#to the shitty spring mattress I have now

[sodacowboy]

mattresses should not be this fucking expensive

[eye-in-the-wall]

finally got rid of my shit ass bedframe and now have a new-ish mattress (new to me lol) but now me and my mom have to get rid of this mattress plus bedfram and like it's gonna be like $100 for someone to come pick it up -_- or we wait till april 20th to dump it for free cause our town has a free bulk waste disposal twice a year but we dont gotta a truck -__-

[kamaluhkhan]

THE GRUDGE (or: the 7 things luke castellan hated about you)

read part two GET HIM BACK! (or: the 7 reasons you want revenge on luke castellan)

pairing: luke castellan x child of nemesis!reader (gender not specified)

word count: 8.5k

summary: luke hated your guts. he really did. he just hoped that no one could tell how, even after all this, you're still everything to him.

warnings/disclaimer: luke's POV. spoilers for the lightning thief and season 1 of pjo. some heated make-out sessions but no actual smut - MDNI / 18+. mentions of blood + death + alcohol. luke is 19 during tlt but i wrote this with him + reader being 21 by the end of this (this is important for the next part lol). anyways, luke + reader share clothes and lots of intense emotions they maybe possibly don't process in the best way. lots of ANGST - it's a greek tragedy fr!

author's note: welcome to my new hyperfixation! this fic is LONG but i hope she's worth it ♡

♪: the grudge by olivia rodrigo

(i. you have a sharp tongue)

fourteen year old luke was overwhelmed when he first stepped into the hermes cabin. it was loud and overcrowded and no one really seemed to care that they had a new cabinmate. the head counselor showed luke to an empty bed at the back, told him to get settled in, and left without another word. luke dropped his backpack before collapsing on the mattress. it was so thin that he could feel the springs dig into his back.

"you'll get used to it."

luke sat up to see you climbing through the window. 

you had a band-aid stuck on your chin, chipped nail polish the color of blackberries, and leather combat boots that looked way too heavy to be wearing in the heat of summer. 

“the shitty mattress?”

“i meant the whole chaos of cabin 11, and the way things work around here in general. if you can get used to the shitty mattress, all power to you.” 

your tone was friendly enough, playful even. you smiled at him so comfortably it made luke nauseous. 

“good to know.” he tried to smile back at you, but his heart wasn’t in it. “i’m luke, by the way.”

“yeah, i know. i’m —”

“y/n!”

you seemed entirely unfazed as the blond who called your name stormed over to you. you rolled your eyes, something only luke could notice, before turning to her.

“someone stole my candy.”

“i’m very sorry to hear that, maddy. gotta be careful around here.” your voice dripped like poisoned honey, deceptively innocent and sweet.

maddy was not having it. she huffed at you. “it was you, wasn’t it?”

“that depends. did you cheat at poker last night? again?” 

some of the chatter throughout the cabin paused, heads turning to listen in. 

“what? n-no!” 

“then you have your answer, maddy.” you exaggerated a sigh, as though you had already won the fight and were annoyed that she came back for more. “now, if you’ll excuse me, i have a new camper to show around.”

chiron had already given them a tour, but luke didn’t protest when you grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the window with you. your hand was warm in his as you dragged him along to the corner of the cabin where a poorly made ladder waited for you. 

“come on.” you started climbing, and only stopped to look down when you realized luke wasn’t following you. “best view of camp. trust me.”

a shiver passed through luke. trust didn’t come easy to him. he also didn’t particularly want to return to a stuffy cabin where all he would do was count reasons he did not want to be there.

 so, luke followed you. he sat down next to you on the roof and looked out at the sun shining on his new home, but he couldn't help but be slightly bitter. the gods had gotten all of you into this life of endless danger and battles and monsters, and this was all they had to offer in return: a summer camp. 

it just didn't seem fair. 

there was something else he noticed then. what was it that chiron had said? camp half-blood was supposed to be a safe haven for all demigods. 

“i don’t get it. there are only twelve cabins, but aren’t there, like, a million other gods?”

you straightened your posture then, and turned to luke with a newfound interest. 

“camp half-blood only has cabins representing the twelve olympians. apparently, they’re the only ones important enough to have children worth recognizing, and they can’t even do that half the time,” you explained, impertinence laced throughout your words. it seemed like something you could never quite get off your chest. 

every  demigod knew that the gods didn’t appreciate sarcasm. they  didn’t particularly like being called out on their bullshit, either.

you didn’t seem to care; you even rolled your eyes up at the sky, as if challenging zeus himself. 

“anyways, that’s why the hermes cabin is so crowded. it takes in campers who are unclaimed or whose parent doesn’t have a cabin at camp. like me.”

“so, who’s your godly parent?”

you fiddled with the leather cord on your neck. it held a few clay beads like the other campers, but there was one silver charm he noticed only you wore — scales, by the looks of it. you clutched onto it.

luke realized that, despite your own advice, maybe you resented having to get used to the way things worked around here, and having to hide your resentment. maybe that was worse than having to sleep on an uncomfortable bed for the rest of your life.

"nemesis. goddess of revenge."

"that's....hardcore."

you scoffed and moved on to twisting the silver ring on your index finger. "a lot of people take it that way, and i think it scares them a bit.”

“so that’s why you’re extra nice to new campers, huh?” 

“no, i was just in a good mood today.” you smirked.

“guess i was just lucky, then.”

luke couldn’t help but smile at your laugh — sharp, biting. you nudged your boot against his sneaker, which shifted you closer to him, shoulders practically touching. 

“what people don’t understand is that it's more about balance, you know? you do good things, and good things happen to you. at least, they should. you do bad things and….” you pulled out an outrageously big bag of candy, dropped it between you and luke, and winked at him. “you face the consequences.” 

“that makes sense.” luke leaned over to grab a handful of gummy bears. “like karma.”

“yeah. exactly.” 

you bit the head off a red bear, both of you chewing in silence before you added:

“by the way, i’m sorry about your friend.” you swallowed and caught luke’s gaze. 

chiron warned him that word would travel fast around camp about what happened to thalia, and luke had prepared himself for anything — anything but your reaction. there was no pity in your eyes; instead, there was a hint of rage, as though thalia had been your friend, too. 

“she deserved more.” 

luke’s eyes caught the glint of a knife strapped to your belt. he took another handful of the candy you stole, and he thought about the fire and fearlessness behind your words, and, despite everything, it felt right to be with you then and there. 

“yeah,” he finally whispered back. “she did.”

we all do. 

neither of you said those words, but the suggestion was there, and it felt like a promise. 

(ii. you hold on to every stupid, little detail)

“slow down, tiger.” 

your voice echoed throughout the arena, and if luke had been fighting a real opponent, it might have gotten him killed. instead, he just stopped mid-swing, sparing another straw dummy from losing its arm. 

“left hand,” you noted as you walked past him towards a bench. “you, my friend, are in need of a break.”

luke loosened the grip on his sword. the only time luke fought with his non-dominant hand was when he had overworked the other. he must have switched an hour ago, but judging by how heavy his arm felt, it could have very well been two.  

his curls were stuck to his forehead with sweat, his shirt soaked through. he could feel a dull pain behind his eyes, and luke was worried that if he stopped to catch his breath, he would pass out. or, even worse, have to face the reality of the shitty news he’d gotten early that day. 

“come sit with me,” you urged. “you’re exhausted, tiger.” 

luke bristled at your nickname for him. 

sure, luke loved that there was something only you called him, a secret kept between you in plain sight, but it was also a reminder that it was harder to hide behind the hero act when you were around.

everyone else at camp figured the nickname was a playful attempt at calling him strong and charismatic. the truth was that luke once told you that his favorite cereal as a kid was frosted flakes and that he would dream of playing sports as well as tony the tiger. for better or for worse, like most things, you wouldn’t let it go. 

case in point: if it was anybody other than you trying to get him to take a break, luke could have just brushed them off with a charming smile and continued swordfighting until his arms fell off, but in the two years since meeting you, luke had never met anyone as stubborn and convincing. like him, it seemed you were willing to fight and shed blood to get your way. luke was never really in the mood to make you bleed, even when feeling like he could burn the entire world down, so he usually gave in to your demands.  

as soon as he sat down next to you, you handed him an orange flavored energy drink — his favorite. anything other than water was hard to come by at camp without the enchanted goblets in the dining pavilion, or the right connection in the hermes cabin. he ran out of his stash the other day, but you must have noticed and gotten one of the stoll brothers to smuggle more in. 

“thanks,” luke said, ignoring the jolt of electricity that passed through him when your fingers brushed together briefly. 

 the two of you looked out at the sword arena, and all the straw dummies that luke had destroyed. you wait for him to take three big gulps of his drink before speaking again. 

“i guess chiron and your dad decided you weren’t ready for a quest.”

luke exhaled sharply. “how did you —”

“the only time you’d skip out on capture the flag is if something really shitty happened.” you looked down at luke’s clenched fists, and that seemed to be all the confirmation you needed. “you promised annabeth you'd be there, and it's not like you to let her down."

fuck. he had completely forgotten that tonight was annabeth's first time as team captain. this entire week, she had been prepping a winning strategy. it wasn’t like annabeth needed him to win, but luke was her big brother, and he should have been there. you were right — he had let her down. 

the realization made luke’s day go from bad to worse. 

"i told her you were helping a new camper with an emergency. she didn't believe it, but she adjusted her strategy and we still won.”

“well, thank the gods everything worked in the end,” luke grumbled. 

“don’t thank the gods,” you quipped. “thank annabeth chase for her brilliant mind, and me for covering for your sorry ass.”

when luke didn’t indulge in your usual playful banter, you moved closer to him and brushed some curls away from his eyes. your skin warmed his forehead, and the small gesture made him feel better than he had all day.

“look, i’m not going to give you some bullshit inspirational speech about how the gods don’t get to define what a hero is, or how you don’t need a quest to prove that you’re worthy of being one. we’ve each been through that before, and i have a feeling this won’t be our last time, either.”

“then why are you here?” the question came out harsher than luke had intended it to.

“because she’s trying her best to hide it, but annabeth is really hurt that you didn’t show up for the game. i figured the least you could do is suck it up, come to the campfire, and make her those signature luke castellan s’mores. you could probably use one, too, since you haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.” 

you were right, again. luke was exhausted, he was furious, but most of all, he was starving.  

later that night, luke sat next to annabeth and vowed to make her as many s’mores as she wanted. you’d gone to sit with the hephaestus kids, trying to convince beckendorf and nyssa to join your cabin’s post-campfire party at the beach, even though they had to work in the forges early the next morning. 

when chiron made his weekly speech, congratulating the winners of capture the flag and thanking the gods for keeping everyone safe, you and luke caught each other’s gaze from across the fire. you rolled your eyes and luke bit back a smile as you turned back to beckendorf. he noticed your knees were practically touching. did you sit that close to everyone? 

luke was looking at you for so long that the marshmallow he was roasting fell into the fire, despite annabeth’s warnings. she handed him another one. 

"you should tell her how you feel," annabeth said. "stop being a coward." 

whether it was the smell of burnt sugar, the heat of the fire, or annabeth’s comment, luke started to feel dizzy. he did his best to shake it off, asking annabeth for a play-by-play of her strategy earlier that night, but he couldn’t quite get rid of the thought of you. 

(iii. you don't care if your clothes are stained with blood)

“i just….i can’t fucking believe you, luke.”

“i don’t get why you’re so upset — you’ve never cared about quests before.”

luke was hoping to break the news to you after capture the flag. unfortunately for him, word travels fast around camp. 

annabeth had the two of you scouting the east side for the flag, while she and some other athena kids took the west. you hadn’t found anything so far, which meant that you’d spent the better part of an hour bickering over luke’s choice of companions for his quest. a choice that included charles beckendorf and chris rodriguez, and purposefully did not include you, much to your fury.  

before you could continue arguing, luke heard the sound of footsteps approaching. he looked over to you, and you already had your shield and sword at the ready. 

a few red defenders emerged from the trees. one charged at luke, but you stepped in so he could deal with the other two. one of his opponents went down fairly easily, but the other put up much more of a fight. metal clashed behind him as you kept fighting as well. you might not have been as skilled a swordfighter as luke, but he knew that you could hold your own, at least until he was finished with the person in front of him. 

luke parried his opponent’s strike, causing them to take a step closer. he was preparing to disarm them, just as he heard you yelp and stumble to the ground. it only took a millisecond of his attention, but it gave his opponent the opportunity to elbow him in the face. luke felt a crack upon impact, and pain radiated from his nose; he powered through. 

he had to finish this fight, and he had to do it fast. you needed him. 

his ears were ringing as he finally knocked over his opponent, kicking away their sword and keeping his foot on their chest. luke turned around to see you having turned the tides, the blade of your sword dangerously close to your opponent’s neck.

you locked eyes with luke, and you both understood — it was time to go. the two of you ran through the forest, as far away as you could before having to stop and catch your breath.

luke removed his helmet to get some air, and dropped his weapons. you did the same. you looked at him, brows furrowed.

“your nose.”

luke licked his lips, tasting blood. the triumph of winning that last fight overshadowed the ache of his potentially broken nose. in fact, he liked the image of a ruthless warrior emerging from the glory and gore of battle, that even though he did not bleed ichor like a god, he still had power. 

you, on the other hand, didn’t look impressed. instead, you stepped forward and offered the sleeve of your shirt to wipe away the blood. 

“you don’t have to —”

“i know you think you’re a badass walking around all broken and bloody, but you shouldn’t deny your admirers your pretty face,” you teased. 

it was no secret that luke had numerous admirers around camp, a fact you loved to tease him about. he was sure that you relished in how flustered that made him. all you had to call him was pretty boy, and luke could be reduced to a blushing mess. 

it was pathetic how much power you had over him.

“besides, i wouldn’t have gotten out of that last fight if you hadn’t taught me that disarming technique earlier. i owe you. it’s what we do. we take care of each other, right?”

he couldn’t argue with that.

a few moments of silence passed as you cleaned his face. something shifted as you worked, the flirtatious grin fading away. when you pulled away, your sleeve was stained a dark crimson. 

“just tell me honestly,” you finally murmured. “why don't you want me to join your quest?” 

luke was genuinely taken aback by the softness of your voice, now devoid of its usual fire. you wouldn’t meet luke’s eyes, but being that close to you, he noticed they were slightly glazed over.

he had expected you to be angry at his decision. he expected you to yell and argue and try to change his mind. luke hadn’t expected you to be so hurt. so broken. 

he hadn’t planned on it, but luke decided to tell you the truth then.

“look, karma, if you come with me, my heart wouldn’t fully be in the quest. i’d be so caught up in….well, you.”

a pause.

“is that a bad thing?”

“not usually, no.” 

you smirked a little at that, and luke’s heart skipped a beat. it also made his decision even clearer. 

“but i need to be focused for this. i need….” he let out a deep sigh. “i need to prove myself. this is my first real chance, and i can’t fuck it up.”

you met his gaze and smiled brightly at him, your signature spark of confidence returning.  

“you won’t.”

you reached a hand up to play with his necklace. luke hadn’t noticed how close you’d gotten until your fingers started tracing over those four clay beads. it made his entire body burst into flames.

“i’ve been wanting to do something for a while. and, aphrodite save me, it might be really stupid, but —”

luke took a lucky guess as to where you were going, and crashed his lips against yours. aphrodite knows that he'd been wanting to do that for a while, too. 

he often got drunk on the adrenaline of battle, the glory of winning, but nothing was quite like the rush of kissing you for the first time. 

it was messy and urgent, both of you aware that, at any moment, you could be interrupted. your noses were bumping together, teeth clacking against each other. the metallic tang of blood lingered on luke’s tongue, but neither of you seemed to care. you even bit his lip slightly, as if you wanted more. armor sat heavy and cold between your chests, preventing you from getting closer. luke had never loathed the protective gear more. 

he made up for it by lodging one hand underneath your jaw, and snaking the other beneath the celestial bronze, beneath the cotton of your shirt, admiring how your pulse quickened under his thumb when he grazed the soft skin of your stomach. you tangled your hands into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. he groaned and felt you smirk against his lips. 

luke had kissed a few people before, sure, but never like this: like a knife to the gut, and if you pulled away, luke would surely bleed out and die. 

it wouldn’t be a hero’s death, in the traditional sense, but at least he’d die happy. 

how many heroes could claim that?

when luke ran out of air, feeling like his lungs were burning, he had to pull away. 

you glanced down at luke’s kiss-bitten lips, then back to his eyes. luke flushed under the intensity of your gaze. 

