to soothe you as his hands patted your face and belly, trying to calm you down as you sobbed. His sweet Nanny, come to watch over him. And he’d watch over you just the same now that he was out of the walls. Once he got you back into the house and tied down onto his bed. Maybe he could calm you down like that, with his tongue between your legs, drawing sweet noises from your lips instead of the fearful ones you were making now.

He lifted his mask up just above his nose, burned nose nudging against yours softly, voice cracking from disuse. “Kiss?” He whispered, watching you shrink in on yourself with frustration. You kissed the doll’s head, but not him?

He sighed, deciding he would have to work on that later as he hauled you over his shoulder, ignoring the pounding on his back as you cried and screamed. No one would hear you. Not ever again. You were his, and nothing would take you away from him.

[saltydumplings]

Just noticed requests are open, with your ever-growing talent for writing amazing and insanely horny work, could I request a powerless scientist type Villain who's newest gadget backfires on them during a fight, much to the Hero's amusement, and pretty please a bottom Villain 😁

Request #27

Happy Monday y'all, come get your spice!

Cw: suggestive.

What the villain may have lacked in powers, they more than made up for with their mind. They were cunning; deadly so. There wasn't a single thing they'd dreamt that they hadn't been able to build, not even when they'd been limited to mere scraps and throwaways - their recent defeat a gutting wrench within their plans but they were steadily building their way back up. Victory was already safely within their hands, the villain was certain of it, although their devices were admittedly a little more...testy than usual.

They studied the grappling hook they were working on with annoyance, the rope they'd compiled just barely squeezing into its frame. Damn the hero and their stupid persistence in seeing them caught. Damn them for confiscating over half of the villain's artillery and leaving them with practically nothing--

"Am I interrupting something?"

The villain jumped a mile, oblivious to the fact they'd been rambling aloud and too caught up in their thoughts to hear the other entering. They spun about quickly though, lips drawing up in a sneer.

"You," they spat.

The hero smiled. "Me," they agreed.

Their smugness only infuriated the villain further. Fortunately, their homing laser device was close at hand...

They reached back and pulled the gadget off the table, eager to wipe that grin from their nemesis' face. "You made a mistake coming here, Hero. I lost to you once, I refuse to lose again!"

With that, they directed their weapon upwards - pulling the trigger to activate the detector grid and frowning when all they heard was a sharp thwip.

And then the device in their hands exploded.

Or rather, more accurately, burst - rope breaking free from the metal frame and tangling around their wrists, the villain looking up in bewilderment to see the grappling hook imbedded in the ceiling.

Oh sh--

The gun recoiled sharply, yanking the villain up about eight feet before the gadget suddenly jammed. It left them dangling just above the floor, legs kicking out in a wild panic as they tried to get down.

This could not be happening to them right now.

"W-Wait," they said, face flushing as they started to spin. "Wait!"

"Oh, I'm waiting," the hero said. Honestly, they looked more impressed than anything else.

"Just...just give me a minute. I-I'm almost out." No they weren't. In fact, the device had reeled them up just a little bit higher.

"Uh huh," the hero said. "Sure looks that way..."

"Of course it looks that way!" the villain snapped. "It looks that way because it is tha--"

They cut off with a squeak as the grappling hook made a horrible clunking sound, the reel inside breaking slightly and causing them to fall - grunting when the mechanism suddenly locked again just before they could reach the ground.

And now they were spinning twice as fast...

They stretched their legs out as far as they could, the tip of their boots just barely scraping the ground. They groaned and tried again, not even wanting to so much as think about how pathetic they must look in that moment. This was not how they got caught, it - it couldn't be.

"Wow."

Their spinning came to a halt.

The hero turned them around slowly, the villain quickly casting their gaze down to the side as the other's hands came to rest at their waist. "You really have no powers, do you?"

It truly was a pity that the villain had never managed to vaporize the other before now...

"Shut up, I - I grabbed the wrong weapon," they muttered, one final attempt at scavenging what was left of their dignity.

When they heard nothing in reply they made the mistake of glancing up, the hero's grin wide enough to tell the villain that they would milk this moment for everything it was worth.

"What was that?" the hero asked. Teasing.

The villain flushed. "I said that I- I chose the wrong weapon..."

"Oh? And what were you meant to choose?"

It wasn't fair that the villain's feet weren't currently touching the ground and still their opponent was taller than them. That the other could still talk down to them metaphorically as well as literally.

