#tw: referenced past abuse

[aftgficrec]

hi I'm so excited I caught you guys open :D

I was wondering if you guys could find some fics where Neil brings up his past in casual conversation or his past gets brought up because of something he said or did

Also I've read a lot of the older soulmate fics where they can feel each other's pain or communicate telepathically and stuff like that but was wondering if there are any new ones :)

Ty u so much <333

There is so much material here I decided to split it into 2 parts, one with fics about Neil’s past, and one devoted to soulmate aus.  Enjoy! - S

references to Neil’s past:

people Neil met on the run here

Foxes learn about Neil's past here

The Foxes react to Neil’s life here

The Foxes react to Neil’s scars here

The Foxes react to Mary’s abuse here

videos of neil on the run here

Neil’s secrets unravel here

Neil says ‘it’s fine I’ve had worse’ here

Neil shows off his knife skills here

‘The Bet’ here 

‘here I am, there you go again’ here

‘I'm not broken (I'm made for a mosaic)’ and ‘More Afterthoughts, Chapter 39’ here

‘arrivals/departures’ here 

‘TFC minifics...’ Ch 23 here

‘heavy hands, heavy hearts’ here

‘"I've endured far worse"’ here

‘it whistles through the ghosts still left behind’ here

you may also like:

Neil with languages/accents here

Neil with languages/accents 2 here

‘No straighter path than to struggle’ here

Neil also shows off his knife and language skills in ‘I Hope You Lie To Me’ here (ch. 9)

Neil’s past:

Andrew, I'm fine by AceSirenSinger [Rated T, 2081 words, complete, 2023]

Andrew passes through the door into the ensuite bathroom, and he freezes an instant before he understands why. The bathroom tile is smudged red, just so. Someone bled here, and then wiped it, too quickly. Andrew wants to call for Neil, but he is suddenly unsure if he is alone in his apartment.

tw: nightmares, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: knives, tw: violence

Killer Bunny by godless_writer [Rated T, 6661 words, complete, 2023]

Neil started his second year in college thinking his past was behind him. His father was dead, Riko was dead, he was no longer running – nothing left to hide from. At least that is what he thought before six FBI agents barged into his team’s practice one day. Or The team finds out Neil had to kill some of his father’s men while on the run.

tw: implied/referenced murder, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: panic attacks

Bound for Error by confusedtoadd [Rated M, 22759 words, incomplete, last updated July 2023]

“You claim you’ve left your truth bare, yet you still lie, interesting don’t you think Nathaniel?” Neil was paralyzed, stuck between begging for her to stop and strangling her. They were a mix of his parents' wishes, his father's anger was bubbling over, his mother's survival instincts charged his legs with vigor. “Perhaps I should have stepped in sooner. No matter, they will know the truth soon, you did promise no more running, Nathaniel.” OR The foxes react to Neils life, pre-canon included.

tw: implied/referenced suicide attempt, tw: implied/referenced suicidal thoughts, tw: implied/referenced self harm,  tw: violence, tw: blood & gore, tw: torture, tw: abuse, tw: psychological abuse, tw: panic attacks

Secrets by The_stars_ship_us [Rated T, 1265  words, complete, 2023]

Matt sees Neil's scars for the first time and Neil wakes up, still sleepy, and feels comfortable and safe enough to speak in his true accent

tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: scars

The Best That You Can Hope For (is to die in your sleep) by Major_816 [Not Rated, 10840 words, complete, 2022]

The first time O’Malley saw the kid was in a low-level underground gambling ring, walls crawling with asbestos and next to every bastard inside armed with something sharp if not something packed with warped metal and gunpowder.  He couldn’t have been more than thirteen, but he surveyed the crowd of the room with years more experience than he should have. There were scars cutting across exposed bits of skin, sick looking in the light of the place and stretching hotel-bible-page-thin over crooked bones.  He was a wispy thing. Nothing more than a scrap of a boy stitched together. O’Malley was half-convinced a strong wind might blow him over, but the kid turned, those quick and clever eyes burning across the room and O’Malley could recognize that sort of fight instinct.  He saw him again half a year later in Northern Florida.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: scars, tw: panic attacks, tw: dissociation

Broken bones by All_for_the_andreil [Rated T, 1126 words, complete, 2021]

Neil gets injured during a game and freaks out. Andrew finds out what exactly happened to Neil in Baltimore.

tw: implied/referenced torture

I guess I can drop the accent now by poly_pr1nce [Rated M (we say T), 495 words, complete, 2020, locked]

Neil reveals the final thing he's been hiding about himself after the Foxes win against the Ravens and Riko's death

...'ah yes, my shirt will cover this'  by @jingerhead [tumblr, 2021]

This prompt is great, I've read some angsty fics about Neil getting hurt and they're great BUT I love the idea of Neil getting stabbed and he's just like.....'ah yes, my shirt will cover this' and everyone notices right away. I think something super angst or something more lighthearted would be equally great haha!

tw: injuries

Art

what’s life on the run like? art by @meaucrow

Thinking about all he went through trying to survive art by @microolli

[lady-wallace]

Whumptober Day 17 - "Lost in these Memories" (JoJo's Bizarre Adventure)

More Fugo whump for today's @whumptober fic, (With Stand Hugs!)

~~~~~~~

Prompts Used: Collar, Touch Aversion, 'Leave me alone' Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Part 5 Character: Fugo