“just promise me something, tiger,” you whispered, voice hoarse. 

“anything.”

“come back alive.”

luke leaned forward and placed another kiss on your lips, this one much gentler than before.

“i promise.”

(iv. you love like a scar that won't fade)

the nightmares were getting worse. 

luke woke up in a cold sweat, taking gulps of air in an attempt to steady his breathing.

“luke.” 

your whisper did little to quell the pit of dread growing in his stomach, but it did enough to bring him back down to reality. 

he was at camp half-blood (fuck the gods of olympus), in the hermes cabin (fuck you, dad), in a bed next to yours (fuck, if he could tell you what — who — was going through his head, he would).

“i’m…i’m fine,” he murmured back, voice catching slightly on the lie. 

like clockwork, you shifted from your bed to his, slipping under the covers. it didn’t matter that it was a hot summer night, and the minute your legs touched his, he could feel himself starting to overheat. 

your thumb brushed over the thick edge of his scar, up his cheekbone to the corner of his eye. it had been a year, living with this reminder. a reminder that he had failed, just as much as his father and the olympians had failed him. 

luke tried to pretend that he didn’t come back from his quest as a shell of who he once was. after all, it was meant to be his shining moment as a demigod, meant to gain him all the glory and father’s praise he once wished for. 

what a fucking joke.

every morning, luke would crawl into a different skin. he welcomed new campers and taught sword-fighting. he laughed with chris and his other siblings and strategized with annabeth for capture the flag. he would be the easy-going, charming, skillful senior counselor who respected the gods and honored them in everything he did. 

again: a fucking joke.

nights were different, though, with you so close to him, you who could always see right through him.

every night, luke was a fourteen-year old boy again, with so much rage and resentment he didn't know what to do with it. 

of course, you were always you - a bleeding heart underneath layers of armor. you didn't care about fate, or the gods, or the titans. you cared about justice, you cared about what was right and fair. 

most of all, you cared about luke.

“you were screaming,” you told him, voice barely cutting through the soft snores and sleeptalkings of your other cabinmates. 

“sorry,” he managed. looking at you in the dull moonlight, luke noticed the deep shadows under your eyes. 

“it’s fine. you just….you scared me, tiger.” 

your hand still rested on his cheek, and for a second, luke hoped you would kiss him, but you didn’t. instead, you told him to try and get some sleep, and sank further into his bed before closing your eyes. 

for the hundredth night in a row, luke hoped you couldn’t hear his heart hammering in his chest as you fell asleep next to him.

since coming back from his quest, luke didn’t have it in him to suggest being anything other than friends, and you didn’t push it. there had been a few....moments between you, sure, but nothing more.

luke thought you might have changed your mind, because who would want to be with a bitter, worthless, wannabe hero? then again, that voice haunting his dreams…. luke could change that. 

but, at what cost?

(v. you protect people as ruthlessly as a starving dog)

luke could hear you talking to percy jackson outside. though he couldn’t quite determine what was being said, as much as he tried.

you entered the bathroom and instantly caught luke’s eyes in the mirror. you were wearing your faded pyjama shorts with cartoon crows, and a flannel shirt that luke had a sneaking suspicion might have been his. you smiled at him before setting up at the counter, one sink between you. 

“what was that about?” luke asked after spitting out a mouthful of minty toothpaste.

“oh, nothing.” you were searching through your toiletry bag for something, and seemed to come up short. “hey, do you have any extra dental floss?”

luke threw some over to you. as you effortlessly caught it, he noticed your knuckles, bruised and bloodied.

“what happened?” 

you finished flossing and briefly examined your hands before pulling out your toothbrush. 

“it’s not a big deal,” you assured. “some ares kids were picking on percy, and then they started pushing him around, like, really pushing him around, so….” 

“....you decided to send them to the infirmary.”

you squeezed some toothpaste on your brush before continuing. “i don’t need you to lecture me about how i shouldn’t be fighting with other campers because i’ve been here longer and i should be a good role model. you know what a good role model does? not let kids beat up other kids and think the worst punishment they’ll get is no dessert for a week.”

luke watched carefully as you jammed the toothbrush in your mouth and brushed with such force, he was worried your teeth might dislodge. he knew that you would shed blood for someone you loved, and that you didn’t particularly care if you had to break rules in doing so, because you believed that what was written was not necessarily what was right. 

in fact, luke loved that about you.

no, it wasn’t the fighting that luke cared about — it was who you were fighting for. 

percy was a good kid, he really was. luke just didn’t want you getting attached. 

“i wasn’t going to lecture you. i’m guessing chiron already did?” 

you nodded and spat out what looked like a combination of toothpaste and blood. you rinsed your mouth until the water lost its pinkish hue. once you were done, luke continued his train of thought.

“i just didn’t realize you cared so much about him.”

“about percy?” 

luke could tell that he didn’t have your full attention. you were packing your stuff back up, accidentally tossing luke’s dental floss into your bag, but he had more pressing matters to deal with.

“yeah. the kid’s only been at camp for three days, and you’re already acting like his guard dog.”

you finally turned to luke and glared at him. 

“maybe. but percy’s sweet and he doesn’t seem like the type to put up with bullshit. he’s been through a lot, and annabeth seems to like him, too. as far as i’m concerned, percy’s one of us, and i’m not going to let anyone push him around.”

luke raised an eyebrow at you. “he’s sweet?”

“yeah. like, just now, he gave me some blue raspberry jelly beans as a thank you. said his mom used to work at a candy store. he also wanted me to apologize to you for him. he feels bad about beating you in sword-fighting earlier.” 

you scoffed, like you resented luke for having to apologize to him on percy’s behalf. you definitely did not appreciate that guard dog comment. luke clenched his jaw, seething over what you had just said. 

satisfied with his reaction, you gave luke that nauseating smile of yours, tilted your head towards the exit. a truce, because you never liked to fight with luke for too long, and a order, because you knew luke would always follow. 

the two of you began walking back to your cabin in the warm mid-june air. 

“i wouldn’t say he beat me,” luke huffed. “it was beginner’s luck.”

“sure, tiger. it was beginner’s luck that disarmed the best swordsman we’ve had in the last 300 years.”

you nudged luke’s shoulder with yours, but he recoiled from your touch. 

“are you trying to make me feel worse?” luke tried his best to avoid snapping at you, keeping his tone measured.

“i’m just saying that maybe the kid has natural talent and that doesn’t make you any less talented. there’s no need to get jealous.”

luke resisted the urge to growl at your suggestion. 

to be clear, he was not jealous. it’s just that luke had spent years of blood, sweat, and tears getting to where he was then, and percy jackson had just gotten to camp. 

and, to be even more clear, luke was not jealous of how you were already defending percy with your whole body and your whole heart, the way you did for him. 

by then, you reached the front of the hermes cabin. luke could already hear the commotion of what he would need to deal with as soon as he walked in. the burden of being head counselor, one he approached with an elastic smile that could snap at any moment. 

you tugged on luke’s sleeve before he could open the door. 

“hey. are we okay?”

luke looked down at your fingers grasping the fabric of a sweatshirt he was just realizing was yours. your nails were painted a dark red, now chipped after a week of wear. you had begged luke to paint his nails then, and once again, he gave in. he even started to like the purple you had chosen just for him, so deep it was almost black. the same color you were wearing the first time you and luke met.

he smiled at the memory — a real smile, no plastic — and then smiled back up at you.

“we’re fine, karma.” and he moved to enter the cabin. luke could hear the threat of an argument bubbling up, what sounded like a petty one over a prank gone wrong.

“wait.” you tugged at his (your) sweatshirt once more. “there’s something i wanted to talk to you about, about tomorrow night—”

“annabeth called a meeting during free time.”

“yeah, i know, it’s just —”

“she’ll run through strategy for capture the flag then.”

“one of the aphrodite senior campers asked me to the campfire,” you blurted it out, and luke decided to ignore the sound of a fight breaking out from behind the wooden door.

what in the name of hades were you talking about?

“they asked you out? like…like a….” luke didn’t even want to speak the word, scared it would make it real.

“a date,” you said casually, as if that one word didn’t rip luke’s heart in a million pieces. “i said yes.” an admission that took all those pieces and set them on fire. 

sure, in the seven years since you and luke met, you’d each talked about boys, about girls, about dating and kissing them and going further. but there was something about this one that felt different. something about the way you told him.

“but, listen, i wanted to let you know it’s not —”

“good for you,” was all luke said through gritted teeth before someone started calling his name again, louder and more urgently, and he had to duck inside.  

(vi. you taste like burning cherries and righteous anger)

your team had won capture the flag, of course. the biggest news of the evening, though: percy jackson was the son of the sea god. 

he was a forbidden child, the hero of the great prophecy. 

everything was falling into place. 

all luke should be thinking about is kronos’ plan, and his role in it, and how a world without the gods of olympus was that much more in reach.  

unfortunately, for the time being, he was so consumed by you. 

you, from across the campfire, sporting cutoff denim shorts and fresh wounds from the game earlier. you, who had wrapped your knuckles in gauze, concealing their bruising, fixed the chips in your nail polish and stacked rings on your fingers. (for the record: luke had gifted you the one on your left thumb.) you, with dark lips that whispered too closely and laughed too loudly with a child of aphrodite— jordan li.

you hadn’t so much as looked at luke since congratulating each other on another win. when chiron announced his weekly gratitude to the gods at the start of that night’s campfire, you didn’t punctuate your resentment with your usual eye-roll or biting remark. you were too busy giggling at something jordan said.

luke wanted to be the one to whisper jokes in your ear. he wanted to be the one you left lipstick stains on later, along his jaw and down his neck. he wanted to be the one who kissed the blade mark on your shoulder and the bruises on your knuckles. 

and yet, hours passed and it seemed that the thought of luke had never so much as crossed your mind. he found himself at an after hours party with a few senior campers on the beach. a lethal recipe: a poorly crafted bonfire, some contraband drinks and you in jordan li’s lap, playing with their hair and pretending luke castellan did not exist. 

meanwhile, luke had katie gardner’s full attention. she was talking to him about the strawberry season, potentially leaning a bit too close into luke’s personal space, definitely flirting with him. 

luke could have done a lot worse than the head counselor of the demeter cabin, who always smelled like fresh lavender, whose eyes were the bright green of spring grass and whose lips tasted like golden honey. 

the problem was that luke only wanted you, and his eyes kept sliding over to where you were kissing jordan’s cheek, and he accidentally called the girl he was kissing by your name, which did not make her happy. 

katie threw her drink in his face, told him to wake the fuck up, and walked away.

a chorus of gasps and chuckles erupted as luke stood there, diet coke and vodka seeping into his shirt. the commotion seemed to capture your attention, because you suddenly appeared next to luke, an empty bottle of cherry soda in your hand.

“rough night, tiger?” your voice, that nickname, made luke sick, his face twisting into a frown. you don’t seem to notice or care. instead, you switched your bottle with luke’s and took a sip.

“looks like you were having a pretty good time,” luke practically sneered. “where’s your date?” 

 “they went to bed.” you swallowed a mouthful of beer, grimacing at its bitterness. “gods, this is terrible. you and i should go on the drink run next time — we have better taste.”

“so, are you and jordan like a thing now?”

you gave luke a smile he didn’t quite understand, but made his stomach churn in ways only you could. “would that be a problem?”

“of course not.” he answered way too quickly for that to be true. 

“let’s get out of here,” you suggested. “i think katie is about this close to strangling you with a tree branch.”

luke glanced over your shoulder to where green eyes glared back at him. 

nowhere could luke find it in him to care. he wasn’t even sorry. he just shrugged, took the bottle back from you, took his first sip all night. luke almost gagged (because of course you were right, and the stoll brothers had better fake ids than they had taste) but he suppressed it. 

“no. i’m good.”

biggest lie he ever said. like there wasn’t anger caught in his throat and jealousy swelling between his ribs.

“go find jordan,” he taunted. “kiss them, show them a good time! isn’t that the reason why you got all pretty?”

you narrowed your eyes at him carefully. your nostrils were slightly flared, and luke took a bit of pride in being able to rile you up.

“look, we haven’t really talked lately, and i think we should.”

“go find jordan,” he mocked once more. “almost all the aphrodite kids are here, and i’m sure you can be quiet enough to sneak into their cabin and if you want a quick fu—”

“luke.” you clipped his name, obviously getting to the limit of your patience with him. “if you want to stay here all night and be an asshole, you’re welcome to. you should know, though, that your happy-go-lucky hero mask is starting to crack and i don’t know if you could deal with the fallout from it shattering completely.”

you leaned in close and whispered that last part, very aware of the chattering that stopped and the eyes that watched the pair of you anxiously. luke was usually good at hiding that part of himself who wanted to burn the world down. 

in ways you didn’t realize, you were right: he couldn’t risk revealing it, not now.

not yet. 

“do whatever you want, castellan,” you spat out his last name, the combination of letters foreign in your mouth.“i’m leaving.”

luke should be proud of himself. he waited a whole two seconds before following you like a stray dog. 

luke didn’t know if he’d ever felt you that enraged by him, and it horrified him. it also made him hungry for more. 

“i’m not sure that jordan would want the two of us alone together at night,” he shouted after you, words echoing into the starless sky.

“gods, enough about jordan!” luke practically ran into you with how fast you turned around to confront him. “i was helping them with that stupid aphrodite tradition!”

“you….” luke faltered, all the snark leaving his body. “what?”

luke remembered silena beauregard once explaining the rite of passage to him: to prove themselves, a child of aphrodite had to make someone fall in love with them, and then break their heart.

“why…why would you agree to do that?”

you had reached the dining area by then, and you sat on one of the steps leading to the pavilion. luke stayed a few feet away, looking at you cautiously. 

“jordan and i are already friends, and they figured a fake relationship would be the way to avoid anyone from actually getting hurt in the process.”

“you seemed so…so into it, though,” luke stammered, the memory of you in jordan’s lap, laughter bubbling from your lips, still fresh.

“it’s called acting, dumbass.” the camp didn’t rely on electricity, but there were enough torches around that luke could see you roll your eyes. “anyways, i was trying to give you a heads-up last night, but you wouldn’t listen.” you took a deep breath. “and, honestly, i didn’t push it because….i figured i should test a hypothesis.”

a hypothesis? you’d known annabeth for too long.

“what hypothesis?”

you hesitated. 

“it doesn’t matter. fuck, this was stupid,” you muttered, and without another word, stormed through the dining pavilion, a short cut to the hermes cabin. your footsteps fell heavy against the marble, and luke’s not far behind. 

“what hypothesis?” he asked again.

nothing but rushed footsteps.

“what hypothesis?” luke finally yelled.

third time was the charm, because you stopped in your tracks and faced luke once again. a fire burned in the bronze brazier, where campers were forced to offer up portions of your food to the gods at every meal. its roaring seemed to captivate you, and the flames danced across your face, illuminating all your curves and edges.

“i’m angry at the gods,” you stated. 

this caught luke off guard. from the day the two of you met, luke knew you shared that feeling. you’d gotten quieter with your rage as you’d gotten older. luke supposed he got better at hiding it himself, as well. 

“i’m angry at the gods for letting bad shit happen even if they can stop it, and for building this world in the fucked up way they did. i’m angry at your dad for the way he’s treated you, but — you, luke castellan.” you finally met luke’s eyes with a gaze so sharp, luke almost felt himself bleed. “i’m also angry at you, and not just for your bullshit tonight.” 

your admission felt like a punch to the stomach, and luke was left with no air to breathe.

did you know?

“you haven’t been the same since your quest,” you continued, words slow and deliberate, the way you spoke when you were worried your voice would shake. “and i’ve come to terms with that in the past few years, but you….you’ve never tried to ice me out before. you’ve been acting distant since december, and it’s been driving me insane. do you realize how much i miss my best …..” you swallowed the word friend. “how much i miss you?”

luke hesitated, because what could he say? i know i’ve been distant, but i’ve been busy trying to start a war between the gods. sorry babe! 

would you hate him, if you knew? 

you had to have known that, despite the distance, luke missed you. for tartarus sake, in the last two days, he’d driven himself mad at you calling a fourteen year old boy sweet, and he was about to combust at the image of you dating someone else, with little care as to the collateral damage. 

"you can't just avoid me, makeout with katie fucking gardner, and then….” you trailed off, hiding your face in your hands. whether it was to hide embarrassment or tears, luke wasn’t sure.

a smirk spread across luke’s face at the revelation that he hadn’t been the only one jealous at the bonfire that night. it lit luke up with the confidence he needed to not completely fall to his knees in front of you, beg for your forgiveness for everything he’s done.

