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luveline · 2 years ago

Note

hihihi! request for zombie steve au! maybe someone at the college bullies reader into thinking she’s not good enough for steve?

just gotta say that I LOVE LOVE LOVE all your works & esp this au 😩 it just does something to me

hi thank you so much for your request! I didn't make it so severe as bullying I don't think, but tw for bullying just to be safe, and suggestive! tw mentioned weight loss <3 zombie!au steve 9k words

The dinner line is long and winding. You and Steve stand elbow to elbow, the smell of refried beans and homemade tortillas near hypnotising.

"I know the tortillas are gonna taste a little weird, I just don't care," you say, the hand you’ve curled around your boyfriend's forearm squeezing enthusiastically.

"Imagine if they had cheese," he taunts.

"Don't be evil, Steve."

His laugh dissappears into the swelling sounds of a hundred conversations. It feels like high school, bodies packed into the same room like a bingo wheel, people bouncing off of one another frenetically as the night turns forward. There's a lot of happy energy in here tonight. You're contributing at least half. Not even Steve's unfortunate truths can get you down. Yeah, you miss cheese a lot, but after a full day in the pantry shift and close quarters to such gorgeous smells, you're ravenous.

Your stomach gives a rumbling groan, and Steve's pressed so close to you that he can feel it. He wraps his arm around your shoulder to kiss the top of your head.

His easy affection sates you for a while. You turn to watch the people already sitting with their meals, jealous but not too much, and find your happiness isn't grudging. You're happy to be here. You won't take this stroke of luck for granted, not again.

You and Steve get your plates, refried beans, roasted greens seasoned with a vibrant red that smells spicy and decadent. There's definitely olive oil mixed in. You thrum with pleasure but wait patiently for steve to collect his own helpings, your cutlery, and finally, your drinks.

Robin sees you coming and waves you down unnecessarily. She's sitting with a dark-haired girl called Vanessa, and another girl you're unsure of. Vanessa had been part of your rescue squad, the team of people who'd fought to bring you back to The College. You'd show her some gratitude if she deigned to look at you.

No matter how snooty you find her, Robin likes her. You try to like her too.

"Hey," you say, putting your place setting down in front of Robin to encourage Steve to her side.

He might downplay it but you know how much he loves her, and how much he'd missed her when they were separated. She's an extremely important part of his life. You wish he'd spend more time with her outside of scavenging and supply runs, but Steve is stuck to you like glue. It's awful and amazing.

"Hi, killer," Robin says.

You scrunch up your nose. "We're still using that?"

"You were impressive!" she emphasises.

Steve puts his drink down before his plate. She's quick to grab it, taking a generous swig as he grumbles and grouches.

"Do you mind?" he asks.

"I don't. Tell your girlfriend you think she was impressive!"

"She knows exactly how I feel about her."

You smile at him. You know more than enough. He's a sweetheart through and through, and though the incident Robin's referencing hadn't been one he loved, he agrees; you'd managed to cut down six zombies all by yourself when they'd split off from a herd that managed to infiltrate community defences, and Steve had thought you were a rockstar. He'd grabbed you, covered in blood and sweat, and asked you why you couldn't just stay inside, and then he'd hugged you for too long, and said later, "My girl's a fucking weapon." Like a nerd.

It's not complicated. Steve had been in danger. You'd wanted to save him, and you'd tried. Turns out he'd be the one to save you… for the hundredth time. But your efforts impressed him.

Impressed everyone, according to Robin.

"Hey, Vanessa," you say warmly.

Vanessa gives you a strange smile in return. Despite mutual friends, Vanessa hasn't warmed to you. She'd been one of the only people who'd volunteered for your rescue squad but you're starting to think that hadn't been because she liked you, exactly. She just couldn't really say no.

"Hey," she says. "How are you?"

Civil you can do easily. You and Steve had been civil for weeks.

"I'm good! Yeah, we heard there were gonna be real tortillas tonight and thought we'd get here early, but everybody had the same idea, I guess."

She laughs politely. "We did."

You wouldn't villainise Vanessa for disliking you. You barely like yourself. And, in your opinion, you'd gotten pretty damn lucky that Steve likes you as much as he does, though a small voice whispers that it'd been a grudging sort of love, like a flower squeezing its way through two panels of sidewalk. A weed that isn't supposed to be there. You worry often and in droves that Steve will come to his senses. He's gonna wake up one day, look at your sleeping face, and realise it isn't enough.

When you'd first joined The College community, you'd thought for sure that was it. Steve was gonna trample your heart once and for all. He never did, of course. The opposite — he'd doubled down. Told you he loved you for the first time, and a second time, too.

And now, miles trekked to get you back, his calf a blistering star of heat where it kisses your own beneath the table, your doubts fade away.

Vanessa doesn't have to like you. That's not the way the world works. With Steve at your side, the rejection barely stings.

You rub your shoe gently against his ankle. He looks up at you, a crazy amount of tortilla in his mouth, and he looks so silly you laugh hard and suddenly.

He covers his mouth.

"I thought you were looking somewhere else," he defends.

"Pig," Robin says, still sipping at his cup of water.

You rub his ankle again. A joke waits at the tip of your tongue, You're lucky I love you. It would feel good to say, but it's not your thing. You've never been outwardly romantic.

His cheeks pink a little under the fluorescents.

For Steve, you can be romantic.

"You're lucky I love you," you say.

There's too much emphasis on 'love', not enough on 'lucky', and the joke refuses to land. Your voice is softer than silk. It's all too sweet.

"More than lucky," Steve says, grinning at you.

You try to put your glass of water on his tray. He puts its straight back on your own.

"Robin's gonna go get me another one," he says.

"I need one for myself," she says, unhappy.

"You have two hands."

"Will you get me a refill?" Vanessa asks.

Christopher, another of Steve's fast friends, slams his tray down next to yours happily. Jonathan is right after him, and then the table's filling up with people: Jonathan's younger brother sits beside him, and the younger brother's friends follow. They're all glued together, you swear. You recognise Dustin in the throng, his chestnut brown curls crushed under a blue hat bragging the Claypole Farmer's Market, wherever that is.

"Steve's getting drinks?" Chris asks.

"For me too, please," Jonathan adds. "And Will, if you don't mind."

"I actually do," Steve says.

"And us!" Dustin says, smirking. "Thank you, oh gracious one."

Steve looks at you for a second, slack-jawed. Can you believe this shit? He stands up, grumbling, and forces his hand between Robin's upper arm and chest to drag her with him.

"Come on, Rob, I can't carry them by myself."

"Steve, please, I'm tired," she moans, her words all lifted and croaky.

"How'm I supposed to carry them by myself? Am I a fucking squid?"

"I'll help," you say, happy to do it, anything for him and at any time.

He puts his hand out to you, a universal gesture for Sit the fuck down. "Buckley will be more than capable." His smile softens. "Thank you."

You pout at him very gently in a kissy face to watch him light up. It's cheesy and rom-com, and it works like a charm. By the time he gets Robin on her feet the tips of his ears are completely blushed, a stark red against the mousy browns and blondes of his hair.

"Hey, Y/N," Chris says, mouth full of tortilla. Boys are all the same.

"Hey," Jonathan echoes, and at least his hand is in front of his mouth, "how are you feeling? They let you back in the kitchen yet?"

"They did. Hopper really didn't like that I broke the lock down rules, but at the same time, I think he understands that I'm a grown up."

Lock down rules being, once a door is shut, it stays shut. Do not give a herd the opportunity to worm its way inside.

But you'd made sure the coast was completely clear, and after Maybelle and Pauline, your fellow kitchen staff, had vouched for that, he'd let you off the hook, and back to work. You hadn't realised how punishing not working could be, especially when Steve had stayed on shift, his time split between scrounging outside of the community and fence duty. There's nothing to stop you from spending the day thinking about what-ifs, which is veritable torture.

"You missed the kitchen? Did you make these?" Chris asks.

You turn to your food and tear off some of the warm tortilla, sighing with pleasure. "No, I'm just kitchen pantry, you know? I'm sorta like an accountant. Like Dora in the armoury, or–" You nod at Vanessa with a smile. "Vanessa. You're in charge of the toiletries and stuff, right, with Cooper and Dean, and those guys?"

She clears her throat. "It's more than 'toiletries and stuff,'" she corrects with a stilted laugh. "It's everything that isn't food. Medicine for the medic, the nursery supplies, the batteries. It's important."

"No, of course! I didn't mean to imply anything else. I can't imagine."

You're sure her smile this time is genuine. You and Vanessa can't seem to mesh because she's a little more serious than you are and your easygoing tone rubs her the wrong way, but you think your explanation makes it up.

She opens her mouth to speak when Dustin leans over the table, projecting his voice down the line. "Y/N! Are you coming to cards club tonight?"

"I don't know, babe," you say, startled at his question. "I thought so. If Steve isn't too tired then yeah, absolutely."

"You can come without Steve," Jonathan says.

"I know," you say, softly so you know he's grateful for the reassurance.

"You're the only one who can beat Will at Yahtzee. You have wicked luck," says Mike, their pale, dark-haired friend, who usually rivals Dustin for hostility. You're glad he seems to like you.

"Yahtzee isn't luck based," says Will.

The entire group groans at the ignition of a familiar argument.

"Robin, if you fucking nudge me again I'm gonna make sure this goes all over you," comes Steve's voice.

You turn in your seat to watch their procession of glasses, at least six between them with not a tray in sight. Robin looks confident, Steve terrified. You jump to your seat to rescue him, taking his third glass from the nestling group so he can pick up his pace.

"Thank you," he says, dipping his head down for a kiss.

You're surprised but never not wanting to be kissed by him, your chin lifting on automatic to reciprocate. You chase him when he pulls away, turning one kiss into two, his lips the tiniest bit chapped against yours. It's a comforting pressure.

You ease away. "Are we going to card club tonight?"

"If you want to, of course we are."

"You aren't tired?"

"You're saying I look ugly."

He glares at you, faux-offended.Your laugh is peeling, infectious to your own ears.

"No!" you deny.

"Right." He tries to be deadpan, sighing in defeat when he can't keep up the illusion. "Shit, I almost had it. S'too bad I'm a sucker for you when you smile like that."

—

Later that night, you and Steve are sitting around the very same tables that have been wiped down with a watery lysol, and you have an amazing three game Yahtzee streak going where nobody can beat you.

Steve's ears are ringing with the clattering sound of dice in the shaker, and he's freezing. It's a great night. He shrugged out of his jacket to lay it over your shoulders, and has to periodically readjust it to stop it from falling to the floor, your arms moving enthusiastically with each new shake.

Steve winces as Dustin makes a fatal mistake. He’s used his two sixes to mark a 12 in the sixes column, holding out for a yacht.

"Dude, the chances of getting Yahtzee are like, one in a thousand," Steve says.

"One in thirteen hundred," you correct, already scooping up Dustin's die to take your turn.

"One in seven thousand and seven hundred for each number," Mike says.

"Ew," Steve says, face slumped into his palm, elbow aching where it's pushed into the table. "You fucking nerds infected my girl."

"It's in the rule book," you say, shaking the circular dice container with your hand on top. You throw them out on the table and assess your given numbers with a frown.

You have three threes and two ones. You keep the threes and shake the other two dice again. Yahtzee had felt complicated when Steve first learned how to play, and now it feels maddening. It's definitely luck based, in his humble opinion, and that has nothing to do with his never winning a game, he swears.

"Does the chance of rolling a Yacht get higher if you keep the dice?" he asks, gesturing to your three threes.

"Yeah," you mumble, throwing your second shuffle out onto the table. "Yeah, but it's pretty negligible, handsome. Goes from point one to point two."

"It isn't negligible," Will denies. "It's probability, not luck, and it isn't point one, it's zero point zero eight, and it can be as high as zero point five. That's one in two hundred."

"That math isn't right," Dustin says.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it isn't."

You throw out your last shuffle and everyone leans in to see what you rolled. Your three threes are kept to one side, and your new rolls clatter to a halt in front of Steve.

"Holy shit," he says.

You rolled two threes.

"Yahtzee!" you cheer, pumping your little fist adorably. Little in that it's smaller than his, and not very little in reality. "Alright, who's next?"

"The game isn't over," Dustin says, peeved.

You peer down his scorecard. He could win, theoretically, if he were to score multiple yachts, or if he'd been careful with his aces, ones, etc.

"Nah, it is," Steve says. "Take it like a champ, Henderson."

Dustin refuses to give up, playing until the end. You score a solid 319 to his less impressive 178.

Steve robs your hand before you can agree to a rematch, forcing you to unfurl your tensed fist. He loves doing this — he presses the tips of his thumbs into the sides of one of your fingers and pushes down. It must hurt a teeny tiny bit but you never say a word, only giggle at his touch and lean toward him like you might tell him a secret. He would lament how much time he wasted being an asshole to you if he had the wherewithal. As it is, he's enchanted with you, and he isn't casual about it, pushing all of your anxiety down to your fingertips. He brings them to his mouth and kisses them each in turn.

You pull your hand away. He thinks you're standing up to leave the table, but you're moving closer to him and straightening your back. He can picture the ache between your shoulder blades as it is between his own, the weird raw feeling, a tightness.

"Want a neck massage?" he asks as you place your hand against his cheek.

You brush your thumb over his stubble. "Do you want a neck massage?" you ask, unperturbed by his sudden question. His jacket threatens to slide onto the floor.

"Are you offering?"

"Not in cards club." You look over his shoulder. "We could play poker."

"The buy-in's too expensive."

"What?" You frame his face with your hand. He's not sure you know you're doing it. "We can spare it, isn't that why we brought it?"

Buy-in tonight is a bar of soap. Half the time everybody goes home with what they brought anyways, so you're obviously not worried.

You squeeze his cheek and laugh. "You'd be cute if you were chubby."

He grabs your hand, face warped by an irreplaceable joy, a delight to have you and be with you, a sparkling kind of lightness to know you're safe and happy here. He kisses your cheek, and says, smushed up against your skin, "You're cute."

"Thank you."

He hums. "So. Poker?"

—

You have a small sink in your room with a hot and cold faucet, though no matter which one you choose, the water comes out cold. It chills your face as you scrub. When your face is reasonably wet, you lather the bar of honey soap Steve insists on keeping at the side of the sink between your fingers before dropping it imprecisely into your boyfriend's waiting palm. He laughs under his breath at the clumsy manoeuvre.

You listen to him do the same as you had as you soap your face. You give special attention to your nose, your eyebrows, and your ears. Steve laughs again as you work a small towel behind them.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing." He holds his hand out for the towel, patting down his face with less ardency. He isn't less clean for it. "You have suds under your nose. Tiny moustache."

He reaches for it with the towel, lifting your face with the back of his hand under your chin. His eyes are their forever warm brown, fixed on your top lip with a dedication that makes your baseline fondness for him surge.

"I was pretty bad at poker, huh?" you ask.

"No?" He dries a lingering stretch of dampness painting your cheek before dropping the towel behind the faucets. "You didn't win. Doesn't mean you were bad."

"Vanessa said I should stick to Yahtzee," you tell him. You pause, wanting his input, and worried you're feeling offended by something that isn't inherently offensive.

"Vanessa should stick to lawn darts," he says, chucking you under the chin.

He starts to pull his pants down like it's no big deal. It isn't, not after so many months together, you've seen him do worse in worse states than this, but it feels forbidden anyhow to watch him climb into bed.

"Could you pass me my sweatpants?" he asks, face turned into the pillow, his shoulders deflating.

"You're decompressing without me."

"Am not." He pushes his hand under the pillow, shoulder blade shifting under his shirt noticeably. "Hurry and decompress with me."

You throw his sweatpants at his calves and he does a sort of vertical dance to put them on, one leg then the other, lifting his hips and dropping heavily back into the sheets when he's done. He looks at home. His relaxation catches you off guard, a pleasure to see even if it isn't strictly new. He feels safe here with you.

"She's good at those darts," you say.

"And shit at poker," Steve says agreeably. He lifts his head off of the pillow. "Are you coming in or are you gonna sleep standing up tonight?"

You shimmy out of your stiff jeans and try not to feel the huge weight of his eyes on your skin. It's an impossible task, and you fail immediately.

"Stop looking at me."

"M'not."

You glare at him, find him absolutely looking at you. Your glare fades when you realise how loving his gaze is, how it doesn't waver for a second. He pushes the sheets down on your side of the bed and waves his arm for you to get in.

You pull on your pyjama pants and take off your bra, climbing into bed beside him. He wraps his arm around you quickly, or rather under you, his bicep crushed by your shoulders. Chills prickle against your skin as he cups the flesh just shy of your breast. If Steve wanted to touch you like that, he could. You want him just as much as you don't, content to cuddle with him, content to kiss like teenagers with nowhere to go tomorrow, content to do worse. He spreads his fingers over your torso, pinky nudging the underside. You'd let Steve touch wherever he liked, and he'd enjoy doing it, you think. That's a gift in itself such casual intimacy.

"Vanessa, is she…" Steve's minty fresh breath pushes over your face like a small gale. "She's not picking on you, is she?"

You like to be honest with Steve, and you want to be honest now — I don't know. But you hate thinking he'd have to look after you more than he does already.

"No," you say, "we just aren't a good fit."

"Like a puzzle?" Steve asks sceptically.

"Guess my pieces are a little warped after spending so much time with you."

He laughs like you're the funniest girl he's ever met, a big breathy sound with the punch of his voice behind it. "Guess they are," he says, hand climbing higher over your chest. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Never," you say lightly.

He smiles at you. You forget Vanessa's out of place comments, her weak smiles, her for-show friendliness in front of Steve. She doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things, and letting her dictate your thoughts in gorgeous, glowing moments like this would be a waste.

"Love you," you whisper.