~~~~~~~

Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

~~~~~~~

Bucciarati made up the tray of food, purposefully placing the bowl of soup, the spoon and napkin, and the glass of water as he mentally prepared to face his youngest team member again.

It had been five days now since Fugo had gone missing on a mission—three since he had been found, and he still hadn't left his room since they'd brought him home.

Bucciarati wasn't entirely sure what to do. Any attempt he had made to coax Fugo out had been met with firm denial, and while he could certainly understand such a reaction after a traumatic event, he knew Fugo was suffering and, worse, suffering alone. He had so far refused any comfort Bruno or Abbacchio tried to offer him, simply staying curled in bed, wrapped in blankets.

Bruno sighed and knocked on the teen's door before letting himself in, knowing he wouldn't get an answer.

"Fugo? I brought you some dinner," he said quietly as he entered the dim room.

Fugo briefly looked up at him from the book he was reading before flicking his eyes downward once more. "You can just put it there," he mumbled nodding to the side table.

Bucciarati did as asked and hesitated before he left. "Pannacotta, I'd like to check your injuries again if that's okay?"

Fugo's hands started to shake instantly and Bruno felt terrible for even bringing it up, but an infection wasn't going to do him any better either.

"No—n-no. I really can't stand anyone touching me right now. I—I can't. Please. I can do it myself. I promise I'll clean them well."

Bucciarati closed his eyes briefly, but nodded. "Alright. I'll leave the medical supplies in the bathroom for you. But if you need help with the ones on your back—"

"I don't! I'm fine!" Fugo snapped, then ducked his head, wrapping his arms around himself. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"It's all right," Bucciarati told him gently. "Please try to eat something. And let me know if you need anything else."

He slipped out of the room, and his fists clenched in fury the instant the door was closed, teeth grinding.

He and Abbacchio, along with the other soldati had already demolished the gang who had taken Fugo, but what good did it do when the damage had already been done? Fugo had been doing so well recently. He'd stopped jumping when Bruno and Abbacchio accidently brushed him, just generally doing better with human proximity. He'd even started to accept hugs when he was having bad nights, calming in Bruno's careful hold.

And now all of that had been erased instantly by the cruelty of his captors, using his aversion to touch against him. Mocking, hurting, using knives and fists to demolish the fond touches Bruno sought to provide when he was sure Fugo would be okay with it, taking that gained trust and tearing it to pieces.

The image of Fugo when they'd finally found him in that cargo container would forever haunt Bucciarati's nightmares. Shivering in a corner, bloody and bruised, bound hand and foot with a collar locked around his throat, keeping him upright so he could not pull away from his captors without choking himself.

Even the act of freeing Fugo had sent him into a panic attack and there was no comfort Bruno could offer aside from words, which was harder than he had thought it would be.

One look at the teen panicking and sobbing had sent Abbacchio back out to start delivering a justified beat-down of the bastards who had dared hurt Fugo.

And when they got him back, Bucciarati had only been able to do the bare minimum to tend to Fugo's injuries before he flat-out pushed him away and retreated to his room where he had stayed ever since.

Abbacchio met him in the kitchen, breaking Bucciarati out of his brooding thoughts.

"How is he?" the other man asked quietly.

Bucciarati shook his head, grabbing bowls to dish soup out for him and Abbacchio even though he wasn't hungry. "I honestly don't know what to do. There's no telling how long this will go on, especially if he refuses help—"

Abbacchio held up a hand. "First of all, hovering isn't going to help him," he said.

Bruno huffed. "I know that. And I'm trying not to, it's just…"

"I know," Abbacchio replied with a sigh. "I don't like seeing the kid like that either. But he needs space right now. He knows he's safe here and that's going to have to be enough for the moment."

Bucciarati pressed his lips together, knowing the other man was right.

Abbacchio's advice didn't help when he heard Fugo screaming in his sleep that night. He had to get up to see him even though he knew he would be rejected.

"Fugo?" he called as he tapped on the door, hearing the moaning and shifting of blankets. He opened the door and saw the boy wound up in his sheets, struggling, eyes and jaw clenched tight as he let out breathless sobs, chest heaving too quickly.

"Pannacotta," Bruno called firmly, standing beside the bed.

The blond only continued to struggle against the sheets, breaths becoming more and more panicked. Bruno finally had to reach out and help, unable to watch this anymore.

But Fugo flailed the instant Bruno touched the sheets. "Don't!" he shouted. "Leave me alone!"

"Panna, I'm just…" Bucciarati tried, but he pulled away.

Fugo's eyes finally opened and he scrambled to sit against the head of the bed, eyes darting around frantically, not seeing anything.

"Panna," Bruno called again and his head whipped over toward him. "You're home. You're safe. It's just me here."

Fugo's face crumpled, and he curled into himself. "I hate this, I hate this," he cried.

Bruno pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and sat carefully, making sure he wasn't in any way crowding Fugo.

"It's okay, Pannacotta."

"No it's not!" Fugo snapped, scrubbing at his eyes as he hugged himself, fingers digging into his ribs. "I-I fucked up! I got captured, and I l-let them control me, and I c-couldn't do anything about it!"

Something rippled in the corner and Bucciarati looked over to see Purple Haze materializing. The Stand moaned forlornly as it hugged its knees and rocked back and forth. Fugo didn't even seem to realize his Stand was out, proving how much distress he was currently in. As long as Purple Haze didn't start punching things though, Bruno wasn't going to worry about him.

"You didn't let them control you, Fugo," Bruno told him firmly. "They tortured you."

Fugo shook his head. "But I'm the one who let them see how much it bothered me. I told them to stop, but they—they just made a sick game of it. And I forgot—I almost forgot how much it could hurt." His voice hitched on a sob again. "Because I didn't have to worry for so long but now every time I try to sleep, it's just…that in my head again. But worse, because it's that and my recent capture combined."

Purple Haze wailed again, echoing his user's distress, burying his head in his knees.

Bucciarati's heart ached to hear Fugo talk about it. To know that his mind was so cruel as to combine his recent trauma and that of his horrible past only hurt all the more. He could only imagine how much mental anguish Fugo was going through.

"I don't…know how to make it better," Fugo sobbed. "I didn't want to be like this anymore, but they fucked it all up and I don't know what to do to fix myself."

Bucciarati barely resisted the urge to reach out and offer some form of comforting touch to Fugo. The boy was shaking so hard, just barely keeping the panic under control.

"I am so sorry that this happened, Panna," Bruno told him sincerely. "But none of it was your fault. It was all those bastards back there, and they won't be hurting anyone ever again—I can assure you of that. And you don't have to 'fix' yourself. There's nothing to fix. You survived, Panna, and sometimes that's its own strength."

Fugo didn't say anything. He simply pulled his knees up, making himself small, arms wrapped around himself. Bruno didn't think it was possible for someone in a room with another person—and a Stand—to look so alone, but Fugo was suffering so much right now that his pain burrowed deep into Bucciarati's soul and curled up there.

Purple Haze wailed again and Bruno straightened up, knowing he had to ask at least, for his own sanity if nothing else.

"Do you… want a hug?" he asked softly, seeing the way Fugo kept hugging his arms to his chest. "It's okay if you don't but I wanted to offer."

Fugo let out a soft sob. "I-I do but…I don't think I can handle that much touch right now. I just…I just want it to be like it was before and I'm so fucking mad!"

Purple Haze moaned, rocking forlornly in the corner. That was when Bucciarati had an idea.

"Panna, do you mind if I try something?" he asked, holding up his hands, palms out. "I'm not going to touch you, but please let me know if any of this is too much."

He manifested Sticky Fingers and the Stand crossed the room to kneel in front of Purple Haze. Fugo's stand shifted and looked up at the other. Sticky Fingers slowly opened his arms, not making a move, but waiting.

Purple Haze hesitated, moaned, then suddenly lurched forward and practically tackled Sticky Fingers backwards, letting out a mournful sound.

Bruno watched, shocked as Purple Haze curled up against Sticky and his Stand held onto Haze tightly, rocking him back and forth. It was an odd sensation, both physically and mentally comforting, like being wrapped in a soft blanket and just the perfect temperature.

After a few moments, Purple Haze started to let out a gurgling, almost purring sound, drooling against Sticky Fingers' shoulder.

Bruno glanced over to Fugo to see how he was taking this, and saw a slight embarrassed flush on his cheeks, as he watched the Stands, but his breathing had calmed down a little and he wasn't quite so tense anymore.

"Is it okay? Like that?" Bruno asked him hesitantly.

Fugo nodded. "Actually, yes. It's not bad at all."

Bruno smiled, relief flooding him. "That's good."

Fugo clenched the sheets in his hands, staring down as his cheeks flushed again. "Could you…stay, until I fall asleep?" he mumbled.

"Of course, Panna," Bruno replied, settling into the chair. "I won't go anywhere."

Fugo let out a shuddering sigh and lay back down in the bed, allowing Bruno to help untangle the rest of the covers and tuck them back into the mattress. He then took up a book and stayed there reading until Fugo fell asleep. All the while, Sticky Fingers and Purple Haze stayed cuddled together on the other side of the room.

Over the next few days, whenever Fugo was having a hard time, Purple Haze would appear somewhere in the apartment and Bruno or Abbacchio would deploy their Stands for comfort and hugging. Abbacchio had been somewhat hesitant at first, but Moody Blues had had other ideas, going directly up to Purple Haze and pulling him into a firm embrace.

Another week passed and Fugo finally ventured out of his room for more than just the bathroom and water.

"Feeling better?" Bruno asked kindly as he set some breakfast in front of Fugo.

The blond nodded, and though he was still covered in bruises, showing up all too much on his pale skin, he did look a little better. He picked at his nails, then looked up at Bruno. "Could I…try a hug?" he asked.

Bruno didn't say anything, simply opened his arms to let Fugo come to him.

The boy hesitated, then got out of his chair and came forward, tentatively looping his arms around Bucciarati before he leaned fully into him with a long exhale.

Bruno lightly wrapped his arms around Fugo's shoulders. "How's that?" he asked.

"I think I'm getting there," Fugo said sincerely.

~~~~~~~

Check out my Whumptober Masterpost HERE for more stories!

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[masterwords]

time is fleeting

Summary: Hotch's mom is dying, and he's making his way through the process on his own until Derek and Jessica and the rest of the team tell him no way. That's what real family is for, right?

Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Derek Morgan

Status: COMPLETE

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six

[faofinn]

22 & 23. Common Cold/Flu & Tepid Bath

These two fit so well together we couldn't help but do a combined little ficlet

@sicktember

Hars hadn't been feeling well for a while. After adding in a few too many late nights and even more bad decisions, it well and truly reared its head.