“why do you care if i make out with katie fucking gardner?” 

as he waited for a response, luke walked towards you until your back hit one of the marble columns. 

“why do you care if i’m with jordan fucking li?” you clenched your jaw and looked right through luke. a clear indication that you wanted him to break down first; it wouldn’t be you who yielded this fight.

“because i want to be the one you’re with.” at that point, luke was so close to you that he swore he could hear your heartbeat. he reached out and played with the hem of your shorts. “why do you care if i make out with katie gardner?”

“because.” you drew in a sharp breath when luke’s fingers brushed underneath the denim, across the warm skin of your thigh. you closed your eyes. “don’t make me say it, tiger.” 

the desperation in your voice made luke want to do unholy things with you, to you. luke knew you didn’t think of him as a saint, and you never expected him to be one. the reality was that you weren’t much better, either. what was essentially an altar to the gods burned bright next to you, but it seemed neither of you had ever cared less about it than in that moment. 

luke would watch olympus fall. he would dethrone the gods and watch their glass castle shatter and find glory in a new world. in the grand scheme of things, he was willing to lose this battle.

in fact, he would have rather betrayed the titan lord himself than waste another second not kissing your lips. 

so, he kissed you, and you kissed him back with such force, such hunger, it was ungodly.

no, you certainly weren’t a saint — but you were divine, in the most brutal, intoxicating way. in the way you shuddered when luke lodged a leg between your thighs; in the way you threaded your fingers through the belt loops of his jeans to bring him closer; in the way the metal of your rings burned through the skin of his hip, right to the bone, which made him shudder, and you smile triumphantly against his jaw.

the more he tasted your smirk flavored by cherry soda and the ashes of nearby flames, the more he felt your feral teeth against his neck and your wicked nails digging into his shoulders, the more you tugged on his curls, the more luke thought: maybe. 

maybe you would give into your seething resentment, live up to those eye-rolls and snarky comments that got you in trouble with chiron, on the edge of hot water with the gods. maybe you would join the titan army. maybe, just maybe, this time, you would follow luke.

and yet — maybe wasn’t enough if it meant he could lose this. luke wouldn’t risk it, not until he kissed every battle scar and bruise on your body, and you did the same to his. 

“wait.”

it was the last thing luke wanted to do, but he complied. he took the opportunity to appreciate the chaos he created: your shirt in disarray, your lipstick a mess, your chest heaving and desperate to catch a breath. 

“i promised jordan that we’d keep up our charade for a week, two at the most. do you think we could keep this…” you tightened your fist around the fabric of his shirt. “a secret until then?”

luke responded by pressing his lips to yours once more, because there were definitely worse secrets to keep.

(vii. you wouldn’t hesitate to make him bleed)

luke had just left percy jackson to die.

he should be leaving camp, now, but he needed to see you one last time. 

the universe works in mysterious ways, because you were out on a run through the forest, and you crossed paths before he even had time to wonder where you were.

“hey, tiger.” you smiled as if this was a regular afternoon. the two of you would teach your afternoon activities, sneak away during dinner so luke could kiss you in that spot that made you gasp. “wanna join me? i was just wrapping up, but i could be convinced to go longer.”

for a second, he was tempted to. very tempted. 

“i don’t have much time.”

you seemed to notice luke’s sullen mood and you dropped your playful demeanor. 

luke explained: the messages from kronos in his dreams, him stealing the lightning bolt and helm of darkness to start a war between the gods and framing percy. the plan to destroy olympus that luke had pledged his life to.

percy was surprised at what luke had done, and luke could imagine that the rest of camp would be, too. luke was the golden boy of camp half-blood, everyone’s big brother. 

you, on the other hand, didn’t express any sense of shock. 

“luke.” you said his name like you weren’t quite sure it was poison. “i’m going to give you five seconds to tell me that you’re joking.”

five seconds of silence passed. you took a few steps back from luke.

“i….i should have told you sooner.”

“yeah,” you scoffed. “you should have. but, you didn’t. did it feel good, having the titan king whispering sweet nothings in your ear? all the lies about how this war is the only way to get the glory you so desperately want? it’s fucking delusional.” 

“it’s not delusional—”

“yes, it is!” you glared at him. “you’re on the wrong side of a war you made the mistake of starting.”

luke straightened his posture, thinking about how hypocritical you were being. 

“isn’t this what you’re all about? revenge, karma. your mom will probably join us, too. don’t you want to see the gods finally get what they deserve?”

“not like this. i can’t believe how desperate you are, to believe that kronos is going to make everything right. it’s pathetic,” you spat. “i’m not saying the gods don’t deserve to be taken down a notch. their fucking obsession with power and glory….it’s sick and twisted, but i don’t think your titan king is any better. i don’t think you are any better.” 

“it’s time that the gods fall. this is the only way, even if it isn’t perfect,” luke countered. his voice was firmer now as he absorbed your anger. your mother was the goddess of revenge, but you clearly didn't understand the sacrifices, pain, and blood that was required to make the world a better place.  

luke just needed to convince you.

“we’ve talked about this for years,” he continued. “nothing is balanced! there’s no justice here, for anyone.  we can build a better world where we don’t have to burn our scraps and throw ourselves at monsters to get attention. we can fight together like we always have. y/n, i love—”

“don’t,” you snapped. “don’t you fucking dare. you should have died on your quest.” your voice laced with venom. one hand gripping the knife you always kept on your belt. “that dragon should have fucking sliced through you and saved us all the trouble.”

something pricked in the back of his throat, down to his stomach.

“you don’t mean that.”

“i do,” you promised. “at least you would have died with all of us thinking you’re a hero instead of the traitor you really are.”

you grabbed your knife, took a fighting stance. 

“i’m not going to fight you,” was all luke could say. he noticed your hand tremble, and you tightened the grip on your knife to prevent emotion from slipping through your invisible armor. 

in that moment, you have could slice through luke, and it would hurt less than everything you just said, less than the murderous look you were giving him, like he was just another monster you wouldn’t think twice about sending to tartarus.

luke didn’t even have a chance to unsheathe his sword before you charged at him, but he quickly had you pinned to the ground, the tip of your own knife pointed at you. he hesitated. the blade pressed harder against your cheek than he intended, enough to break the skin and let a few droplets of dark crimson escape. 

“please come with me,” he pleaded. you didn’t answer, but you did seem surprised by the softness of his voice. 

a few moments passed, the celestial bronze still between you. luke waited for you to see his way, to yield to his proposal.

you didn’t. instead, you took advantage of the situation. you wrapped your leg around his and flipped your position. in the process, you regained possession of your knife. without the hesitation that held luke back, you sliced through his cheek, deep. luke bit his lip to suppress a groan, tasting blood. your gaze set his whole body on fire as he waited for your next move. that was when you glanced down at his camp necklace, and the new clay bead added to commemorate this summer.

a turquoise trident.

“percy told me he was on his way to see you,” you realized. “what did you do?”

luke didn’t answer. he knew then that a choice ran through your head. 

and it stung, just a little, watching you sprint away through the trees in a last ditch effort to save percy’s life. 

there was a small, pathetic part of luke that wanted you to choose him, even if it meant you would have plunged the knife into his chest.

[ssscatola]

task force 141 headcanons because I have free will

soap wears nothing but adidas slides when he's on leave. he's sick and tired of getting blisters from his military boots that he refuses to wear any other shoe when he's back in scotland

ghost's favorite season is spring. he loves hearing birds chirping and singing (would never admit this out loud) and enjoys hiking when the weather is just right.

gaz will cook a mean roast and is a snob about what herbs and spices go with what meat and vegetables. (this goes for soap as well bc i headcanon he was raised on a farm)

price is so fucking tired all the time but hides it really well. he'll fall asleep standing up in a heli without a problem

speaking of price, he's a loud ass cougher and sneezer and the rest of the force mimic and tease him about it

ghost has every member of the force's phone number. Price is saved in his contacts as 'Captain Price'. Gaz is 'Kyle Garrick'. Soap is just /insert scottish phone number/ and he refuses to change it just to piss off Johnny

to continue that adidas slides thought for soap, i like to think he's dripped out in any sportswear brand. DEFINITELY has a Napapijri jacket and at least three nike puffer jackets. every item of clothing for the gym is either nike or under armour and every running shoe he has is by asics

Gaz has five colognes he rotates. Soap has three (used to have four but lost one??? where the fuck is it?). Price has one that he's been rebuying for the past fifteen years. Ghost also has one (stole the best-smelling one from Johnny)

Gaz really likes board games while Ghost enjoys card games

Price knows some russian and soap is learning spanish

Ghost grew up with nothing and is now insatiable. doesn't spend that much on decorating his apartment or clothes but he sees a weighted or heated blanket on amazon with raving reviews? doesn't even check the price; it's in his cart. A new mattress made out of memory foam for his shitty back? added to cart. He sees a commercial for a 70-inch flat-screen tv? he needs it to watch soccer in 16k 240fps and 480p re-run episodes from youtube of 'how it's made' when johnny visits him.

price types with one finger (sorry to this man)

ghost rarely types out a response to a text. or if he does respond, it's just a thumbs-up emoji

soap gets down NASTY to 2000's and 2010's music. Like girl this man is breaking his neck and back and ankles on the dancefloor after three-four drinks and nobody can stop him

continuing for soap, he once got wasted and borrowed a cigarette from someone at a club and turned into a hired assassin for the night. the guy who gave him the cigarette got jumped and soap dislocated the attacker's jaw with one punch

gaz has every allergy under the sun while ghost gets the flu every five years or so

ghost has a sharp left canine and johnny nearly flatlines when he sees it

price has freckles on his biceps and shoulders

ghost notices soap is always chewing gum. they make stops during missions so the sergeant can buy (more like swipe) a pack. always the same brand, always the same flavor, and he always offers a piece to ghost. for his birthday, ghost gifts him two mega packs (that's like 400 pieces?) of his preferred gum and soap's heart swells in his chest

these are all over the place but i'm writing a ghoap fic and my motivation is dwindling so i just had to write this :')

if anyone wants a part 2 let me know bc this was a lot of fun to write!

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles pop-up Spring challenge.

Sprung

Prompt: Spring | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: None | Tags: Future Fic, Established Relationship, Struggling to Make Ends Meet, Light Angst, Sacrifice, Love, Making a Life Together

"Steve, please," Eddie says, and Steve stills.

"I thought you were asleep?" Steve whispers in the dark, and Eddie's not sure why Steve's trying to be quiet at this point. They're both awake now. Steve's made sure of that.

"I was," Eddie huffs out, annoyed, because he had been. But Steve's constant flopping around has ruined that. Steve's become the world's shittest sleeper lately, and that's not exactly ideal in a bed partner.

"Sorry," Steve says, stilling, "I'll try to stop moving around."

Eddie just mutters something that he hopes passes as a thanks, and rolls back over. He has to get up at six, and he fucking needs his four hours. That's not too much to ask for, goddamnit. 

Steve's still for a few minutes, but then rolls over in his sleep, again, and the whole bed shifts and shakes. Again. Eddie's had enough, and snags his pillow off the bed, padding down the hallway to crash on the couch. He's exhausted. He can't do this tonight. He can't.

He still wakes up tired, because it was too cold in the living room. Their shitty radiators either don't work, or boil you. No middle ground. Fucking shithole. But it's the best they can do for now, since they're barely keeping their heads above water, as is. Working just to live. It's been hard. Harder than Eddie expected, and he grew up with fucking hard. 

He'd hoped they'd be past that now, hoped he'd finally catch a goddamn break.

Of course not.

It's the Munson curse. 

And now Eddie's in a bad mood, even as Steve's pouring coffee into Wayne's old thermos for him, packing Eddie's metal lunchbox, to keep him going on the jobsite all day. 

"Thanks," Eddie says, taking it, and Steve just nods silently, clearly aware Eddie's in a mood this morning.

Eddie worries they're circling the drain, from circumstances alone. It's not a love problem, it's a life problem, and that makes it worse.

And before long, Eddie realizes he broke the seal, having introduced a new wedge between them. Now that the couch is in play, they aren't even sleeping in the same bed most nights anymore. Steve will go, or he will, and now they're sleeping apart more nights a week than they sleep together. Maybe they're getting more rest, but they're also growing even further apart. 

Today, Eddie's coffee and lunch are on the counter, but Steve's already in the shower, and their ten minutes together in the morning are gone.

Just like that.

Eddie grabs his work boots from the closet, flopping down on Steve's side of the bed to put them on, and he's suddenly assaulted, poked right in the ass by whatever Steve's left laying on the mattress. 

Standing up, he's sliding his hand over the bed in the dark to see what the fuck he sat on. Nothing. He yanks the sheets back, and there's still nothing, so he strips it further.

It's a spring. 

And it's threatening to fully poke through, probably right where Steve's back rests. Goddammit. No wonder Steve can't fucking hold still at night. He's being tortured, Eddie thinks, as he presses his hand against the spring, feeling it bite into his hand. 

A rogue mattress spring.

That's what's divided them, broke them down. 

Eddie sits back down, lets the spring dig into his ass, and holds his head in hands. He's not gonna cry. He doesn't have time. He has to go to work. But goddamn this. 

He's still sitting there when Steve comes in and is rifling through the closet, "You okay?"

"No," Eddie says.

Steve walks over and puts the back of his hand on Eddie's forehead and Eddie laughs, wetly. 

"You don't feel hot," Steve declares. 

"No, I don't," Eddie mutters, because damn, he fucking doesn't feel hot at all. He feels broken down and worn out. 

He reaches up and catches Steve's hand, bringing it to his mouth, kissing it. 

"I'm sorry about the mattress. I didn't know," Eddie says, looking up at him.

"It's okay, I'm used to it," Steve says, and he rubs his fingers against the top of Eddie's head.

"You shouldn't have to be," Eddie says, dejected. 

Steve Harrington chose him, loves him, and Eddie can't even give him a bed to sleep on that isn't trying to pierce his spleen every night.

They can't afford a new one, not right now, and Eddie hates that he can't fix this. 

"We'll flip it," Eddie offers.

"Then it'll have the crater on your side again," Steve says with a laugh. And yeah, Eddie'd forgotten they flipped it last year, after his side started breaking down. Sucking him inward, like a gate into the Upside Down.

That doesn't matter.

"Well, that's gotta be better than this," Eddie admits, bouncing a little. Anything would be better than this torture device.

Steve kneels between Eddie's open thighs, "It's okay, Eddie."

It's not. 

"I'm sorry I was being a jerk. I didn't know," Eddie says.

"I know you didn't," Steve answers, "I didn't want you to worry."

Eddie brushes Steve's hair off his forehead, "I'm still sorry. I love you. You know that, right?"

Steve grins, and it's blinding, "Always. Work now, worry about the mattress later."

Eddie nods, smiles, and when Steve moves from between his knees, Eddie leans over and laces up his boots. Ready to start another day.

That evening, when Eddie pulls into the driveway, Wayne's truck is parked behind Steve's car. Eddie hadn't realized Wayne was coming, and grins. This day just got way better.

Eddie plows into the house, and finds Steve in the bedroom, a pair of needle nose pliers dug into a small hole they've cut in the mattress, trying to bend the spring back into its original position. Wayne's standing there, talking Steve through the temporary fix, until they can afford something better.

It's gonna be okay, Eddie realizes. They're just a little bent out of shape right now. A little sprung. 

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

If you want to see more of my entries into this month-long challenge, you can check them out in my Steddie Holiday Drabbles tag, right here!