Steve nestles into the space under your jaw. He doesn't fit but he does, of course he does, he's your everything. If that's where he wants to sleep tonight, so be it. You turn into his grasp to take the pressure off of his arm and return his gentle hugging, forcing his face closer so you can breathe in the smell of his hair.

"Love you," Steve says. He kisses your neck chastely. "Turn the light off?"

You reach back blindly and switch off the lamp. Everything will be okay as long as you have your boy. Right?

—

Vanessa gets worse. She makes neutral comments with enough friendliness to make you wonder if she's truly being cruel? Am I just looking for a fight? What do I want?

Maybe it's Vanessa's clear preference for Steve. You could be jealous. You aren't sure what jealousy feels like in relationships until she's touching him when she doesn't need to be and smiling at him like he hung the moon. She doesn't go overboard, though. She keeps her hands mostly to herself. She goes as far as to tell Steve that she thinks you're beautiful.

You don't know how to explain your reservations to him if he can't already see it. If she'd really thought you were beautiful, surely that's something she could say face to face, rather than the unhappy little nod she gives you whenever you cross paths? Despite evidence suggesting it, you don't think Vanessa's trying to make a move on Steve.

She's a bit of a bitch, but that's not a crime. Unfortunate? Yes. Illegal? No. Immoral? You aren't sure.

It's her most obvious dig yet that manages to grab Steve's attention a second time since the poker incident.

"I couldn't let my eyebrows grow out like yours," she says, voice bubbly with a faked awe, "I think it's super cool of you."

"Vanessa," Robin says, eyes on her plate, an inquisitive twist to her voice that you've come to know as her sarcasm, "we're in the apocalypse."

Steve, who'd seemed torn between speaking up and genuinely confused about the comment Vanessa'd made, chokes on his food beside you, soup dribbling down both corners of his mouth as he laughs. You wipe the corners of his mouth with your long sleeves.

"Jeez, you're like my baby," you say. Your voice is occluded by Jonathan's silvery giggles.

Steve swallows roughly, "I resent that."

He still lifts his chin so you'll rub the bead that's escaped down his throat.

Vanessa ends up laughing too, says, "I think I'm just crazy tired," punctuated with a high-pitched laugh.

"Honestly, me too," you say, because maybe she is, and maybe she needs just a little smidge more benefit of the doubt.

"I've been keeping her up," Steve says smugly.

"He still making you read that King book? The Gunslinger?" Jonathan asks. "Will wants it whenever you're done."

"Every night," you say.

You're pretending it's a chore because that's what you and Steve always used to do. These days room for sincerity is much larger, but it's fun to give him a hard time when, at the end of the day, you'll crawl into bed together and tuck his face into your neck, flipping to the dog-eared page of your worn paperback to read in dulcet tones until he's a dozing weight warming your skin.

Steve looks for your hand under the table and lets your small group of friends laugh at him. Chris makes a whipping sound through the corner of his mouth. It's surprisingly accurate, and it makes you laugh worse, leaning your weight into Steve's arm for support in an action so familiar it's entirely thoughtless.

"It's not that funny," he murmurs, breath tickling your forehead.

"M'not laughing," you say.

You are most definitely laughing. It's a good moment, even if Vanessa's comment sticks around underneath to nibble at your heart.

He doesn't let your hand go for a really long time. Not when you're taking the plates up to the dirty dishes trolley, or on the walk back to Little Hawkins' with everybody in high spirits. He struggles to unlock your door one handed and he's still insisting when you try to tug away from him.

"Let me make the bed."

"We're getting back in 'n like, ten minutes."

"You're tired?" you ask.

"No. I just wanna lay down with you."

He says it simply. Concise, with neither affection nor anything less. It's damn near factual. Steve just wants to lay down with you, out of everything in the world he could do. He could be haunting Robin's room, stealing snacks from under her bed and claiming them as bribes for not tattling on her to Hopper. He could be with Dustin in the new rec room —aptly labelled Nerd Club, when put to a vote— arguing on how to spend the valuable alloted half hour of TV time.

He could stay with you and insist on other things. Reading. Self-defence. A walk around the community. Sex. An early night. A cold shower.

But he's content to lay with you, to share one another's space without asking for anything else.

Though you won't rule everything out. His kisses lately are a lot more than you're used to.

"Let my hand go, you fiend!" you declare, overcome with a rush of affection for him. "I'm gonna make the bed and we're gonna lay down and then after that we're gonna go bother Robin."

"You know, I'm not sure I like this you and Robin thing."

You tug your fingers from his. It's like trying to escape a sticky fly trap.

"You mean us being friends?" you ask.

You throw all of your throws and pillows onto the ground and grab your thick quilt, shaking it out over your mattress as Steve groans.

"Exactly!"

"I thought you wanted me to have friends?"

"Of course I do, you word-twisting douche."

"Nice, nice. Dustin or Mike?"

"I stole that one from Will, thank you very much."

"See! You have upwards of four friends, Steve, and I'm not allowed to have any?"

He grabs you from behind. You drop the quilt with a sigh, going limp as a fish in his arms. He staggers backward under your dead weight but manages to keep you up, breath tickling the inside of your ear as he says, "No, you're not. Just me." He kisses your ear.

"I tried that and everyone got mad at me."

"No, they didn't."

They really didn't. You cover his arm with your fingers, rub your fingertips over the hill of his arm. His arm hair is soft.

"Steve."

"What?" he asks, his hands crawling down to cover your stomach.

"Don't squeeze me."

"You're very squeezable."

"I was way more squeezable before, remember."

You'd lost some weight from the start of the apocalypse to now. Steve hates it. You're perfect, he'd said once, no matter what. But still, he laments your lost weight for what it represents — times where you and he had struggled to survive.

"I'm working on that," he promises.

You turn your face, shifting in the circle of his arms to meet his eyes. He has gorgeous eyes. You'd admitted that to yourself a long time ago but each time you really stare into them it takes a moment for it to settle. He is a pretty, pretty boy.

He's looking at you with a soft smile. Then, for a split second, you swear his eyes rove up to your brows. It's more than likely your imagination.

"Let me finish making this bed," you say, turning back to the discarded pile of pillows and blankets.

"You want your jammies?"

You snort happily. "Yeah, sweetheart. Lay 'em out for me, please."

—

For the last week or two, Steve has noticed a change in you. You've changed a lot since you met him (for the second time). You've gone from prickly and distant and somewhat distracted to determined, vigilant. You may not come on scrounging missions outside but you're brave, and you've survived more than he ever wanted you to have to go through.

This change is distinctive. It's like you've reverted to how you acted when you were more friend than girlfriend; you're self conscious.

He really hates it.

He can't work out what he did, or what happened, but it sucks. He sucks.

"There has be be something you want," he says.

You're standing with him by the south fence. He and his team are about to head out for the shopping mall for as many blankets as they can carry.

"I just want you to be careful," you say.

You look tired. It's early in the morning, and you'd woken up earlier still. Your hair is freshly washed from a cold shower.

You're still not comfortable showering without him, but of course the other girls aren't comfortable with him sitting in there when they're naked. You've had to schedule your showers for the dawn hour.

"I'm gonna be careful for free," he says, pulling at a wet strand of your hair. He scratches lightly around your ear before hooking his fingers underneath it, his thumb drawing from your cheek to your lips. "Pick something you want and I'll find it. You know, Robs said we might be able to pass by a real small cherry garden on the way home. Do you–" He should know this. Why doesn't he know this? "Do you like cherries?"

Thankfully, you laugh at his question and let your face fall into his hand. He thumbs your ear lobe gently.

"I don't want anything at all. 'Cept for you to be extremely careful," you say.

He pulls you in for a hug, smashes a messy kiss to your head, and tries to pull away because he's cool and the guys are watching.

You're less quick. You rub your cheek against his chest.

"Please, Steve," you whisper.

He frowns. There's something you're not telling him. He wishes you would, but clearly you don't think you can. He's gonna try to do whatever it is he needs to do to get you there.

Steve takes your face into both hands.

"I will be super careful, dummy. That's my middle name, I'm Steve Careful Harrington," he says.

"I thought your middle name was Danger?"

He kisses you. "No? Who told you that?"

Your laugh is pretty enough to keep him smiling for most of the hike to the mall, until Robin says, mid sentence, "–Jeez, you're pathetic."

Pathetic for you is something he doesn't necessarily mind being, but pathetic in general he cannot abide. He spends the rest of the hike stepping on the sides of Robin's shoes as she retells the plot of Murder on the Orient Express. Steve had seen the movie once but he's never read the original novel. Lucky him, Robin had an Agatha Christie phase when she was twelve, and she knows all the best parts.

Hike is a strange word considering all of their walking is through steep roads. They move past rundown cars, streets and streets of abandoned houses scraped clean. There's an elementary school with a rusted playground in front. Vegetation has already started to spread through the packed wood chip flooring, and one of the swings has a broken chain. Steve hadn't realised how quickly human things fell into disrepair when attacked by the elements and left maintenance.

The mall is a better example. Smashed glass lays around the entrance in tiny pieces like a huge back of upturned sugar, and bluegrass eats its way between paving stones. The team consists of eight people, including Steve, Robin, Christopher, and one of the College's co-leaders, a mister Jeremy Livingstone. They make their way carefully through the glass and grass in a wave of crunching footsteps to the front of the mall, where Steve wedges the flat blade of his knife between the automatic doors and works them open. When there's enough room for a second hand, Chris slides in beside him, and they work the doors open. Steve's biceps are burning by the time they're inside the mall.

"Alright, guys," Jeremy says. "There's a bedding store toward the back of the mall. We'll go there first, and then we'll try to work through the list of requests. Blankets and sheets are our second priority. Staying safe and alive is first. Only grab what you know you can carry, you can bring back whatever you want, just… don't be greedy. Alright?"

They head out for the bedding store at the back.

"How much stuff can we carry?" Robin asks him. "I have weak arms. I'm a weakling."

"Isn't there uh, a fancy storage place? We could drag a suitcase back."

"For two hours?"

"Is it two hours? Livingstone! You want me and Robin to grab some suitcases?"

Everybody fills a suitcase with sheets and blankets in plastic wrap. The brand new stuff feels like a luxury, and Steve dibs a double mattress bedspread made of Egyptian cotton, knowing that'll make you smile. Now he's got your mattress up on those crates from behind the cafeteria, your room has really come together. Blankets and trinkets and sweet glassware. You have a small shelf of books, your clothes, your pens and pencils.

Steve'll bring you anything you want, only you don't seem to want anything at all.

He'll just… have to bring you some of everything.

—

Your tears taste salty. You feel gross for licking a tear off of your top lip but nobody's around to see you do it; Steve might not be home until dark. You have time to get this upset out of your system.

You'd been asked by Maybelle to swing by Armoury and Amenities, an unofficial name for the building where the community keeps the bulk of its collective resources, for a new propane tank. You'd gone inside, said hi to Cooper, said hi to Vanessa, explained why you needed the propane, and left.

Or, you'd tried to leave. The propane tank was heavy, and the front door had been difficult to open one handed. You'd swung it open, quickly put your hand back on the tank to stop yourself from dropping it, and watched in frustration as the door slammed closed before you could worm your way out.

"She's the one who got, like, taken?" came Cooper's voice, pretty much as soon as the door stopped bouncing. His voice echoed from the next room.

"Sure, taken."

You'd stilled instantly.

"What, you think she wanted to go?"

Vanessa sighed. "No, I don't think so. She didn't try very hard to come back, s'all I'm saying."

"Chris says Harrington's infatuated with her. Like he's under a spell," Cooper said, chuckling.

"It's gotta be some kind of magic, she's… Well, God knows he'd have his pick if he came back to reality. You have the catalogue? I wanna note the propane before I forget."

And that had been that.

You don't understand why Steve loves you, sometimes. You know he does. It isn't up for questioning. Love with Steve is a lot of things — long talks in the mornings about anything and everything, his fingers tucking your shirt into your jeans. It's him pulling your hood over your eyes whenever he's behind you and laughing when you grumble. It's hiding in places you shouldn't be, hand in hand. It's miles of Indiana highway. It's heart-racing anxiety that one of you might not make it to the end. Love with Steve is a devotion: he takes care of you. He's taken care of you ever since you met.

You haven't stopped to wonder if you deserve it in a long time.

I don't, you think, half tears and all heartbreak. You don't deserve it. You don't deserve Steve. He's too good, the kind of good that starts life in the marrow of bones. He's sweet and soft-handed with a softer heart. He looks like a dream, and it shouldn't matter but it does. His voice is the only one you like waking up to, his lips hovering by the shell of your ear.

Time to get up, dummy. Rise and shine, angel. Baby, come on. We slept in, loser, and you need to get dressed. Hey, are you listening to me? I miss you, wake up.

"Y/N?" Steve asks, trying the handle.

You flinch hard, and your heart jumps with you. A flip flop somersault feeling in your chest that plummets to your stomach. You scratch madly at your cheeks with two woollen sleeves and stand up as he opens the door.

"Hey," Steve says, and he's safe, he's alive and well and home again.

He stands in the doorway with a bulging rucksack on his back, windbreaker zipped tight to his neck, hair a windblown mess. His nose is red from the cold and his cheeks are ice-bitten, though the colour is coming back to his skin slowly.

You don't feel as though you deserve him but you can't help yourself from springing into his chest, arms around his waist before he can blink. Before he can see the wet mess of your face, and your tear swollen eyes.

"Hey," he says again, leaning a great deal of his weight over your shoulders. He sniffs your hair. "Hey dummy. Told you I'd get home fine, huh?"

You try not to breathe too loudly against his chest. The fabric of his coat is stiff and cold, a contrast to your heated skin.

"Hey," he says, for a third time. This time it's all powdered sugar soft. Concern and exhaustion wrapped together. "I know, I'm sorry it took longer than usual. It's my fault, I wanted to get you something 'n' I made us all late coming home, I know you worry."

You don't answer again. You don't know how to explain it to him. You can barely understand it yourself. You cling to him and his solid mass until he gives in, his mouth pressed to your temple, his arms tightening behind your head. He shields you from the world for a handful of long, stolen minutes. There's nothing but his hugs, no sound to battle the plastic sounds of his windbreaker or the blood rushing between your ears.

"I didn't mean to worry you," he murmurs.

You don't trust your voice to come out whole.

He freezes under your touch. A slow hardening. His hands pause where they'd been rubbing short, featherlight lines.

"I'm sorry," you say, enthusing your tone with some self-deprecating cheer. "You're tired, I'm sorry. You wanna sit down."

"I really do." He laughs.

You peel away from him, the two of you sheepish and awkward and it's so unlike you, unlike him. You think you've made a fool of yourself as he takes off his rucksack, laying it carefully on the floor by the bed as you turn to your shared dresser and rummage through the top drawer for some clean clothes for him to take when he showers.

You've freaked him out, and he thinks you're a weirdo, and he's gonna realise you don't deserve him and you never could. You're bad at nearly everything, and you're a total slob, and you should've tried harder to get back to him, and it's all your fault. Misery grips you and drags you down hard. It spirals, surface level comments from a shallow, jealous girl, they twist and twist until you feel wrung out and useless. And now Steve's home, and you're–

"Are you mad at me?" Steve asks.

You wince and face him, his sweatpants pressed to your chest. "What?"

"You're not talking to me, and you only ever used to do that when you were mad."

You pass him his sweatpants, clear your throat. "Stevie, I'm not mad at you."

"Then what's up?" He unzips his windbreaker, keeping his eyes on you. "I know it's something."

You force yourself to keep a mild smile. You can't think of a lie — you don't want to lie.

Steve frowns as your face crumples, a large palm leaping to the curve of your neck.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

You can't align this Steve with the one you knew in Hawkins. He's so different. Or maybe he isn't different at all, and you're lucky to see the depth of his feelings, the expanse of his goodness and his heart and his secret smile, corners pulled up and eyebrows pushed down just so. It says, You're okay, because we're gonna do this together. The world will keep spinning for us as long as we want it to.

"I had a bad day," you say.

"Are you sure? I've seen you on some bad days, baby. This doesn't feel like that, you know? And I get that I don't always know what to say, but I promise I wanna know. Whatever it is that's been making you all grumpy."

His smile glows, his eyebrows rising. His teasing tone toward the end of his reassurance is a lightness you cling to.

Lately, everything has felt so heavy.

"I'm worried I don't…" Even attempting to say it has your throat aching. You cover his hand with yours. "Steve, I– I feel bad lately. I feel like I'm bad."

He shakes his head, strands of his brown hair unsticking to dance in front of his eyes. "You're not bad."

"I don't deserve you."

He stares.

"Being with you now, having you look after me, I didn't deserve you when I met you." A tear gathers in the line of your lashes. "I don't deserve you now. I'm just me, I'm useless, and you don't have to be with me and I've," —you take in a shuddering breath, and step away from Steve's hand— "been trying to work out why you're still with me and it doesn't make sense. Why do you stay with me?"

"That's a stupid question," he says.

You try to swallow a lump. It stays right there in your throat.

"I got a policy against stupid questions, remember?"

"Steve…"

He cuts you off, tangling his fingers with yours, and easing you close until his breath is warming your lips and you can see the honey-browns that circle his pupils. They feel bigger the longer you look at them.

"How can you ask me that?" he says gently. "You know how much I love you… Right?"

You nod and knuckle a tear off of your cheek. "I know," you say, and you're crying now, little bubbling sobs that wobble your shoulders.

"Listen, if I haven't been showing it I'm sorry, and I'll prove it to you. I don't want you to question it."

"It's not you," you say, pressing your forehead to his collar, craving his comfort so much that you don't care if you don't deserve it.

"Everybody knows that line is a lie," he says.

"I'm not lying. Everybody knows I'm the part that doesn't fit."

"Who's everybody?"

You try to backtrack and pull away, but Steve won't let you this time. "I'm just having a bad day," you say, "and you've had a long one–"

"Stop it." Steve looks at you seriously. He takes your face into both hands, like he always does when he's worried. "I don't care if I crawled home with two broken arms, loser. I gotta know what's wrong. All of it. And you need to tell me."