 He'd been unable to settle overnight, tossing and turning, somehow both too hot and too cold. 

Steve was worried about Harrison too. He could see him getting more and more run down, late nights and too much alcohol. He’d not long been part of the family, the adoption papers having only come through a couple of months ago. 

When Monday rolled around, he got dressed as usual, intending to go to college. He struggled to actually dress, ending up with his shirt on backwards and two socks on the same foot. He didn't seem to notice, and headed downstairs for breakfast, apparently missing the fact it was almost lunchtime. 

From his position on the sofa, Steve looked up from his laptop. Harrison looked a state, hair a mess, clothes all over the place, bags under his eyes. 

“Where are you off to?” He asked, trying not to grin. 

"College." He said simply, attempting to pack a lunch. 

“What time is your first lesson?”

"Same as always." He grumbled. "You know that."

“Have you checked the time?”

"My alarm went off."

“And you’re wearing that?”

"It's clean."

“It’s inside out. And it’s nearly 1pm.”

"Is not." He wasn't entirely paying attention to Steve's conversation, and headed to the front door, still determined he was leaving. 

“Go back to bed, Harrison.”

"I've got college." He said firmly, struggling with the door. 

“You’ve already missed the entire morning. I called you in sick at 8.”

"Because I can't get out of the house!" He argued, frustrated. "What have you done to the door?"

“It’s locked, because you’re sick and you need to go back to bed.”

"I'm not sick! It's just a cold or something. I just need to go to college."

“Do you remember what happened last time you got sick and it was ignored?”

"Wasn't even sick then." He grumbled, though gave up with the door. 

“Go back to bed, Harrison. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

"Just half an hour, that's all."

“Sure, if that’s what you want.”

"Yeah." He sniffed, his determination and energy gone.

“Go on, to bed with you. I’ll make you a hot chocolate.”

"Thank you." He gave a weak smile. Steve always knew how to make it better. Bed sounded great, and he dropped his backpack on the floor, slowly padding upstairs. 

Steve shook his head fondly, going to the kitchen to make Harrison’s hot chocolate. He’d want it, and hopefully it would make him feel better. The last thing Steve wanted was him getting any worse - the admission the last time he’d been sick had been absolutely terrifying.

Harrison didn't bother changing out of his clothes, though shuffled out of his jeans. He wrapped himself up in his duvet and blankets, his little excursion downstairs having tired him out and made him cold to the bone. 

Steve came up after a few minutes, knocking on the door before he pushed it open and headed inside. “Hot chocolate. Have you had any meds?”

Harrison was barely visible through his cocoon, but he shook his head. He’d had none in his room, and hadn't wanted to go downstairs or disturb Steve. 

Steve tutted. “I’ll go and get some.”

"Do you have to?"

“It’ll make you feel better.”

"Okay." He said quietly, taking Steve's bribe of hot chocolate. 

"I'll be right back." Steve promised, grabbing some paracetamol and a thermometer while he was there. A bottle of water wouldn't harm either, so he brought one up with him, knocking again before entering. 

"Hars? Got you some meds and some water to take them with."

Harrison jumped slightly, having drifted with the silence. He reached for his chocolate again, swallowing the meds with a grimace. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Can I take your temperature? You look really flushed."

"Do you have to?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid so." Steve said gently, sitting on the side of the bed. 

Harrison sighed heavily. "Okay."

Steve patted Harrison's leg, shooting him an encouraging smile. He was quick to check his temperature, frowning at the numbers. 

"Let me check the other ear." He'd hoped it was a mistake, but he knew it wouldn't be much different. 

Unfortunately, it was even higher than the first, and he sighed heavily. They really didn't need him being this sick again. 

"That bad?" There was a flash of panic across Harrison's face. 

"You've just got a fever, kid. Just means your body is fighting off what it needs to do. But, it does mean you can't be swamped by your duvets. I can get you a sheet instead?" He offered. 

Fear settled in his features. "No. I need the duvet. I need my blankets."

"Hey, it's okay. It's just to keep your temperature down. Just like taking a cool shower or bath, it just makes sure you're not going to overheat." Steve kept it simple, aware Harrison wasn't entirely firing on all cylinders. "Tell you what, eh? You can keep your duvet but you need to keep it at your feet or by your side. You're not allowed to wrap yourself up in it, okay?"

Harrison hesitated. Steve had just told him he wasn't allowed it, he hadn't dragged it from his grip, hurt him to try and get them away. He took a deep breath, and slowly pushed it to his feet. 

"There you go. Thank you, Harrison. I know it's not nice to take it off when you feel rubbish. I'll let you get some more sleep, okay?"

"'kay." Harrison nodded, snuggling under the blanket he'd been allowed. "Thank you."

Steve left Harrison to sleep, hoping that just being under the thin blanket would be enough to stop him getting hotter. He really was worried about the kid, all too aware how it had ended before. His chest seemed okay, at least, just the fever that was concerning. Surely the sleep would help, as would the meds and the water. It was just a waiting game, hoping his body would fight off whatever he’d picked up. Didn’t help that he’d been so run down, the alcohol certainly not helping him. 

A few hours later, Steve returned. Harrison had been quiet, hopefully sleeping, and he knocked on the door again before he stepped inside. 

“Harrison?” He asked gently. 

He stirred slightly, squinting at Steve. He didn’t quite understand why he was so insistent on pestering him. 

“Can I check your temp again?”

"No."

“Please?”

"No." He whined. "I wanna sleep."

“It’ll take two seconds, and then you can sleep again.”

He groaned, pulling the sheet over his head. "No."

“Come on, Harrison.”

"Steve, please."

“I just want to check it’s come down.”

"It has."

“I don’t know unless I check.”

"Fine." Harrison was always more agreeable when Steve was around, and he couldn’t help but try and do what he wanted.

“Thank you.” Steve said gently, pulling the blanket back. 

The lack of blanket made it so much colder, the small pocket of warmth quickly dissipated. He whined despite himself, burying his face in his pillow as he curled up tighter.

“I know.” Steve soothed. “Just check your temp, won’t take long.” He said as he did it. 

"It's better?"

“Afraid not.” Steve said. It was worse, but he wasn’t about to tell Harrison that, he didn’t want to panic the poor kid. 

"Oh. Okay. More sleep, then."

“How are you feeling?” 

"Cold."

He hummed. “Your temperature is pretty high.”

"That's okay."

“No, it’s not.”

"I'll fix it."

“Oh?”

"Yeah." He settled back down. "It's all fixed now."

“Not sure I share your confidence.”

"That's a shame."

“Here, let me check again.”

"You just checked."

“I need to double check.”

"No you don't."

“I do.”

"I'm asleep."

“Funny, talking whilst you’re asleep.”

"You can check it later."

“If you’re asleep I could just do it now.”

"No."

Steve huffed. “You’re not well.”

He couldn't help the tears that started falling. "I'm sorry."

“Hey, don’t cry.”

"'m cold and you won't let me sleep an' you keep taking my blankets."

“Alright, I know. But you’re far too warm.”

"I'm not."

“You really are.”

Harrison shivered as if to prove his point, managing to push himself up and into Steve's side. 

Steve wrapped his arm around him. “I know you feel miserable.”

"A lot."

“Yeah. You’ve got a bad temp.”

"I'm cold." He murmured, snuggling in properly.

Steve sighed, patting him on the shoulder. “Alright. Get some sleep. I’ll pop back later.”

"No." He said quickly. "Don't go."

Steve softened. “Oh. I’ll stay.”

Harrison gave a quiet, happy noise. "Thank you."

Steve settled down to sit with him, still worried but glad Harrison wanted his comfort. 

Harrison slept for a while, only growing increasingly warm by Steve's side. At first, it was quiet, but soon enough the nightmares leached into his dreams. He struggled against the sheets, whimpering and crying quietly. Nothing changed, and his nightmares only grew worse, the fever only adding more power to them. He woke with a shout, trying to make himself smaller, to keep himself safe.