The villain felt a little of their earlier anger bubble back up. "Something that could have put you in the ground," they growled out.

The hero blinked at them. "Right..." they said. "So you were planning on putting me in the ground by aiming at the ceiling?"

A red tint caught onto the villain's cheeks once more and they kicked out with their legs, throwing a small tantrum over the hero's taunts. "I was doing that to initiate the grid matrix! The second that came on there wouldn't have been a-anywhere in this room that you could have hidden that - that I couldn't have shot you from! Anywhere!" the villain cried, voice dripping with their rage.

Though, from the look the hero gave them, the threat might as well have fallen on deaf ears. "You're an angry little thing, aren't you?" they commented.

The villain was just about ready to explode. "I am not little!"

"Littler than me."

"That's because you're a freak!"

"Or you're just short."

"I am average height!" The villain kicked their right leg out with as much force as they could muster, aiming to at least knee the hero where it would hurt but their plans were almost instantly foiled by a single movement - the hero dodging the attack and pinning the villain's leg to their side quicker than they could blink.

The villain froze. Their gaze turned downwards, mouth gaping open slightly as they stared at the point where the hero was holding them, the other's hand practically groping at their thigh. Slowly, the hero brought the villain's left leg up as well, encouraging their nemesis to hook their knees around their waist and let the hero take their weight - giving their wrists the small reprieve they hadn't realised they'd needed.

"Huh...maybe not so angry after all," the hero mused.

The comment snapped the villain out of whatever daze they'd gone into, their frown returning within seconds as they wriggled in their enemy's grasp. "Get. Off."

The hero cocked their head to the side. "Why?"

"Because," the villain said.

"But it feels good, doesn't it?" The hero's hands shifted down slightly, mere centimetres away from cupping the villain's ass. "Better than just hanging there - that's for sure."

The villain could feel their face burning again. And this time it wasn't purely from the embarrassment. "M-Maybe I like hanging," they said. "You don't - you don't know..."

Of all the comebacks they'd ever said, that had to be the worst of them. Worst and stupidest.

Surprisingly, the hero didn't tease them over it though. In fact, their nemesis took it in their stride - leaning in closer as they tightened their grip, infuriating smirk wider than the villain had ever seen it.

"You're right," the hero said. "I don't know."

Their thumbs stroked at the villain's thighs suggestively, the other suddenly all too aware of just how compromising their position was. They squirmed at the attention, shuddering when the hero's breath ghosted across their neck.

"But I think I have a pretty reliable way of finding out..."

The hero was pulling them closer. Reeling them in like a fish on a line and the villain didn't know what to do about it - was even starting to question if they wanted to do anything about it when the hero's lips brushed gently against their cheek.

The last time the villain had been this close to someone was so distant now...the sensation of intimacy was almost forgotten to them.

"What do you say, Villain?" the hero whispered, their breath hot against the shell of their ear. Somehow, they managed to drop their voice even lower before asking their next question: "Want to find out how quickly I can make that big brain of yours go dumb?"

A beat.

"F-Fuck, yes," the villain said breathlessly. Then their own words registered in their mind. "I-I mean no, I...I didn't, y-you didn't- I WOULD N-NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS--"

A pair of lips pressed against their own. And, in the villain's initial shock, the hero's tongue entered their mouth seamlessly.

The kiss was, much to their annoyance, the best they'd ever had.

The villain stuttered as the other paused, some smart retort in the makings of their scrambled mind but they didn't get a chance to piece it together before the hero's lips were on theirs again. And again. And again, and again, and again, the hero didn't stop. The villain kept waiting for their chance to speak - to think - but they weren't given it, and before they could stop themself their body was relaxing against the hero's own. Their struggling ceased altogether - hands that had been desperate to pull free now only giving the occasional tug against their confines, not in any attempt to get away but instead to get closer.

And, just like that, the hero had done what no one else ever could; what no one else had ever had the patience or the persistence to truly do, let alone the expertise to: the hero kissed the villain stupid.

By the time they finally relented, their nemesis was a panting mess. Their lips were kiss-swollen and shiny, their eyes half-lidded as if in some kind of daze. They made a small confused sound when the hero leant back a little, their pretty mouth drawing down into a pout that had the hero grinning even wider than before.

"So, that was definitely a 'yes', right?" they said.

The villain blinked at them, mind momentarily too slow to understand what was being asked. When it did click though, some flash of their dwindling rebellion must have shown in their eyes because the hero shifted their position so they could capture the villain's chin with one hand, thumb brushing over their lower lip before the villain could speak.