[thebisexualdogdad]

Living in vault 33 as a wastelander - Lucy MacLean x GN!reader

● after the events of season 1 Lucy brought you back to vault 33 to live with her and help rebuild her home

● you got a taste of what it was like to live in a vault when you were at vault 4 but you still had so much left to learn

● the first time you meet Norm he's pretty standoffish

● after everything that happened he doesn't know who to trust anymore and he really doesn't like an outsider being in the vault

● but if Lucy trusts you he will eventually trust you too he just needs time to warm up to you

● you've never slept as well as you have in the vault

● back home you had a shitty old mattress on the floor that had springs popping out of it

● but now you have a pillow and a blanket and best of all you get to sleep next Lucy to every night

● the one complaint you have is wearing the vault tec suit

● “how do you guys wear this everyday it's so restricting”

● “but you look so cute in it”

● “you think so? Wait don't distract me from how uncomfortable this is, can't I go back to wearing my old clothes”

● “your old clothes were filthy and had holes in it and blood stains”

● “you guys have those fancy washing machine things I'm sure they can get the blood out”

● Lucy shows you so much new food and teaches you how to cook

● out in the wasteland you ate whatever you could find but here you actually have options

● and fresh vegetables which you didn't even know vegetables could be fresh and not from a can

● the first time she shows you how to use the oven you touch the hot pan and yell out in pain

● “Y/N baby you need to use the mit whenever you take something out of the oven,” she tells you as she's tending to your burnt hand

● getting to shower regularly is also a game changer

● everybody in the vault smells so nice all the time

● and everything is kept so clean there's no bugs or rats or anything

● Lucy shows you all her favorite movies

● and you listen to her favorite vinyl records

● the first time you tell Lucy you love her is when you're dancing together in your unit

● you spin her around before taking her in your arms and it just slips out, “I love you”

● “I love you too Y/N,” she smiles back at you

● it takes you a while to get used to doing your rotating job duties

● you were a part of a community now, you weren't only looking out for yourself and since half of the vaults residents had been killed in the raid you all had to step up and cover double the amount of jobs to maintain everything

● but then you got to watch Lucy in a tank top working on heavy machinery and maybe having to do this kind of stuff wasn't actually so bad

● you and Lucy have made out all over the vault

● she'll pull you into a storage closet or an empty corridor unable to keep her hands off of you

● usually you get away with it but occasionally someone will interrupt you

● Norm once found you in a closet with your hand in Lucy's suit as he was looking for cleaning supplies

● he slapped his hand over his eyes and reached around for the disinfectant and left without saying anything

● “Uh should we go back to our unit to finish this?”

● “nope,” is all Lucy says and pulls you back in to kiss her

● one day you see someone carrying a cake lit with candles and you ask Lucy what's going on

● “oh it's Matthew's birthday”

● “what's a birthday?”

● “you've never celebrated your birthday before?!?”

● a week later she decorates your unit with balloons and whatever other party supplies she could find and makes you your very first birthday cake

● “what is all this?”

● “well we don't know when your actual birthday is so I'm declaring today your birthday! I made you a cake you need to make a wish when you blow out the candles”

● “I'm not living in the wasteland anymore and I have an incredible girlfriend what more could I wish for?”

[harmonictechnicality]

my heart is my armor for @thefreakandthehair's Spicy Six Spring Challenge (mwah mwah!) | *ao3 link here*

Eddie doesn’t understand Steve’s sudden interest in having a garage sale. Everything that they own is junk disguised as furniture. None of it is worth looking at, let alone buying.

Besides, they don’t even have a garage. They’re still slumming it in this dingy duplex, too broke to afford decent cutlery.

“A garage sale with no garage is just false advertisement, babe.” Eddie flops onto his stomach, hears the boxsprings of their shitty mattress groan underneath him.

“We need to do some spring cleaning anyways.” Steve sinks his nails into Eddie’s hair, scratches at his roots the way Eddie likes it best. It’s all mindless now, physical affection. Five months ago, both of them would’ve been scared shitless to behave this way. Now, it’s easy.

Routine bliss.  

“Might as well make a few extra dollars out of it.” Steve adds.

Eddie scoffs. Flattens his face into the mattress, ignores the questionable dude smell. “What the fuck is spring cleaning anyways?”

“Just a thing. Always has been.”

“Hmph.”

Spring cleaning sounds like a tradition that rich assholes invented as an excuse to throw away the winter jackets they never even wore - never even took the tags off of. Eddie can just imagine a gaggle of housewives, swishing their wine and speaking in some fake transatlantic accent: ‘Oh sweet darling lambchop, it’s not wasteful. It’s simply a bit of spring cleaning.’

“I never agreed to do spring cleaning.” Eddie says.

“You never agree to do cleaning, period.”

“That’s not true. I did the laundry last month.”

Which isn’t a lie. Eddie did three (two) loads of laundry after Steve refused to go anywhere near it. Claims that the final straw was seeing some sort of mutated rodent emerging from their hamper.

“Oh that?” Eddie had fished his brain for a plausible explanation. “That was just a mouse or a rat or a… miniature possum. Something like that.” At the time, he phrased the whole thing like the weirdest multiple choice quiz - the most suitable answer being Something Like That. 

“Whatever.” Steve snorts, likely recalling that same night. He turns off the lamp, lets the dark bleed into the room, swallowing the light. 

They both inch into the middle of the bed, where it’s naturally starting to dip at the center. All of their belongings are used, including this mattress. If money weren’t an issue, they would invest in a new one.

Or not. Eddie kind of likes that it sags in the middle, where they always meet. Like it’s giving in, shaping itself around the weight of their relationship.

The thought makes him smile, a stupidly smitten grin at his stupidly pretty boyfriend.

“What?” Steve pokes a finger at the corner of Eddie’s mouth.

“Nothing.” He catches Steve’s finger, pretends to gnaw it off his hand till Steve laughs. Best fucking sound, even better in their bed. 

Christ, he’s so in love. Wants a megaphone to scream about how in love he is with Steve Harrington. Wants to call a local radio station and request the sappiest love songs imaginable. Wants to be able to just say it, then never stop saying it.

That feels colossal though. Like the playfulness will fizzle out or the blissful routine will rupture. 

So he just says it in other ways, like tonight. 

“Okay, fine. You win.” Which is a direct translation to those three important words, because Eddie hates losing. One of his top ten least favorite things in this world is losing. 

He folds Steve’s fingers into a fist, kisses over every knuckle. Looks up to see Steve blinking slowly, half-asleep. Looks happy. 

And damn, that makes it all worth it, right? Losing so Steve can win. That makes it tolerable, almost enjoyable, for a soft expression like that.

“I’ll do the non-garage garage sale.”

Steve yawns, nuzzles into his side of the pillow. “I knew you would.”

Eddie complains the entire time they clean. Makes the biggest fuss, stomps from room to room. Their place is small, sure. Yet somehow, they generate enough dust and dirt to fill multiple trash bags. Which means multiple trips to the dumpster.

Fuck Spring for making cleanliness a seasonal personality trait.

It’s late into the afternoon when they finally take a break. Both of them are pretty disgusting, so they sit on the front steps of the duplex.

“Quit scowling, you big baby.” Steve passes a glass of water to Eddie. Takes a long chug from his own glass, throwing his head back to get more down. 

No human being has the right to look this sexy without proper legal representation. But Steve wears dirt and sweat like an accessory. Makes the grime so damn rugged, utterly hot.

Yeah. Eddie finally can relate to all the women that drool over erotica novel covers. Fully gets the appeal.

“So, find anything worth selling?” Steve asks. 

“As a matter of fact, yeah. I did.”

Eddie reaches to his side and grabs a black binder: Steve’s baseball card collection. An extensive one at that. 

He smooths over the plastic cover, fluttering his lashes up at Steve, who seems to be seconds away from hulking out over the suggestion.

“Oh fuck that, man!” Steve yanks the binder from Eddie’s hand. “I’ve had those since I was a kid!”

“Which is exactly why it’s time to retire them. Give them a new home. One that’s not a brothel for cockroaches.”

Really, Eddie gets far too much pleasure out of this. Watching people squirm under the uncomfortable magnifying glass of his sense of humor.

Steve cracks his neck to one side and snarls.

Ha. Perfect. Eddie has dwindled him down to nonverbal replies. Just caveman actions that are equally as sexy as the dirt and sweat.

But Steve throws a curveball, too quick to catch. He slips into the house and returns with one of Eddie’s favorite cups. “And what about these, huh? What about your dorky Star Wars glasses?”

Okay, ouch. This game is not funny anymore. Totally bypassed Humor and went straight to Dire territory.

Han may have shot first, but Steve Harrington is aiming where it hurts. Cutting him deep (deeper than that very unlucky tauntaun…).

“These are collectibles, Steven. Collectibles!” Eddie exaggerates every syllable, first-grade teacher style. “I spent two years tracking down the complete Empire Strikes Back set. Still missing three from Return of the Jedi, but whatever. Progress is progress.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, these are valuable.” 

“Like, worth a lot of money?”

“No. You know what I mean…” Eddie stands. He carefully grabs the glass from Steve and holds it up to the sun. 

All the designs are just as vibrant as the day he found them. Him and Wayne had searched almost a dozen Burger Kings before he found this design - the scene on Endor. Eddie will never forget that day. 

“The memories.” He finally answers. “These are sentimental and shit.”

Steve hums, nodding. “They mean something to you.”

“Precisely.”

“Noted.” He takes the cup back inside. There’s silence for another minute before Steve lurks around the door, saying: 

“Then I guess we’ll have to sell one of your guitars instead.”

Oh shit.

Another direct hit to Eddie’s blackened heart. 

“You little fucker!” He chases Steve all around the kitchen and into their bedroom. Wrestles him down on their saggy bed, instantly dirtying up again.

They end up with a decent amount of items to sell that Saturday morning. Duplicate records and cassettes, a few kitchen gadgets from Steve’s grandma, and some trinkets that Robin kindly donated. A hodgepodge of treasures, that’s what Steve keeps saying.

He’s so proud of their three tables of junk. Hodgepodge treasures, whatever. Just keeps rearranging things and straightening them out. Concentrating so hard that his eyebrows crease together. Adorably focused. Eddie loves when he gets like this. If they weren’t in a conservative small town in broad daylight, he’d kiss Steve’s twisted-up lips, make him relax a little.

“I…” Eddie starts, quickly tripping on his own tongue. Stumbles over that dumb fucking word. Four letters should not hold the power of an entire emotion, goddamnit. 

He scoots out of his lawn chair, stretching upward. “I think I’ll go pester the lemonade stand across the street. Haggle the price down to a penny or something.”

Steve huffs out a laugh. “You get more bizarre every day, Munson.”

“So does the economy, Harrington.”

The lemonade stand is an immediate mistake. A little girl peers up at Eddie, eyes starting to swell with tears. Maybe the clouds are casting a big, scary shadow over him, making him look twice as evil.

Or maybe he severely underestimated how badass his look really is, who fucking knows.

He dives right into his haggling-monologue, when the girl points to his latest Iron Maiden patch on his vest. Asks in the thinnest voice who the ‘skeleton man’ is. 

And look, Eddie doesn’t mess around when it comes to educating this fine nation’s youth. So he answers honestly:

“Eddie the Head. A vessel for soul-sucking metal.”

The answer is probably what makes her run. But it’s definitely the voice that opens up the floodgates.

Anyways, he’s not just gonna let all this freshly-squeezed goodness go to waste. That would be a shame. A travesty, even.

So he helps himself to two full cups of lemonade. Makes a quick escape before the kid’s parents bring pitchforks.

Eddie sneaks up behind Steve, whispers nervously in his ear. “Well… there’s good news and there’s bad news.” 

“What did you do?” Steve doesn’t miss a beat. 

“I got the lemonade for free.” He hops up on the table, waves the proof around with a big, cheesy grin. Still no reaction from Steve, so what the hell? Might as well get all the information out there. 

“Bad news is, I made the pigtailed kid cry.”

“Dude!”

“It’s not my fault!” Eddie is suddenly very defensive. “She asked who this ‘skeleton man’ on my vest is and I couldn’t lie.”

“You lie about shit all the time.”

“Not about history, Steve! Get your head out of your perfectly-shaped ass.”

Steve puts his hand over Eddie’s mouth, gesturing to the nearby shoppers. Not that Eddie is overly concerned about what the elderly couple can hear from this distance. And he assumes that the suspender-wearing dude admiring the Barry Manilo record, would probably agree on his Ass Opinions.

However, Steve is shrinking further into his chair from Eddie’s commentary. Grunting something unintelligible but mostly likely explicit. 

“Here.” Eddie determines that the safest solution is to back down. Ease off until Steve’s complexion returns to normal colors. “You can have the lemonade that isn’t diluted with the tears of a child.”

Steve laughs into the cup and takes a long swig. Chases it with an exaggerated ‘aaah’ like all of those airbrushed models do in the commercials. 

Eddie is just so damn crazy about this guy. Would drink a thousand tear-soaked beverages for Steve if it meant getting to experience every day just like this. With a smile like that.

“How is it?” Steve asks. 

“Tastes like citrus and fear.” Eddie responds proudly with a wink.

There’s a pause before they both erupt into laughter. Steve slapping Eddie’s knee rather than his own. Eddie snorting like a sitcom dweeb. He’s laughing so hard that he almost misses Steve uttering the most incredible sentence:

“God, I love you.”

Says it just like that. Clear as water. Easier than oxygen. Like he has told Eddie that very phrase a thousand times before.

And Eddie… Eddie can’t locate a single word in his brain. His access to language is padlocked after hearing that. Experiencing that. 

All he can do is move. Move away from the table. Move behind the clothing rack full of used jackets. Move his arms outward, pulling Steve along with him.

He kisses Steve before he does something stupid like scream or flail around. If he’s going to open his big mouth, it’s going to be against Steve’s lips. Licking the drops of lemon clean off his mouth. Pushing his linen-soft hair back and holding it between his fingers.

They’re obscured by clothes and scarves, but it’s risky. Too risky to linger into a deeper kiss like Eddie craves to do. So he lets go of this moment and ducks into the house to catch his breath.

The rest of the day goes by at hyper speed, too fast to notice details. Not that anything could possibly top hearing Steve say what he said. It’s tattooed deep into everything Eddie hears, permanently inked in his mind. 

Once they head back inside, Steve flicks through the wad of cash, counting their profit. It’s not much, merely pocket change - but certainly more than either of them expected. Eddie chalks up the surprising amount to Steve's charm and short-shorts. The yummiest eye-candy of the whole damn neighborhood.

“We should save up for a trip.” Steve suggests.

Eddie raises his brows. “A trip?”

“A vacation. You know, get away from this shithole town for a weekend.” The more he talks, the more Steve’s face glows. Fucking shines with daydreams. “A change of scenery might be nice.”

Eddie holds back the urge to remind Steve that he’s the best scenery in the solar system. He already gushes too much, too often. It’s bound to scare Steve off at some point.

So he simply kisses Steve’s shoulder instead, agreeing with a soft hum. 

He starts to fall asleep while listening to Steve name all the places they should travel to. The last one he remembers is Boston.

“Boston would be fucking awesome, right?”

Eddie nods. Drifts off.

Thinks that anywhere with Steve Harrington would be fucking awesome.

Eddie heads up north for a couple of weeks to help Wayne move into his new place. Since Hawkins was previously sliced apart like pizza, Wayne wisely decided to retire early. Used his government hush-money in the most predictable way he could.

“All I need, son, is an empty mind and lake full of fish.” And that’s exactly what he gets. A one-story house near the top of Lake Michigan. Has one hell of a view too.

They head out to the private dock to chat and fish. Except Eddie isn’t too keen on jabbing sharp metal into a water-dweller’s mouth, so he keeps Wayne company on the dock. Lends an ear for all of his stories.

“Shame that Steve couldn’t make it.” Wayne waits to bring him up till they start packing up for the evening.

“Yeah. It is.” Eddie agrees. Misses him already. “Next time though.”

During his last weekend with Wayne, a package arrives on the front porch. It’s addressed to Eddie, which is strange. The only people that know he’s here are his boyfriend, his bandmates, and his boss. More than likely, Steve probably told their crew of demon-destroyers too, but still…

Why would anyone bother to send him a package if he’s driving back home in three days? Doesn’t add up.

He cuts into the cardboard, practically ruins the box. Inside, there’s an absurd amount of tissue paper. It’s stuffed in every corner, overflowing at the top, just a sea of noisy paper.

“Whatcha got there?” Wayne peers over his shoulder.

“Not sure yet.” Eddie sifts through the noise. Digging around more carefully now because he takes notice of the ‘Fragile’ labels on every side of the box.

He pulls out one of the overly-wrapped items, begins removing it from the tissue paper. After twirling through a few layers, he realizes exactly what it is. 

Glass. Colorful designs. Fits in the palm of his hand.

The Star Wars cups. The last three Star Wars cups that had been missing from Eddie’s collection. 

“No fucking way.”

“Watch it.” Wayne warns.

“It’s a warranted response, I promise.” Eddie hands the pristine Darth Vader glass over to Wayne.  “Look!”

Wayne examines it for a while before letting out a long whistle. “Well I’ll be damned. Haven’t you been looking for these since-”

“1983.” Eddie answers. He gently picks up each glass, thumbs over the artwork to feel the tiny ridges of paint. 

They’re in perfect condition too, more than perfect. No chips, no blemishes, no smudgy fingerprints (except for Eddie’s now). He has to place them back into the box because his hands are shaking with excitement. Smooths his palms against his jeans, head shaking in disbelief.