Steve hated Harrison’s nightmares. He felt so powerless to do anything about them, unable to wake him and worried as he got hotter and hotter. He managed to get the blanket off of him, hoping that would at least help, but he doubted it would make much of a difference. 

“Harrison?” He said gently, once he’d shouted himself awake. “It’s alright, you’re okay.”

He fought against Steve, torn between trying to get away and trying to disappear into the bed. His cries and pleads didn't make sense, talking to people that weren't there.

He was much, much worse than before. Steve’s stomach twisted with nerves and he sighed. “Alright. We really ought to get you cooled down.”

Harrison pushed at Steve's hands, uncoordinated and weak. He was already cold, and couldn't understand how Steve didn't get it. He was supposed to be smart.

Harrison’s skin was so hot it almost burned. Steve didn’t have much of a choice, he needed to cool him down, else he was going to end up in hospital again. Harrison was too agitated for him to bother with trying to take another temperature, and instead he just scooped him up in his arms and carried him to the bathroom. 

His heart almost stopped as Steve carried him onto the bathroom, suddenly gaining strength. He writhed and fought against Steve's arms, begging him to stop. After everything, Steve was going to kill him. 

Luckily Steve was stronger than Harrison, still skinny and weak. He kept him close to his chest, his heart breaking as the teenager fought him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m gonna help, I swear.”

Harrison gripped tightly onto Steve's shirt, tears streaming down his face. He'd turned to begging, trying anything to stop it.

Steve hated it, apologising constantly as he turned the tap on and waited for it to warm up a little before he set Harrison in the tub.  Clearly he was upset, and ordinarily he’d never push him this hard to do something that was this upsetting, but it needed doing. He let the water run over his legs, cupping his hands to trail it over his back. “It’s okay, I promise you’re going to be okay.”

Harrison screamed as the water touched him, trying his best to arch away from it, his hands clawing at Steve's chest. He couldn’t breathe, and each drop of water burned his skin. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please." He begged, his words split by sobs. "Dad, please, I'm sorry. I'll be good. Please."

Steve’s throat tightened, and he tried his best to keep Harrison’s face from getting wet. He knew he’d fucked up, he’d hit a trigger or something, clearly that he knew nothing about. It must have been his old family, his biological family, and Steve hadn’t had any information. But Harrison needed this, else he was going to get much, much sicker. After a while he stopped the running water, just leaving the teenager sat in the tub. He did his best to keep the water moving over him, where he could avoid clawed hands and kicking legs. Steve himself was soaked, his T-shirt clinging to him, but he pushed on. He needed to get Harrison’s temperature down. “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you. You’re okay, you’ve not done anything wrong. Cooling you down, kid. Cooling you down.”

His words didn't register with Harrison, still fueled by adrenaline and terror. He continued to try his best to scramble out, grabbing at Steve where he could. Steve kept putting water on him, kept him trapped in the bath. He was obviously just dragging it out, making sure Harrison knew how much trouble he'd caused, how much he deserved the punishment. 

Steve hated it, the way Harrison grabbed a t him and tried to free himself. It seemed to be working, though, the boy’s skin wasn’t so warm to touch, he seemed slightly more with it. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to hurt you, I’m not gonna do anything to hurt you. I just want to help you. I promise I’m helping you.”

Eventually, his strength died down. He didn't have the energy to fight any more, and slowly resigned himself to whatever was coming. 

When he stopped, he expected punishment, to be pushed under and held there, but it didn't come. 

The hands on him no longer burned, and he slowly realised they weren't pushing him down but keeping him up, out of the water. They were slow and gentle, each move careful and considered. Gradually, his sobbing stopped, though his breath continued to catch in his throat. He couldn't help himself as he collapsed into Steve, unable to hold himself up any longer. 

“Well done, that’s it. You’re alright, I’m not trying to hurt you. Just helping you cool down, yeah?” He said gently, stroking through his hair. “I’m sorry. You’re going to be okay, Harrison I’ve got you. Just breathe. It’s okay.”

[joyful-witch]

Not to vent on main but I need to get this out and I don’t see my therapist again until after finals so.

Do you ever have a moment where you just think:

“Oh. I’ve never actually been in love with someone before. And because he ruined me I may never have the chance to because the thought of ever letting someone close to me like that again makes me nauseous”

When your therapist tells you “he may not have physically held the knife to your throat like that awful boy did to you when you were younger…but the knife was still there. He in reality, was no different than the original perpetrator”

When you realized the 4 years of abuse you endured will forever haunt you because it has been almost 2 years since you left him and you still have panic attacks when you see someone who has remotely similar hair.

Where the thought of someone touching you in any way other than platonically makes you want to cry.

Where even being hugged makes you feel like you’re going to die.

Where you can’t even properly verbalize what was done to you because just saying it out loud leads to incoherent sobbing.

Yeah me neither.

Anyhow happy almost 2 years of leaving my abuser, and happy official two years of realizing I needed to leave him.

To my younger self: I’m so proud of you. In a few months you will finally leave your abuser and you’ll realize all the things he did to you. You’ll finally accept yourself as you are. You’ll begin healing. It’s a long journey and it’s torturous, but you’ll be so much happier when it’s over with. You won’t hate yourself anymore. You’ll learn to love yourself. And it will be beautiful.

I never thought being alone could make me happy. But it does.

I’m so glad I’m out of that place. I’m so glad I will never see him again. And I’m so glad I’m finally starting to heal even if it is painful sometimes.

To other victims of abuse and recovering victims of abuse: love yourself. Give yourself grace. It will take time to heal. I know it’s frustrating that leaving them isn’t an instant fix. But leaving them is the first step. You will be okay. It will take time, but you will be okay.

And remember you are never alone.

[miles-prentiss]

Where is my mind

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Additional Tags: Mental Health Issues, Childhood Trauma, Psychological Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Child Abuse, Past Abuse, Abuse, Physical Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Drug Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Substance Abuse, Schizophrenia, Hallucinations, Nightmares, Dreams, Panic Attacks, Short One Shot, One Shot, Angst, Heavy Angst, Angst and Tragedy

Words: 414

I walk down the long hallway the walls a saturated marron colour

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

"Hello!" I call out unaware of my surroundings.

I reach the end of the hall, I am met with a off white door, I open the door with hesitation not knowing what is awaiting my arrival.

The door open revealing a living room which seem familiar .

"Hello?" I call out once more.

... no reply .

I begin the gather what Is surrounding me, soft yellow wall, a dark green couch, a muted red carpet, off white lace curtains.

I turn around to see a man who was once standing behind me.

I stand in confusion not knowing who the man infront of me.

"What do you not know your own father?" He asked as if he was informing me on who exactly he was.

I couldn't believe it.

"I thought- you're in prison!?" I enquired.

"What do you not miss your pa?" I ignored his statement and walked away.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" He demanded grabing my shoulder and spinning me around to face him.

I flinched and his grip on my shoulder is getting tighter. He takes his free hand and wraps it tightly around my neck ,blocking my oxygen supply.

"Pleaae..." I let out a pathetic whimper.

"Ahhh!" I sit up walking myself up from my slumber in a cold sweat.

"Why?...why now?"

The past is catching up with me fast than I thought, I hang my head in defeat not wanting to deal with this at the moment.

I turn to my alarm clock which reads '3:12AM' 'the devils hour'.

I get out of bed and walk over to my bathroom. I flick on the light, illuminating the bathroom.

I stare at myself in the mirror, my dark curls framing my face, dark circles for eyes, the pale yellow-ish tone on my skin.

I turn to look at the shelf bellow the mirror which is filled with numerous boxes of pills

I look back up to the mirror to see Him behind me, his hand wrapped firmly around my neck, I turn around only for him not to be there.

I Fall back against the sink, knees coming up to my chest, hand falling into my arms, tears rolling down my face, slight ringing in my ear

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...." I repeat over and over knowing how I failed being my mother's perfect little girl

"Where is my mind?"

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: The Housepet.

Continuation of The Houseguest.

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Kaveh x Reader x Yandere!Alhaitham (Genshin).