"Right?"

The villain gulped. Shuddered. Then they nodded their head.

"Good," the hero said, moving their hand back down to where it belonged, "because, with the trouble you've been giving me lately, I honestly have no intention of stopping until you forget your own name...If that's alright with you, of course?"

As someone who'd always been an over-thinker, it was the best proposition the villain had ever heard.

[abbysbasement]

I need to feel abbys fingers in the back of my throat

18+ obviously

cw; throat… fingering? i guess, the strap on appears but is mostly just ambiance, mean!dom abby, sub!reader, spit kink.

—

and she absolutely would, that’s the thing.

i think abby def has a nasty oral fixation, obsessed with your pretty mouth, and it wrings something out of her. of course, loving how your mouth suckles her cock, lips stretching over the shaft, little noises bubbling from of your throat as she bottoms out over and over. but sometimes, it’s how you wrap your lips around a straw, every light suck pulsating as you drink away, or watching you from over your shoulder as you apply gloss, artfully spreading the shine around with a deft finger.

it was damned religious.

it would be dark, your face lit from the side from the dull glow of the ceiling light in the other room, looking up from your knees as abby towered over you, manspreading against the backrest of the armchair, watching you transfixed in awe as her strap sprung free from her waistband, that dumbstruck look you always got plastered on your face as you pulled away the fabric, moving up to slide your soft, pretty hands past her pelvis and up her torso. the fat head of her cock tickling your hairline.

it was the first time in a long time that she had you like this; schedules never aligned, shifts ran over, last minute assignments became too fucking commonplace, so the most bedroom time the two of you had was flopping down next to each other, dead tired barely touching fingers before sleeping like the dead. but tonight it was different, and you were fucking horny, leaking under her watchful eye.

in her mind, you’d been doing it on purpose; being a bad girl, tempting her with every smile, every squish of your lips and pucker of your cheeks as you tasted something sour, how you ate candy painfully slow, rolling it over your tongue, savouring. licking a splatter of bubblegum back into your mouth, or how you’d look at her, doe-eyed, pouting when you didn’t get your way. It was too much for her, riling her up like an animal in a cage, and usually she’d fuck your brains out but today? she was practicing restraint.

abs was drunk off you, mostly, and a couple glasses of homemade whiskey from a soldier who owed her a solid. but you were innocent, watching attentively with saucers for eyes as you slipped into that mushy, braindead, safe subspace. you were hers, like you always were, in your perfect place. never noticing her frustration, those too long stares, her little addiction to that part of you. it was as though you were prey, and she swooped down, hooking an arm under your shoulders and lifting you up through her thighs, pulling you into her lap and locking your knees at either side, your breasts pushing against hers.

abby’s free hand came up to your throat, cutting off the blood flow and providing that idle pressure to your brain.

“gonna suck me off tonight baby?” she said, the slur of her words and that nonchalant, aloof dominance weaving into your brain and hitting your pussy head on. god, she wasn’t even showing off, and that was her superiority, surrounding you like a dark blind, exposing all of you to her. just how it was supposed to be, she always said.

you needed guidance; too little and stupid and weak, so someone else had to make the decisions and have all the thoughts, and you were okay with that.

“needa’ suck you mama, wanna treat you good.” running her thumb over your bottom lip, abby hummed in appreciation as you sucked it into your mouth, the divots of your teeth scraping against the flesh there, a thin, silvery line of drool following as she released you with a pop. you could suck a nickel out of a fucking straw. she rubbed it against your lips, wetting them, marveling at how the flesh was so easily molded by her finger.

“give me a sec’, gotta get you ready for me first.” She replaced her thumb with two plying, heavy fingers, sourness from spilt liquor coating your tastebuds. she fucked them slowly, gently into you, just enough to get them nice and wet for her. you were giddy, moaning happily as you ran your tongue between the digits, lapping up that flavour until there was nothing left. abby loved this, how the drool rolled down chin and into your breasts, pretty lips gripping onto her for dear life.

she couldn’t get enough and she pushed deeper, the hand around your neck still pulsating, feeling the muscle of your throat clench and unclench. She pushed deeper, knowing that her good girl could take it, always would take it, happy to get her sick little reward. her fingers hit your uvula and you wrenched back your head to cough, cheeks flushed, nose running, eyes watery and dripping and full of that fucking look.

the one that drives her insane, triggers that deep domspace where she can do anything to you and you’ll let her get away with it. she could strip your mind bit by bit, reducing you to your baser instincts creating her perfect pet with ease. you two were just the same, both needed this, wanted it all.

she looked over you, pathetic and whining, and brought a hand up to part your jaw, balling her own lips to force a gob of spit into your mouth before closing it back. you swallowed unconsciously, obediently, and she pulled you in close, whispering in your ear.