“That romantic asshole.” Eddie grumbles. “Couldn’t just wait to give me these once I get back home.”

Wayne cuts him a vicious side-eye, one that makes Eddie’s spine shiver. He's received this look many times throughout his childhood, even more in his teenage years. It’s Wayne’s signature stare before he calls Eddie out on his bullshit.

Apparently, it still has the same effect on him too. Works like witchcraft.

Wayne looks over the gifts, then back up at Eddie. His edge melts away, turns into something softer. Kinder.

“You know… some things can’t wait, son.”

With that, the tension in Eddie’s spine unravels. His chest inflates, warming up a few extra degrees. His whole body knows exactly what he needs to do - the thing that can’t wait another second.

The phone only rings through one time.

“This is Steve.” That voice. Hits like a homemade remedy.

“Hey, it’s Eddie.” His nails are tapping next to the phone speaker, rapid and impatient. “Listen, I just got your package and-”

“Oh, god.” Steve sounds pained all of a sudden. “Was it too much? Is it gonna be too difficult to transport back home? I know it would’ve just been easier to wait, except-”

“I love you.”

There it is. The words that can’t wait. The phrase that demands power.

“You… what?”

“I love you. Just, so much.” Eddie feels lighter, weight lifting from his lungs each time he says it. “And I couldn’t wait another second to tell you. So, yeah. Really, really in love with you, Steve.”

All Eddie can hear is Steve’s breath. Just as rapid as his nails tapping.

“Wow… um.” Steve clears his throat, but the sound comes out small. Strained.  “Do you mind if I call you right back?”

Not the response Eddie was expecting. “Oh. Uh.”

“Just - hold on a sec.”

And the line clicks dead.

After the third hour of organizing pans in the kitchen, the only room close enough to launch himself at the phone if it were to ring, Eddie accepts defeat. Retreats to the guest bedroom, contemplating what the fuck went wrong.

He groans into the bedspread, claws at his hair till it’s a fucking jungle. Frizzed out beyond repair, just like his nerves.

“That’s enough moping.” Wayne knocks at the door, creaking it open. “We’re going down to the lake.”

There’s no point in arguing with him. The man is the human embodiment of Stubborn - more so than Eddie, which speaks volumes.

Besides, moping in a different location won’t make him any less pathetic.

Wayne is a master in the art of distraction. Doesn’t waste any time before telling Eddie all about the local gossip he overhears downtown. He quickly transitions into asking Eddie questions about his job. Continues this pattern till the sun falls into the horizon. Not allowing Eddie’s mind the chance to jump to conclusions until they get back to the house. To the phone. 

The phone that’s still not ringing.

Wayne nudges Eddie’s arm. “Wanna give him a call?”

Yes. Desperately yes. 

“Maybe. Gonna go change first.”

Eddie opens the door to the guest bedroom, and his lungs slingshot out of his chest.

Steve is there. Sitting on the bed. Looking at him with that knockout smile and slightly tired eyes.

“Hi.” He sits up a little straighter. Gives Eddie the tiniest wave. 

“You’re… you-”

“Caught the first flight out here.” Steve cuts him off. “Had to.”

“How?”

“The vacation cash jar.”

No no no. 

Eddie’s throat feels swollen with that realization. Knows just how fucking much that potential trip to Boston meant to Steve. 

“But-”

“Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not, I’m not.” Eddie spits out. Needs to swallow this barrier of emotion in his throat so he can form an actual sentence, for christ’s sake. “Fuck. You just… have no idea how much I love you.”

Steve perks up even straighter, seems fully awake now. His smile creeps up to one side of his face, outright mischievous. He tilts his head to the side and holds an arm out, reaching for Eddie.

“Get over here and show me then.”

In one fluid motion, Eddie lands on the bed, draped in Steve’s arms. They kiss and cling to each other as if they might float off somewhere. It’s all too good, too delicious. Just can’t get enough of how Steve tastes, needs to savor it after not having him around for ten days. 

Being under the covers, kissing wildly, is becoming dangerous. And if Wayne weren’t in the room directly across from them, Eddie would have Steve in unspeakable positions by now. Steve tugs multiple times at the zipper on Eddie’s jeans. Causes physical damage to Eddie’s horny soul to pull Steve's hand away.

They stay like this instead. Leisure, molasses kisses. Knotted fingers and tangled legs. Closer than skin.

Steve lifts up onto his elbow, swipes Eddie’s bangs off of his forehead to make room for another place to kiss. “Can’t believe it took a few dorky cups to make you realize you were in love with me,” he says, lips still smushed in that spot before backing away.

Eddie flips onto his back with a heavy sigh. No way he can look at Steve’s face while admitting this outloud. “I’ve loved you since the day you fed me a curly fry that you had twisted around your pinky.”

“That was the moment?”

“That was the moment.”

He can hear the smile in Steve’s voice. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Never gonna dodge that ‘freak’ reputation, am I?”

“Not a chance.”

The sky is dusted with stars that night. Not the kind of night sky they ever get to see in Hawkins. Steve marvels at them, mentions that he’s never seen so many at once, not even through a window.

“We could go outside?” Eddie offers. “See even more, if you want.”

“Fuck that.” Steve burrows his nose into Eddie’s neck. “Too comfy.”

Eddie agrees with a laugh. “It’s a good bed, isn’t it?”

“Ours is better.”

It’s not, it’s really not. Their bed is rotting, the oldest relic of their home.

But it bends with them, forms to their bodies perfectly.

And since this bed has yet to learn their language, Eddie takes the lead.

“You’re right.” He curls himself around Steve. Leans in closer and Steve follows. “Ours is definitely better.”

Even miles away from home, they somehow always manage to meet in the middle.

[magneto-was-fucking-right]

The Ghost Next Door - Chapter 4

Prompt: After suffering an almost lethal injury in combat, Simon "Ghost" Riley expected a dull, and uneventful leave back at his shitty apartment. His new next-door neighbor ruins his plans. Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader (named Riley Thomas for plot purposes)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 5

Disclaimer: slow burn; neighbor!Simon; will eventually contain very graphic descriptions of smut;

Chapter summary: In which Simon fixes his neighbor's leaky faucet and thinks about fixing something else... Word Count: 1.4k

When Riley Thomas had walked into the building’s unreliable elevator that night, barely beating its closing rickety doors, she hadn’t expected to see Simon already inside, sulking. His black hoodie and faded jeans were just as soaked as her woolen jumper and bell-bottoms, her hair in significantly worse disarray as she wiped the rain drops from her forehead, cheeks rosy from the cold.

The young woman hadn’t seen him for almost two whole weeks, the scarce discreet noises stemming from the thin walls hardly giving away his routine – she left too early in the morning to notice signs of movement and usually returned well into the evening, precluding the chance to ever see him return from any possible outings. When she did hear something – anything at all – it was usually late at night, as his tossing and turning in bed caused the mattress’ springs to creak noisily. She knew at least that their rooms fell on adjacent parts of their respective homes (not that she cared), and that he most likely shared her terrible insomnia. If she hadn’t met Simon, she’d think she had no neighbor at all, a vacant apartment next door inhabited solely by a ghost. Mostly silent, eerily quiet.

“Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while.” Her cheeks reddened and she hoped she didn’t look as breathless as she sounded, the quick run from the grocery store to the building tiring her out.

He nodded once in acknowledgement, barely eyeing her, a Chinese food container secured in his large hands. Riley’s smile faltered slowly as she realized he wasn’t planning on indulging her chit-chat. As her hand moved to the elevator buttons, fingers purplish and swollen from the cold, Simon grunted:

“Already pressed’em.” She blushed once again, feeling anxious sweat form in every pore as the elevator doors shut.

“Right…Sorry.” A nervous giggle made its way out her mouth, and she took a deep breath before attempting a new social interaction.

She looked up, observing his side profile as discreetly as possible, eyes fixed on his black facemask.

“Can I ask you something?”

Simon sighed before replying.

“No.”

“Why do you always wear a mask? Got covid or something?” She deliberately ignored his moody reply.

“Would you stay away from me if I did?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged, and the man forced a sickly cough so dramatic she couldn’t help but laugh.

As they reached their floor, Simon patiently waited for the young woman to exit the lift first, trailing behind her smaller frame like a massive shadow.

“I love that place” She pointed at his food from the Chinese restaurant across the street, the delicious smell from its contents having filled the elevator, and now wafting down the hall. “Funny…Never took you for a spring rolls guy.”

Simon rolled his eyes “I usually go for chicken fried rice.”

“That’s my favorite!” Riley smiled excitedly.

“Great.” He replied dismissively as he fished for his keys.

“How’s your leg?” she asked, and Simon halted at her soft look of genuine concern, his keys dangling between his thick fingers.

“Quite decent.” He conceded, eyeing his own thigh. He didn’t limp nearly as much, and he had been as cautious as possible with the sutures she had skillfully provided.

“Great, and I’m sorry if it’s been too noisy lately, I’ve been cleaning up the place and I’m still finding permanent homes for most of my rescues.” Riley grimaced slightly, aware of how inconvenient her presence was as a neighbor.

He shrugged, remaining silent as she kept talking.

“Do you happen to know anyone interested in the German shepherd pup?” She asked with pleading eyes “I love Rex, but he’s no dog for a crammed apartment with other pets.”

She observed him as he seemed momentarily lost in thought, his pensive gaze zoning out before returning to hers.

“I do, actually.” Simon shifted his weight “I’ll let you know.”

“Perfect...I’ll be waiting.” Riley smiled brightly at the prospect as she unlocked her door.

She was just about to bid him a good night when he blurted out:

“I didn’t thank you.” He mumbled awkwardly. They stared at each other for a few uncomfortable seconds. “For the stitches. An’ the groceries.”

A slow, mischievous grin crept up her cheeks, two characteristic dimples dotting them as she replied.

“Day off tomorrow. I’ll be waiting for you to come fix my faucet.”

“But-”

“And I love your new rug, by the way!” She taunted as she quickly scurried inside, leaving him baffled on his doorstep.

He huffed as he looked down at the pink rug she had gotten him – the one he had reluctantly placed outside his flat, those three annoying words right under his muddy boots.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell.”

***

“Hold the light still.” A moody grunt.

“I’m trying!” A whimper of despair.

Simon Riley found himself lying on his aching back under his neighbors’ kitchen sink, firm hands holding a rusty wrench that stained his calloused fingers.

He could easily bear the straining of his muscles on the awkward position, as well as Riley’s aptitude to point her phone’s flash to anything but where he actually needed it, if it wasn’t for the dog constantly biting on his boot, and a large, old cat trying to sleep on top of him.

“I’m sorry about Milo.” She frowned as she tried to push her feline companion away. “He’s old and tired.”

“Me and you both, mate” She tried to suppress a giggle at his comment.

“Can I ask you something?”

Simon grunted “Does it matter if I say no?”

“No. I’ll still ask, but your consent would be greatly appreciated.”

“Go on then.”

“What’s your rank?” He couldn’t see her face from where she kneeled beside him, but he rolled his eyes as he pictured her curious expression.

“Non’ of your business, kid.” He huffed as he tightened the pipe.

“Oh, c’mon…Why are you so grumpy today? Grumpier than usual, I mean.” Simon held her wrist firmly from under the sink, startling her. He felt her body stiffen under his touch, tense silence filling the room.

Slowly, softly, he pulled her wrist to the right position, so she finally held the light properly, and if his thumb had merely grazed her soft skin as it parted his, then it was purely accidental. Surely.

Simon felt awkward as he recalled the way her eyes had momentarily lingered on a glimpse of his abdomen when he had first laid on the floor, his shirt riding up as he lifted his arms to work, rolled up sleeves revealing numerous tattoos. A part of him – a part he longed to bury and dissociate from - tortuously replayed the glint in her innocent, curious eyes, the way her lips had slightly parted, and her cheeks and neck heated involuntarily.

As he finished the task, sliding from under the sink and sitting up against the cupboard, Simon avoided her gaze as he readjusted his black facemask.

“Lieutenant.” He conceded, killing the silence between the two.

She tried not to look too pleased about having her way, pocketing her phone and petting Rex distractedly as she considered the implications.

“Regular army?”

“SAS.”

“Wow…A seasoned soldier then.”

“A bit.” Simon groaned as he stood up, his joints cracking painfully.

“That’s the sound of victory right there.” She taunted and he shot her a glare.

“Jus’ turn the bloody thing on.”

He rolled his eyes as she stood upright, saluting him.

“Sir, yes sir!”

 “I’m never tellin’ you anythin’ ever again.”

“Copy that, Lieutenant.” Riley giggled as she turned on the faucet. “Success!” She yelled excitedly as there were no more leaks.

Simon nodded in approval, satisfied with his work.

“I guess you’re good at laying pipe.” The young woman joked, winking playfully.

“Shut up, kid.” He turned around, heading slowly for her door so she wouldn’t notice his flushed ears. “Bugger off with your yank expressions.”

Despite being more cluttered, her tiny flat seemed much cozier than his, and he made sure to avoid stepping on her clean carpet as Milo tried to waddle between his feet.

“Leaving so soon?” She seemed disappointed by his quick retreat, but he didn’t dare face her soft gaze again.

Simon stopped by the doorway and stared at Riley’s baby picture on the thrifted entrance table. She was chunky and missing half her teeth, but the same dimpled smile brightened up the dull background. Right beside it stood a picture of her father, his medals humbly kept in a small glass display.

“I can’t stay.”

“Not even for a cup of tea?” He could almost feel how hard she struggled to blurt out the invitation, her tone laced with shyness.

“Maybe next time, love.”

A/N: I'm back! I'm so sorry I took forever to post another part, holidays were crazy! I hope you guys are enjoying it and feel free to drop any feedback or ask to be added to the tag list :) Thank you guys for reading <3

TAG LIST

@xaestheticalien @lillysfrogsandbogs

[angel-of-the-moons]

so so sorry to invade your inbox again but I have another new khonshu thot to share with you🤭

imagine that he starts to grasp the back of your neck randomly, especially while you’re out moon knighting and doing surveillance or smth

his hands are big enough that they just about envelope your entire neck but I digress

and you never question it, thinking it’s just his usual possessiveness at play or maybe wanting to remind you he’s there (or vice versa)—or, you think outlandishly, maybe he likes to feel your heartbeat under his fingertips (which always quickens when he does this, much to your chagrin)

you don’t really get it. not until he bends you over the end of your bed, anyway, pushing his knee between your thighs and wedging your ass up against his hips while he grabs you by the nape of the neck and presses your face into the mattress.

after that, there’s the added stimulus of being keenly reminded each time of just how much he likes to breathe for you—controlling just how much air is able to enter your lungs, enhancing every sensation with the heady dizziness that accompanies it, intensifying the inevitable pleasure that he draws from you as he plays your body like the instrument he’s long since memorized

anyways yeah khonshu with a breath play kink and a particular penchant for how pretty he thinks your neck is—especially with his hand wrapped around it like a necklace👀

BACK AGAIN FEEDING MY STARVING BRAINWORM I SEE

Are you trying to kill me? Because

You just know the old man also wants people to know how well he's rearranging your guts, too. Wants them to know that you're his. You're in an apartment with shitty walls, or a cheap motel, like--

NSFW ASF BELOW THE CUT, MINORS DNI

Khonshu x Fem!MK!Reader blurb

Your back arches off the mattress, the springs squeaking in protest as your body's weight is forced down by the massive hand pushing your head down into the blankets; thick fingers wrapped snugly around the back of your neck, the heavy beat of your pulse echoing through his fingertips.

Your air had been all but cut off, only coming back to you fully in short, harsh gasps punctuated by every hard thrust of his hips into yours, soft linen grazing your sweaty skin.

The repeated cut-off of oxygen in time with every throb in your womb had your vision going starry with every roll of his hips against yours.

You bite so hard into your blankets you thought your teeth tore holes into them, by now.

The sound of his cock slipping in and out of you effortlessly was deafening in your ears, the sinful slap of flesh just barely beneath that, making you choke out a broken moan.

"Now, now..." His voice says, just barely managing to keep the tone of pleasure out of his words as his fingers eased the pressure from your neck, letting blissful oxygen flood back into your lungs, your spotty vision returning.

"That's better, isn't it?" He crooned.

"Y-you..." You groaned, biting your lip when one of the thumping veins in his shaft grazed deliciously against the one perfect spot inside of you.

"Do not be quiet now, little dove." Khonshu hissed, thrusting into you so sharply you couldn't help but let out a loud yelp.