Word Count: 2.0k.

TW: Implied/Referenced Non-Con, Prolonged Imprisonment, Mind Break, Physical Abuse, Dehumization, Obsessive Behavior, and Delusional Thoughts.

You’d been shaking for the past two hours.

Violently enough for the tremor to be visible in your shoulders, in the jerkiness of your rare movements, but not so aggressively as to disrupt the path of the tears Kaveh would occasionally catch running down your cheeks. It’d started halfway through your tryst, while his head was still buried between the thighs he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for weeks, and the warm bath he’d run hadn’t comforted you the way he’d hoped it would. He thought that getting you out of Alhaitham’s clothes, Alhaitham’s colors might help, but even dressed in one of his shirts, your hair pulled out of your face by one of his jewel-studded clips, you shook like a leaf caught in the morning gale. When he tried taking your collar away, hoping that it’s absence would let you (however momentarily) forget Alhaitham, you broke your silence to beg him not to, and his bleeding heart won over his better judgement. You got to keep your collar, even if the sight of it around your throat sent a bolt of discomfort straight to the pit of his stomach.

Currently, he had you on his bed, curled up in a nest of his sheets and wrapped in his arms as he tried to tempt your permanently downcast gaze back onto him. It hurt him to see you in such obvious distress, as little as you seemed to care what he thought. He could only imagine what you were like when Alhaitham had his way with you, that brute. At least Kaveh had made an effort to be gentle with you. He was sure that, behind closed doors, Alhaitham wouldn’t so much as—

Speak of the archons and they will appear. As he rubbed shallow circles into your bruised hip, Kaveh heard the door to Alhaitham’s flat creak open, a series of familiar footsteps following shortly after. There was no pretense of a search – Kaveh could’ve counted the seconds it took Alhaitham to arrive at his door, to let himself into Kaveh’s room with the same irritatingly neutral, ‘I already know this will be a waste of my time’ expression he always seemed to wear. He didn’t even attempt to knock, but Kaveh supposed that was just karma. He supposed he wouldn’t be in this mess at all if he just tread a little more carefully around Alhaitham, around you.

Despite his brazenness, Alhaitham chose to linger in the doorway, his gaze flickering from Kaveh to you to the love bites littered down the length of your neck. Kaveh was the one to break the silence, eventually. “You’re supposed to be working.”

“And you’re supposed to be paying rent.” Then, resting his shoulder against the doorframe, “I left early. I wanted to see how you two were faring.”

Kaveh scoffed. “Don’t pretend you’re clairvoyant.” Alhaitham paid him a look, and he threw his head to the side, pulling you closer. “I’m only trying to some love to someone you’ve been neglecting for months. The poor thing’s so traumatized by your company, a little affection’s rendered them nearly catatonic.”

Alhaitham let out a dry laugh, his expression remaining completely unchanged. “That is not what they look like when they’re catatonic.”

Kaveh moved to spit out something accusatory and defensive, but Alhaitham only held up a hand. When Kaveh begrudgingly went quiet, Alhaitham took a step closer, positioning himself at the foot of Kaveh’s bed. He clicked his tongue and, with only the slightest amount of hesitation, you broke away from Kaveh and crawled to your keeper, head bowed and hands pawed. You came to kneel in front of him, your gaze never rising higher than Kaveh’s sheets. “I’m sorry, I tried to…” You trailed off, clenched your eyes shut. A flower, so meek and so delicate, it couldn’t help but close its petals for fear of being burnt by the sun. “I’m sorry.”

Alhaitham took on a look of pleased exasperation. “That won’t be necessary. You remember what I told you before I left, right?”

You nodded. “That it wouldn’t be my fault.”

“Close, but not quite.” He smiled, resting his hand on top of your head. You melted into his palm, although the sigh that slipped past your lips betrayed more relief than solace. “I said he wouldn’t be able to control himself. That’s the thing about Kaveh – no matter what I put in front of him, he’d be able to justify taking it for himself.”

Again, Kaveh tried to protest, to reiterate that he hadn’t ‘taken’ anything, but Alhaitham already going on, his hand drifting to your cheek, then your chin, tilting your head back to better take in the hickey bruised into the corner of your jaw, the evidence of Kaveh’s teeth still embedded in your shoulder. “You should’ve seen what I had to deal with a few months ago. Fighting, scratching, and such a mouth – I’m glad we found a better use for it.” A pause, a glance toward Kaveh. “I’m sure even you can admit that this is an improvement. A little training goes a far way, when you’ve got the right handler.”

He felt something sharp and heavy fall into the pit of his stomach. “It sounds like you’re talking about an animal.”

Kaveh didn’t want to be strict with you. He didn’t want to be like Alhaitham; endlessly cruel, endlessly demanding, a void where all emotions more sentimental than lukewarm indifference were eradicated with the utmost efficiency. He wanted to be soft with you, a reprieve you could run to when Alhaitham proved unyielding. He wanted to love you, if only because of how much it hurt him to see Alhaitham failing to do the same.

“It’s not completely different. Give a subject the right incentive, and it doesn’t matter whether you’re trying to tame a student or a sumpter beast. This subject just happens to do well with direct instruction. I found that out early on, after a softer approach proved ineffective.” He snapped his fingers, and as if guided by a string, you straightened your back, your formerly divided attention now focused solely on Alhaitham. “I could teach you a few of their commands, if you think you could be strict enough not to undo all of my hard work.”

But, seeing you kneel in front of Alhaitham, staring up at him like he’d hung the stars in the sky – he couldn’t help but feel his heart ache at the memory of the state you’d been in only a few minutes ago, of the trembling doll who needed to be posed by hand. At least, under the weight of Alhaitham’s commands, you were more of a house pet than a toy, more of a flower than a block of crumbling stone.

The thought alone should’ve made him feel sick.

Should’ve.

He straightened, swung his legs over the side of his mattress. He looked at you as he spoke, only letting Alhaitham take up a fraction of his peripheral. “What do you mean by ‘commands’?”

Kaveh wasn’t looking at him, but he didn’t have to be.

He could hear Alhaitham’s grin in his voice. “Come here.”

He took long seconds to push himself onto his feet, to find his way to Alhaitham’s side. With a soft hum, Alhaitham stepped back and brought a hand to Kaveh’s waist, another to his shoulder, drawing him forward until he was standing in front of you. He could see something spark in your eyes – not quite distress, but confusion. There’d been a change in the routine that you and Alhaitham had perfected, and you clearly weren’t sure how to react. To his credit, he wasn’t either.

“You already saw how to get their attention,” Alhaitham started, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. “Names haven’t had much affect since our time with the cellar, but most verbal commands are fairly straightforward. Kneel, sit, and stand all do exactly what you’d assume, and while they usually ask for approval to speak, they’re good at responding to direct questions. Aren’t you, love?”

Kaveh watched you perk up, looking towards Alhaitham for approval. He offered a curt nod, and with a few seconds of deliberation, you managed a small “…I am.”

“See? There’s still a brain in there after all.” Alhaitham flashed that awful smile toward Kaveh. Kaveh didn’t return the gesture. “We’re making progress, but due to prior incidents—” Alhaitham’s tone didn’t change, but you flinched. “—our outdoor privileges are still restricted. Kitchen access is limited, too, until someone proves that they know how to handle knives responsibly.”

You bowed your head, a scolded dog who knew better than to pretend it hadn’t learned its lesson. Kaveh interjected before Alhaitham could forget the point of his lecture. “That’s not what I care about.”

He could practically taste the smugness radiating off of Alhaitham. “And what do you care about, Kaveh?”

“I can’t believe you’d hold this over my—”

“Answer the question,” Alhaitham cut in. “If you want to use something that belongs to me, you’re going to have to tell me what you plan to do with it.”

It felt like something was attempting to crawl up his throat, one spiny leg at a time. It felt like his chest was about to split open. “I want to be…”

His eyes met yours. For a moment, he thought he saw something other than the dull acknowledgment of an unpleasant reality, other than the fear of punishment and the anticipation of reward. Something more visceral, more conscious than what could be ingrained into you by someone else’s hands.