“gagging isn’t going to get you out of this, baby. gonna get throatfucked whether you like it or not.”

[missmyluv]

bonnet stealer (｀_´)ゞ

💐 : synopsis | miles steals ur bonnet n think shit sweet .

warnings | cursing !!

your face twists in all typa ways when your silk purple bonnet isn’t in the bathroom— hence the last place you left it. you checked inside of the shower and underneath the sink, still no show of your precious bonnet.

you sigh, stress painting itself on your body as you walk inside of your bedroom looking on the top of your desk, slamming the drawers shut as to see it not being there either. you were already tired n this shit wasn’t helping either.

checking underneath the covers of your bed and the nightstand you groaned in frustration laying down on your comfy bed, the only place you could think of checking was your boyfriend’s house.

you grabbed your phone from the stand searching for his contact and face-timing him.

you migrated from your bedroom to the bathroom to finish your self care routine. it dialed for a few seconds before you were met with the ceiling, you rolled your eyes and set your phone up on the stand in your bathroom for times like this.

“where’s my boy at?” you asked, wetting your face then applying night cream

“hollup mami.” you can hear him light smacking on the other line with sounds of scraping of a plate. your piercing stress wells down a little when he spoke, a clear small smile rises with a laugh. you wait for him, moving to your room and setting up your phone to apply cocoa butter on your body.

the phone shifts onto his pillow, seeing his full face. you weren’t looking at him- but when you did irritation took over your features.

“i know damn well that ain’t my bonnet, miles.” your arms were crossed under your chest as you stare blankly at the screen, his bonnet was in fact on his newly braided hair. he chuckles at you and eats another chunk of his food.

“this shit comfy as fuck too.” he teases, laughing again at your expression. “ain’t shit funny!” you grab your phone and slip on your crocs, putting on your (his) jacket walking out of the house to his.

“we fightin’ when i get there.” you flash your middle finger at him and continue walking. “alright ma, see you there.” he laughs, making kissy noises on the phone and hanging up.

you made it to his house and unlock the door with a key mama rio gave you, taking your shoes off at the door and barging into his room with him already standing in front of the door with a smirk on his face.

he looks you up and down, tugging at the jacket. “n’ you got my jacket on. guess we even, huh?”

“no we not! you gave me this, i ain’t give you my bonnet.” you step forward to reach onto his head and grab it, but he takes a step backwards. “nigga go buy your own shiiittt.” you said, irritated. he was fully capable of buying his own shit and he steals yours??

he grabs your forearm picking you up and throwing you on his bed, taking your bonnet off and tossing it to you. you roll eyes and mutter a ‘finally.’ putting it over your almost-ruined hair.

“you happy now, hermosa?” he lays on your chest with the same color bonnet on his head. “what’s the point of stealin’ my bonnet if you got your own?” you questioned, flicking his forehead.

“i jus’ wanted you to come over.”

[beatingheart-writingwoes]

Water in my Lungs and Guilt in your Bones

Description: DND inspired. Zephyr, the Tiefling rogue, and Van, the Reborn warlock, are trapped in a flooding room. Van doesn't need to breathe, so Zephyr makes a decision for the both of them that could cost him his life.

Warnings: Depiction of drowning, mild emeto warning, fantasy setting

This was quite possibly the worst job any of them had ever taken. It was supposed to be a simple go in, clear it out, get paid job. That turned out to be a crock of shit, because after getting separated from their other partymate, both Van and Zephyr found themselves in a terrible position:

The room they were in was flooding, and the door was locked.

An old and cruel execution method, if Van had to take a wild guess. There was an observation platform above, where they had heard their companion not even a few minutes ago. Dark eyes watched the maroon skinned Tiefling struggling with the door's lock, needing to stand on a fallen rock in order to reach it from its spot on the ceiling. Van ran a hand through his near white hair and gripped a handful as his anxiety rose.

Zephyr cursed under his breath as he ducked away from the water pouring in, slicking back his black, curly hair from his face. “I can't get it before the water gets too high. It's too fast.”

“Try again,” the warlock growled. He knew Zephyr was right, though, even as the rogue tried again. It was already rising to his knees and only getting higher.