He thumbs at your damp cheeks.

"Okay," you mumble, embarrassed and relieved at once. "I'll tell you."

You insist that he take his shoes off and stretch out in bed even though he's got dirty jeans on, and he doesn't wanna get your nest of throw blankets dirty, so he peels out of them and sits in his boxers at the top of the bed. You slide in next to him, and he works his arm over your shoulder, and you cry like a baby when he calls you honey under his breath.

—

"And these are for you, too," Steve says, pulling a slightly smushed box of cherries from the bottom of his rucksack.

You look beautiful. Afternoon sunlight drips in from a crack in the curtains, kissing up and down your smiling cheeks. Your eyes are still puffy, but your smile hasn't moved all morning.

"You didn't get anything for yourself?" you ask, though any outrage for him you harbour is hidden by your awe. "I don't remember the last time we got fresh fruit, and you didn't even put them at the top of the bag."

"You're such a whiner. Just try one."

Your fingers play delicately over the punnet of cherries. The cherry garden had had a lot of supplies left to 'borrow', and after a sickly half an hour of him and Robin staining their teeth, he'd managed to grab a perfect box's worth for you. Perfect before they got squished, that is.

"You should have the first one," you say.

"No," he says, and shoves the box at your calf. "They're for you. If you like them, I want you to eat all of them and throw up like a godzilla."

"Not sure you're remembering that movie right," you murmur, plucking one of the cherries out of the box.

You bite into the cherry and your eyes screw up. "Oh wow, that's sour. I don't…" You finish chewing, and Steve is rocketed to cloud nine when you go in for a second cherry, and then a third.

Last night had been tough. Steve spent a long time talking you down from what'd been sewn into your head, and he'd pulled the truth from you in strings. Vanessa had been cruel to you on more than one occasion now, which Steve had known but not to the full extent, and her last comment had been too much. Steve, unapologetically, hates her.

But Vanessa isn't the sole problem.

You're having a really hard time. All of this has been so much for you. It is, in Robin's words, the fucking apocalypse, and between nearly starving to death and all the shitty things that have happened to you, he isn't surprised to find you're fragile. And he doesn't say fragile, meaning weak. He doesn't know a lot about the world but he knows the human brain and body isn't built for this. You're his girl, and you're hurting, and while he knows objectively this isn't his fault, he vows to do a better job at protecting you.

He won't fail you again. He can't.

He watches cherry juice escape out of the corner of your mouth.

"You're cute," he says. "Where's the disposable? Pass it over."

"You are not taking a photo of me right now, baby."

"You look beautiful."

"When will we ever get the photos developed, anyway?" you say, laughing, kissing juice off of your fingertips.

He leaps for the camera and tussles you when you fight back. You laugh and lose, weak with giggles as he holds you away, his fingers pressing into the soft plush of your waist.

"Jonathan does all of that stuff," Steve says knowingly.

He gives you a little shove. You cover your face with your hands, words muffled, "Thought the camera was for me?"

"We're sharers. We share things. Look, if you don't smile for me I'm gonna take a picture of you in your underwear."

You throw your hands over your lap and he snaps a photo of your shy face.

"Shithead fucking pervert," you say.

Steve knows he's off the hook when you laugh.

He's gonna give Vanessa the coldest shoulder anyone has ever given, and if she were a guy Steve would defend your honour in a more physical manner. He'd suggested a verbal defence last night but you'd begged him to never, ever bring any of it up to Vanessa or your friends. It startled him —you have nothing to be ashamed of— but he'd agreed. Whatever's gonna make you happy is, perhaps cornily, what he wants to do.

Right now, making you happy is gifts on the floor of your tiny shared bedroom, pantsless but, fascinatingly, with socks. He points the camera at your ankles.

You grab the new blanket he'd given you and drape it over your legs. "Pervert," you reiterate.

He puts down the camera.

"Not my fault they made you perfect."

"Who's they?"

Steve shrugs, and can't keep the smirk off of his face as he says, "They made every damn inch of you perfect, especially but not limited to your pretty eyebrows."

Your smile settles into something more timid. You push your hill of gifts aside, careful not to spill your cherries, and walk the short distance on knees to wrap your arms around his neck. Your face fits into the curve of his neck exactly the way it always will. His hand cups your lower back.

"Love you, Harrington," you say.

"How much? 'Nough to let me have some of the cherries?"

You shake your head gently, the tip of your nose bumping his Adam's apple. "No…" you say apprehensively.

"No? You don't wanna share with me?"

"No." Your mumbling is adorable. Steve wants to eat you alive, or at the very least kiss you until you turn to jelly in his arms.

If he starts now, he can be done by dinner.

"Five seconds to change your mind. After that I'm taking all of them by force. Five, four, three…"

You shriek, and even your shrieking is a sound he wants to hear. You drop away from him and grab the cherries, cornering yourself too fast as you stagger to your feet and hide by the desk. Shoulders against the cabinet, you grab up one of your rare books like a shield, and you glare at him over the cover.

"You said they were for me!" you say, real panic in your voice. You know from experience Steve will tickle you until you can't breathe.

"They are for you! I love you," he says, words dripping with a false sincerity (though he loves you, undeniably). "I'm just trying to help you, sweetheart. You don't want my help?"

"You keep your help away from me, beast."

It doesn't take him nearly as long as he'd thought to melt you. He tickles you, and he steals a handful of your precious cherries, and when he kisses you dizzy it leaves red-pink splotches over the column of your neck, his smile temporarily printed into your skin.

—

ty for reading <3 I hope you enjoyed, and if you did pls consider reblogging <3<3

#steve zombie!au #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things

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miscellaneoussmp · 11 months ago

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Holy shit, a proper fanfic? It's more likely than you think. I'm normal about hgduo, I'm so normal about hgduo and that's why I wrote this. Anyways, here's Cellbit throughout the years (cw/tw: blood/violence/death mentioned/referenced throughout, general Cellbit fuckery, highly repetitive narration):

Cellbit is just thirteen. Well, in actuality, he doesn't know his name, and his age is just as obscure when he meets Badboyhalo. The demon teaches him all sorts of things like how to not waste food, words to use instead of swears, and a fun game. 'Fetch' Bad calls it. Cellbit thinks the demon is lying to him sometimes. He laughs every time Bad yells at him for swearing, but he tries not to most of the time. It's not his fault that he didn't see that arrow, or maybe it is? Bad teaches him to be aware of his surroundings.

Cellbit is sixteen, well in actuality he still doesn't know his name instead Bad calls him a flurry of assorted nicknames ('Little one' the demon seems to settle on when he thinks Cellbit is sleeping. In reality, he doesn't sleep). He doesn't know how long it's been when he loses sight of Bad. He thinks he must be feeling empty. Alone, maybe? He doesn't know. He walks off the battlefield with an iron knife in hand and the taste of iron in his mouth.

Cellbit is just nineteen. Well, in actuality, people call him Cell, and he finally knows how old he is as the courts seemed hellbend on proving his age when he sits across from a psychologist. They seem nervous, maybe it's the mutliple armed guards? Who knows, certainly not him. They ask him a very simple question: Why? Cell answers truthfully for once, "A demon told me not to waste food, so I don't." He shrugs like it's the most mundane thing in the world, and to him, it is.

Cellbit is twenty-six when the cargo ship he snuck on runs aground. He tries his best to ignore the looks from nervous brown eyes and pissed off green eyes. He introduces himself with his full name in front of the people who live on this island. One of those people is Bad. It feels nice to know that his oldest friend now knows his name. Cellbit meets his son for the first time, and he thinks the world of the little one.

Cellbit is twenty-six when he thinks he's fallen in love. Cellbit is twenty-six when he makes the worst decision in his entire life. Cellbit is twenty-six when he wakes up with a white streak in his hair. Cellbit is twenty-six when he gets engaged. Cellbit is twenty-six when he gets married.

Cellbit is twenty-six when his son goes missing along with the rest of the children on the island. Cellbit is twenty-six when he pushes himself headfirst into looking for any clue possible. Cellbit is twenty-six when he meets his sister. Bagi is twenty-six when she finds her brother. Why did she get to be happy? Why did she not find him sooner? She wasn't. She tried, and she was so close. Cellbit is twenty-six when he gives up his knife to Bad. He'll get better use out of it. Cellbit is twenty-six when he picks up a different blade. His mouth is filled with the taste of iron again. He wants his son back. He wants the children back. Rage consumes his very soul. Bagi is twenty-six when she realizes her brother is the murderer. 'Is he proud?' The question goes unanswered. Cellbit is twenty-six when he feels thirteen again. "Do you like it?" He asks, his voice far too soft. "You've gone soft." He hisses to his oldest friend. Cellbit is twenty-six when he confesses murder to his husband.

Cellbit is twenty-six when he enters hell for the second time in his life. Under the red sky feels like home. He feels alive. This time, Bad is his enemy. Cellbit is twenty-six when his son dies. Cellbit is twenty-six when he takes a final ten seconds to say goodbye. Cellbit is twenty-six when he hunts people down for fun with Baghera. Cellbit is twenty-six when he's sure the demon is lying to him. He feels empty again. Cellbit is still only twenty-six when he and Baghera are rescued by their children. A fresh start. Cellbit still feels empty.

Cellbit turns twenty-seven, and he celebrates. He celebrates with his son, his niece, and his oldest friend. They celebrate with fighting mobs.

Cellbit is just twenty-seven when his oldest friend, Bad, forgets his name. Cellbit is just twenty-seven when his mentor, Bad, forgets to write a letter. Cellbit is just twenty-seven when the question he asked long ago is answered. 'I'm proud of you, you know that, right?' Cellbit doesn't even know. Cellbit has just turned twenty-seven when the person who knows him the best, Bad, dies. Cellbit doesn't even know.

#qsmp #qsmp fanfiction (sorta)#qsmp drabble #qsmp writing #qsmp cellbit #qsmp badboyhalo #qsmp hgduo #qsmp mocking jays #i just i could be normal for five seconds #i hope yall enjoy!!! it's been a while since i posted a proper fic

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atimeofyourlife · 5 months ago

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I tried to hold back, but you drew me in

wc: 1787| rated: t| tw: referenced domestic violence, mentioned vomiting| read on AO3

Buck starts at the 118 before Tommy leaves. Tommy tries to keep his distance from Buck, but they eventually become friends and something more. Set pre- s1e1 First in a series of one shots of different times Buck and Tommy could have met.

Tommy wasn't surprised that they were getting a new probie, after all they'd been running a man down since Sal had been transferred out. He told himself he wouldn't get attached, they would only be working with each other for a few months, just until everything for Tommy's transfer to airops was finalized. He knew he wouldn't still be at the 118 to see the end of the probationary year.

But then he met the kid. Evan Buckley. 25 years old. Legs that went on forever, an ass that didn't quit, sparkling blue eyes, and a smile that lit up the room like sunshine on a rainy day. And that adorable birthmark that Tommy just wanted to kiss.

And sure, there was the cocky facade that so many young men had when they'd made it through the academy. Evan Buckley was hot, and he knew it, showing off and flirting with anything that moved. But under that facade was a heart of gold, a kid who would try to see the best in everyone, who would try to connect with everyone. Tommy was falling, and falling hard.

Tommy tried to push it away, to forget about it, but with every shift, Evan made that harder and harder. With how hot he was when harnessed up to do a rope rescue, or in his turnouts all covered in soot after a fire. With how gentle he was with kids, a unique ability to keep them calm no matter the scene ("I think it's because they know he's one of them." Hen had joked after a call to an injury at a playground, where Evan had efficiently distracted all the other kids from their injured friend.) How he would listen to the little old ladies that became frequent fliers due to falls or issues with their medications. His ability to comfort people, no matter how bad the scene had been.

But he was still determined to keep Evan at arms length. He wasn't being hostile, just cautious. Tommy did everything he had to as Evan's training partner, answering any and all questions he had about the job, wanting to set him up to be a good heavy rescue asset. During downtime at the station, he'd make friendly small talk, and talk to Evan as part of the group, but he kept it superficial. Never opening up for anything deeper.

The call that made him reach out more, extend an olive branch more, was a difficult one for anyone. A DV call where the wife was beaten so badly, she was barely recognizable. Evan managed to hold it together just long enough for the woman to be loaded into the back of the ambulance before he was turning to throw up in the bushes at the edge of the property. He really felt for the kid, because he'd had a similar reaction on his first DV call. Evan was quiet all the way back to the station, and disappeared off alone the moment the engine pulled in. Tommy left him, knowing that sometimes after a hard call being alone was needed.

But then he didn't reappear. He would come out when there was a call, but kept to himself on the way there and at the scene. Only speaking when necessary. Then keeping himself away from everyone else when they were back. When it was nearing the end of the shift, Tommy decided to do something about it. He extracted himself from where he was watching Howie and Hen trying to beat each other at whatever videogame they'd started playing, and went looking for Evan. It didn't take him long, finding him in the locker room, his back to the glass. Tommy pushed the door open quietly, not wanting to startle him.

"It's just. It reminded me of you. Can you please call me back or something, I just need to know that you're okay, that you're safe. I love you." Evan's voice was soft, but thick, as if he'd been crying.

"Evan? Are you okay?" Tommy asked softly as he entered, moving to sit next to Evan on the bench.

"I'm fine." Evan straightened up and wiped his face, putting his phone back into his pocket. "If you're here to make comments about what happened-"

"Any first responder that tries to claim that they have never lost their lunch, or at least been close to it, at a scene, or because of a scene, they're either lying or it's just not been their turn yet. I've been doing this job for over a decade, I've seen it happen to almost everyone I've worked with." Tommy replied.

"Ever happened to you?" Evan asked after a moment.

"More than once. First time was because of a scene a lot like the one we were on today." Tommy admitted. "I always find DV scenes difficult. Some people find them harder than others."

"It made me think-" Evan started, but cut himself off. Tommy wondered if it had anything to do with who he had been trying to call.

"DV calls are so hard for me because they remind me too much of my mom." Tommy said quickly, something he'd only told Howie and his therapist. "She was too scared to leave, she never got out. Is. Is there someone it made you think of?"

"My sister, Maddie." Evan said quietly. "I think her husband hurts her. He's always been a controlling asshole, and I think it's got worse. But I don't have proof. I haven't seen her since I was nineteen, she was supposed to leave Pennsylvania with me. I didn't realize it at the time, but I think he stopped her. Did something to her to keep her from leaving. I call her and leave voicemails, and I send postcards to the hospital where she works so she knows where I am and he can't get hold of them. But she stopped responding. I haven't heard from her in over two years. I don't even know if she's-"

Evan cut himself off, but Tommy knew what he was implying. He didn't know if his sister was alive, or if her husband had killed her.

"What about your parents? Surely they would let you know if anything had happened?" Tommy asked.

"I don't really have a relationship with them. I can count on one hand the amount of times I've spoken to them since I left home. And they pretty much abandoned Maddie when she married Doug."

"That's awful, Evan." Tommy said, unsure how else he was supposed to respond. "If you ever want to talk about it, I'm here for you."

"Thanks, Tommy." Evan whispered, managing a small smile.

After that, Tommy found himself actually becoming friends with Evan. It was easy, chatting and joking around on shift, Tommy lookimg forward to when the team would go out for drinks after work. Wanting the opportunity to spend more time with Evan. And he knew he was going to miss Evan endlessly when his transfer came up. He hoped he could stay friends with Evan, and Hen and Howie, but he had seen, and knew from experience how hard it could be to keep in touch. Different shift schedules, and busy personal lives taking up too much time to have anything more than the occasional catch up text.

For his last shift, he was expecting something. Likely something small, but at least a goodbye, maybe drinks after work. He wasn't expecting the house to be taken offline for the last hour of the shift, with Hen and Howie jumping out the back of the ambulance with balloons and streamers, or getting shoved face first into a cake. He didn't expect the cards and little gifts, the kind and friendly words. The tight hug from Evan as he said how much he would miss working with Tommy.

The evening out for drinks that lasted a lot longer than usual. People drifting out as they needed to get home for their responsibilities, wives, girlfriends, kids. Leaving Tommy and Evan alone together at the end of the night. They headed out at the same time, waiting outside the bar together for their Ubers. Evan kept up a stream of chatter as they waited.

"At first I thought you didn't like me much. Like, you did your job and taught me everything you needed to, and answered all of my questions about it, no matter how weird or repetitive they got. But other than that, you wrre almost cold." Evan said, and Tommy hated that he'd made Evan feel like that.

"I was worried about getting too attached, knowing I'd be leaving after a few months. I've had it too many times before when friends have moved on, we've said we'll keep up, still make time for each other, but life gets in the way. And soon, at the most it's texts at birthdays and Christmas. Maybe a check in if we've been on the same scene. I didn't want that to happen again." Tommy replied, baring himself to Evan. "But you're. You draw people in, Evan. You drew me in."

"I hope that doesn't happen to us. You're so easy to be around, Tommy. I feel like I can be myself around you, that I don't have to hide parts of me." Evan admitted.

Tommy saw his chance, the liquid courage pushing him to do something he never would sober. He tucked his fingers under Evan's chin, pulling him into a kiss. He could feel Evan's surprise, and nearly pulled back, hoping that he hadn't ruined their budding friendship. But after a moment, Evan kissed back. It was a little hesitant, but became more sure. Tommy kept his eyes closed for a moment after he pulled back, wanting to savor the moment. When he opened them, he could see the almost dazed look on his face. It was Tommy's first time seeing the other man speechless.

"Like that?" Tommy said softly. "You make me want to not hide this part of myself any more."

"I. Yeah. It works." Evan stumbled over his words.

"So that was okay?"

"Better than okay." Evan's smile widened, and Tommy wanted to see it everyday for the rest of his life.