You could just barely hear your neighbor's tv droning through the shitty drywall.

"Let them hear you." He sighed blissfully, pulling back almost entirely, just leaving the tip of him resting inside of you long enough to make you ache for him to fill you once more.

"I control this body." He gave your throat another squeeze, making your air wheeze from your throat pitifully and holding it before he released you again, "You do as I command."

Khonshu then snapped his hips back against you, filing that empty void in your depths once again, watching with tainted pleasure at how you buried your face into your blankets to muffle your sweet, ambrosial voice.

His hand went from around your neck, to fisting in your hair, yanking your head back and making you bend your spine at an almost painful angle as he roughly fucks into you again; this time your mouth was uncovered, your moan uninhibited.

"Yeesss... that's it." He growled, the weathered bone of his beak grazing your shoulder as he pulls you back to meet each of his thrusts, your fists knotting in your blanket.

You couldn't help but hiccup, another cry coming from you as his grip bruised the soft skin on your hip, your ears flaming hot with embarrassment as someone in the room next to you pounds on the wall for you to keep it down.

Khonshu chuckled darkly, keeping his tight grip on the soft locks of your hair as he continued to push each sweet sound from between your plush lips; the stinging of your scalp just adding more fuel to the proverbial fire he had ignited inside of you.

"Let them know who you belong to, pet."

[ashen-char]

together pt.2/?

ship: river (all souls) x gender neutral reader

warnings: none

summary: you and river discuss what it'd take for her to move in with you.

word count: 1400+

pt. 1 is here!

After pitching in financially for the past month, River's place does feel a lot more homey. There's things you can't change - like the sterile-looking white paint that covers every corner, or the shitty cabinets that you had tried but failed to fix.

You wasted a day trying, painstakingly replacing the hinges, but the very next day had opened the cabinets too wide that you couldn't close them again. River had laughed so pretty at your plight that the anger escaped your body, so the shitty cabinets remained.

Luckily, her apartment already had curtain rods installed so you didn't have to ask her landlord's permission to do so. Two weeks ago, you had this Top Secret (TM) plan with Jade that she would distract her mom all day at the park.

River had a tough week at work and you wanted to do something nice for her, so you thought of surprising her with curtains that could help keep the heat in. That night, River told you that Jade ratted you out pretty quickly, never one to lie to her mama.

"But you're sweet, so I let you do it," River said, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "Thank you, baby."

There's a bigger dining table now, with a chair for you so that you could stay and have meals with your girls more often. But the best change over the past month, your favourite home improvement has to be-

You stretch out your arms, glad for another good night's sleep without a wayward spring attacking your back. River groans as she's jostled, cuddling back into you. "Don't move," she hisses, "good pillows don't move."

"Alright, alright," you chuckle. Wrapping your arms back around your girlfriend, you're content to lay back and enjoy the early morning.

Now, you're fully aware that a pull-out sofa bed is in no way as good as a regular bed. The mattress is thin, and the springs make a lot of noise when you two are trying to have fun without waking Jade up from the other room. But after spending so long sleeping on a sofa River had carried in from the side of the road, you've learned to take your wins when you can.

As much as you've been enjoying improving River's place so she and Jade can have a better home... you miss your bed. River has been to your place a few times, usually to mess around after a date, but could never sleep over. Jade couldn't be left alone at home and River didn't like leaving her with a friend overnight. So besides a quick tumble or a nap, your queen-sized back at home wasn't seeing much use.

"Have you ever thought about moving in with me?" you can't help but ask.

You've wondered it once or twice. You get why it's not that simple, of course. You know this place holds a lot of memories for River, both good and bad. She's friends with her neighbours, and the Oasis is a pretty tight-knit community. Jade's school and River's work is walking distance, which is amazing since the young mom doesn't have a car. Not to mention that she couldn't afford to break her lease. You know all that. You just wonder if she's taking this 'together' thing like you are, wonder why she's never asked.

River pauses before replying. "I have thought about it," she admits. "But I dunno."

River tells you that she does like your place, though she never has the luxury to stay over. She liked watching movies on your bigger TV. She liked sitting at your kitchen island as you cooked for her. She liked the slight mess that you never worried about cleaning because you would go to her place right after.

You remember how River would slip from bed, only a thin sheet covering her, picking up the trinkets you had strewn about, teasing you that they're "so you". At that, River frowns. "You don't really have anything here, huh?" she asks.

You shrug. What else did you need but her? Just a change of clothes, a toothbrush. A few times you had left your keys and phone, but that was by accident.

"I guess not. I don't really need my things when I'm here," you say.

Being with River or taking care of Jade together didn't leave much time for wishing you had your console. And besides, you both knew there wasn't room for your things in this tiny apartment.

A bit of silence falls over you two. River holds you tighter.

"When I said I wanted this place to feel more like home, I meant your home too," she tells you, a whisper against your collarbone. "I'm sorry that there's not much space for you."

River sounds guilty. You hate that. She's already been trying so hard to include you, with adding chairs to her table, with letting you help with Jade. You know it hasn't been easy. She's been independent for so long, and proud of it for a reason. Even letting you pitch in financially was a big show of trust.

"It's fine. Promise," you tell her.

You lean down to press a kiss to River's forehead. It's one of those cutesy bits of affection that she swears she hates, that she's too tough for, but you know she loves. So you do it often, kissing around her face now. She laughs and tries to push you away, "it's not! You're being too nice to me again!"

A final kiss, to her chin now. River looks up at you with a vulnerability you know that no one else gets to see. To Jade, she had to be the protective yet fun-loving mama bear, someone to always look up to, someone Jade could depend on. To her friends, River was outgoing, always cracking quick-witted (and often dirty) jokes. Only you got to see her big brown eyes like this.

Afraid.

"I like when you're around," she tells you softly. "Things are easier. Jade's happier." River tilts her head, leaning on your chest as she melts against your frame. "I'm happier."

Affection blooms in your chest. "I know." And you think you know what she's trying to say. River wants you around even more. Wants to take that next step.

She's silent for a bit, and you two just lay there. Her hair falls into her face, and you push the strands back behind her ear. "You'd have to turn your spare room into Jade's room."

It's like she's trying to talk you out of it. Too bad. You'd do anything for that kid. "I know." 

"She's got a shit ton of toys. And she makes a lot of mess. You'll have to move your desk. And your bookcase."

"Done and done."

River was afraid of depending on you. Even if she knew you wouldn't, the threat of you suddenly being gone and going right back to nothing was terrifying. But more than that, she was afraid of this being it. And if this was the logical next step for the both of you - the way you'll finally finally be making your home together then that's just what she'll do.

"And I ain't a freeloader," River says. "I'll pay rent. Not the full rent but like, half or a third or something like that, got it?"

You can't help the smile playing at your lips. Even when she's talking about moving in with you, River's adamant about not taking any handouts. "I wouldn't expect anything else," you say.

River exhales. You relax as best as you can, supporting the young mom as she turns in your arms. "When the lease is up, we can talk about it some more."

She's adorable. She hates being called that, thinks that people are looking down at her when they say it, so you stop yourself from saying it out loud. The thought of waking up next to River in a bed you share sounds like a dream. Jade would get her own room for the first time. You wouldn't have to leave first thing in the morning to get dressed - you could just lay there, enjoying the feel of River beside you.

This apartment has been amazing. The curtains, the chairs, the new sofa-bed, it's made everything feel more homey. But it's now when you realise that home is being with her. Home isn't a place, but more about how badly you want to be together. To make it together.

Mindlessly, River traces shapes against your chest and you let yourself fall asleep again in her cozy embrace.

[shion-yu]

Day 1: "I'm not hungover, I'm just sick."

@sicktember 2024 here we go! 1,254 words. CW emeto, friends with benefits, depression. I'm so excited to share these stories with you guys. They'll feature a mix of my OCs, long and short. This one features Phoenix, Cliff's law school roommate/shitty friend with benefits. A particularly angsty start to the month, but I promise Day 2 is way happier.

Spring break was a time for many of the students at NYU Law to get belligerently drunk. This was certainly true for Phoenix, Cliff's roommate. It was early Monday when Phoenix came home for the first time since Friday night stinking of stale clothes, alcohol and smoke. Cliff could smell him as soon as he barged into their shared bathroom without knocking, the odor sending him back over the toilet to gag where he'd already been vomiting for most of the night. Phoenix nearly stepped on him and Cliff stuck an arm out to stop him from doing so.

"Woah!" Phoenix exclaimed in surprise, clearly not expecting to find Cliff on the bathroom floor. "The hell are you doing down there, Cliffy?"

Cliff lifted his head from the toilet bowl to look at him in annoyance. His eyes were red and swollen, his cheeks streaked with dried tears. "What's it look like?" He rasped, wincing as speaking felt like sandpaper against his throat after a night of vomiting. "And I told you to stop calling me that."

Naturally, Phoenix ignored the request. He always would, and Cliff knew it. Even if he explained to Phoenix the reason he didn't want to be called that - because it was the name he had first called him - Phoenix wouldn't have cared. "I didn't think you wanted to go out this weekend,” Phoenix said. His voice sounded too cheerful for 3 AM on a Monday.

"I didn't go out," Cliff said, weakly hoisting himself to his feet. His legs shook with the effort and he grabbed onto the sink to keep from falling.

"Still hungover from Saturday, then? You should've come with me to Rita's," Phoenix said, grinning. "It was a great night."

Cliff scowled and pushed past Phoenix at the door. He would rather gag into the trashcan in his bedroom then put up with this. "I'm not hungover, I'm just sick," Cliff growled before losing his balance. He would have cracked his head on the doorframe if Phoenix hadn't caught him, a strong and muscular arm around Cliff’s too-thin waist.

"Woah, steady now," Phoenix said, his voice finally growing a touch concerned. "You're sick again? Shit, you're hot as fuck Cliffy. And I don't mean in a sexy way."

"Thanks, I knew what you meant," Cliff snapped, stumbling backwards to lean on the wall instead of continuing to rely on Phoenix’s support. "Leave me alone. I'll sleep it off." 

Phoenix crossed his arms indignantly. "What, you don't want me to take care of you? Fine. Not like I wanted to."

Cliff groaned. "That's not what I - ugh," Cliff stumbled again, breathing heavily. He was so goddamn dizzy. He was probably dehydrated; he hadn't been able to keep anything down since Saturday night. 

He felt Phoenix's cold hands grasp his face on either side. "Alright, don't fall over. Let's get you to bed. You're lucky I'm so nice," Phoenix said. 

Nice. Right. Nice was the last thing Cliff would use to describe his roommate. Nevertheless, he was at the mercy of Phoenix and let the taller man lead him to bed. "Phoenix, wait-" Cliff muttered as Phoenix moved all too quickly, but he was ignored and tossed onto the mattress anyways. The sharp movement made Cliff’s vertigo peak. The only reason he didn't vomit on his duvet was the complete lack of anything left in his stomach.

"Alright, what else do you need?" Phoenix asked. "Want your oxy? I could use one too, my head's killing me."

"No," Cliff said, knowing Phoenix was going to help himself to the narcotics anyways. It seemed to be Phoenix's favorite way to sleep off a weekend long bender, and while Phoenix had plenty of funds for recreational drugs there was a marked lack of risk when he simply took Cliff's. Cliff had an inkling that it was one of the only reasons Phoenix kept him around. That and perhaps because Cliff never tried to give Phoenix any reason to do better. He wasn’t Phoenix’s boyfriend, or even his friend. He was just a roommate, who sometimes was convenient for Phoenix to let off some steam with when Cliff let him. When Phoenix had his way with him, Cliff would pretend it was someone else. That fantasy was always short lived, because Phoenix was never gentle, unlike the person Cliff really ached to be with. 

Phoenix went to the kitchen and came back with a cold bottle of water. "Trade," he said, nabbing one of Cliff's pills with a little grin that made Cliff hate him. "Sleep tight, Cliffy," Phoenix said, then left Cliff's room.

Cliff slowly changed into clean pajamas, the ones he'd been wearing dirty from hours of sweating and vomiting through a night on the bathroom floor. Even changing clothes wasn't an easy task anymore, not since his diagnosis with sarcoidosis last year. He felt so sick - practically every day now. He dragged himself through classes at law school, barely keeping up his attendance enough to pass. His grades were terrible, nothing like his near-perfect LSAT score would have predicted. Every day he felt like a disappointment to himself, to his parents, and to...

He couldn't think about it anymore lest he start crying. And once he started, it would be too hard to stop: that he knew from experience. His empty stomach cramped painfully and Cliff groaned, curling in on himself. Ever since his stomach ulcer - and the breakup - he hadn't really been okay. Whether that had more to do with the stomach ulcer itself or the situation surrounding it, Cliff wasn't sure. He'd been diagnosed with sarcoidosis a few months after it all went down, but in a way very little had changed even with medications. He was still sick, nauseous and miserable all the time - he just had a name for it now. A name and a million pills he had to take daily to apparently keep him alive. He thought about simply getting rid of all of them more often than he would ever admit. 

Cliff pressed his burning face into the pillow, making long noises of discomfort with each exhale as he tried to get himself together. Minutes and hours blurred together as he lay there until he had no idea what time it was, or if it was 8AM yet and he was supposed to be in class.

Phoenix came into his bedroom at one point and gave Cliff some water that made Cliff cough and splutter. As much as Cliff hated Phoenix at times, he always showed back up in the end. Mostly when he wanted something in return, but sometimes, at moments like this, Cliff could pretend Phoenix actually cared. When Phoenix wrapped himself around Cliff, spooning him and telling Cliff he’d feel better later, Cliff would wonder if maybe there was something there after all.

“Don’t go,” Cliff heard himself whimper when Phoenix moved to leave him. The tears that sprang to his eyes were the most pathetic thing of all. “Stay.”

“I’ll check on you later,” was the response he got. Cliff knew the random burst of affection was over then, and Phoenix was gone. Cliff rolled over and cried. He missed Elliot. He missed how Elliot cared about Cliff so much that Cliff hadn’t been able to handle it. Even when Cliff was sick, or angry, or weak. He missed the words that used to make him freeze because he didn’t know how to return them. But it was too late to get that all back, now.

[magniloquent-raven]

its midnight and im sleeby but i finished this thing i started scribbling out this afternoon based on @harringroveera 's post that i couldnt get outta my brain

i think i might have angsted it up a little cuz i can't help myself but its still cute so. pls enjoy

--

Billy's not super clear on where he is right now.

There are people everywhere. Yelling. Laughing. Music plays over a big fancy sound system. There's a blurry blue light glowing through glass sliding doors that he's been staring at for a little while 'cause it's…pretty. Twinkly and stuff. 

He's too many drinks past a good buzz, that much he's sure of. His head feels. Floaty. And heavy. And if he tries to move the room starts to spin. 

Whatever he's sitting on is comfy though. Soft. Softer than his damn mattress with that broken spring that's always stabbing him in the ribs. 

He's tired. Really tired.

Feels like he hasn't slept in months.

To his left a girl starts squealing as her boyfriend grabs her around the waist, to his right a speaker vibrates against the wall, buzzing to the beat of a deep bassline. Everything sounds far away, though. White noise blending together while the edges of his vision go fuzzy and faded.

He feels his head tip, just a little, and then—

With a sharp inhale he jolts, blinks, glancing around blearily at a silent, empty room.

It's still dark out. The blue glow still shimmers at him through glass. A lamp lights the room he's in. Everything's…shapes. Colours. His brain is still mushy.

He blinks a couple more times. His eyes are dry. Wobbly. All the shapes are wobbly.

"Hey, man, party's over." A voice startles him. He tries to look around, but it fucking hurts, and moving his head is so much work. Whatever, it's a nice voice. Way nicer than the jarring silence. 

Wait, why's the party over. He doesn't want the party to be over.

He wrinkles his nose. "Nooo…" 

"...Yeessss." There's a pause. "Everyone is gone, dude."

"No." Billy rubs his eyes. The chair is still so comfy. He sinks further into it, unwilling to move. "You're here."

"It's my house. I'm allowed to stay." The voice sounds amused. There's some rustling behind Billy. Plastic crinkling. Maybe. Something being moved around. "Why are you even here, anyways?" 

Hazy memories jumble together. A flask of vodka in his pocket, slipped under itchy robes. Sitting two heads away from Steve Harrington, sneaking glances between barely concealed shots. A droning speech. Another droning speech. Neil's solemn face in a crowd, watching him walk across the stage to shake hands with…the guy. The. Whatever.  