Zephyr ducked away from the torrent again, sputtering. “Fuck! I can't–” A pause. “You're a Reborn. You don't need to breathe, right?”

“I don't see how that's relevant.”

“This is gonna be stupid, but… no matter how fast I go, by the time I get this gate unlocked, the water's gonna be over our heads. But you'll be fine.”

“And?”

“So I can take time actually picking the lock properly. Then, you can get me to the surface. La'hare's waiting up there on the observation platform, we heard him.”

“Take your time? But you'll drown.”

“But you won't. We can both get out, you’ll just… have to get La'hare to bring me back if things get bad. It'll be fine.”

Van stared at him, eyes wide. He opened his mouth to protest, but Zephyr was already working on the lock again and water slapped Van in the face.

Soon enough, like the rogue said, the water was quickly over their heads. Instead of wasting energy keeping afloat, Van let himself sink to the floor. Zephyr was working quickly, but he knew the rogue wouldn't last long. He could see him nearly double over several times as his chest and abdomen spasmed with the need to breathe. A few tense moments passed, and Zephyr finally pushed open the gate just as his body decided it couldn't hold its breath anymore and released the stale air in a torrent of bubbles.

Van was already swimming, grabbing the now drowning man and wrapping an arm across his chest. He was expecting Zephyr to be flailing, fighting and making this twenty times more difficult than it needed to be, but instead the man just held onto his arm as his body twitched.

They were nowhere near the surface when the rogue finally went limp.

After what felt like an eternity, Van broke the water's surface with an instinctive gasp, the unconscious Tiefling clutched close to his chest. He paddled to the platform where La'hare waited, the Elf kneeling down in preparation to help both men up. His tan skin was marked with bruises and scrapes and his dark hair falling free of its braids. “Van! Zephyr!”

“He’s not breathing,” the former human stated as he handed the dead weight off. He pulled himself up out of the water with a grunt. “The damn fool let himself drown unlocking the gate.”

To save him.

La'hare laid Zephyr onto his back. The young man's skin had taken a slightly lighter, more ashen shade and his eyes were empty, half-lidded and staring at nothing. His hair stuck to his forehead in thick wet curls. The cleric swallowed thickly as his fingers pressed to the pulse point in the other's throat. “My higher magic is spent, but we still have time. All he needs is air and a heartbeat.”

Quickly, yet carefully, the cleric tipped the Tiefling’s head back and pinched his nose closed before leaning down and sealing his mouth over his, breathing into waterlogged lungs. The young man’s cheeks rounded and his chest rose with the artificial breath. When he pulled away, the air was released with a passive exhale. Meanwhile, Van stripped off his sodden cloak and tossed it aside, watching the other’s resuscitation attempt with a hard gaze.

After five breaths, the Elf straightened. He stacked his hands on top of Zephyr’s chest, heel of his palm digging into the lower half of his sternum. Keeping his arms straight, he rolled his shoulders over his hands and thrust downwards. Release, press, release, press. He repeated the motions in a steady, somewhat fast rhythm, forcing the other's chest to sink about two inches before rebounding to its previous position over and over. Zephyr's shoulders shrugged inwards and his stomach bounced in opposition to the cleric's ministrations. A gurgling huff was forced out of him every time La'hare brought his weight down. The Elf counted under his breath each thrust.

Once he reached thirty, La'hare gave Zephyr another two breaths. Then he went back to pounding on his chest. He winced when he felt something give under his palms, but didn't dare stop. “Sorry.”

Another thirty count passed, followed by two more breaths. Van swallowed thickly and drew closer as the other restarted chest compressions.

“Allow me to help.  You're getting tired.”

La'hare nodded. “After this, take over. We'll swap every four cycles.”

The warlock looked down at Zephyr's face. He half expected the rouge to blink up at him and give him a cheeky grin while declaring he was right. Instead, he was still as death and the rogue’s half-lidded eyes showed no emotion at all. Once La'hare reached thirty again and moved to breathe for the young man, Van slotted his own stacked hands in the same spot. Two breaths, and he started compressions.

“A little harder. Not too quick– there, perfect,” the cleric gently coached.

Beating life back into a waterlogged corpse was harder than it looked. Coupled with the energy spent swimming with a dead weight, Van could already feel his arms and back hurting and sweat beading on his brow. The rib that had snapped shifted under his palms with every harsh shove downwards.