"What are you doing Saturday?"

"Uh, Saturday?"

"I was thinking we could do something. You free?" Tommy asked as a car pulled up.

"Yes. I. I am free." Evan replied

"If you text me your addresss, I'll pick you up around eight?"

"Yeah. Eight's great."

"Great. I'll see you Saturday." Tommy climbed into the car, looking back at Evan.

"Yeah. Saturday." Evan replied, a soft smile still on his face as Tommy pulled the car door shut behind him.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #evan buckley #tommy kinard #911 fic #911 abc #the times we missed each other one shots #atimeofyourwrites

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ifbench · 8 months ago

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Gates, Super, and Adventure Squad Event Interest Check!

So! In the nearly four years I've been in the PMD fandom, I've noticed that the vast majority of the PMD fandom doesn't care about any of the games after Explorers. Gates consistently gets hated on, Super is often treated the same as Gates, and nobody ever talks about Adventure Squad.

So, I'm gonna try to change that, with an event that's all about these three underappreciated games.

The rules are simple:

No Explorers-centric content. It can be referenced, but it cannot be the focal point of any of your submissions. Same goes for Rescue Team.

Please include "tw post apocalypse" on any submissions you make that are of a post-apocalyptic nature. Post-apocalypse makes me extremely uncomfortable, especially in regards to PMD, so I'd rather not see anything like that.

No NSFW content, if that's ok.

No bashing any of the PMD games, please.

If you're interested in this, please reblog this post!

#pmd #week of gates #week of super #week of adventure squad #pokemon mystery dungeon #pmd event #pokemon mystery dungeon event #pmd gates #pmd3 #pmd2.5 #pmd4 #pmd super #pmd adventure squad #gates to infinity #super mystery dungeon #pokemon super mystery dungeon #adventure squad

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sideroachblog · 4 months ago

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Hey y'all here's that AleRoach WIP I promised!!

~4k words. Dry humping at the end (mostly build up), Alejandro being OOC because this was a bit of a daddy issues fic, Size Difference, Unfinished.

There will be TWs under the cut. They're pretty heavy because this is an offshoot from my fic Outside Looking In, where Roach was rescued after being a POW and experienced *severe* trauma. This WIP doesn't go into detail, but it doesn't mince words and it investigates how Roach's experiences are fucking with his current relationships. Additionally, there are heavy spoilers in here for OLI and it reveals more of Roach's perspective of his relationships with the team, particularly Ghost and Soap.

@youredyingthatsallthereis bc I was asked to tag <3

TWs:

1. References to SA Roach endured while captive

2. Roach still being underweight from torture

3. Referenced Cheating

4. Internalized homophobia

5. My awful attempts at Spanish and writing realistic dialogue for someone who speaks English as a second language. In other words: Alejandro sounds corny as fuck. This man on the damn cob.

TRANSLATIONS

Flaquito = An endearing petname. Flaco means skinny and the suffix -ito makes it smaller/cuter/etc

¡Está bien! = It's alright!

Cuate = Buddy/friend/etc

Mierda = Shit

Cariño = Honey/sweetie

No puedo dejar de pensar en ti. = I can't stop thinking about you.

Tesoro = Treasure

“Awfully thin for a member of the 141. How do you run drills? I dunno why they brought you here; you don’t even have a call sign yet.”

Roach looked up from the table where his nose was buried in gun parts, one of the team's assault rifles completely disassembled for cleaning. Colonel Vargas filled the doorway.

Before he could stand to salute his superior waved a dismissive hand and said, “Don't bother. Keep the energy, heaven knows you need it. At ease, flaquito.”

The nickname was a surprise when Roach expected to be addressed by rank. No clue what it meant, though. Halfway up from his chair he hesitated, then plopped back down with straining thighs and a groan. He quipped, “Maybe I'm just too good to leave behind, Sir.”

It was impossible to relax again, on edge and unfamiliar with the man’s temper, bracing for an inevitable smoking. He sat stiffly, spine straight as a board.

The Colonel double checked the safety on his own rifle before resting it in the corner then meandered across what was one of the safe house's bedrooms, now stripped of furniture save for folding tables and gun cases. The space was designated for weapons storage and maintenance. A lone yellow bulb hung from the plain room’s ceiling and offered sufficient lighting—enough to complete duties, not enough to help locate dropped screws or runaway pens.

“You’re in danger,�� Vargas said matter-of-factly.

Roach squirmed. “Aren’t we all?”

“You especially. The stairs up here winded you. You have thin bird wrists and negative muscle mass like a frail old lady. What if we’re raided?”

He frowned and said, “I either prove my gun skills or perish, I guess.”

“That isn’t a price I’d expect your Captain to chance paying. Sacrificing fresh meat who needs more time to train, especially when you could put others in danger, too. I’m well-acquainted with John and well-experienced weighing risk versus reward.” The man pulled up a chair and settled in on Roach’s right. “Point is, I’d never send someone so underweight on an operation like this one, even if they stay cooped up in here. Not a newbie. Not in a million years. For Price to make that call, he knows more than he’s letting on.”

“What are you getting at, Sir?”

“You don’t have the eyes of a new recruit.”

He monitored the Colonel in his peripheral for any threatening behavior and swallowed hard. “Just joined the Special Air Service, Sir. If you think he’s hiding something, I think he’s the bloke to ask.”

Alejandro Vargas sat there like a brick wall: an athletic, imposing man of great importance to the Mexican Special Forces, more so than Captain Price was to the taskforce. Only now, with broken ribs where a bullet slammed his plate carrier, was he confined to the safe house in brief recovery. Roach felt like chump change in comparison to his weight lifting build, about six inches shorter and only half the kilos, stuck doing upkeep rather than assisting in the field. Even at his peak, before everything, before Makarov’s Ultranationalist animals held him captive, Roach wasn’t nearly as strong. He reminded himself that he was still healing, still gaining muscle, still making progress on top of how far he’d already come.

…So far, he’d only managed to gain about ten kilos. Ten more and he’d reach a ‘normal weight,’ again, still so unbearably skinny, still far from the size and strength his job required.

Their power imbalance seeded discomfort in his abdomen. Their differences in strength only amplified what stemmed from the subservience a sergeant owed a colonel. It was too similar to Russian prison, Roach beaten and abused by guards double his size who commanded him around like a mule. He tensed without meaning to, leaning away when Vargas’ thick forearms rested on the table, muscles rolling beneath their skin as the man fiddled with a hand guard from the disassembled gun.

The sight left him conflicted. Vargas struck fear in his heart, but struck it in other ways, too. He was attractive, certainly Roach’s ‘type,’ especially considering his confident, benevolent demeanor and how he cared personally for each of his men (at least from an outsider’s perspective). Tough love, but love nonetheless. However, the timing of Roach’s trauma was tragic—happening before he had the opportunity to explore his true sexuality. His thoughts were a muddled mess.

“I just cleaned that, Sir,” he stated. “You’re smearing finger grease all over it again.”

Vargas grabbed a damp cloth and wiped his hands down before using it to tidy the mess. “We’re not on an op. I’m not even your colonel. No need for the formalities right now, Smith.”

Smith. Garrett Smith. The new name was still foreign to his ear, so accustomed to ‘Gary Sanderson’ that he nearly corrected people on occasion. He went to say ‘yes, Sir,’ then truncated the title, hissing, “Yess-s—”

The slight lisp from Roach’s missing teeth made it all the more embarrassing. His cheeks turned pink.

“I’m dead serious about those eyes. Have you seen yourself? Permanent dark circles, thousand yard stare. Even now, you look passed me rather than at me.”

“Mm. I hadn’t noticed,” he lied, sounding as unbelieving as possible. “Interesting observation.”

Vargas angled his wide body to watch the Sergeant work. “Yes, very.”

Roach shrunk into his shoulders when the Colonel leaned forward, into the small uniform shirt that hung baggy enough to have him dress-coded anyway. He prayed the man didn’t notice.

No such luck.

“Not everyone in the world is out to get you. I don’t know who taught you we are. Price wouldn’t put you in harm’s way.”

He shuddered at the memory of Shepherd and replied, “I’m well aware there’s people on my side, Sir.”

“I’m one of them. No need to act like a scared dog.”

What if Price was wrong again? What if Alejandro were schmoozing him, attempting to—Roach gritted his teeth, trying to allow his respect for the Colonel to overpower his panic. “I know.”

“Then relax; I won’t bite.”

His legs screamed to bolt before something terrible happened, old pain from Ultranationalist hands resurfacing. Cuts, punches, yanked hair. Having his head shoved underwater until the bubbles nearly stopped.

When he was first captured, their medics begrudgingly treated his burn wounds with as little care as possible (and he had no idea why they didn’t leave him to die). They ripped off the dressings as if peeling stubborn wallpaper, debrided his skin without anesthesia, re-mummified his writhing form as agony lingered. The worst came later, towards the end of his imprisonment. It happened once. Fingernails digging into his thighs, forcing his legs open. Wrists bound so tightly with fraying rope they sustained nerve damage. Bodily intrusions he longed to forget. Thankfully, his attacker was not gifted in certain areas; however, the bastard compensated with violent thrusts that tore through Roach anyway, mentally and physically, leaving a cloud of disgust surrounding his body even months later. Worse still, the fact that Roach had dreamed of those same activities, gentler, involving trusted individuals. These fantasies were tainted, of course. Everything about him felt rotten after his assault was said and done.

He knew that wasn’t true. The thoughts surfaced regardless.

With a deep sigh, he did his best to loosen up.

“Good,” Vargas praised when Roach visibly shoved down the tension. He plucked a rifle scope off the table and worked the cleaning cloth up and down its length in long strokes, wrist twisting as he did.

Roach watched momentarily, then gazed up and found the man already looking back. He said, “You don’t need to help, if you’re busy. I’m sure you’ve more important duties to tend.”

“More important…? It’s break time. I’m striking up conversation. You intrigue me.” A gleam in Vargas’ eye betrayed the true extent of his interest: Roach was a mystery to solve. A broken man still piecing himself together in the line of action, ‘freshly recruited,’ although it was clear the Colonel knew better.

Roach offered a weak smile. “There’s not much to know.”

“Ah. I see. Hate small talk?”

“Always have, S-sir.”

Vargas replaced the scope and began polishing the other hand guard. “There’s beauty in the little things, you know. Much to be learned from interactions you wouldn’t think twice over. Puzzles made from smaller pieces are more intricate by design.”

“They take longer to assemble. Not much time to spare in our line of work, is there?”

“I’ll spare my time for you.”

As sure as he was the Colonel meant nothing of it, Roach’s face flushed anyway. Even though the thought of Vargas picking out the truth made him queasy, his eyes opened wide, dry lips parting delicately.

“Oh,” he chuckled nervously, “thanks.”

The corner of Vargas’ mouth raised in amusement. However slight, the expression managed to reach his eyes with sincerity.

“Of course. We kinda… left you here toiling alone. I wasn’t expecting to be stuck here as well. I can only assume you feel swept under the rug, maybe a little useless,” he said, wiggling one hand like a balance. “I know I do. But you’ve been lightening the load on our shoulders when we return from missions, though. So don’t feel bad. We appreciate having maintained weapons and an organized living quarters after. Your work at the base is invaluable.”

The words struck a cord in Roach’s heart, feeling more understood than he had in ages. With the 141, he was merely doing his best. His accomplishments were stepping stones in recovery. He wasn’t capable of anything more until healthy, and even afterwards his achievements would be overshadowed by the unspoken thought that he managed them despite everything.

Roach became inseparable from his suffering.

He nodded. “No problem.”

The Colonel clapped a massive hand on his bony shoulder. “Don’t be so shy. I appreciate your hard work, lugging around heavy gear and checking ammo supplies. It hasn’t gone unnoticed, and I’ll be sure to mention it to Price.”

Again, he nodded, unsure of whether to give thanks once more.

“You’re doing great, Garrett. You deserve recognition.”

Tears pricked at the corners of Roach’s eyes. He blinked them back but ultimately failed, and two tiny droplets escaped down his cheeks in white-hot rivulets.

Vargas was taken aback. His brain caught up to speed as he exclaimed, “¡Ay, está bien, cuate! Don’t cry. What’s wrong?”

Roach let him rub circles into his upper back, resting his eyelids as the movement swayed his body. Vargas cupped Roach’s jaw in a warm, calloused palm, encouraging him to turn without force, fingers long enough to hit his sideburns. It felt great to be appreciated, even better to be touched without being handled like glass. In their efforts to help him feel safe, the 141 did the exact opposite of his captors. Instead of treating him like rubbish—like a fleshlight—he became a priceless heirloom that would shatter under a funny look. Intentions aside, he still felt like an object.

Alejandro touched him like a person.

“What’s wrong?” He repeated.

“You—you’re so nice,” the Sergeant whimpered, laying a hand over Vargas’ own on his face. “I dunno what to make of it.”

“Are your teammates not nice to you?”

“They are! They are. Just… Not like that. They don’t say things like that. I f-feel like a dead weight.”

“You’re not. And I mean it.”

Roach cried harder. Vargas stood and opened for a hug, which he lunged into wholeheartedly, draping himself onto the man’s chest as those strong, angelic arms wrapped around him. Breaths heaved Vargas’ sturdy pectorals and Roach along with them. It felt secure. His thoughts calmed to a trickle for once.

Suddenly, a warm kiss pressed into his temple, short circuiting his brain. He sighed as safety eased through him. Roach had never been kissed for himself. Hannah kissed him selflessly, mistakenly. She loved him; she wanted to kiss him for their sake, not knowing he'd never feel it as intended but unconsciously aware something was wrong as she floundered to fix things. It was through no fault of her own, having a coward of a husband who feigned heterosexuality to avoid family drama, and she eventually stopped trying. It hurt, seeing her sneak around with Mike. Gary ignored it, figuring she deserved someone able to cherish her entirely.

Gary did love her though, and Roach believed he always would no matter his identity. There was a reason he chose her to marry. Playing the part was easy with her kind heart and dark, witty jokes. She’d been his best friend, high school sweetheart, and first kiss—supposedly his last and only, if not for Simon coming along.

Simon.

Simon kissed him greedily when he needed reassurance.

‘Are you still here with me?’ He asked wordlessly when they were alone, boxing Roach against the wall in one final measure of security. He was aware of Hannah, his kisses selfish, self-aware, and sorry. ‘I need to mean something to you. I don’t care what, lieutenant or lover, just care for me.

Be there for me.’

Gary wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He orbited Simon because of their difference in rank, never falling in love because they were battle buddies and he was a married man. However, he couldn’t let his Lieutenant in as a brother-in-arms—not when he dreamt of holding him each night. Of fucking him stupid in the supply closets. No, Gary acted selfishly, too, devouring the only male attention ever thrown his way and giving Simon false hope, accepting kiss after undeserved kiss. Simon was kind while Gary was awful, returning the gentle reassurance of his lips despite never fully opening up, caught in Cupid’s purgatory where he lied to his commanding officer and wife simultaneously. Garrett could be better, if Simon would have him. If he could bear putting his damaged self on display for someone who loved him when he was whole.

A thumb wiped the moisture from Roach’s cheek.

This was different. Vargas put comfort in the gesture. It was Roach’s turn to be reassured, promised he was welcome in their embrace. Vargas didn’t need anything, didn’t want anything more than to learn who Garrett was now, and it was similar to Soap’s appeal—except Vargas was less skittish and unsure of what he himself had to offer, unbiased by the team’s grief-stricken reminiscing or the knowledge of Roach’s assault. Most importantly, despite all this mushy emotional crap, Vargas’ touch remained impersonal. Impermanent. Roach could safely make mistakes because he'd either die recapturing Los Vaqueros’ headquarters or return to the UK after the operation concluded.

“Colonel,” Roach whispered, pulling back to scan his face.

“Please. No one’s here. Call me Alejandro.”

“I couldn’t—”

“Really, do it. You’re not one of my men. We could be friends at the end of all this. You need more of those.”

“I’ll be too far.”

“I’ll make time to call.”

He hesitated. His arms snaked away from Vargas’ neck until his hands fell to the man’s chest, stabilizing himself on the broad ribcage waiting there, further examining the man’s expression for hints of annoyance. He found none.

Roach’s eyebrows furrowed and more happy tears begged to flow freely as he asked, “Do you mean it?”

“Absolutely, I do,” Alejandro replied. His grip slid to Roach’s hips to accommodate how the Sergeant repositioned. “Christ, Garrett, you’re even skinnier than you look. I can’t believe Price would… Never mind.”

He was right. He engulfed Roach. Only now, rather than make Roach feel lesser, freakish, and scared, it had him weak in the knees. Roach shivered and flicked his eyes to Alejandro’s lips, starving to feel them tenderly elsewhere, ashamed to desire such attention from the first man to give him understanding and selfless touch.

A Russian accent floated through his mind, dark with arousal and aggression. Maybe he was ‘just a worthless whore.’

“Please,” Roach asked, knowing exactly what he wanted yet not how to phrase it.

“Please, what?” It was an honest question, not a flirty tease.

Roach wanted more than friendship at the moment. A relationship wasn’t the goal; physical intimacy was. To get fucked out of his mind by someone harmless.

One of his hands drifted to the back of Alejandro’s neck who, thankfully, took the hint and leaned forward until their foreheads clunked.

“Please. I’m Roach. When we’re alone, I mean.”

He tilted his head and asked, “Roach? Why that?” sounding pleasantly confused yet excited at the prospect of an answer.

“It’s my old call sign. Don’t tell anyone. Not a soul.”

An answer and a secret, and a clue about Garrett’s past. Alejandro’s face lit up like he’d won a hundred quid. “Okay,” he grinned. Then, the serious tone in Roach’s voice transferred to his. “Okay. Sure. Anything you need.”

“Anything?”

“Anything I’m able to do, I will. I’m a man of my word.”