“I’d like to be loving with them.” He saw it for a moment and then, that visceral something fell apart and disappeared. “I’d like for them to love me. Or, to act like they do, at least.”

Alhaitham let out a breath of a laugh. It sounded like nails against porcelain. You seemed to think so too. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Your voice sounded so painstakingly delicate. If he had a little less self-control, he might’ve taken you in his arms and whisked you away, taken you somewhere Alhaitham couldn’t follow. If he was a little less selfish, he would’ve. “It wasn’t.”

If Alhaitham heard you speak out of turn, he was willing to overlook the infraction. “Use the collar. Just make sure not to pull too hard – you won’t like what that means.”

It was Kaveh’s turn to shake, now. He tried to keep his hands steady, to touch you as carefully as he had when you were alone together, but his limbs felt disconnected from his body, his mind buzzing numbly with a static haze. The material was softer than he thought it would – not quite the silk he’d taken it for, but rather, a fine velvet, soft to the touch and bound by a small, metallic ring that rested over your throat. Two fingers slipped under the thin fabric, and as if you’d only just noticed what was happening, you looked toward Alhaitham, your lips parting and—

There was a blur of movement in the corner of his eye, a resounding crack that seemed to ring in Kaveh’s ears for seconds. It took him a moment to piece together what had happened, to associate your reddened cheek with Alhaitham’s raised hand, and another to realize Alhaitham was talking, to hear something other than the sound of his own heart racing in his chest. “Do not question the orders you’re given,” he said, his tone flat, unaffected. “If you act out again, there will be consequences. Do you understand?”

There was no hesitation, no trepidation. Just a deep breath, a new slackness to your posture, and a smile terrible enough to match Alhaitham’s own. “I do. Thank you for correcting me.”

Kaveh couldn’t take it. He didn’t think, didn’t wait, didn’t give himself time to think better of being so rough with you – just took your collar in his fist and dragged you upward, forcing his mouth against yours. It was messy, clumsy, near violent. His teeth cut into your lips, your blood spreading over his tongue, but you didn’t pull away. Rather, you leaned into him, resting hands on his chest and doing your best not to jolt when he hauled you closer. He’d be gentle with you later on. He’d treat you like the delicate, precious thing you were later on.

For now, he just wanted to pretend he was telling himself the truth, when he said that.

[hectorthedoggo]

teehee!! new chapter!!

tws under cut (but, they have slight spoilers, so steer clear :D)

Tws: referenced underage drinking (/j), suicidal ideations, implied past es not living la vida loca (slight physical, emotional child abuse), also, there is no csa/sa at all in this fic for es, btw :)

(@kani-miso good morning)

[litnerdwrites]

Justice for Nesta recs (AO3)

Most, if not all, of these recs are in the Justice for Nesta/ ACOSF rewrite/fix-it vein. It will be updates as I find more fics, but feel free to send any recs you have.

TRIGGER WARNING! Many of these fics will be very dark, with references to suicide, ptsd, misogyny, and IC BS. However, I'll be sure to add specifics where applicable.

Fics For Those Craving Nesta JusticeI put all the fics I found into one collection on AO3 that, as the title suggests, are for those craving Nesta Justice. Please read the relevant tags for each fic, as many of them contain reference to PTSD, SA (both past referenced and in story), and general IC BS.

I'll also list every fic in this collection bellow, just to keep them all in one place. Feel free to also add your own finds or works if you have any. The collection is open, but moderated.

Those the Stars Cannot Hear by @kataraavatara An ACOSF rewrite where Mor makes good on her threat to leave Nesta in the CON.

Baby, now we got bad blood by Pumpkinspice_Lou They say you should never come between a male and his mate. Rhysand should've known better. Aka Cassian finally choosing Nesta. Completed two-shot.

A Court of Vice and Victors by Wishcamper Acosf rewritten by a therapist. Need I say more? Incomplete.

You Made Her Like That By BookWorm77071 A few days into their Hike from Hell, Nesta is able to form one coherent thought: I don't want to do this anymore. So she stops. Three chapter short story. Completed.

Nesta becomes a baby by Theladyofbloodshed Exactly what the title says. Oneshot.

A Court of Tangled Flames by Theladyofbloodshed A Neris fic where Nesta gets the love story she deserves.

ACOTAR snippet collection by Theladyofbloodshed A collection of Acotar what ifs.

Nesta vs. The Buffer by Theladyofbloodshed After Nesta finally snaps at another 'family' dinner, calling Cassian and Mor out on their shit, she begins to heal and fall in love on her own terms. With a certain shadowsinger. Completed. Nezriel fic. Anti IC but they kind of redeem themselves at the end. Completed.

AU Where We Pretend Acosf Didn't Happen by Theladyofbloodshed An alternative take to ACOSF, starting from post ACOFS. Nesta ends up leaving Velaris, starting herself on a journey of self discovery and healing. TW Beron Vansera, implied/referenced SA, IC being assholes.

Nightmare Dressed Like A Daydream by This_Immortal_Hope Nesta was a wolf. So, much like a wolf, she bided her time, accepting her exile with ice in her and determination in her heart. When she was ready, she tore their Court of Dreams apart with their own hypocrisy. One shot. No ship. Rhysand is thoroughly put in his place. Oneshot.

Second Chances by miryamdev Cassian apologises to Nesta after the HOFAS bonus chapter.

A trick of the light by closet_monster There was nothing condemning about madness or paralyzing fear. Nesta was familiar with both — they seemed to be a recurring theme in both womanhood and life in Hewn. Oneshot. TW Depression, self harm, and implied abuse. Please double check the tags before reading.

Burn for Eternity by rosemai Nesta is defeated and broken down by the words of her sisters and the IC, so she takes matters into her own hands and meets a group on individuals who could give her the help she needs. Incomplete.

Nesta's Truth by grovellingboyfriends After another year of leaving Nesta alone, Cassian finds Nesta in her apartment on Solstice, standing over a dead man. TW for implied SA, parental abuse, Elain is a bitch. 3/5 chapters published as of making this post.

Daylight by Flowerflamestar Nesta Archeron, banished and betrayed, ran from cold and hatred straight into the light of Day and found a place where she could belong. Completed.

Might I Suggest You Don't Fuck With My Sis by MacabreGiggles The intervention rethought, where the Archeron sisters decide to stand up for one another and put the IC in their place. Incomplete.

I died. I will die. It's alright. I don't mind. By MacabreGiggles Nesta resorts to other means to cope, like drugs. Incomplete. TW. Abuse. Alcolism. Suicide. Sexual assault. Drug abuse.

The Veil of Silence by Hrizantemy There exists a veil of silence, it shrouds our voices masking our truths, muffling our cries, our voices are muted, and dreams whispered. Incomplete.

You're a crisis of my faith by porque_nolosdos Nesta and Elain leave the NC, and upon seeing the IC's reaction, Feyre decides to ditch them too. Incomplete.

A thousand cuts by adelindschade It finally clicks for Cassian just how badly Nesta was hurting (it only took three TW suicide TW attempts), so he decides to try thinking of what Nesta would want. This decision leaves a ripple effect that will change the NC as we know it. Incomplete.

The consequences of normality by TheTeaQueen After the events of ACOSF, things seem relatively normal. Until Cassian realises that Nesta doesn't ask for things, or that self hatred still grips her, or the facade she puts on for her family. When she starts cutting back on training and work in the library, he begins to worry. Maybe things aren't as perfect as he thought. Maybe their methods in helping her weren't as effective as he thought. Incomplete.

Three little words by TheTeaQueen Cassian finally says those three little words that Nesta needed to hear. Oneshot.

Like fire, she raged by TheTeaQueen Emerie stands up for Nesta and puts Rhys and Feyre in their place. Completed.

Of Death and Resurrection by TheTeaQueen Part 1 of In the name of healing and happiness. Nesta was ready to die. So to save Feyre and Nyx, she did. Can Rhysand, the only person who can save her, bring her back from the brink? Completed. TW Implied suicide, rape/sa, anti Elain.