He stopped when La'hare said to, breathing heavily as the Elf pushed two breaths into the Tiefling.

“Wake up,” the warlock growled as he restarted compressions. This idiot was not dying for him. He didn't need it. He didn't deserve it.

Four cycles passed, and they swapped. Another four passed, and another swap.

“I… I don't think he's coming back,” La'hare said, voice low and thick with sadness. He sat back away from the Tiefling’s head as the warlock shoved down into his chest. Like the many times before, his chest sunk under the pressure and his stomach popped in a nauseating seesaw motion. “Van–”

Van ignored him, finishing up the thirty count and shifting to the rogue’s head. He tipped Zephyr's head back and pinched his nose closed before breathing into his mouth like the cleric was doing before.

La'hare placed a hand on the Reborn’s back, but he shrugged him off, returning to performing chest compressions. He hung back, letting the other man continue, while he gave a prayer.

“Wake up!” Van hissed. He pushed off on the thirtieth compression far harder than needed. He pressed his mouth to Zephyr's again, breathing into him roughly, and after two breaths went back to pounding on his chest. “You will not die for me, wake up!”

“He's gone, Van,” the Elf stated solemnly. “I'm sorry.”

“Fuck you,” snapped the former human. He leaned down and harshly pressed his mouth to the Tiefling’s again. The first breath went in as normal, the man’s cheeks rounding and chest inflating. He pulled away, and like before it was released with a passive exhale. Another breath. This time the rogue’s jaw moved. Van pulled away just in time to avoid a mouthful of water as the rogue suddenly lurched, water erupting from his mouth. Van scrambled back as La'hare quickly turned the other onto his side.

The Tiefling gagged and wheezed as he hacked up more water. A few seconds ticked by and the rogue finally sucked in a breath of his own, harsh and ragged but a breath nonetheless. La'hare pushed what little magic he had left into him, healing what he could. The magic was just enough, it seemed, for Zephyr to tiredly blink and glance around. Bright green eyes landed on Van and he gave the bewildered cleric and warlock a small grin.

“Told you,” he said, voice scratchy and rough.

It took every ounce of self control for Van to not strangle him.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 7 - Trapped

The rogue fails a perception check.

On AO3.

She’s going to leave him. She’s realized her folly and it’s too difficult to drag him around, a dog on a leash, and she’s taking her chance to leave him behind. She’s just “scouting.” It’s “for their benefit.” All tactics he’s used before (or near enough).

Yet he cannot see. Can’t go scrambling after her into the icy water (gods, his front is completely drenched now). She might take more drastic measures to abandon him, and coward that he is, if he’s to be left to rot in the dark, he’d rather do it without the addition of a gaping neck wound (she does go for the neck, he’s noticed).

And in the very slim off-chance she’s telling the truth (ha), he’ll look even more pathetic scurrying after her like some mother’s skirts.

Or she’ll die over there. Be decapitated by some beast, torn to shreds, crushed or drowned or maimed by the godsdamned cave itself and he…he will be left here.

He thinks his eyes are open. It’s rather difficult to tell, as useless as the damned things are. But his hearing…he’s always had sharp hearing, though he’s never paid it much mind. Only for the first, few weeks after crawling out of his own grave, he thinks. He doesn’t remember those particulars, though, but he’s seen a handful of his brothers and sisters grimace and startle, so that must have once been him.

The sounds of his illustrious leader moving are clear. He can pinpoint her exact location. Can practically hear the shape of the hideously narrow tunnel surround her. The splash of water. Her low hiss and a grunt as she shuffles about on a knee that pains her now and then. The rapid beat of her heart—both from his previous blood taking, and from what is likely very sensible fear.

It…nearly helps that she has enough brains to be afraid. She’s not some reckless dolt nattering on about happiness and a buoyant attitude (he’s dead; he can’t float). They’re both lost and alone in a cave and she knows it.

(It’s why she’s going to leave him, being the sensible thing she is.)

The water sound echoes strangely. She makes a tiny sound (a fear sound). Takes a couple of breaths. Her next inhale comes out high and sharp—heart still pounding, so nothing bit off her arm. Then a thrash, a scuffle against stone, water splashing.

She sputters.

Should he even call out to her? Or save them both the embarrassment and let her sever him off, clean and professionally—

“Eleanor?” he says to the hells with clean.

Another sputter. He leans forward, one hand on the smooth ceiling.

She won’t answer. She’s found a way through, and she’s going to slip away and leave—

“Fuck.” Her reply sounds flat and hollow.