Alejandro was a stranger he’d known less than a month, but his kindness and sincerity were unending thus far.

Roach chewed his lip and said, “Kiss me again. Kiss me more. You did it right.”

He pulled back, gazing at Roach while one of his hands returned to the Sergeant’s jaw. His smile grew until his cheeks squished his eyes into crescents. “Mierda… How could I say no?”

Turning Roach’s head to the side, Alejandro’s lips reconnected with his temple, then stippled across his cheekbone and down the crooked bridge of his nose. Request granted, the Sergeant closed his eyes in contentment and hummed, reaching up into Alejandro’s hair. Heat rushed to his face and coiled in his belly as the Colonel traced kisses along one of his smile lines, planting a final one at the corner of his mouth before pausing.

“Am I still doing this right, cariño?”

His knees were quaking and his hands gripped Alejandro’s shirt for dear life. Even if he let go, he knew he’d be safe. “Yes,” he said, voice wavering.

“Want me to keep going?”

“God, yes. I’ve never had someone do this before.”

Alejandro frowned. “Not ever?”

“No. I’ve only ever been…” he struggled to think of an appropriate term, “…touched by people who wanted it from me. I’ve never had someone do it because I needed the attention.”

“You have mine now. You caught it the second we met.”

“…Why?” Roach asked.

“None of the files about you line up with who I’m holding in my fucking arms. I’ve met a different man than the recruit I approved on paper—I need to have a chat with Price about that. No puedo dejar de pensar en ti.”

“What does that mean?”

Alejandro grinned and whispered, “You’re peculiar. Mysterious.”

“There’s no mystery,” he insisted.

“Whatever you say, Roach. Even if I don’t figure you out, I'll enjoy learning what I can.”

“You’re too much. Shut up and keep kissing.”

He caught Roach’s chin and guided the Sergeant’s lips into his own, making no attempts to part them or shove his tongue in between, maintaining comfortable pressure that broke briefly between smooches. His exhales blew hot. His stubble tickled when he trailed up Roach’s jaw and planted one below his ear.

Roach shivered and moaned behind his puckered mouth, savoring the way Alejandro curled over his body in response, now looking up so their lips remained connected while the man cradled his head and the small of his back. When Alejandro relented Roach groaned in protest, attempting to pull him back by the collar.

He chuckled. “I was going to ask if you’re still enjoying this. I think I got my answer, th—”

Roach cut him off with an open-mouthed kiss, hoisting himself up on tip-toes instead since Alejandro was immovable and took too long closing the gap of his own accord. It elicited a surprised gasp that Roach swallowed whole, using it as an opportunity to press his tongue against the Colonel’s teeth. Fingers tangled in his hair, offering comfortable encouragement rather than balling into a fist and yanking.

Then, Alejandro moaned.

And the sound rolled as deep and powerful as an ocean current,

And it flowed up the arc of Roach’s spine slow and sweet like molasses,

And Roach couldn’t take it anymore.

“My legs are tired,” he complained, limbs shaking, “and my ass hurts from the chair.”

“My lap is pretty comfortable.”

Just what he wanted to hear. He grinned, winded, huffing desperately through closed teeth, “I dunno if can I just take your word for it.”

“Aw, don’t trust me?”

“What can I say? I’m a skeptic,” Roach laughed nervously. Having little experience, flirting wasn’t his forte. “Can we move to that couch in the sleeping quarters so I can find out for myself?”

Alejandro blessed him with a look of surprise that bloomed into a beaming smile. “Lead the way.”

Roach took his wrist (and was allowed) to drag him. They burst through the door, Alejandro flopping onto the aforementioned futon with creaking springs. Roach straddled him immediately and the Colonel’s hands returned to his hips, untucking the baggy shirt from his loose pants, slipping under its hem. It felt electric. It had him shaking like a dog.

“You alright?”

“Just nerves,” he assured.

“Relax. I’ve got you.”

Unbuttoning his own fly, Roach cursed at the pre-cum already forming a wet patch on his boxers.

“Already excited, cariño?”

“Sorry. Y-you’re very attractive.”

Their half-hard cocks throbbed together.

“You’re one to talk,” Alejandro said and lifted Roach’s shirt, mouth gaping at the exposed fuzzy skin beneath.

The shame of having a body surged in Roach’s mind. “I used to have more definition. I was hotter before…”

Those hot, rough hands roamed further under Roach’s uniform, ghosting over his ribs. Alejandro said, “I want you however you are.”

“I’m doing much better than in September.”

“Good,” He replied and leaned in for another slow kiss.

Roach moaned into it as fingers tweaked his nipples. No matter the pleasure, he put his own hands over Alejandro’s and pulled them off. The man detached at the first hint of resistance.

“Hm? Don’t like your chest played with?”

“No, I do! I just… was curious if you’d stop when I wanted.”

Alejandro’s eyes widened. He was intelligent; he read between the lines before Roach finished writing them.

The Sergeant continued. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

Pulling him in tight, Alejandro buried himself in Roach’s neck and whispered, “Tesoro. If you want me to stop, tell me! It would kill me to know I hurt you.”

“I will,” he smiled, leading the man's focus back to his nipples, who immediately resumed toying with them. “You know, for a bloody colonel, you sure do love to follow my directions.”

“A good one knows when to stop commanding and listen. Competent sergeants know what they need. Besides, it’s still break time. I’m just Alejandro. You’re just Roach.”

Before Roach could reply, Alejandro leaned forward and sucked a nipple into his warm, wet mouth while flicking the other, earning a gasp at the tongue teasing it and wriggling hips searching for friction. Their cocks pressed together as Roach ground his pelvis down, then again, driving the rhythm of their dry humping as fast as he could. Unfortunately, in his affected state, this wasn’t that fast.

He growled in frustration, the pleasure simultaneously too much in his inexperience, yet too little.

“What’s wrong, hm?”

“I want it harder!”

Alejandro tested the waters, applying gentle pressure as he bit Roach’s pectoral.

His reply was somewhere between a whimper and yelp. “Nn!~ Not what I meant!”

The man simply soothed it with his tongue, reaching up to caress Roach’s head.

“The grinding, that’s what I mean.”

With a slow grip on Roach’s waist, giving him time to realize and protest if desired, Alejandro used those massive muscles to rock him back and forth.

#AleRoach #AlejandroRoach #Gary “Roach” Sanderson #nsft #Alejandro Vargas

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serickswrites · 1 year ago

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Recording VIII

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Warnings: hospital, referenced captivity, referenced torture, referenced temporary character death, referenced restraints, referenced rescue, hurt/comfort, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

James lay in the hospital bed, looking smaller than Max had ever seen him. The hospital had cleaned his hair. Cleaned the wounds on his face, and Max imagined, cleaned the wounds that were out of sight under the blankets. But James still looked terrible. He was almost as pale as the sheets he was under and his face still swollen from all the beatings. The bruises on his throat were more pronounced than before.

But he was alive.

“Hey, buddy,” Max said as he entered the room.

“Max,” James croaked. He blinked his one working eye. “You have to hurry.”

“I’m here. We’re all here, James. They’re just letting one of us in at a time. You’re in a fragile state.”

James swallowed before speaking again. “You have to hurry. He needs our help.”

“Who?”

“Lance. He needs help. Dexter,” James’ eye welled up with tears, “Dexter is going to hurt him. We have to help him. Please.”

“Why would we help him?” Max didn’t agree with Kyle’s interrogation style, but he agreed with Kyle’s assessment that Lance hadn’t been cooperating. And that he should face the consequences.

“He needs help. He helped me. As much as he could. Please.”

Max swallowed. Could the team have been wrong about Lance? “He’s out. We got him out.”

James sagged with relief. He closed his eye. “Good. That’s good.”

“How did he help you?”

James was quiet for so long that Max thought perhaps he had fallen asleep again. “He didn’t let me die.” James’ voice was barely audible. “He could have. But he didn’t. I owe him, Max. We have to help him.”

Max stood up. “We’ll help him. You just focus on getting better.”

James nodded, his eye drifting closed. “Thanks. For….for everything.”

Max ducked his head. “You would have done the same for any of us.”

Before long, Max was back at headquarters, Lily and Kyle in tow. “I think it’s time for you to be a little more forth coming with us,” Max said as he sat down opposite Lance.

Lance surveyed him with wary eyes. “You spoke with James?”

Max nodded. “I did.”

Lance nodded his head twice. “I’m glad to hear he’s still alive. He seems like a pretty stand up guy.”

“The only thing he wanted was to be sure you were safe. Why?” Max wasn’t willing to give Lance the benefit of the doubt yet. He wasn’t sure that James was right.

Lance looked away. “He might feel he owes me.”

“Why?”

“Because he didn’t die. I told him he wouldn’t. I promised him he wouldn’t. And he didn’t.”

“That’s why you kept sending the videos and talking on them? So he would know?” Lily shook her head. “But you didn’t stop any of the torture.”

Lance looked up. “If you think that I could have stopped Dexter, could have stopped any of it, don’t you think I would have done that? You think I enjoyed watching Dexter beat him to death?”

“You did nothing to stop it, so yeah.” Kyle leaned against the door jam, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

“The only thing that would have made Dexter beat him more, kill him faster, was direct interference. The best I could do was make sure you got the videos. And take more than I was ordered to.” Lance sighed. “Look, I know you don’t believe me. That’s fine. But if you aren’t going to believe me and you aren’t going to let me go, you can just lock me up. I won’t fight. I won’t do anything. But I’m tired of answering the same questions.”

Max shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

“What?” Lance’s eyes were wary once more.

“I’m not interrogating you. I’m interviewing you. James wants you on the team. For whatever delusional reason he has in his head, I have to believe him. He brought all of us together, so I trust his judgment of character. So you’re on, if you like.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Even though he,” he nodded towards Kyle, “wants me dead?”

Kyle frowned. “If James says you’re good. Then you’re good. Doesn’t mean I have to like you. You have to earn that, newbie.”

“And if I decline?”

“Then we let you go. James will be disappointed of course, but if that’s what you want.” Lily watched him with careful eyes.

Lance considered a moment. “I’ll join you. I just don’t know where you’ll trust me to be.”

“Wherever James tells us. Welcome aboard.” Max reached over to uncuff Lance but stopped as Lance flinched. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just had to be sure…”

“That I didn’t torture your leader. Yeah, I know. Doesn’t change the fact that I was trapped under a maniac for years. I think we all need a little time to adjust.” Lance withdrew his hands from the table.

“He asked if you would visit him, you know.” Lily said softly. “I’ll take you, if you like.”

Lance nodded. “I’d like that very much.”

Tags: @scarletfern@whumperfultime@kim-poce@whumpwillow@damnitiscrewedupagain@extemporary-whump@st0rmm@pigeonwhumps@dontworrycomics@magziemakeswhatever@enteredin2eternity@mefattortoise@i-cant-think-of-a-new-username@paininmyheart-imalive@parad0xical2@whumpitywhumpwhump@ohwhumpydays@painsthegame@sweetwhumpandhellacomf@off-brand-likes@averydistinctivewhump@justwhumpythings@kim-poce@bookworm7543@steelandblood @wingsofadragonsstuff @basica11ywhumped@parad0xical2@mypulseisimpulsive@mefattortoise@ohwhumpydays@gala1981@whatiswhump@diamond-flavored-whump@courtneygacha@theelvishcowgirl@aarika-merrill@magziemakeswhatever @bluesoulpeace

#serickswrites #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump community #tw hospital #tw referenced captivity #tw referenced torture #tw referenced temporary character death #tw referenced restraints #tw referenced rescue #hurt/recovery #hurt/comfort #hurt/aftermath #queue #this is it! the final installation #team whump

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pixelated-whump · 1 year ago

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TWs: Referenced trafficking (I intended it to be like... hybrid trafficking but you can imagine it as whatever), Suicidal Whumpee

Beneath the cut is a short drabble I wrote surrounding a scenario in my head, but I barely know anything about the fandom I wanted to write it for, so I made it more ambiguous.

Whumpee barely has the energy to lift their head as someone enters their cell. “Are you here to kill me?” They rasp, a glimmer of hope in their chest. They can finally rest.

The person looks taken aback by their question. They pause for a moment before answering. “No, I’m here to rescue you. I’m with an organization that gets trafficked people back home.”

Their response is carefully crafted. Whumpee hates them for it. “...Why? Why me..?”

The person approaches them carefully, like they’re a cornered rat. “Why wouldn’t I help you?” They ask, kneeling in front of Whumpee. Their face is so kind.

“I don’t want to live,” Whumpee says softly. “You’d be doing me a favor by killing me.”

The person purses their lips. “Forgive me for being selfish, but I don’t want your blood on my hands.”

Whumpee lets their head drop back onto their arms. The person places a gentle hand on their back. “Can I pick you up?”

“...Yeah.”

#tw trafficking #tw // trafficking #tw: trafficking #tw sui ideation #tw // sui ideation #tw: sui ideation #whump #whumpee #caretaker #at least that's what i intended lol #whump tropes #whump prompts #whump scenario #whump ideas #whump drabble #i think #pixel's whump

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stationary-cycle-in-motion · 5 months ago

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@augusnippets day 5: concussion

tw: concussion, frostbite, vomiting, referenced physical abuse

It’s been a long time since Padmé’s been afraid of the dark, but the flicker of weak flames makes shadows dance across the wall, and she can’t help but think of monsters lurking in the dark. The cave feels even more claustrophobic now that she’s alone with nothing but her worry and an overactive imagination.

A rustle, like footprints in the snow, and Padmé tenses, reaches for a blaster that’s no longer clipped to her belt. She grits her teeth; she’s always hated feeling defenseless.

Two listing figures collapse into the safety of the cave, and Padmé nearly sobs with relief.

“Rex! Obi-Wan! Are you alright?”

Rex groans as he struggles to drag Obi-Wan’s limp figure deeper into the cave. “I’m fine, but the general’s most likely got a bad case of frostbite.”

“I don’t have–” Obi-Wan’s protest is cut short by a wet retching sound, and the floor of the cave is painted with the remains of the champagne and hors d’oeuvres from the ratification celebration.

Rex fixes Padmé with a longsuffering stare. It isn’t funny, but the morbid terror of losing Obi-Wan to frostbite in a tiny cave, so close yet so far from rescue, is so bizarre, laughter is the only outlet that makes sense. Before she knows it, the three of them are doubled over next to the fire, wheezing and bleeding tears.

As Obi-Wan’s laughter simmers to a chuckle, Padmé looks at him, really looks. His hair is a tousled mess, a thin layer of frost coats his singed robes and skin, there’s vomit all over his knees, and his fingertips are, in fact, blue. He looks a far cry from the composed Jedi Master he usually is, and it’s surreal to remember he’s only human, utterly vincible.

“The frostbite’s not bothering me much; I lost feeling in my limbs hours ago.” Obi-Wan holds his frozen hands up to the fire, scrunches his eyes shut. “It’s this blasted concussion that’s killing me.”

“You got a concussion? When?” Rex asks, concerned, and Padmé knows he’s panicking thinking he accidently gave it to him while he was dragging Obi-Wan through the snow.

“Oh, you know,” Obi-Wan replies absentmindedly. “Anakin just–”

Fear spikes. “Anakin gave it to you?” The bruise on her cheek throbs.

“Threw me into a wall,” Obi-Wan mumbles. “Rude. I can avoid blaster fire perfectly fine on my own, y’know.”

She forces herself to relax. Only an accident. Anakin wouldn’t mean to, he would never. Of course, that was what he’d said after he’d hit her–

A weight slumps onto Padmé’s shoulder, startling her out of her spiral. Obi-Wan turns his head, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

Padmé and Rex exchange bemused looks. “Obi-Wan, are you okay?”

“Fire’s too bright.”

Right. Concussion.

Padmé drapes an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer and pointedly ignoring how the ice cold of his skin makes her shiver.

Sitting like this, curled into the safety of each other, it’s… easy. Easy in a way comforting Anakin has never been.

The thought shouldn’t disturb her as much as it does.

#by stationary_cycle #star wars #augusnippets day 5 #star wars fanfiction #blurb #snippet #obi wan kenobi #padme amidala #captain rex #augusnippets #Obi wan/padme/rex

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aftgficrec · 4 months ago

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Hi! I was wondering if you know of any fics that explore the friendship between Andrew and Kevin? Especially how they became close after Kevin came to the Foxes with a broken hand. I just think their friendship is so interesting, and I am so curious about how it started. Thank you!

@lynntjeeee and @sayonara-you-weeaboo-shits: These asks overlapped, so we combined them and separated fic types with subheads. The last ones under ‘you may also like’ don’t fit neatly but still hold the main ideas found in pre canon Kevin & Andrew stories. Unfortunately most are not very long. -A

also see:

‘a foxhole collection…’ Chapter 30 here

‘The gentle violence of loving you’ and ‘I Don't Know How to Breathe’ here

‘I came for the safety (stayed 'cause you made me feel)’ here

‘Searchlights’ here

‘Trust Me’ here

you may also like:

higher ground by darkoceanbottom [Rated T, 6085 Words, Complete, 2021]

Kevin Day and identity.

tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: canonical character death

Roaring Like Beasts Full Of Rage by Sashe [Rated E, 30713 Words, Incomplete, Updated June 2024]

The PSU Foxes' luck takes a turn when they take in the Raven's injured goalkeeper Andrew Doe. Andrew isn't exactly happy to be there, treated as a spectacle by the media, an outcast by his new team and a let down by the family that never wanted him. He's especially not happy about the new striker recruit, who no one else seems to think is supicious. or Roleswap canon divergent where Raven!Andrew has a broken hand and Wymack has been raising Kevin.

tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced psychological abuse, tw: implied/referenced drug addiction, tw: panic attacks

The Truth Hurts Worse by mcmeasle [Rated T, 2742 Words, Complete, 2024]

Kevin chattered on as Andrew opened the door and tuned out the cadence of his voice, Kevin’s full attention on Andrew. Immediately, Andrew locked on to the man with bright red hair sitting in his desk chair, feet thrown on top of the desk with ankles crossed, tapping an impressive looking knife blade over his fingertips. “Welcome home,” the stranger said cheerily, a sharp smile wending its way onto his lips, icy blue eyes locked onto Andrew. —- Or Butcher!Neil makes a house call

tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon

decline of the empire by drewdrugs [Rated T, 1507 Words, Complete, AFTG Mixtape Exchange 2024]

Kevin embraced the idea that, even he had never been taught by his father, he was learning to lose now. The structures of his coliseum were crumbling and there was nothing that could be done to stop it. This time, Andrew couldn't do anything for him. Or at least that's what he believed.

tw: recreational drug use, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: implied/referenced self harm

NB: this last one is the culmination of Kevin & Andrew’s deal from the very beginning

Interesting by ashestoashes7 [Rated T, 6632 Words, Complete, AFTG 2024 Olympics]

Andrew decided to make the Exy Olympic Finals more interesting. No one else knew what to do with that, not even his own teammates, but Andrew and boredom was a recipe for the unexpected. After all, it was not every day a goalkeeper slammed the ball down the court and bathed the opposition in red.