Some girl digging her talons into his arm after he slipped away from Neil's attempts to maintain a public image by acting like he gave a shit about his son's accomplishments. Beer and cheap tequila and shitty music blurring into each other as he gets dragged around like a trophy dangling off the elbow of whichever nameless girl claimed him for the night.

"Graduated," he says, picking at a sticky spot on the thigh of his jeans. Pinching the fabric isn't doing anything but he can't stop prodding. 

"Yeah, I know, with honors. Congrats." There's a huff. A silence. "Doesn't explain why you're here though." Footsteps, sneakers on linoleum, tap tap tap, meandering around whatever room is at his back. Glass bottles getting moved around. It's sort of soothing to listen to someone move around their house without any reason to be keeping track of their movements.

Well, unless…

Billy's stomach flips, and his chest goes tight. "You're not gonna kick me out are you?" he asks, his voice small. He feels sick, saying it. Thinking about it. He doesn't want to be anywhere else. This house smells sweet under the stink of spilled beer and leftover perfume. And he likes this chair.

The movement behind him stops for a second. "...Nnno?"

He breathes. Relaxing into velvety upholstery. "'Kay." 

"You sure you don't have anywhere to be? Family waiting up? Girlfriend expecting a midnight rendezvous?" 

Billy snorts. "No one gives a shit where I am." 

Neil will care tomorrow when Billy makes him look bad by pulling up hungover and in yesterday's clothes, but that's a problem for tomorrow. He won't be waiting up for him, worrying about Billy's safety or whatever.

A glass bottle clinks against something. "What about your sister?"

"Pfff…" He snickers, and gives his head a tiny shake. The movement makes everything spinny for a second and he has to pause to swallow bile. The sour taste on his tongue feels appropriate. And gross. "I fucked up. Everything. Beat the shit outta her friend. She's prolly hoping I don' come home at all. Ever."

Another glass bottle gets set down, slower this time. Carefully. "...This friend of hers…"

"Steve," Billy sighs. His eyes fall shut and he leans back into a cushioned headrest. His insides do the stupid fluttery thing they always do when he thinks about Steve. Steve and his stupid kissable face. 

"It was pretty dumb of him to pick a fight with you, huh," the voice says wryly. 

"Mnh…I guess." There's a soft snort behind him. But something prickles at Billy. Guilt, maybe. It's uncomfortable. He chews his lip as his eyes start to burn. "Nah. No. Whole thing was my fault. All my fault. S'always my fault." 

Saying it doesn't make it feel better.

"What do you mean?" There's sounds anymore. Just the voice, and Billy's heartbeat in his ears.

"It's…" Billy swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. "It's a secret."

"I'm good at keeping those."

"You can't tell him."

"...I definitely will not tell him."

Billy hums. "He's real pretty, y'know."

"So I've been told, but what—"

"No, he's…he's so pretty. Like, I can't believe it sometimes, and I just wanna. Do something about it. All the time. But it hurts. Hurts so bad, and it's not supposed to, so I had to—I had to…I just got so mad. And I had to prove I didn't wanna kiss him, but I do. 'Cause I like him so much. Too much."

The silence is back. Ringing in Billy's ears. He sniffles quietly. 

"Oh…" 

"Please don't tell him. Or anyone."

"Billy…"

"Promise."

There's a strained pause. Billy fidgets, his insides twisting into knots. 

"I promise." The voice is so gentle, and it makes Billy's eyes sting again. He blinks away tears and listens to more bottles being moved. Plastic cups hitting plastic bags. Sneakers against linoleum, and hardwood, and carpet. And after a while, "You're not gonna spend all night in the chair, are you?"

"You said—"

"I'm not kicking you out, I just meant. There's a guest bed, man," 

"Oh."

**

Sunlight hits Billy directly in the face and he rolls over, groaning. 

The motion makes his stomach lurch, but he buries his face in…pillowcase. Unfamiliar pillowcase. Smells like honeysuckle and clean air and it's softer than any bedding he's ever touched. 

His legs are tangled in sheets just as sweet-smelling and finely woven, and his guts give another heave as he realizes he's only wearing briefs. 

Did…did he fuck someone last night?

He was definitely drunk enough to do something that stupid, if the cottonmouth and pounding headache are any indication, but he doesn't fucking remember. Which would normally be a blessing, except he usually doesn't stay the goddamn night. 

Is he going to have some girl hanging all over him for the first couple weeks of summer? Until he can figure out how to ditch her without making it look like he's too eager to.

Or maybe he'll stick around for a little while, this bed is actually ridiculous. He might be able to fake his way through one shitty summer fling if it means sleeping like a goddamn king. There are like, five pillows, and it feels like he's laying on a cloud. 

He nuzzles deeper into the pillowcase. Smells nice too.

His memories of the previous day mostly stop around Tammy Whatsherface dragging him away for a graduation afterparty. Maybe he shouldn't have started drinking at noon. 

Christ, he's not even sure how he got here, or where his car is. 

Or where here is.

It's one of the Loch Nora houses, probably. Nowhere else would have sheets like this.

Eventually he drags himself, reluctantly, out of bed. And immediately tastes bile.

Which is. Bad. 

Being upright is bad. 

And he doesn't know where the nearest toilet is. Which could be extremely bad. Girls whose carpets you puke on don't invite you back to sleep in their nice guest rooms.

So, he's very slow and careful about pulling his jeans on. And he makes sure to pause when he starts to feel clammy, sitting on the floor to stop his head spinning. 

It takes him forever to get mostly dressed, jeans and an undershirt are enough. He can't find his button-up and socks require too much bending down, which his dehydrated brain does not appreciate. 

Peeking out into the nondescript hall doesn't provide any more answers about whose house this is. It's all shiny boring expensive decor and not a single person in sight.

Oh, looks like there's a bathroom at the end of the hallway though, good. 

He beelines for the sweet promise of a place to piss and rinse out his mouth, shuffling past a couple closed doors, listening for any signs of life and hearing nothing, until he shoulders his way into the bathroom and freezes in his tracks, because—

"Hey, uh. You're awake." Steve Harrington blinks at him, standing in front of a plain oval mirror, hairbrush in hand. Which he obviously hasn't used yet, because the bedhead he's sporting is kind of hilarious. It's all fluff in every direction. Billy wants to run his hands through it. 

Worse, though, is the fact that he's bare chested, wearing an unzipped hoodie and soft plaid pants, with all that fucking chest hair, and he's looking at Billy with a curious expression that isn't remotely like any way he's ever looked at Billy before and this is…all very, very strange.

So, obviously Billy's theory about what happened last night was wrong. He's not even back to square one, he has less than no idea what the fuck is happening.

"...Yes," Billy responds after a beat too long. 

Great.

Fantastic.

Very smooth.

The corner of Steve's mouth twitches. There's something soft and warm about the amusement twinkling in his eyes and it's making Billy itch. 

"I think I'm gonna puke."

Steve snorts, and drops his hairbrush on the vanity. "Right, I'll get out of your way then." He sidles past Billy, far too close, patting his shoulder as he passes. Which does not help when he's just barely keeping his shit together.

His footsteps fade down the hallway at Billy's back. And Billy doesn't move. 

What the actual fuck.

He slams the bathroom door shut behind him, and leans his forehead against it, trying to breathe slowly through his nose. 

They didn't have sex last night. There's no way. He did not fuck Steve Harrington.

He couldn't have. Steve would never…

He's not…

That's just. Not what happened. Because that would never happen. 

It kind of looks like that's what happened, but it's not. 

He sits on the floor, head in his hands. And breathes. 

It's unclear how long he stays curled up on cold tile. Long enough that his legs start to feel stiff. Nothing about last night comes back to him. He sighs.

And gets up.

And splashes some water on his face. Drinks a little from the tap. Uses some of the mouthwash he digs out from under the counter. Takes a piss.

He's still unsteady. His temples throb if he moves too quickly. But he feels a little less like roadkill.

Steve waves at him when he spots him coming down the stairs. Waggles his fingers in the air, like they're best buds and this situation isn't the most surreal thing to happen to them since the Byers' weirdly trashed living room.

Billy rubs the back of his neck. "...Hey."

"Coffee?"

"Sure."

Steve pulls out two mugs, one of his thumbs stuck through a hole in the cuff of his sleeve. There's sunlight warming the honey-coloured highlights in his hair.

Yeah, no, this is definitely more fucked up than finding Max in a random house with a busted window and shitty drawings everywhere.

He might actually have lost his mind.

"What the fuck happened last night?" He blurts, his cheeks hot, fingers jittery. He shoves his hands in his pockets, fists balled up against his thighs.

Steve glances at him out of the corner of his eye. "Ah, figures you don't remember."

"Don't remember what?"

"You were pretty out of it."

"Yeah, thanks, I know that part."

Steve snorts, grabbing more things out of cupboards. Billy's paying more attention to his hands than what's in them. "You didn't want to leave, so I let you sleep upstairs."

"...Why?"

"You didn't say, just said you didn't have anywhere else to be."

"That's not what I meant." He knows exactly why he didn't want to leave. All the many reasons why he'd rather be here than under Neil's roof. Or anywhere else. What doesn't make any fucking sense is Steve accommodating him. 

Steve's eyes flicker to his again, briefly, before he turns back to the counter. When he shrugs the nonchalance seems forced. "You're a lot nicer when you're plastered."

"I…" Billy opens his mouth. Shuts it again. 

What the fuck does that mean. 

Steve fidgets with a spoon. "You got…kind of weepy, y'know."

Oh.

Goddamnit.

His shoulders go tense, jagged edges of a shield around what's left of his dignity. "Fuck you, Harrington," he snaps. It's all he can muster when he doesn't know what the fuck he was crying about. Every possibility is worse than the last.

"Yeah, you wish," Steve mutters.

Billy freezes. 

And doesn't recover quick enough to hide it from Steve. Steve's eyebrows shoot up. "Holy shit, it's true isn't it?" He turns around fully, the mess he's made of the counter forgotten. 

Fuck.

"I—don't know what you're talking about." His stupid deer-in-the-headlights expression is mostly under control but the sudden tremble in his voice definitely fucking isn't. 

He backs away a step and then stops. Where the fuck is he going to go, he doesn't know where his car is, where his keys are, and he's fucking barefoot. Running upstairs and locking himself in Steve's bathroom seems just a little too pathetic but that doesn't mean he doesn't consider it.

Billy clenches his jaw. It makes his head pound. "What exactly did I say last night?" He grits out, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Steve eyes him. Slowly, carefully. Deliberating. He chews his bottom lip. The silence is fucking agonizing. 

"Can't tell you," he finally replies, his voice light. One corner of his mouth lifts into half a smile, and scratches his cheek. "I promised I wouldn't tell anyone."

"That's…" Billy rubs his forehead with the palm of his hand, like he's looking for the button to restart his poor, confused brain. He drops his hand, exasperated, eyebrows creeping up to his hairline. "Steve, what the fuck."

Steve cracks a full-blown grin. "I told you I'm good at keeping secrets."

"I swear to god—"

"Aw c'mon, I can't break a promise! Especially 'cause you asked so nicely. You were so polite. It was very cute."

"I…what?"

He can't have heard that right.

Or Steve's just fucking with him. That's what's going on here. Billy let something slip last night and now Steve's holding it over his head. Because why wouldn't he, honestly. He has every reason to want to mess with Billy, and now he's got the perfect leverage.

"Billy." Steve's voice is soft, suddenly. His expression gentles, and he moves to close the gap between them. And Billy…doesn't get it. He's stalled out and stuck trying to figure out how this is gonna go wrong, how it fits into whatever prank Steve is clearly pulling.

He doesn't know what his face is doing, but he's pretty sure he's being way more readable than he'd like. 

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Steve touches him. A hand on his shoulder. A hesitant, awkward pat. Testing the waters, maybe. Trying to make sure he's real, maybe.

Is any of this real? Billy's still not convinced. He can smell Steve's shampoo and see all the little flecks of colour in his eyes and his shoulder is still burning where they made contact, but…

"I'm sorry I hurt you, y'know," Steve murmurs, his gaze dropping, hovering somewhere around Billy's crossed arms. He reaches out again, fingers grazing Billy's knuckles this time. All Billy can do is blink at him, afraid to breathe. "Doesn't have to be like that."

He tugs at Billy's hand, untucking it from the crook of his elbow, unfolding Billy's arms, and Billy lets him. One hand drops to his side and the other stays cradled in Steve's grip. He's…staring at it like he's studying for a test. Billy has no idea what's so fucking interesting, or what Steve's talking about, but he's also not bothered at this point. 

His knees feel like jello. 

"You could've just kissed me."

Billy nearly collapses. Like one of those swooning chicks in shitty romance novels. Breathless and flushed and overwhelmed. Except he just stands there like a moron, staring at Steve. And Steve's mouth.

"What?" he manages not to sound too strangled. Miraculously. 

Steve smiles at him, almost sheepishly. "You still could. I wouldn't mind."

"You…wouldn't."

"Yeah, I mean, if you had morning breath still it might be a different story, but…" Steve gestures vaguely, pulling Billy's hand along with him as he shrugs. 

Billy snorts.

And hey, maybe Steve is messing with him, and this will blow up in his face, but…

Well, he just really wants to kiss him before it does.

So he leans in and presses their lips together. 

~~tag list @spreckle @growup-thatbeautiful @prettyboy-like-you @suddenlyinlove

[dalgursbate]

Snippet Sunday Thursday Friday

tagged by the exquisite @lyzelky over on my main account (@molgars)

I've got a few irons in the fire right now, so I'll post two of them.

This first one is from chapter 2 of Hymnals, Major and Minor, an Aylin/Isobel/Shadowheart post-canon fic about them dating the wrong way 'round:

The next day, Isobel is sitting on the loveseat knitting when Shadowheart approaches, plopping down gracelessly on the couch beside her. “So, when are you taking me out, darling angel mine?” “Technically, Aylin is the angel.” A sly smile plays at the corner of the other woman’s lips, though she doesn’t look up from her work.  Shadowheart hums. “Is that so? I must have been confused on account of how radiant your beauty is.” Isobel snorts and casts a sideways glance at her. “Those sorts of lines work often for you, do they?” “These days? All the time.” Shadowheart grins broadly. “Blessedly, my girlfriends don’t seem to mind my lack of taste.” “Oh, I wouldn’t say you lack taste,” Isobel muses, her gaze returning to the busy movements of her clever hands. “Personally, I think your taste is exquisite.” Despite all the time they’ve spent together, Shadowheart still finds herself flushing at the insinuation. “You didn’t answer the question,” she says. “Well-spotted.” The corner of Isobel’s mouth twitches again, and Shadowheart knows that she’s taking great joy in her coyness.  “How much free time do you have this coming tenday?” “All of my time is free time right now, dearest.” “Excellent,” her partner says, as though she didn’t already know. “Then we shall prepare to leave for our journey tomorrow.” “Journey?” Shadowheart arches an eyebrow. “Are you taking me on a honeymoon for our first date?” “Darling, don’t tell me you underestimated my propensity for grand gestures,” Isobel places a hand atop her heart in mock offense. “It would wound me so very deeply.” Shadowheart rolls her eyes affectionately. “You’re so dramatic.” “You love that about me,” Isobel says confidently, because she’s correct. “But we’re not going on a honeymoon; we’re going on a journey.” “And what does that mean, precisely?” “I suppose you’ll simply have to find out,” she responds, tone ominous.   Shadowheart just laughs fondly and wraps an arm around her, pulling her in by the waist. There is no hesitation in the way that Isobel abandons her knitting to come to her, and Shadowheart marvels at how intoxicating it is that she’s allowed to do this. That she’s allowed to kiss this revelation of a woman, softly and soundly, afforded the privilege of tracing the familiar contours of her mouth at an unhurried pace. She doubts she will ever tire of it.

I will tag @again-please @shewhowas39 @renyerokami @moonlesbianlover and @capriclonus, as well as anyone who wants to do it! and under the cut will be a QUITE EXPLICIT teaser of the next chapter of to forgive is human and failure is divine

The next day ends like this: Shadowheart face-down on a stranger’s bare mattress, her ass in the air as she’s pounded over and over again by a shapely piece of silicon. Her fingers arch like talons, scrambling for purchase on the box spring, while pitiful cries spill from her throat in some kind of obscene hymnal. A firm hand traces the knobbly, underfed length of her spine—reminiscent of how she used to run her fingers over prayer beads, so many lifetimes ago—and a low, gravelly voice coos and murmurs encouragement about how much more she can take, how much further she can be pushed. It ends with her stretched to bursting, begging for mercy, half-crazed and desperate for a release she keeps being denied. But it begins with Shadowheart waking up to her phone alarm at 10 a.m., groggy and disoriented by the dizzy-bright sunlight streaming in through her apartment’s only window. Before she can return to The Grove, before she can make herself a fool once more for a shitty gith with an attitude problem, she has to get herself through another day where she struggles to accomplish anything worthwhile. She sighs, rubbing the heels of her palms so hard into her eyes that little starbursts of red dance behind her lids. The only way out is through, she reminds herself wearily. And Gods, do I want to get out.