And something light and bubbly nearly makes it out of his own mouth—he manages to bite it back before it can escape. Because things could still go wrong. He’s still back here, separated, and she still has a chance—

“Shit and goddamn.”

She’s not going to leave him. He might smile. Barely. And anyway, he’s alone in a cave in the Underdark and it’s not as if there’s anyone to notice.

“That shit is tight,” she says. “It looks like it opens up, though. Gimme a second to make sure before you come slithering through.”

She actually is just…scouting. Trying to save him time and effort. It’s such a novel feeling. He’s not sure what to do with it.

And so he smashes it down and says, “No, no, leave me here in the freezing water, darling. You take your time.”

He can almost imagine the flat look she gives the stone between them. Another variety of blank, except her dark eyes will be dripping with scorn.

The water flows past him. And there’s another novelty. He’s on all fours (or threes, anyway) in moving water, and the only thing it does is numb his already chilled flesh. No burning, no skin peeling off or cracking into ash. Just the cold. And his soaked clothing, but he can’t exactly blame that on their illustrious leader.

He listens to the scraping and the occasional clatter of rocks. His leader’s little grunts and mutterings. She leans into the vulgarity almost as badly as a dock worker. Yet she seems to have been educated to her own people’s standards, and he’s heard her use complicated vocabulary.

The scraping gets quieter. The cold claws start to tap against the inside of his ribs again. Then, “It’s clear. I think I see a way into a big ass room down the way a little. But it’s a tight squeeze to get here. Think you can make it?”

He scoffs. There’s only one way to go. It’s not as if he’s going to get lost.

“Yes, mother,” he says.

He focuses on the water. That’s the novel part of this whole, wretched experience. He’s been near-blind before, trapped before, forced to grope around before (this time there’s no audience to pile on the humiliation). But the water…if he can think about that, how cold it is and how miserably his clothes cling to him, how it smells so strongly of stone and minerals…

Hand and knees, he shuffles on. Fingers trail along the ceiling, cool stone sculpted perfectly smooth.

It keeps dropping. Which is fine. He’s a two-hundred-year-old vampire, this won’t kill him. Then his shoulders brush the wall. The water is flowing over him, now. Not lapping against his belly, but halfway submerging him. Astarion does not need to breathe (he forgets to, at times), but his focus on that aspect suddenly turns on him.

It’s the way the stone closes in on him like a fist. Squeezing, pressing, waiting to crush him. It’s the cold, cold stream flowing around him, up and over him if he lowers his head too far. And it’s the godsdamned dark.

The floor dips beneath his hands. He stops. His dead, cold heart tries to climb right up his throat.

He has to submerge to continue. His hands flap about, trace the passageway. Just large enough for him to…she’d said “slither.” And it wasn’t a metaphor, it turns out.

He cannot show his panic. He cannot let the others know.

He clears his throat. “It’s rather flooded, darling.”

“Yeah,” she says. That word, all grim and heavy. He pictures her struggling through this, the splashing and the gasping. She actually needs to breathe. “It’s not far, though. You can kinda worm under it. If you hold your breath—er, y’know. You can actually feel around it from where I think you are. It’s still a little tight past that, but it opens up pretty rapid. It’s kinda like a sink trap.”

Which means nothing to him. A trap to drown uninvited guests? Not a bad solution. Unless the guest is undead. Or a fish.

But he does as she suggests; sticks his arms through. Has to lean in slowly until his cheek is pressed against the rock and yes. She’s correct. The whole tunnel bends down and then back up.

This time, he does breathe deeply.

It doesn’t help.

Well.

He lowers himself. Water closes over him. He has no sight, and now his nose and ears are covered and he’s truly blind.

He moves quickly. Presses through arms-first. Has to turn midway because even his flexible spine doesn’t arch backwards that far, and he’d rather not come up scraping his face against the other side.

The ceiling drags over his chest. The walls press against his shoulders. He has to wriggle (hands torn and shredded by wooden splinters, fingernails broken off clawing at the dirt; it’s in his ears, his eyes, up his nose and he’s gagging on it and all around, the press of cold dirt, grave dirt).

Then his face breaks the water’s surface and he comes up sputtering.

(and he is waiting)

“Astarion?”

Astarion coughs. Water comes up much more smoothly than dirt and congealed blood, how nice. He’s through. She said he’s nearly clear. He gropes and—

Stone. Stone all around. Stone pressing in, squeezing in. He’s twisted and half submerged, the dip in the tunnel pressing his waist, trapping his legs.