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aheckinmess · 11 months ago

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(One-shot series 1/3 chapters posted - posts regularly on Saturdays. If anyone knows who to credit for the Hizashi fanart, please let me know!) Read on AO3.

Tags: Graphic violence, Hizashi Yamada x OC, Present Mic, Present Mic saves the day, Hizashi Yamada is a ray of sunshine, angst, hurt/comfort, scared reader, pro hero rescue

Word Count: 4,364 words

Summary: Ichijiku Aoki has lived in hell with Kigai as her captor for three years. During a chance encounter at a dance club, she runs into her first breath of fresh air in years: Hizashi Yamada. Kigai makes it clear that Ichi belongs to him, so dare she hope for a better life and an escape from her prison?

Author's Note: I haven't posted fanfiction in years, but after a two-year obsession with My Hero Academia, I have more than enough content to share. This first series is pretty dark, but there's some comfort and sweetness along the way. Enjoy.

TW: Implied/Referenced Sexual, Physical, and Emotional Abuse

Chapter 1: Time Signatures

Ichijiku (Tigress)

In another life, listening to the pulsating beat of the music in the club might be fun. I might feed off of the voices singing at the top of their lungs, or delight in the changing colors flashing all around the dance floor.

But I’m not living in another life. I’m living in hell.

“Give her another shot.” Kigai’s voice rises over the crowd as he gives me a look. Don’t you tell a goddamn soul what I’m doing or you won’t live to see the sunrise. His quirk stretches into my mind and reminds me just who I belong to. Of course, the bruises littering my thighs are testament to that too. Kigai would never let me go out in anything other than skinny jeans, so it’s not like anyone can see, though.

No one ever sees.

The bartender gives me a smile and I play the perfect part of being his playful partner, leaning over to give Kigai a kiss on his cheek, a loving gaze, and a swat at his butt while bile turns over in my stomach. I throw back the shot of tequila before Kigai puts his hands at my hips and looks directly at me. You’d better get out on that dance floor and pretend you’re having a good time. People have started looking at you. “Why don’t you go have some fun, sugar? I know you don’t feel good, but the dance floor has always helped you clear your mind.”

He plants a slow and tender kiss on my lips, but all I feel is dread. I want to feel happy. I want to feel a flutter in my chest. I want to feel anything. Anything but Kigai.

You’re mine, Ichi. And don’t you forget that. His eyes bore into mine and then he turns away, laughing at a joke Shihito tells him. I can feel his gaze follow me as I put on my brave face and walk through the dance floor.

In some ways, I’m grateful for the tequila. Otherwise I’d never be able to play like everything’s fine. Winding my way through the undulating bodies feels easier to bear than seeing that look on Kigai’s face. The threat that always lingers there. In this mingling of bodies I can close my eyes and lose myself to the music, feel the beat move in conjunction with me instead of forcing me to move with it.

The only time I’m conscious of is the time signature in the music. Minutes could pass, or it could be hours. What’s important is that Kigai doesn’t cut in and I can’t see those eyes trapping me in their domineering gaze.

For the first time in three years, I’m reminded of the better parts of life.

And then the better part of life bumps into me.

“Whoops! Hey there, little lady. Sorry for the intrusion.” A blonde man with a broad smile and glasses apologizes to me. “Did I hurt you?”

For a moment my breath is taken away and my façade cracks. The best way I can describe him is pure sunshine. He only looks at me for a moment with that grin but the warmth seeps into my skin and makes me yearn for a normal life. My throat gets tight. Help me. I want to say. Please make him leave me alone.

“Woah, hey, is everything okay? Did I really hurt you?” His puts a soothing arm on my shoulder as he makes himself heard over the crowd. “Why don’t you come sit down?”

“No!” I panic, forcing a grin on my face and hoping that he’ll shake it off as me being drunk. That’s what everyone else has done. “Really, it’s okay. I just get emotional when I’m drunk. I’m sorry. You just took me by surprise.” I shake my head as if trying to clear my mind and turn away from him. You’re too pure for someone like me, too beautiful for this world. If Kigai knew I slipped up…I can’t drag you down into this. You could get hurt.

“Hey, wait!” I hear him call behind me, but I ignore it and keep moving.

My feet rush towards the bathroom. I head inside and slam the first stall door I see before heaving into the porcelain bowl. Get it together, Ichijiku. I’ll kill Kigai. We can’t. I sob in the stall. We can’t do anything. Kigai has my family on his radar. We’re stuck! What a foul sack of shit. He’s not worth the stripes on my skin. I want to die. I know, Little Cub, and I’d surely embrace death knowing that you didn’t have to suffer this any longer. But we have to hold on. Change is coming. I can feel it in my bristling fur.

There’s a banging at the door that I know means I’m in trouble. I quickly wipe the tears from my cheeks frantically and flush the toilet before wetting a paper towel and dabbing under my eyes. Breathe. Get it together. We’ll survive. I’m right here with you.

I step out of the bathroom and Kigai’s hand wraps around my arm as he pulls me aside.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” He puts on a concerned simper, feeling my forehead with his free hand. You’re supposed to tell me where you’re going and why. You were trying to run away, weren’t you, bitch? “I thought you were hurt. Did you get sick?”

“I think I drank too much.” I sniffle, looking down so he can’t use his quirk and I don’t have to listen to his haunting voice in my thoughts. It’s a mistake.

His hand comes under my chin. To an outside party it might look like he’s being a tender lover, but there’s bite in the way his fingers dig into my skin. You know I hate when you look away from me, whore.

“Honey, you only had one shot. When did you become such a lightweight?” He laughs. I’m sick of your damn excuses. He runs his fingers through my hair and his hands cup my cheeks as he kisses my forehead. “But if you need to take a seat, go ahead.” Stay where I can see you.

“Thanks, love.” I return his gesture of affection with a hug and a peck on his cheek.

For a while, I sit at the bar again, scrolling through my phone to look busy. I can’t see Kigai, but I don’t need to. His gaze always follows me, even when he’s not in the room.

“It looks like you needed a break, huh?” The blonde from earlier takes residence in the seat next to me.

I turn to look at him as I nurse a lemonade. He’s like a breath of fresh air.

“Yeah.” I look down at the table again and trace around the rim of my glass. “Sorry about earlier. I think I’d been dancing too long and was getting overheated.”

“Yeah, the dance floor can get overwhelming if you’re not used to it.” He laughs. The sound sings through my bones.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Yamada Hizashi. But you can call me Hizashi.” He tilts his head like a puppy and the lights around him make him appear almost angelic. “What’s yours?”

“Ichijiku.”

“Nice to formally meet you, Ichijiku.” He answers. “Was that your boyfriend I saw earlier?”

“Yes.” I smile into my cup to hide the disgust in my eyes. God, I wish he wasn’t. “He was making sure I was okay.”

“Ah, good to know. From back there it looked like he was going to hurt you, but I was obviously mistaken. I’m glad you’re safe, you know?”

Something about the way he says it makes me look up at him and feel more hope than I have in a long time. I feel seen and heard. After a cursory glance around the club without seeing Kigai, I feel safe enough to answer.

“Kigai’s not a dangerous man. He doesn’t hit me and he likes to make sure I’m taken care of.” My eyes scream the opposite. I hope he catches it. I hope he doesn’t. “He knows my favorite colors and we watch my favorite movies all the time and he loves me. He never calls me names and he always asks before he touches me; Kigai doesn’t want to hurt me.”

Hizashi’s hand moves closer to mine and when I look at him I don’t feel sick.

“So you don’t need my help at all, do you?” He asks. He doesn’t break my gaze.

My lips part in a relieved gasp; I’m ready to tell him everything, but my eyes hold terror as Kigai catches my gaze from across the room. What the hell are you telling him? His smile follows me even though he’s standing beside the DJ. Abruptly, I stand and move away from Hizashi.

“It would be better if you stayed away from me.” I hiss under my breath, cursing myself for wishing for a normal life. Cursing myself for dreaming that I’d ever be able to get away from Kigai. What was I thinking? If Kigai finds out, it’ll be my head. But at least Hizashi knows. Maybe he can get help! Why would he help me? He probably has no idea I need help. I was reading too much into it. No one ever notices the bruises. Or they make excuses if they do. That’s right. No one cares about you. Who cares about a stupid whore? She’s not a whore. Kigai’s a manipulator and a rapist, and that’s all there is to it, fiend.

“Are you looking at my girl?” I’m suddenly face to chest with Kigai. Shit. He was closer than I realized. Fuck!

“Kigai, honey, it’s okay. I was just coming to find you. It’s fine.” I place my hand on his arm and squeeze, trying to redirect him.

“No, it’s not fucking okay.” Kigai growls, glaring bullets into Hizashi’s eyes.

“Hey, man. You have the wrong idea.” Hizashi puts his hands up, looking composed and calm. See? He knows nothing. Everything you told him went straight over his head. “She bumped into me earlier and I was just making sure she’d gotten back to the bar safely.”

“She bumped into you? Or were you trying to cop a feel?” Kigai snarls, dangerously tense.

“Kigai, please.” I beg, pulling at the front of his shirt to make him look at me. Why the hell did you let him get close to you, huh? You know you belong to me. Not some sleaze who’s just going to fuck you and leave you out to dry. After everything I’ve done for you. His words reach into my mind and I do the only thing I can to get out of the situation. I reach up around his neck and pull him in for a kiss.

Thankfully, Kigai seems to take the bait. He becomes more possessive, gripping my hips so hard I know there’ll be bruises there in the morning. His tongue invades my mouth and he tugs fiercely at my lip. When he pulls back, he still turns a fiery glare onto Hizashi.

“Don’t you get near my girl again, got it?” Kigai wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close to him. My eyes lose their shine. I guess that’s it. We’re stuck again. All in good time, Little Cub. All in good time.

He pulls me away and I risk one last glance back at Hizashi. One last hopeful plea begging him to help, but he’s not looking back at me.

. . . . .

Six months go by that Kigai refuses to take me out again. For six months he beats the lesson into me.

“You were trying to be a clever little whore, weren’t you?” His foot connects with my jaw, but I don’t make a sound. I take it. “Thought you had a savior. Someone to take you away from me, right? But you’re mine! If you left me do you know what that would mean for your family? For you?” He yanks me up by my hair. “They’d be up shit creek without a paddle and it’d be all your fault!”

“I’m sorry, love.” I whimper out, hating the taste of the words on my tongue. “It won’t happen again.”

“Damn right it won’t.” He lets go of me and I catch the brunt of my weight on my arms. Tears trickle down my cheeks and then suddenly he pulls me into his arms and then onto his lap on the bed.

“You know I love you, right?” He coos in my ear, saying the words that my heart wants to hear in the most twisted tones. “It’s just…seeing you with that other man…mmm…I hated seeing that. You know he was just trying to manipulate you, right? Use you when you were vulnerable?”

You’d know all about that wouldn’t you? I wish I could have been more specific…told him something more concrete. Then maybe I wouldn’t be stuck here. It’s not your fault, Dear One. “I know, Kigai. I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling good and I just wanted someone to talk to.”

His grip tightens on me. “You could have found me.”

“You were busy, Kigai, I didn’t want to ruin your time.” I turn and kiss his cheek to make the comment more believable. “I love you.”

“Mmm, that’s what I like to hear.” He kisses under my ear and it burns. Nauseous flames swim along my body until he leaves me broken under the covers. I curl up into a ball as he gets up from the covers and starts grabbing his clothes. “C’mon, baby, get your clothes on. I think you’ve learned your lesson. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

I don’t question it. I’m silent as I pull on my clothes and fix my hair. When I’m ready, I take the arm he offers me.

“You’re gonna like this, baby.” He rubs a small bruise he made at my neck, smiling as we head out into the street and he looks at me. You’d better not tell anyone it’s anything other than a love bite, got it? Or I’ll have your family hunted down with a snap of my fingers. “Look at how beautiful you look with my marks on you. Everyone will know who you belong to, yeah?”

“Of course. Only yours.” I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat.

Before long he leads me to a karaoke bar. The sight of it puts a pep in my step; even though I’d rather be here with anyone else except Kigai, this is the most I’ve gotten out in months. I’ll take what I can get.

“A karaoke bar? How did you know?” I giggle, kissing his cheek as I slip into the assumed role.

“I know my babygirl.” He pauses to kiss me roughly outside the door before pulling me inside. He pays for the two of us before we’re taken to a private room where a few of his friends are waiting. “I hope you don’t mind, some of my buddies came to join us.”

“It’s okay.” I promise, even though seeing all of them makes my heart sink. “As long as they don’t bother me.”

“They’ve already been warned, babe, they’ve already been warned.” Kigai winks at me. Don’t test those waters after I’ve let you out. “Would you like to go first?”

“Yes, please.”

Once again, the music distracts me from my own crumbling little world. Life seems full of more promise as the notes spill from my lips.

“Hey, Takamaru! I’ve gotta take a piss. Keep an eye on my girl, okay? Make sure she doesn’t get into too much trouble.” Kigai chuckles and glances at me before he leaves. Don’t do anything stupid.

“Sure, man.” Takamaru doesn’t even look in Kigai’s direction. He’s too busy focusing on Shihito’s selection. “What the fuck, man?! You’ve sung homura three times already! Pick something new.”

“Shut up, Taka, it’s the only song I know.” Shihito huffs, pulling up the microphone again.

“Hey, do you guys mind if I go grab a snack?” I ask, wanting to get some fresh air without Kigai hovering over me. If he gets back before I do, I can always blame Takamaru. He never goes too hard on his buddies.

“Sure, Ichi. Can you grab me a granola bar while you’re at it?” Takamaru tosses me a couple yen.

“Sure thing.” I nod and head towards the vending machine on the balcony.

I walk by a room where I hear such sweet sonorous notes I can’t help but glance into the window. Hizashi?! My feet stutter and I nearly trip. I have to keep walking. Kigai is liable to beat him up if he even sees he’s in the same building. If I were to stop and wave? Impossible. I force myself to keep walking until I make it to the machine.

Once I’ve got a pack of crackers and Taka’s granola bar, I hang over the railing and take a deep breath. When did this all start? Why did I let myself get roped into this? I hate this… None of this is your fault, Little One. Kigai is a manipulator and a fiend. And his quirk makes it inanely difficult to give any sort of proof to the authorities of your predicament.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Hizashi’s voice joins me on the balcony. I jump back as if stung and start backing away from him. His moves his hands from his pockets and holds them up in surrender. “Woah, hey, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” I turn to look and make sure Kigai isn’t headed back to our karaoke room and then back to Hizashi. “You can’t be here.”

“Is he hurting you?” He asks me bluntly, eyes somehow fierce and kind all at once.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I choke out, starting to speed walk back into the building. This can’t be happening. Kigai’s going to kill him if he sees him anywhere near me!

His hand grabs my wrist and I’m forced to pause and turn back to him.

“Is he hurting you, Ichijiku?”

The first time I saw his gaze in the club, I nearly lost myself. Seeing it now, so intentional and worried…I feel I have no choice.

“Yes.” I hiss, eyes watering. “Yes, he hurts me. All the time. For big things, for little things. But I take it, okay?” Part of me is angry. Not even at Hizashi, just everything in general. Why the hell am I in this predicament? What did I do except love people and want them to love me back? It’s okay. You’re allowed to be angry. Especially at this situation. “I take it because Kigai says he’ll hurt my family if I don’t. Because they’ll die if I don’t suck it up like a good girl, alright? And he’s going to hurt you too, Hizashi. He’ll hurt you really bad if you so much as look at me. If you’re so much as seen with me.” I keep glancing back, waiting at any moment for Kigai to round the corner and exact his punishment. “So go! Leave me alone. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt for my sake…please.” I beg, finally yanking my hand free of his hold.

When I hear Kigai’s voice down the hall, I don’t look back. I rush back into the room just in time and hand Taka his granola bar. I start nibbling on my crackers so I can compose my face before he walks in. I smile at him and offer him a cracker.

“Oo, got me a snack, baby?” He takes the whole pack and leaves me the one. “Thanks.”

The rest of the evening, I’m too nervous to sing like I want to. I pick one or two songs to make sure Kigai’s off my scent, but mostly I watch him and his friends sing. In reality, I keep watching the door to make sure Hizashi doesn’t walk by.

By the time we get ready to leave, it’s dark. I assume that Hizsahi is long gone, because as we walk by his room on our way out, it’s empty and quiet. Thank you, Lord. He deserves a better lot in life than this.

“Damn, Kigai, every time we go out for karaoke I forget just how shitty of a singer you are.” Taka teases as we give the desk lady her key back.

“Hey, man! I’m not that bad. At least I can carry a tune.”