[swifty-fox]

repose - muse a languidly slips into muse b’s arms while muse b is lying somewhere / curtxken (:

oh my sweet boys how about summ for @bcolfanfic young vets au

cw: vague discussions of child abuse

Seven p.m. was Curt's favorite time of day in the apartment. The sun at the exact moment of its journey down the wall where it splayed across his bed in a buttery slant. It was the perfect time for napping, for smoking something a little smoother than cigarettes. And he was very much not about to have a lot of time to partake. The balcony window is open and Curt blows another curl of smoke out.

"Want me to grind some more?" Ken asks. He was bare naked, slick from a post-soccer shower and Curt enjoys the offer of his body with hazy eyes.

"Naw," Curt says, swallowing a couple times at the dry mouth, "'m done."

The sun feels good, warm and roasting and with enough years now between, safe from pulling him back into the desert. Curt closes his eyes, places the spliff back between his lips. Feels the dip in the mattress, the slippery catch of wet skin against dry. Curt lifts an arm, lets the other man tuck against his body, arms folded across his chest.

"Yeah," Ken, who was the heavier toker of the two, agrees, "You're done."

Curt cracks an eye, "Give us a kiss."

It's never just a kiss, not when Curt's skin is buzzing and Ken is wearing less than nothing and was easy as molasses every goddamn time. Ken's panting against his lips and goes as easy as anything and Curt mutters quiet I love you's between gasps. It was softer now, aged by years and a touch of reluctant therapy here and there, but still he feels that sharp urge to sink his teeth into the gentleness of Ken, shake him til he said uncle.

Afterward, Curt looks up at the ceiling counting the cracks and gusts out a sigh.

"We need to start lookin' for a bigger place."

Ken looks around, his face pulled in a tight unhappy frown. There wasn't much to look at, and too much altogether. Two men's entire lives shoved into a studio apartment. Room enough for the two of them, content as they were to live on top of each other. But not enough for a third.

"I'll miss it," Ken says.

Curt's staring at the balcony, open and swirling with the first pollen of spring. His chest is getting tight as he considers everything that was coming.

"What if I'm bad at it."

"You're great with everyone's kids."

Curt makes a noise of dismissive irritation, "That's different they ain't mine. I'm not making sure they're learning their fuckin' manners and keeping them fed."

Ken thumb strokes along his jaw.

"What if I get angry," Curt croaks, "What if I get angry and I-"

Ken shoves up, sitting fully on Curt's stomach and bracing arms on either side of his head. The delicate chains of his necklaces brush Curt's lips.

"I'll kill you."

Curt stares up at him, breath pausing.

"I," Ken says slowly, lips pressed to Curt's forehead, "Will kill you.

He closes his eyes, swallows a couple of times and when Ken kisses him he offers the other man no teeth. It's a shitty reassurance, if Curt told a therapist about it they'd probably call him ill-adjusted or some other easy word to describe a whole goddamn personality. But he didn't think for a second Ken was bluffing.

Don't fix what wasn't broken.

"Sweet as sugar, aren't you?"

"Mmm," Ken smiles.

[buff-muffin]

This is a Drabble I wrote that was originally going to be the start of an actual fic where Mike meets Charlie’s ghost and the two recognised each other and start catching up and helping each other out in their similar goals. But I haven’t had time to really write in weeks and I know after the movie any motivation for this story is burning in the pits of hell. So instead take this:

A drabble based off Micheal Afton getting ready for a work interview after being scooped. So uhh yea, CW for. Um… Grossness and mentions/ suggestions to body horror :)

It was morning. It was piss-fuck early morning. The ancient, dented alarm beside his bed blared with a static screech, almost unfamiliar with how long it had been since he had needed to listen to its shitty morning song. Already, all Mike wanted was nothing more than to curl up back in bed, back into the soothing lulls of sleep where he could simultaneously forget and remember everything terrible about life. With drowsiness weighing his arms like led, he tried to shift ever so subtly to get comfortable, though all it did was drag his mind right back to reality and awareness of his body. The first thing he noticed was his skin, he quickly became conscious of how it was sagged, almost like it was melted and stuck against the soggy old, torn mattress he still hadn’t found time to replace. It wasn’t like he could feel the bumps and spikes of old rusted springs that snapped through the fabric. Not through the tingling numbness that plagued his own dead body. So it was on his… eventually to do list. He had all the time in the world after all.

With glaring awake-ness back into his body, he could do nothing but pull his flesh off the drying liquid that stained the fabric of his mattress and wake up. With a slight stretch and a disgustingly slow peel, he pried himself free and pushed his legs over the side of the bed. Only now, sitting with his back so badly hunched he might completely collapse, did Mike even open his eyes. There was no sleep to wipe away and no light to adjust to. He was just, awake, back in the world of the living once again. It was only when his brain caught up did he look over the shitty apartment space he called home.

It was a studio apartment bathed in darkness from the closed curtains. The living conditions of this run down place was the definition of unliveable, which made it perfect for him. There was a leak of some kind of liquid in the kitchen. He didn’t really have an actual roof as little bits of asbestos would rain down if ever his upstairs neighbour stomped too hard. There was mould in about every corner. A roach infestation and probably a termite one too. But rent was dirt cheap and the old fuck daring enough to sell this piece of shit didn’t care how dead he looked, as long as he paid rent.

It was a good deal. A good deal for someone who can't die of any of the health code violations going on in this place.

Finally shutting off his alarm that only seemed to get more distorted as it screamed, Mike let the reality of the day wash over him. Right, busy… busy… With a resolution about as strong as his endo supported spine, he finally pulled himself up and away from his resting place. Heh. He was in nothing but a pair of boxers despite the November weather, not like he needed to keep much warm after all. So with slow, lugged and lazy steps, he dragged his boneless corpse over the piles of dirty and stained clothes and across to the bathroom; the only other room of the house. What were all those clothes stained with? An orangey-browny sometimes greeny liquid that would leak out from his scars if he laid down too long. Whatever it was, it was also on his bed and a bitch to wash out. So really he planned on throwing them all away eventually too. It was also on his never-to-do list.

The bathroom was no better than the rest of the house, if anything, arguably worse. The walls were caked in black mould and the floor painted with even more laundry that made little mounds to walk on. Under the sink was completely ransacked for its chemicals, the shower curtains were brittle with age and mould. The whole place smelled like mildew and the humidity was so bad fish could breathe in here. Even the appliances inside hardly worked. The water pressure in the shower was so dog-shit it was enough to make God cry. And half the time his sink water would be brown, just cause. Even the counter was covered in junk. But at least the mirror still worked besides the slight permanent fog.

Mike didn’t bother closing the door, and looked himself in the mirror. Skin was still as gross as ever. Hairless, purple and a little bit saggy, maybe that was a normal sag? He liked to think it was a normal sag. Like old peoples faces just started drooping once they hit eighteen. Because that’s definitely how it worked. The fact he was an adult now is still a weird one to come to terms with. So much time had passed. So much time he hardly remembered… he hardly remembered…Enard- Staring into the reflection his dead white pupils blinked away thoughts as he was dragged back to reality, right… busy busy. No time to think about months of his life lost to being a flesh puppet. Waking up a little more, he bared his teeth at his reflection, looking over them with a dull exhausted interest. Yellow and stained but unchanged, one would have thought he might have lost them a long time ago but nope. In fact they weren’t even rotting anymore now that he didn’t eat. Score. His tongue on the other hand… Was looking a bit worse for wear. He was no mortician, he didn’t really know how to make it stop rotting, he would just have to hope he could still talk when it fell out.

His eyes were a different story, no longer did he have his fathers diluted blue irises that made him shiver looking in his own reflection. In fact he no longer had eyes at all. Instead his eye sockets were bathed in darkness, with little white dots deep inside that worked as his pupils. Yeah besides his organs they were quick to toss out his eyeballs to make sure they could see when using him like a living animatronic suit. It was a little freaky that he could stick his fingers in his eyes and feel around the sticky and dried flesh. He didn’t like to, but it was kinda cool in a fucked up sort of way. The idea made him want to vomit. And wanting to vomit reminded him that he didn’t have organs. And THAT reminded him of shitty things, so he usually didn’t poke around unless something got stuck in there.

“Fuck. fuck fuck fuck. Interview. Ok, interview. Fuck-I gotta shower. Ok no it’s fine, I woke up early for this I’m still on time.” Trying to snap himself out of damp and depressing thoughts, he slapped his hands lightly on his hollowed cheeks and ignored the gross slapping sound that came from boneless fingers on sewn up skin. Reaching a hand past the slimy and brittle curtain he grabbed a knob and random and spun it a few times. The water dribbled and sputtered before finally coming out enough that he could actually fucking clean himself with.

It took a while believe it or not. Trying to shower without getting water in your stitches that are literally all over your body fucking sucks. Cause then he’d have to drain the water out of his empty body and if he’s unlucky have to do the stitches all over again. And the shitty patch work that covered his body spoke for itself that he can't sew for SHIT. The only upside was that he didn’t have any hair at all, he didn’t have to worry about shampoo or conditioner; just a light scratch to his skull did the job. The only things he actually needed to do was scrub off the remaining residue from his mattress that had plastered itself to his skin. Well, and wash away the smell of physical rot with nothing but a cheap body wash he bought just for today. Actually he bought some other things for this interview too.

Other things being, makeup.

Ok yeah-it sounds a little stupid, but when your skin is a beautiful shade of undead purple, and you're heading in for a work interview at a childrens’ entertainment establishment. The best you could do was just look a little living, ya know? So, once Mike was padded dry using the one clean towel he still had, he wrapped it around his waist and left the bathroom, retrieving the makeup he left out, along with the only nice outfit he bothered to keep clean. Bundling everything in his arms, he returned to the only mirror in his apartment and dumped all the supplies in the sink to get dressed first. His clothes were simple, and styled a little like a homeless man. A pair of long baggy jeans, the only pair that weren’t ripped intentionally or by a robot. A turtle neck that would do a good job of hiding some scars that decorated his freak of a neck, and a purple flannel he stole from his fathers leftover stuff. I mean was it really stealing if his mum was gonna sell ‘em anyways?

When he looked in the mirror it felt odd. He never did look right, no matter what he wore. But the fact his skin now matched his fathers obnoxious plum coloured clothes was enough to make him shiver. As uncomfortable as the flannel made him, it beats trying to thrift at three AM. The last details of his outfit was still stuffed in his pocket, a pair of mittens and an old grey beanie that had been with him through many winters. Thank fuck for the cold weather giving him and excuse to hide more of his corpse skin right?

When he was finally dressed and drowned in deodorant to mask the lingering scent of death, he turned back to the musky and foggy mirror staring down at the products still abandoned in the sink. Foundation, concealer, some weird palette thing that he spent ten bucks on, an egg sponge that was probably important, and one of those weird also kinda egg shaped brushes that seemingly every woman owned. He didn’t know jack-shit about makeup. He was a freshly twenty year old guy with a sister that went missing before she could become a teen and actually get good at this bullshit. And a mother who never had a chance to dress up. The most he was going off of was when Elizabeth would beg and cry to cake his face to look like a bootleg clown. But that was when they were both children.

Alright, makeup, he could do this. Basically like half the population wears this shit, can’t be too hard. Ok first, foundation? Or would concealer be first for him? He does need to conceal like… everything. Maybe if he layers foundation enough it will conceal all his issues? He could probably put concealer on next if needed. Using the sponge, he started smearing his face in what felt like skin colour paint. One layer made him look as if nothing changed. So he added some more, then more. And when he still looked a little bit… freaky, with a purple undertone he added concealer. And well… he didn’t look… terrible?

Well, he still looked like a clown, and his eyes were still glowing lights in pits of darkness and he was still bald as fuck. So like a horror clown from hell. But his cheeks looked less dead and he looked passable for a living human, if only just a little uncanny. His face looked as flat as a paper plate which probably didn’t help. Looking down at the palette thing he was sure he had wasted his money on, he could feel himself cringe. Not what he thought he would be using art class for, but at least it wasn’t a complete waste.

Using the brush, he shaded from jaw to cheek and along the sides of his nose. He even added little highlights just to seal the deal on the idea of being alive. He wasn’t going too over the top with this, it’s not like he was going out for a tea party or some shit. He just needed to look alive. All around, makeup took an hour and he ended with a presentable face and a new understanding of why the few girls he dated were always running late. It was satisfactory. So, deeming himself done, he washed off his hands and the sink that had been splattered in spilled concealer. Once all the shit was dry and his black towel was newly dawned with fresh skin coloured stains he finally walked out of the bathroom to the rest of his decomposing house.

Finally, he pulled on his tattered beanie and dug through the remains of his backpack. The thing was old, rotting and falling apart at the seams. A large stain still sat at the bottom from a particularly rotten apple from high school. But now it was filled with everything he would need for today. Definitely expired meds. A fake resume, that was basically fucking empty besides some good words from a volunteer place he had never actually worked at. Fake ID, for a Mr Jeremy Fitzgerald. Surprisingly, when he called the place, they didn’t have that many checks besides explaining that as long as you had a clean criminal record you would be fine to work.

A particular stain on that shiny old record of his rang in his head. There was no court problem besides other parents complaining about the trauma their children went through. But he was sixteen, and arguably had it worse at the time. So no real charges were pressed, just a note in case he became a deadbeat in the street or something. So they could tie it all back to the trauma of the biggest fuck up of his life and throw him behind bars anyways. But it’s fine, that wouldn’t matter. Jeremy Fitzgerald was a fresh out of high school teen looking for honest work between his studies. A blank slate he planned on tossing away once he got what he needed from this place.

Once he figured out what his father had planned.

With a new found resolve, and his double check done, Michael Afton pulled on his glasses and gloves and slugged his bag onto his back. He looked back to his bed and resisted the urge to collapse on it before he pushed the door open and slammed it shut behind him. Jeremy Fitzgerald had an interview for the nightshift at the new and improved Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. And he couldn’t miss this chance.

[enarei]

I just played a shitton of videogames and watched movies all week, like I haven't in a really long time. I do feel fantastic though. surprisingly good considering normally weeks where I don't do anything feel so crippling in terms of how predisposed I am to experiencing guilt when not producing anything of value.

think actually moving and not living in an environment where it was just almost impossible to not feel inappropriate over just the shittiness of everything surrounding me has been so good for me. before I was deeply conscious of even complaining about it too much because I had shelter despite being unemployed, while so many other people do not, but god. it almost blows my mind that I just survived living in that place for that long. being able to shower, wash your clothes, and sleep in a surface that is flat just makes so much difference in your life, actually. it's just impossible to perform as a normal human being in society without these three things.

I used to stink so bad, just by virtue of not having hot water, or when I did, not having a way to wash my clothes properly for an extended period of time, and it just. crippled my self esteem, because I was afraid I was obnoxious to be around, I was dirty, and I couldn't shave as often as I'd wanted, I couldn't do any sort of grooming properly because the only faucet I had was a tiny kitchen sink. like not trying to shame because I don't mind people's natural body odour, it annoys me significantly how much we have been conditioned to suppress the concept of people having a scent, but I was a disgusting person who didn't wish to be around others, for good reason. and the other thing is that I couldn't sleep. exhaustion was a chronic issue, I spent more than a year sleeping less than 6 hours a night. on a mattress that was fully collapsed in the middle on both sides, which had springs which tore through the fabric and ends sharpened to a point they would poked holes in all of my clothing. also destroyed my posture, as it was essentially a minefield.

on the one hand it makes me sad that if I ever relented and accepted to see a psychologist as my parents pressured me to a millions times during the past five years, they would've just blamed my manic personality on a million different things and probably tried to prescribe me something that wouldn't really do shit. it's just the material consequences of being fucking poor you psychos (reclaimed). it renews my hatred for psychiatry. it also renews my affection for people that put up with me during this. I was such a deeply inconsistent person to be around, like, certainly, still am in some regards, but I'd just break down sometimes. like, I'm sorry, I sucked badly at being a person you could have a conversation with, as a friend. I'm better now.