Of Shadows and Light by TheTeaQueen Part 2 of In the name of healing and happiness. Technically more of a Gwynriel fic, but does have some Nessian since it follows the aftermath of Of death and Resurrection, only Azriel, Gwyn & Elain are the main focus. Ties up a lose thread or two from part 1, and is 100% Anti Elain. Completed. TW Implied child abuse, implied suicide, torture.

Of Reopened Wounds and Retribution by TheTeaQueen Part 3 of In the name of healing and happiness. A trip to the human lands to discuss the treaty leads Nesta to face Thomas Mandray again. This time, she has family willing to go to hell and back for her. Incomplete. TW Implied rape/sa, panic attack.

Lady Death and Her Kingdom by TheTeaQueen Amren pushes Nesta too far, causing her to awaken a strange new power. TW Implied child abuse. Incomplete.

The Hike, Alternatively by TheTeaQueen An alternative take on The Hike from Hell, where Nesta attempt to TW commit suicide TW, and Cassian realises just how messed up their methods, and the events leading up to the hike are. Written for Suicide prevention month. Completed. TW Self harm, suicide, The Hike.

To Pay a Debt by TheTeaQueen When Nesta sees that Feyre didn't include her in any of the paintings, she does the only thing she can think of; Run. Incomplete. TW, attempted suicide, suicidal thoughts, mentioned sa.

Burning from the Inside out by TheTeaQueen An au where Nesta's secretly lived with Chronic pain her whole life, only for the cauldron and her new powers to exacerbate it. Complete. TW Implied/referenced child abuse, suicidal thoughts, ableism, internalised ableism.

The Whole Truth by TheTeaQueen An alternative take where Nesta's deepest secret comes to light when Elain explodes at the dinner table one night. This forces the IC and her sisters to reevaluate their perception of her. Incomplete. TW: Child abuse, suicidal thoughts/ideation, forced prostitution, sexual assault (underage!!)

Set my Soul Alight by moodymelanist Nesta finds solace in Autumn. No Nessian. Completed. TW Implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced rape, implied/referenced torture.

Falling by becauseofreading Another take on what happens after Cassian tells Nesta that everybody hates her. Incomplete. TW Self harm, suicidal thoughts, blood and injuries.

Destruction and Renewal by Vorbi Nesta is given the opportunity to form new alliances. Initially, she scoffs at the idea, but after a small, final act of disrespect from the IC, she decides to see where this new path leads us. Incomplete. TW Implied/referenced abuse.

No One Likes A Mad Woman by Separatist_Apologist You made her like that. Nesta has had her choices tripped away, so when Eris offers her an out, she takes it. No happy ending for Cassian. The Night Court gets no sympathy. Completed. TW Domestic violence

A Cup of Tea by shaziskhalid After realising that the Cassian of her dreams isn't the Cassian she's mated to, everything changed. (MCU! Wanda, modern Au). Incomplete.

Promise by Daughterofthesea Begins during that scene where Cassian follows Nesta, and ends with him understanding just how much pain she's in, and deciding to actually help her.

Stay here (I love you, but I need another year) by littleplease Nesta is tired, and losing the will to even try. Complete. TW Apathy, depression, vuage suicidal thoughts.

What you did to me (I'll spend my life trying to rise) by filthymouthedslut Nesta is done with the IC's holier-than-thou attitude. No ship. Incomplete (3/4) as of updating this post.

Everybody hates you by Booksandsushi A different take on the time Cassian tells Nesta that Everybody hates her. Incomplete.

Change is good by Booksandsushi Nesta figures her life out on her own. Complete.

Truth of the Heart By TheFreakPanda The months after ACOFAS leave Nesta presented with some new opportunities. Full of therapy and dancing. Completed.

I've Always Liked to Play with Fire by catalyste After her village is destroyed and family killed by Hybern following Feyre's revenge mission, you wake up healed in the NC. After Lucien leaves you there, you find yourself trapped with Nesta Archeron, who turns out to be an unlikely ally. The two of you plan your escape with the help of Eris Vansera. Polly, Neris/reader, with IC bashing, and dragons. Incomplete.

The relapse by Janes_Melodies Something broke in Nesta when she learned about the results of the vote, knowing it was a tie until Feyre. She was trying for her sisters and for Cassian, yet they still think she's cruel enough to create a whole new trove just to kill them all. For the first time in months, she gave into her desires. Incomplete. TW Alcoholism, Implied/referenced self harm, suicidal thoughts.

You're safe now by annieleonhardtsring Rewrite of the scene where Nesta falls down the stairs, and Azriel stands up for her. Complete.

Love her how she should be loved by julemmaes Cassian overhears his family making some not-so-subtle comments about Nesta, and it pushes him over the edge. So he goes to bat for her, blaming his friends for everything wrong with their relationship with his girlfriend. Modern AU completed.

The Nest World - The Next Life by bat_called_phil ACOSF canon divergence fic that starts with the intervention, but diverts when Nesta takes a stand for herself, and Feyre starts holding Rhys accountable. TW Implied/referenced suicide, Implied/referenced abortion.

A Court of Spite and Isolation by xxTAO Nesta choses the human lands, separated from the IC and the distractions from her trauma, she spirals. Incomplete (4/6) TW Suicidal thoughts, Implied/referenced alcoholism, Suicide attempt.

Come Home by Rhysanoodle Cassian learns how Nesta's been living since she came to Illyria, and which fears haunt her the most. Complete.

[annwrites]

a house in hawkins. part three.

— pairing: billy hargrove x fem!reader

— type: part of a series

— summary: billy helps you with homework, you realize you have a crush, & yet another man enters the fold

— tags: billy trying to learn more about you, billy opening up about who he used to be

— tw: references to past sexual abuse/grooming of a minor, mentions of drugs, infidelity, implied abortion

— word count: 4,458

— a/n: going forward, this fic will be dealing in heavy material, like those referenced in the tw & more. sex scenes will be graphic & potentially triggering to some readers. putting it out there now, so some know to stop before following along any further with this post/series.

i hope this post seems okay. idk how i feel about writing billy this way. it feels ooc, bc he's so nice & mature, but he's supposed to be for this story, bc that's the kind of man reader desperately needs to lean on. idk. i think i just need to get more comfortable with characterizing him so differently than i did in my thoroughfare series.

When Billy enters the house, he finds you to his left in the living room. Or, what is now serving as a poor excuse for one. You’re on the floor, lying on your stomach atop a light blue blanket, legs in the air behind you, waving back and forth as you work on what he assumes is homework.

You glance up to him for a moment, a pencil balanced atop your upper lip which is in a pout to keep it in-place and he smirks at the sight.

He holds up a plastic bag from a hardware store. “Brought you a new doorknob.”

You drop the writing utensil. “Does that one have a lock, too?”

“It does.”

You turn back to the textbook in front of you. “Good. Now you can replace the other one that you broke.”

His lip twitches. “Yes, ma’am.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

He repeats the statement yet again before heading up.

A handful of minutes later, he comes back downstairs, seating himself on the cushion-less couch. “Done.”

You look back at him over your shoulder.

He lays an arm across the back of the couch. “What? Do you want to inspect my handiwork?”

You go back to your homework. “Not really. And you’re not getting paid, either.”

He chuckles. “I’d say that’s only fair, since it needing to be replaced at all is my fault to begin with.”

Both of you grow silent then and he leans forward, squinting, trying to get a look at whatever you’re working on. “Number four is wrong.”

He leans back again.

You don’t initially respond, telling yourself that he’s just picking on you. Or that you don’t really care if your decimal is in the wrong place, but you keep glancing back to the question. You sigh loudly then and he smiles in response. “So what’s the right answer, then?”

He shrugs. “You tell me, sweetheart.”