“Barely.” He snorts, before nudging Shihito. “And this fucker only has one song he can sing!”

The ribbing continues as we walk out the door. I keep my eyes down and my arm wrapped around Kigai’s until a group of voices convene on us and someone suddenly pulls me out of Kigai’s grasp.

“Police! Get on the ground, now!” Someone barks out, and my brain struggles to keep up.

Kigai and his pals look shocked to say the least. Kigai is the only one who tries to struggle, of course. “Get the fuck off me! Let my girl go! Babygirl, tell these fuckers to get off me!”

“Don’t hurt him!” I call out, aching heart bleeding for him even in spite of all the bruises he’s left on my heart and my body.

“Get on the ground.” The cop repeats, needing two more officers to help bring Kigai down to the ground. “Sir, you’re under arrest.”

The world around me sways. My breath gets shaky and I start crying as I beg them to leave him alone. What am I doing?! I want them to take him but… He’s a manipulator. He’s made you afraid and obligated to him. I want him out of my life. I don’t ever want to see him again. My pleas ultimately die down as my sobs get louder.

The weather is colder in the darkness. My body starts shaking and I start swaying.

“It’s okay, ma’am. We’ll get it taken care of. You’re safe now.” The woman holding me rubs my shoulders and starts looking around. “Can one of you grab a jacket for–”

“I’ve got it taken care of.” Hizashi’s voice melts into my eardrums as the police get Kigai into the back of their cruiser. I wrap my arms around myself and then he’s got something warm and soft wrapped around my shoulders. “Here. Take my jacket.”

I turn to Hizashi and then back to the police cruiser. I look at the woman.

“Excuse me, Officer?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Th–That man…Kigai…he…he said he’d hurt my family if I ever turned him in. Are they–”

“This young man here told us the story. We’ve got a unit at their house.” She assures me, rubbing my shoulder. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore, honey. We’ve got it all covered. We’ve been trying to find definitive evidence to put this guy away for years.”

I look at her, disbelieving. “H=How did you find any evidence?”

The officer looks at the cruiser as Kigai is hauled off, before she looks at Hizashi with a smile and then back to me. “Your friend here said that he recorded your conversation in the karaoke place. He said he’d previously met you and was suspicious of the situation.”

“I hadn’t seen you in months. I was scared I was too late to do anything, so when I saw you…” He pauses. “I started recording on my phone before I walked over to talk to you. I was hoping that maybe if I was blunt enough…you might tell me what was going on.” Hizashi admits sheepishly. “So we left as soon as I got the evidence just in case your group was planning on leaving soon.”

For a long time, I just stare at him. I memorize everything I can about him. The way his hair frames his face and the small, pampered mustache making his smile pop out on his face. Then there’s his eyes.

One look and my body works without my permission. I wrap my arms around him, tackling him into a hug and feeling three years of pain and grief claw out of my chest and manifest as sobs.

“Thank you, Hizashi.” I hold his back in a death grip, and I feel him pat my back delicately.

“I couldn’t sit by and watch you get hurt without doing anything.”

“Ma’am, would you like me to walk you to your home?” The officer asks me, also reaching over to rub my shoulder.

“I don’t have anywhere to go right now.” I admit with a sniffle. “But if you can go with me to grab my stuff from Kigai’s, that would be great.” I turn to Hizashi. “Will you come with us? Please?”

“Of course. I won’t leave you alone right now. That a problem with you, Officer?”

“Not at all.” She assures.

When we make it to Kigai’s house, there’s blue and red lights flashing there too. Hizashi steps with me inside as the officer gets debriefed on other things found out about Kigai’s dastardly affairs. “It’s just down this hall.” I assure him.

Going back into Kigai’s room sends a cold chill down my spine. You’re mine, whore. You belong to me, understand? I pull Hizashi’s jacket tighter around me, before steeling my nerves and grabbing my bag and stuffing it.

“Anything you need me to grab?” Hizashi asks as he looks around.

“No. I don’t have much.” I toss in my phone and charger, a few changes of clothes, toothbrush, hairbrush, and a few other necessities. “I think that’s all.” I say once I’ve got everything together. When at last I turn to him and meet his gaze, I’m expecting to hear foul words stabbing into my brain.

He is not Kigai, Little One. It’s going to be okay.

My nose quivers as I look at him. “He’s really gone.”

“He won’t hurt you anymore, Ichijiku.” Hizashi nods. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

I don’t have to be afraid.

Continue Reading -> Ch. 2

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generic-whumper · 1 year ago

Text

Caretaker & Whumpee Introduction Ideas/ Prompts (Stranger Edition):

Instances where Caretaker stumbles upon a poor little helpless whumpee, what will they do? (Okay so this one turned more into a rescue whump scenario than just a confused, rando Caretaker situation- still strangers though!)

(TW: Implied/referenced past torture, defiant and feral whumpee, restraints and gag)

Caretaker marched into the room searching for Whumpee- there, their eyes meet. Whumpee defiantly lashes out, acting on their only measure of self preservation, unaware that Caretaker is here to help. Whumpee pulls on their wrist restraints, digging them deeper into their already raw, lacerated wounds surrounded by blue and black bruised skin- the skin discoloration peaks behind dried smeared blood covering more areas of their body than it doesn’t.

Whumpee tries to yell and scream in an attempt to scare off this stranger who is sure to be some associate of Whumper’s, despite the gag in their mouth that does not allow a single intelligible word to escape their sore, drooling mouth. Their jaw feels nearly locked open from 24 hours spent in the ball gag.

Caretaker looks down at Whumpee with sympathitic pity as they take a key out of their pocket that unlocks Whumpee’s restraints. Whumpee sees this, but they are still stuck in a panicked survival mode and continue to scream muffled profanities at Caretaker as they unlatch their shackles. As Caretaker frees one of Whumpee’s arms, they begin hitting and clawing Caretaker because the only thing worse that being chained to the wall is when they are dragged out to the middle of the room, promising nothing but senseless beatings that last for hours on end- tortured for no reason other than to satisfy Whumper’s sadistic blood lust.

Caretaker ignores Whumpee’s weak blows, barely feeling any impact from Whumpee’s fists as adrenaline surges through their veins, numbing their pain responses. Caretaker is set on freeing Whumpee and getting them to safety no matter what it takes. Caretaker will drag Whumpee out kicking and screaming- the only thing mattering is Whumpee rescued from this fucking dungeon and freed from the grasp of Whumper. Whatever injuries Caretaker gets in the process will heal.

Caretaker knows they’ll be able to sleep well tonight once they complete their job, knowing that Whumpee is safe at last after months of searching- that is, assuming that this rescue mission will be successful.

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melishade · 2 years ago

Note

war timelinehanji experimenting with aracmid and removing his T-Con

Previous Episode of the War Timeline

Hanji's gonna have a blast toying with Airachnid.

TW Torture. (I mean its Airachnid. Who cares about her? But I'm just putting it for others.)

Also referencing @justawannabearchaeologist and @echoblaze5 cause I did talk a little bit about it with them.

So the Autobots end up moving Airachnid to the neutral ship to lock her up there, cause that's the best place that they really have at the moment, and Hanji is just going batshit. They already took Airachnid's legs and melted them down for 3D blades, except for one that managed to remain intact. Hanji studies how it works and asks Airachnid for questions. She refuses to answer and Hanji just activates a shock collar until they gets what they want. Hanji has also managed to pry open her lower arm to see how her webbing works and has tried to replicate it, but has failed. Unfortunate for them. Seemed to be a biological thing.

Meanwhile, Airachnid was dreading every session that she had with the mad scientist. She could handle the interrogation with the Autobots. They were always too soft. But this human, they were something else entirely. The Autobots tried to find out Megatron's intentions, what Megatron was doing here, and what he wanted. Airachnid wasn't going to give up that information. It was the one thing keeping her alive. Airachnid tells Hanji that they still need her as a bargaining chip, but Hanji says that they're not that worried.

"Well, if the big bad Megatron really cared about you, he would've sent a rescue team to come and get you," Hanji explained, "Especially if you're Megatron's second in command. But you're here, alone, with no back up to speak of, chained up to a wall and no rescue team to come and get you."

Airachnid couldn't even flex her claws into a fist from how exhausted she was.

"I'm going to make a guess that Megatron sent you here to die," Hanji concluded, "If you somehow managed to come back, it would be a hiccup in his plans to get rid of you. If you came back with intel, I suppose he could justify keeping you around just a little bit longer. But if you didn't come back at all, well then I'm sure he already has a replacement for you."

"You still need me!" Airachnid hissed at them. She tried to spit acid, but nothing would come out.

"Doesn't matter if your dead or alive, you're still valuable to me," Hanji grinned, "Apparently, your form is quite uncommon among Cybertronian society, which is already fascinating enough. I've never had I titan that I got to play with that didn't regenerate, but had a whole new anatomy to explore."

Some of the Autobots are a little unnerved with how Hanji's doing their experiments. Ripping Airachnid apart piece by piece, shocking her to test endurance, testing a thunderspear out on her leg to see if it would come off (It did). Not Arcee, she has the popcorn ready. And she is loving this. Doesn't even have to lift a finger. But Erwin retorts that Hanji is right in their deduction of the situation. Megatron didn't come back for Airachnid, he wanted to get rid of her and replace her with someone else. So it's clear that Airachnid wasn't even well liked among her own party.

"That's an understatement," Arcee agreed.

"Arcee," Optimus warned.

"Starscream whined about her," Arcee told him.

Erwin states that as long as Hanji's doing it for their cause, they can go nuts. Hanji's eccentric, but Erwin's always had confidence in them that they'd never turn on the cause. They were always earnest in what they did, and still cared about humanity. Ratchet does bring up the concern in private to Optimus that Hanji's experiments is giving MECH vibes.

But Hanji does believe that some information about the Decepticons would be useful, perhaps scaring her into giving up that information would be good. They end up talking to Arcee privately and asking if she wants to help out with torturing Airachnid for information.

"I love you so much," Arcee declared.

"I'm glad we're on the same page," Hanji smirked.

So Airachnid is now face to face with Hanji, who's sitting with their legs crossed and grinning with delight. Hanji tries to be sweet, asking Airachnid to cough up the information, but Airachnid isn't going to give it up. She assumes that Hanji doesn't know anything, but Hanji drops the ball and says that they know everything: humanity not being extinct, the power of the nine titans, Marley all of it. And with the Autobots, they do know about Megatron and can just prepare for that. The Walls have done what they could with far less resources. Hanji states that they wanted to dissect Airachnid for parts, because that's what she's most valuable as to the Walls, but Optimus has always been so insistent on showing mercy, or possibly using Airachnid as a bargaining chip. But Megatron hasn't come back for her. What a shame. So Hanji's decided to just gut her right here and now, with Arcee's help. Arcee makes herself known with her blades already out. Hanji does explain that they're not going to kill her. They're just slowly going to break her down piece by piece until she's nothing more than a head and a spark. Lying on the wall as an ornament until their spark goes out. But Airachnid's parts won't go to waste; they'll just be used for their cause. It's not like Megatron wasn't going to come for her.

Now Airachnid is terrified, as Arcee is slowly approaching her, grabbing her chained arm and placing her blade against her joint. She's freaking out as Arcee presses against the cables. She's ready to cut and-!

"The Founding Titan can't be used by someone that isn't of royal blood!" Airachnid blurts out.

"Hold!" Hanji raises their hand to tell Arcee to stop, "Talk."

Airachnid then spills the information she found out: someone stole the Founding Titan and gave it to someone else: Eren Jaeger. But Eren can't use that power because he's not part of the royal family.

"But you wanted him," Hanji recalled from reports, "Why?"

Airachnid grew tense, causing Hanji to snap their fingers. Arcee began to press down, causing energon to spill and Airachnid to yell.

"Megatron has someone!" Airachnid cried out in pain, "Someone of royal blood that was commanding titans in Marley! He's been studying him like crazy!"

"He?" Hanji tilted their head, "Who's he?"

"Judging by the name, probably Eren's brother," Airachnid relented.

Hanji grinned as Arcee let Airachnid go. "You know, for someone who has torturing as a fetish, you really can't seem to handle it when it's thrown right back at you."

"Megatron will come for you," Airachnid seethed, "He'll come for you and destroy everything you care about before turning you into titans for his own conquest."

"Eh," Hanji shrugged, "Not really a change from all of my previous years as a Survey Corps member."

Arcee and Hanji leave, and Hanji can't help but gush at Arcee and how menacing she was. Arcee compliments Hanji at their tactical brilliance. She thinks it's great. The two relay this information over to the Survey Corps and the Autobots, and they all realize they need to find a way to the Decepticon warship and get this Jaeger out. Eren's kind of reeling over the fact that he has a brother. But a Survey Corps squad outside of the walls, with Bumblebee with them, report signs of a ship in the horizon coming to their shores.

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abyssal-ali · 11 months ago

Text

5+1 Times the Justice League Realized Something About Red Hood

Ship: Gen | Rating: T | WC: 4.5k | Ao3 | TW: Slight Batman bashing, referenced/discussed human trafficking

One - Compassionate

“Call Gotham,” said Wonder Woman over her shoulder to Flash, crouching in front of a kid. He nodded and sped to a quieter corner to hit the speed dial to the Batcave.

A few members of the Justice League had collaborated on a project of taking down a human trafficking ring on the East Coast. The traffickers had been taken care of–very little care was involved on the JL’s side–and now came the hard part: helping the victims.

The League were outraged but not terribly surprised to find that most of them were children, most of them younger than ten. The older, more in-charge children had that wariness that only Gothamites had, and their disturbing calm was another giveaway.

The children who’d come from other cities, such as Amnesty Bay and Happy Harbor, were happy to see the heroes who had rescued them. The children from Gotham huddled together, glaring distrustfully at anyone who appeared to be interested in them, even if it was only to help.

The oldest one, maybe eleven or twelve, had said they were from Gotham and would only talk to someone from there, before rejoining the huddle of children.

Flash vibrated as he waited for an answer to his call. Maybe it would be faster to just run to Gotham and talk to Bats face-to-face? Nah, Bats didn’t like metas in his city without a cause, and something that could be (and currently was) a phone call would not endear him any more to the brooding vigilante.

Something Flash had never understood was Batsy’s affinity for children, calming them faster than even Superman could, for some strange reason. Whatever the reason, he was grateful for it, especially for those poor traumatized children refusing help.

Finally, the line to the Batcave was picked up.

“There’s some kidsfromGotham we found beingtrafficked here in HappyHarbor and they’rerefusingtotalkto anyone who’s not from Gotham, canyoucome talk tothem?” Flash blurted, trying to moderate his talking speed.

There was a long pause, then a sound that Flash chose to interpret as affirmation, then the click of the call being disconnected.

Thirty minutes later, a large white van eerily similar to the ones that were in the now-abandoned traffickers’ headquarters arrived at the scene.

Flash zipped over, happy to see the Bat, but paused as the person getting out of the driver’s seat wasn’t wearing a black cowl.

They were as big as the Bat, yes, but wore grey instead of black and had a shiny red helmet on their head. The flat, modulated voice sounded male. “Take me to the kids, Zippy.”

“You’re not Batman.”

“No, but you might be the next one if you keep up those brilliant deductions.”

The man that Flash had only seen in pictures, but knew was the deadly Red Hood, rival of Batman’s, and lethal ruler of Crime Alley, pushed past him and stalked towards the group of children. His posture was intimidating as he approached Wonder Woman, who was attempting to offer water bottles to the children for the third time.

“Wonder Woman, if I may.”

Flash watched as Wonder Woman took a step back, cautiously keeping an eye on him.

The switch in the kids’ attitude was instantaneous.

“Hood!” they screamed in delight, crowding closer to him, smiles overtaking their previously tired faces.

“Hey, kiddos, it’s great to see ya.” Hood knelt down, ruffling a girl’s bangs and side-hugging a child at the same time. “I’m here to take care of ya now, okay? Good job taking care of each other.”

“There were kids there that didn’t know you were coming,” sniffed a child, crossing their arms.

Hood chuckled. “I’m sure ya did a great job educatin’ them, sweetheart. Now, are any of ya hurt bad enough to need medical attention now, or can ya wait till we’re back in Gotham?”

The self-appointed leader shoved a little closer to Hood. “There’s nothin’ too bad, not worse than we’re used to. We were just locked up for a while but as long as we didn’t fight the traffickers were decent.”

“Okay, I’m glad you’re all safe. Have ya had any water since the Justice League got ya outta there?”

“Nah, Wonder Woman tried but we don’t trust people we don’t know, heroes or not.”

“Good job,” Hood squeezed the kid’s hand gently. “But it’s important to stay hydrated, and Wonder Woman is one of the best heroes. She’s my favourite,” he confided in a loud whisper. “So why don’t ya all get one o’ those waters for the road, and some snacks if ya want ‘em, and then I’ll take ya back in the van, ‘kay?”

The kids agreed, still reluctant and skittish around the other heroes offering them supplies, while Hood rose to speak to one of the Leaguers still milling around. Most had left, supervising the other children’s return to their families and cities, but a few stayed to deal with the cleanup and remaining legal and bureaucratic issues.

Flash was one of them, and he watched, surprisingly still for once, as a child no more than four tugged on Hood’s thigh holster. Hood turned, seeing the one kid left with his arms raised in invitation. Hood accepted it, bending to lift the boy in his arms. The kid settled in familiarly, head tucked into Hood’s neck as much as the helmet allowed, arms wrapped around his neck and leaning comfortably against Hood’s muscled arm as the man headed towards Wonder Woman.

“You’re in charge of this scene?” he asked.

“I am. How are the children so accepting of you?”

“A lotta them are street kids. I do my best to look out for them and keep them safe, and I know a couple of ‘em, unfortunately.”

“May I ask how come you are here instead of a Bat?” She asked, remarkably calm for being face-to-face with a cold-blooded killer on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. “I assume Flash did not call your number.”