Trapped.

Trapped in the dark.

“Astarion?”

The voice is muffled. Master laughing, taunting. He’d learn his lesson, by the gods. He already had. He’d never do it again, never run, never disobey, never ever.

His shoulder slams to the side. It’s too close. All too close. He scratched his nails off. Scratched his fingertips, the exposed nail beds and all down to bone and kept digging, kept digging like a rat. Like vermin. The vermin he wasn’t even worthy to prey upon.

His legs are pinned. Shoulders pinned. Not some tomb, this time. He’s in a sarcophagus. Sealed away in this silent, stone box and left to rot.

No. No! He’s sorry! He won’t! He didn't’! He’ll never again master please!

Something makes a noise but it doesn’t matter. The stone won’t give. It’s a terrible force, pinning him in place. He thrashes against it, knowing it’s futile—it never lets him out will never let him out—but he cannot control his own body (has never controlled his own body because it isn’t his; he’s property, a spawn, something to pleasure the master’s guests, nothing but an extension of his master’s will).

But he’s got to get out. He has to.

A part of him registers something wrong. Tries to argue against this, but the rest of him is too much. It’s far too much and the panic is all-consuming.

His hand brushes something warm. Something soft, something that gives when he tears at it. He has to get out, he cannot be here again master please, please.

“—starion you stupid cunt bitch!”

Words. A voice. A rude voice.

He’s panting. His throat is dry. Fear buzzes through him and wraps around his bones.

“Hey! Hey, you fucking shit lord!”

“Wh…” He has to swallow. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. “What?”

“Hey,” the voice—his illustrious leader—is far gentler this time. “Astarion? Can you hear me?”

“I…yes.”

Still stuck. Still pinned. His teeth chatter from some ancient memory of living cold (and not terror, oh no).

“Okay, I’m right above you. Here.”

Her hand brushes his and he scents blood for some reason. But there’s too much going on inside him, too much panic and too much touching.

“Don’t touch me,” he snaps.

A terrible idea. He’ll be punished. Not allowed to speak like that. He needs her. Needs all of them and he must be the perfect seducer, they the willing prey.

But she only says, “Alright” in that same low, calm tone. As if he’s some godsdamned horse. As if he’s a howling babe.

A shuffle and a rustle. The sound of leather creaking softly and his knees hurt. He realizes he’d been thrashing around, trying to bring them up and curl inwards, and he’s smashed his recently healed one once again.

“I…I need out,” he says and hopes she won’t notice the pathetic tremble to his voice.

“I know. I got half a length of rope here, one second.” More rustling. It’s her bag. She’s digging through her bag of holding. “Got it. If I drop this down and help pull, can you manage to get the rest of the way through? You ain’t stuck nowhere?”

Yes, anything, he wants to say.

Instead, he forces another swallow. “I suppose that will do.”

He must not think on it. Must not think how wedged he is and how it’s his own worthless fault. The weight pressed against his belly because he’s an idiot and always was. The pain begins to filter in from his knees and his hands, and their illustrious leader was wrong when she said he was only good at two things; he’s only good at one, and it doesn’t involve stumbling about in a cave.

A soft sound, and the rope smacks him in the face. He barks a sound.

“Shit! Sorry!” their wise and glorious leader says.

Rope. He never had rope in that grave. Or later in the tomb (he wonders what he might have tried if he did). It’s a difference, cool and sturdy in his battered hands.

“Got a good grip?” she says.

Better than she knows. All her life force taken in through her blood and he uses it to wrap that rope around his aching hands and cling.

“On three,” because she cannot use the sensible four.

He gives a little tug. She holds. Counts.

Three.

He…slides out quite easily. Legs slip, lower back scraping, and then his shoes catch. But a kick of his feet and he’s being pulled head-first up through the tunnel, away from the water, kicking along as it rapidly widens.

Then he’s on his back, scooting along with nothing but chilled, open air around him.

“Any injuries?” she says.

Minor ones. His shins must be absolutely purpled by now. But most of all, it’s the fact that she saw him. She…heard him. He has no idea what he said. And her silence on the matter is somehow both soothing and dreadful.

An easy weapon should she ever wish to wield it.

A weapon he would certainly pocket for later use. Just in case.

One she doesn’t even need. She could have left him thrice over. And thrice over, she’s dragged him after her. Literally, this time.

He has no way to repay this debt. No way to squelch that cold dread seeping through him at the thought.

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