“No, he called the Cave. I was in there at the time, leavin’ a present for Bats, thought I could take a message for him while I waited. Turned out Zippy was givln’ me info on the kids I’d been missing.”

“Thank you for coming so promptly,” Wonder Woman replied.

“Ah, it’s nothing. You’re welcome. Missing any more kids, have any loose ends on the traffickers’ side you need to clean up yet?”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” she smiled, expertly evading what would surely be his particular bloody brand of ‘help’ he was insinuating.

“Alright. Catch ya later.” He nodded politely at Wonder Woman before heading over to the van he’d arrived in. The children were all in it, seat belts buckled and in appropriate booster seats, from what Flash saw through the tinted windows.

He shook his head at the image of a murderous crime lord driving a drug dealer’s van around filled with kids, but with proper safety and passing out snacks like he was the fun mom.

Clearly the stress was getting to him.

Two - Smart

Green Lantern pushed his wheely chair away from the monitor, standing to refill his coffee cup.

He was on desk duty, finishing up the paperwork on the trafficking case the League had completed yesterday. There were two more, smaller branches of the group still in circulation, likely around the northern cities on the East Coast.

Wonder Woman had taken Hawkgirl and Zatanna out with her to track down the larger ring; they’d suspected the first group were laying low around Bludhaven.

With his girlfriend gone for the evening, John had volunteered for desk duty, having nothing better to do. Returning to his seat with a steaming mug of coffee, he clicked the mouse to continue filling out the form he’d left.

His typing was interrupted as a large, flashing red notice popped up in front of him.

[INCOMING CALL FROM MISSION LEADER]

[ACCEPT]

[ENCRYPTED LINE CONNECTED]

“Hey, John.”

“Wonder Woman. Is everything okay?”

The heroine turned back to look at something, then back to face John’s screen. She smiled wryly. “We are not in any danger, and the traffickers will not be harming any more children in the future. We do have some problems, though…”

“What’s that?”

“They’re all dead. Most from bullets to the head or heart. There are no other people here. Whoever killed the traffickers knew we were coming and left a note–I’ll need your help to figure out who could have known and how, John.”

“I’ll do my best,” he agreed. “What did the note say?”

“‘Dear Justice League, I’ve taken care of your trafficking issue for you. Don’t worry about the victims; they’re safe and taken care of. I’ll give you a headstart to the other location in Civic City.’ There’s no signature.”

John hummed thoughtfully, scratching his chin. “I’ll get on that right away, Diana.”

A small window popped up on the computer screen in front of him. John rubbed his eyes and squinted to make out the text disturbing his research.

“‘You need better cybersecurity; it was too easy to access your information on the trafficking rings. Thanks for the help though. –RH’. Who the heck is RH?”

Diana entered the room, back from her mission. “RH as in Red Hood?”

“That would make sense,” John agreed. “I thought Bats said he was just a crime lord a little luckier than some of the others, though. He got through the Watchtower’s firewalls…he’s at least as good a hacker as Bats.”

Diana shrugged, handing John a new mug of coffee and drinking from her own. “Batman does not always see or portray things the way we do. I will ask him more about this Red Hood. It would be wise to have more information, if he is going to continue to interfere in our work.”

Three - Connected

Flash sped into the meeting room on the Watchtower, well aware that he was running late. In his defense, he was a busy guy, he needed all the calories he could get, and those tacos had smelled amazing!

The rest of the members alerted to the meeting were gathered there already: Wonder Woman, who had called the meeting; Superman; Green Lantern Stewart; Hawkgirl; Black Canary; Martian Manhunter.

Standing in their midst was a seventh character, in grey cargo pants, grey-and-red armored chestpiece, brown leather jacket, and shiny red helmet, covered in weapons–like if a porcupine was human. Barry chuckled at that mental image, then cleared his face. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Red Hood has just arrived,” said Wonder Woman neutrally. “Red Hood, this is the Flash, from Central City.”

“Red Hood. Nice to meet you,” said Red Hood, the modifier in his helmet making his voice come out threateningly, but his body language was calm. He stepped forward to shake Barry’s hand.

“You too,” said Barry, glancing at Hawkgirl for help. She simply smirked at him. “So, why are we here, Di-Wonder Woman?”

“Oh, don’t worry about your identities; I already know them,” waved off Hood at Flash’s slip up. “I’m here because the wonderful Diana asked me to help with an investigation you’re running on a trafficking ring that’s bigger than you thought.”

“Uh…One: how do you know who we are? Two: why did Wonder Woman call in a known Rogue into the Watchtower for help?”

Wonder Woman stepped forward. “Batman has told us nothing about Red Hood but that he is one of his Rogues, is luckier than the crime lords he took over from, and to let him know if he gives us trouble. However, Hood has been doing the opposite of that for us lately, and I wanted us to get to know him without Batman around.”

“This is why I like you,” Hood pointed his finger at Wonder Woman. “You’re far more reasonable than Bats. Also, that’s really offensive, what he said about me. He didn’t even warn you to be on your guard or anything?”

The Leaguers shook their heads.

“Okay, well, I came here because Wondy asked me to help with your trafficking investigation–which I already was. It’s bigger than you thought and now you need help internationally, correct?”

Diana nodded. “It has grown from a single-city ring to crossing state lines, and now we believe that it has roots overseas as well. Unfortunately, the JL has no jurisdiction outside America, unless it’s for world-ending emergencies, which this does not count as.”

“I’ve been called off the case these past couple weeks to put out some fires closer to home, so why don’t you catch me up on this case,” Hood drawled, crossing his arms and subtly widening his stance. “For instance, which part of overseas is it linked to? I gotta know which contacts to call in.”

“Contacts?” questioned Shayera.

“Yeah, I got contacts everywhere, but a lot of ‘em tend to stick to certain areas, so they won’t know much if I ask them about something. For example, if it’s around Southern Asia, I’d call Cheshire or Lady Shiva, but if you’re thinking it’s more European based, then I’d ask Talia al Ghul or maybe Vendetta.”

Superman looked at Hood sharply. “You’re connected to those…people?”

Hood shrugged. “I can get in touch with ‘em. It’s always good to have connections, wouldn’t you agree? Never know when you’re gonna be kidnapped and tortured by a villain of the week. So, where are we looking?”

Wonder Woman cleared her throat. “We believe the ring has connections around Gardevia.”

A low hiss sounded from Hood, which Barry assumed was a distorted sigh. “Okay. How many of you are going to Gardevia, and when?”

Four - Trained

Diana looked around the building she was currently standing outside. Red Hood had contacted her a few hours ago and given her this address, telling her to meet him here. It appeared to be an abandoned four-story apartment block, facing another of the same kind. The wind whipped around her, cool enough to make her shiver violently if she hadn’t been Amazonian.

The door of the apartment beside her swung open with a quiet creak. Hood stood there, his hand on the knob. “Welcome to home, sweet home,” he joked, though it came out flatly.

She stepped inside, glancing around quickly. A couple pieces of dusty furniture stood scattered around the living room, and the peeks she could see of the kitchen and bedroom weren’t much better. The sturdiest-looking piece, a dining table, was laid out with a variety of weapons and equipment, all gleaming and well-cared for.

She arched a brow at Hood in silent question, who shrugged innocently in return.

“It’s just you for this mission, yeah?”

She nodded, turning back to face him. “What have your informants found?”

“I figured you’d prefer to hear it in person,” he said. “She’ll be here any second.”

Someone spoke from the shadows of the bedroom. “She is here.”

Talia al Ghul emerged, her black suit and shiny weapons strapped conspicuously to her body.

“You are correct. There is a trafficking ring being headquartered here. About thirty to forty children are in that apartment building across from us, being watched by ten to fifteen guards, most of whom are men. Approximately half are ex-military of some sort and decently trained. The others appear to be mostly for show and have little training, though they do have a weapon of some kind.”

“Is there any other place where they might have a branch?” Hood asked.

Talia shook her head. “This is the headquarters. Since their numbers were so cut down due to your previous efforts, they’ve decided to bunch them all together and hunker down until they think you’ve forgotten about them.”

“So if we hit ‘em now, we’ll be able to end everything,” Hood confirmed, satisfied. “Thanks, T.”

The assassin’s face softened slightly. “I’m always happy to help, habibi.”

Diana privately wondered if Hood was Talia’s lover of some kind, but said nothing, focusing on the mission.

Her own experience as a leader, particularly in battle, made her curious what Hood would decide to do, having bargained his help only if he was in charge.

He disappeared into the bedroom for a moment, returning with a large sheet of paper that he spread over the table, Talia having cleared his equipment to the rickety coffee table a few feet away.

Hood pulled a red, black, and blue pen from his jacket pocket, putting the red one to his helmet. He paused, considering the pen, then reached up and removed his helmet. The lines of his face were much younger than Diana had expected–unless he was a meta or exposed to something like a Lazarus Pit– though a white forelock interrupted his dark curls.

This time he bit the cap off the pen, grunting in satisfaction. It strangely reminded Diana of Batman.

He began scribbling over the paper, which upon inspection was a blueprint of the apartment building opposite them.

“Okay, here’s the plan. I’m red, T’s black, Wondy’s blue.”

The plan was fairly simple for such short notice, though it included a couple unnecessarily extra steps that required advanced skills. Diana was impressed at Hood’s decisive delegation and patient planning, and even more so when the plan went off perfectly. He would have been a wonderful general a couple centuries ago.

The victims, mostly children, were comforted and taken care of by the three of them, Talia and Hood both proficient enough in the languages needed to reassure their rescued charges.

Diana watched Hood’s easy comfortability with Talia as they worked together to provide the necessities to their charges, reminding herself to have a little talk with Batman when she returned, and maybe a closer look at what had happened in Gotham since Hood arrived.

Five - Emotive

Hood turned away from the small group of Leaguers hanging around the jet hangar. The last victim in Gardevia had been taken care of, the Leaguers who’d been informed of the mission coming over to help expedite the process.

They definitely needed to establish a European branch of the Justice League.

Superman hovered a little above the ground, using the few extra inches of height to get a better read on Hood.

Talia al Ghul had been a surprise that Clark wasn’t expecting; even though he knew that Hood had contacted her, somehow he hadn’t thought the woman wouldn’t actually be there.

Now she was standing close to Hood, talking quietly to him. Clark couldn’t understand it; even superhearing didn’t help when you didn’t speak a dialect of Arabic. Their tones were soft, familiar. It reminded Clark of the quiet hums through the walls of the Kents’ farmhouse, when Ma and Pa were trying to have a private conversation.

The sense of family faded as Hood straightened, nodding at Talia and turning to the Leaguers.

“Thank you for your help with this mission. I sincerely appreciate it, and I know the people you helped did too. I also would like to thank you for taking a chance on my help despite Batman’s warnings, and for not involving Bats when you did let me join hands. It was a pleasure working with you, and I’d be happy to help again if you ever need it. I’ll keep the burner that had the number I gave you all.”

Hood was so polite, Clark just knew Ma Kent would adore him and baby him, even if he was a thirty-year-old crime lord…huh, how old was Hood, anyways? Well, Clark was past thirty and still well taken care of by Ma, so he had no room to judge.

Goodbyes were said and leaves were taken, Clark choosing to take the long way around the world to see if anyone needed his help on his way back to Metropolis. It was nice to be thanked, he considered as he flew. He’d certainly not gotten into heroing for the praise, but most heroes he teamed up with weren’t as conscientious as Hood. Batman, for one, rarely thanked Clark for any help, preferring to grunt and insist he had everything under control.

He shook his head at the thought of the vigilante. He was sure Batman would have several things to say when he discovered the League’s temporary alliance with Hood.

He grinned smugly, heading down to Chiang Mai on a quick detour. Batman wasn’t the sole authority of the League, much as he liked to think and act most times, and it wouldn’t kill him to have to explain why he detested the Red Hood so much when Clark asked him why.

Plus One - He’S jUsT a BaBeY! He's a dead Robin, he's a teenager, and he is the moment

Batman glowered gloomily in the corner of the Watchtower’s main meeting room, somehow managing to have the appearance of shadows wrapping around him despite the bright lighting installed above them.

Diana crossed her arms, her eyebrow twitching. “Will you tell us why you dislike the Red Hood, Batman? Give us a reason not to accept his occasional involvement in missions?”

“He’s a Rogue,” said Batman darkly. “He belongs in Gotham, and he doesn’t want to consort with heroes anyways.”

“How do you know what he does and doesn’t want?” asked Green Lantern Jordan from across the meeting table.

“Because he has made it quite clear he is against my work in Gotham,” he snapped. “Hood is based in Gotham for a reason, and he is just as protective of the city as I am, even if he goes about it in such a ruthless way.”

“So that’s why you dislike him? He’s encroaching on your territory?” Superman looked amused.

“He kills , Superman.”

“Yeah, but so do other Rogues and you don’t care about them as much. I’ve certainly never heard you grouse about Mad Hatter like you do Hood,” Hawkgirl added her two cents’. “You work just fine with Wonder Woman and Green Arrow, who’ve killed enemies in the past. It’s not just the killing that has you so against him.”

“He is an arrogant, impulsive, quick-tempered and indiscriminate killer,” said Batman heavily. “He disregards my rules and hurt my partners.”

The Leaguers exchanged glances. Diana stepped forward, Clark moving a little closer behind Batman.

“Batman, there’s something we should tell you. A few of us have been working with the Red Hood on a mission these past couple weeks, which is why I brought up adding him as a temp all-hands-on-deck member.

“Those of us who have worked with him have not seen those attributes you mentioned. Hood has been the opposite of them, in fact: polite, methodical, patient, well-respected, and thoughtful. When a non-lethal move would work just as well as a lethal one, he used it. He has a kind heart underneath his chestplate, I’m sure of it.

“By the way, why does he wear the Bat anyways, if he’s not affiliated with you?”

“He’s mocking the symbol,” sighed Batman. “You’ve worked with him? On what? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Daian sighed. “Because you warned us off him, but once we met him he was so different from what you said–does he have a second person playing him at times or something, that would cause him to give us such wildly differing views?”

“No. It’s just him,” Batman grunted.

“He showed up instead of you during the start of the tri-city trafficking case, and we discovered that it extended overseas. He joined us and was an immensely helpful asset.”

Clark spoke up and Diana shot him a grateful look; Batman was not giving any signs of truly listening to them at the moment.

“Why don’t we go to Gotham or have Hood come here, and then we can get his side of the story? We are the Justice League, after all.”

Green Lantern Stewart set the zeta codes for Gotham, and the Leaguers arrived in the Batcave once Batman disabled the zeta blockers.

A blinking red dot showed up on the map of Gotham Batman pulled up on the Batcomputer. Diana sighed. Of course he was tracking Hood.

The heroic ensemble arrived at the warehouse that Batman said Hood was currently operating out of and living in. He knocked on the door.

It cracked open, a mop of dark hair and a bright eye visible in the small space. Slightly lower, there was a barrel of a gun also peeking out.

“Whaddaya want, ol’ man? Come to beat me up again for killing Forrest?” The door opened wider. “Oh, you brought your friends. Alfred would be ashamed of you, B, did his lessons on proper visiting etiquette not stick?”

Diana stared at the young man who let them in. He appeared to be the man behind the Hood–only he was a boy behind the hood. He couldn’t be legally allowed to drink yet, surely.

“Nice to see you again, Wondy,” he smiled, nodding politely at the remaining Leaguers awkwardly filing in. It seemed like his beef was still particularly with Batman.

“You as well, Hood. I apologize for us just dropping by without warning. We wanted to get your side of the story on why you and Batman don’t get along.”

“Oh? B is finally opening up to his friends? It only took what, twenty years?”

“So you know Batman’s identity,” Clark cocked his head, looking between Hood and the impressive layout of the warehouse.

“Oh, of course. So, you wanna hear all the drama, huh? Buckle up, folks.”

Diana stared in horror at Jason as he told his story, Batman angrily brooding in the corner as the secrets were revealed. The other Leaguers looked much the same as her, shocked at the news that this was Robin, Jason, the sweet child many of them had known. He was still sweet, and still a child–a teenager, only nineteen.

And Batman was actively fighting with him! Diana had known the Batclan had different dynamics than traditional families, but they still cared for each other–but by the Pantheon, this was worse than she’d thought.

“Batman, you are not making your son a part of your Rogue Gallery,” she snapped. “I cannot believe you! Not even a hug for your returned son?! This is unacceptable and you know it, somewhere deep down.”

“ Very deep down,” supplied Jason. “Don’t make him dig too far, Aunt Di, he might never come up from the Batcave of his soul.”

Yes, that was certainly her Jason. Letting Batman stew in shame for a minute while she fiercely hugged her long-lost nephew was more than okay. “I am so glad you have returned, Dear One. Welcome back.”

He returned her hug, melting into her arms like he once had. “Thanks, Aunt Diana.”

Clark stepped forward to offer his own hug. “I’m so happy to see you again, kiddo.”

“I’m not a kiddo anymore!” he protested, stretching to his full height and puffing up his muscles.

Clark laughed. “You’ll always be a kiddo, even if you’re a fell-fledged crime boss now.”

A/N:

Diana and Clark & Co make Bruce go to therapy (and also Jason) with Black Canary, and their relationship slowly improves. Jason still uses guns and Bruce still hates that, but they get better at talking over their boundaries and following through. Hood still tries to appear menacing to his goons, but they now know that Wonder Woman has basically adopted him and is this a child. The Goonion has seen their boss be picked up like a grumpy cat and hugged one too many times to be menaced anymore. Some notes: Gardevia is an actual place in DC canon (it's a small country in Eastern Europe) (it sounds more like a small monarchy you'd find in a Hallmark movie), and Vendetta is a British villain (you may know the movie about him, V for Vendetta).

#fic #ali writes #good aunt diana

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