You don’t like him calling you that yet again. Scott is the only one who gets to call you by that term of endearment. Joe had tried it once—twice, maybe—and even if he scared the shit out of you, you made it clear that he could call you by anything else but that. He’d agreed easily, since his cock had just been buried in your warm, wet mouth—close to finishing. His mind was occupied with other things at the time than arguing over meaningless nicknames. He’d given you what you wanted—agreement—and then you’d given him the same: an orgasm, which included swallowing, before his wife came home.

You look at him over your shoulder again. “Don’t ever call me that again. Got it?”

He blinks down at you for a moment, the air in the room shifting as he wonders whether you disliked that specific pet name, or pet names in general. And much more: why? “Sure.” He clears his throat. “It’s four point six seven, by the way. Your decimal is in the wrong place.”

You turn back to your paper, erasing and then correcting. You’d known you had screwed up, but had gotten so frustrated that you’d chosen to eventually move onto the next question.

“I hate math,” you mutter.

He props his other elbow up against the arm of the couch, resting his head against his fist. “It was my favorite subject, actually.”

“Can’t imagine why,” you say, filling in number five, hoping you’ve at least gotten it right. You’re sure Billy will tell you if you haven’t.

“What’s your favorite subject? You like to read, so I assume English?”

You bob your head from side-to-side for a moment. “It’s a tie between that and science.”

Ironic, he thinks. The daughter of a meth manufacturer who loves science.

Speaking of, you’d spent last night on-edge, wondering what the hell had gone through your head to think sharing such a secret with a complete stranger to be a good idea. If any of the men found out…‘being in trouble’ wouldn’t even begin to cover it.

You didn’t want to think what Joe would do to you if he found out you’d ran your mouth off to some random that wasn’t even from here, and clearly not a customer, either.

You weren’t sure that the prospect of him never getting to use you for his own personal sexual satisfaction again would be enough to save you.

Thankfully, however, the only cruiser that had shown up last night—which had still made your heart jump into your throat when you’d glanced out the screen door as your dad went out and you saw it—was Travis’. He’d just been bringing his weekly earnings by to be divvied up.

As your dad stood there counting; ensuring that everything was in-order, he’d stared at you, eyes trailing along your body.

You’d not reacted. You hardly did anymore. They all liked to look. But only a select few were allowed to touch. And he had. Twice now. Even if he was engaged. Not that being spoken-for seemed to matter much to any of them.

Joe had been married now for twenty-five years. Longer than you’d even been alive. But whenever his wife went off to visit her sister, or was to be gone majority of the day and the urge hit him…

Travis was different than him in bed, though.

Then again, they all had their own personal…styles.

Joe really liked blowjobs and demeaning dirty-talk, or taking you from behind—honestly, so long as he was fucking you in some form, he was pleased.

Travis, in the two times you’d now been together, had been more on the gentle side, almost like he was afraid of hurting you—it often made you wonder if that was how his fiancée liked it.

Rhett—in the one time you had been together a year ago—had been tender. You tried not to think about the way he had looked at you that night too much. Or the way he looked at you literally each time he was around you after. With longing, and something else you didn’t want to think about.

He knew what it had been going into it. It wasn’t your problem if he’d hoped for more. You’d been clear from the start.

Sometimes, though, you still felt guilty, knowing that it hurt him each time you slept with one of the other men, or they shared you between them, touching you right in front of him.

And then there was Scott. With him it was just…familiarity. Your bodies simply understanding one another. Wants, needs—they no longer even needed to be talked about. Once your naked skin was pressed against each other—in bed, against the wall, on the bench seat in his pickup, in his garage—it was almost like routine. A pleasant one. Like an old habit that both of you refused to kick. Not that you had any reason to.

Even if, when you fought, it left both of you fuming for days. But the making up was the good part. So, the thought of cutting things off never occurred to either of you. Not that it would last long if you even tried.

You were the only girl he’d bothered to continue carrying on with for so long.

And he was the only man you allowed to kiss you on the mouth.

That was your only rule with the rest of them: they could do, and have you do whatever they desired, but no kissing on the lips. Period.

And then you think of you breaking that rule just yesterday for someone else. But he’d been asleep, so that instance had been different. Or, that’s what you’d told yourself, at least.

You don’t even know why you had done it. Maybe to have a secret of your very own. A new one, that is. Because this house had been that, until he’d showed up.

And now you were back to pretending to be someone else for yet one more man in your life. No more letting your walls down for a few hours and just being a teenage girl with hopes and dreams—playing pretend—even if they dwindled little-by-little as time went on, and you warmed yet one more man’s bed.

He’d ripped that away from you.

You’re broken from your thoughts by Billy speaking again. “I can check your answers once you’re done. If you want.”

“Okay.”

You glance back to him over your shoulder and he meets your gaze with a raised brow. “Need help?”

You study him for a moment, then, “No.”

You turn back around. You’d just been curious as to where his eyes were currently trained at at-present. Because this moment reminds you of a similar one from three years ago, when you’d been fourteen, lying on your stomach on the living room floor, watching TV—you couldn’t even remember what had been on now.

The thing you could recall, however, was Joe sitting on the couch behind you, watching you with hooded lids. When you had turned back to him—feeling suddenly uneasy—you’d watched as he’d adjusted himself over his jeans, making sure you’d seen.

You’d felt sickly after, and hadn’t understood why.

Out of all of them, he’d always been your least-favorite. You had many reasons for that. Perhaps because he was the worst, even if he thought he was the best.

Once you’ve finished, you stand, coming to sit beside Billy, resting back on your calves as you watch him look over your paper.

You study him for a moment, noticing a bit of oil near his brow, and you lick your thumb, then reach toward him to wipe it away.

He pulls back, staring at you. “What’re you doing?”

You don’t reply. You simply clean him up, resting your palm back against your thigh. You wonder if he likes you touching him.

They usually do.

He stares at you for just a moment longer—you can swear that he blushes—before looking back to your paper. “Nine is wrong. Like, way off, kiddo.”

He hands it back to you.

You snort at the nickname, taking it from him. “What is it, then?”

He crosses his arms. “You tell me.”

This again.

You shrug, standing, bending over to put it back in your backpack—you can feel his eyes on your rear. “I can live with one wrong answer.”

He lays his head back against the couch, rolling his eyes. “The correct answer was B, not D.”

You smirk then, pulling the paper back out, quickly correcting it, then putting it away again.

“Never going to learn if I just keep telling you all the right answers.”

You turn back to him then, shrugging. “I’m used to getting what I want.”

He shakes his head lightly.

You sit down again, back pressed against the couch’s other arm, knees bent, feet pressed together in front of you. You break the silence this time.

“So, you went to Hawkins High, too?”

He nods. “Mhm.”

“What were you like? The way you are now?” It seemed to you that most men never grew out of being boys.

He smirks. “No. I was a completely different person.” He rolls his head to the side, looking at you. “Honestly, and this is just going off of a hunch, but I think you would’ve fuckin’ hated me.”

That surprises you. “Really? Why?”

He shrugs, looking up to the ceiling. “I was King Bad-Boy-Asshole. Smoking, drinking, partying, fighting, getting laid and driving a cool car. Generally acting like I didn’t give a shit about anything. Maybe a bit too concerned with my good looks. I had one hell of an ego, too; easily bruised.”

You try to picture this version of him, and for some reason, find it quite difficult to do. You’re not entirely sure that you believe him. But he seems the honest type.

“You’re right. I would’ve.”

And you would. All the guys could get cocky at times. You were used to such behavior. But when it came down to it, especially in regards to business—in whatever capacity—they all pulled their weight; did what was needed—necessary. They looked out for one another.

He smirks again. “You would’ve definitely been my type, though.”

This statement interests you. You lean in toward him. “How so?”

“Attractive, quiet, mysterious. You don’t seem to care much about what other people think. All around hard-to-get. I loved a good chase. As long as I got to break her in like a wild horse in bed at the end of it all.”

He looks at you then.

He’s only half-right about not caring for others’ opinions. Unless they were in your immediate circle, you didn’t. But if they were? You had no choice but to. They expected that from you—you caring about what they do, say, and think. Men like to feel good about themselves, and a supportive young woman is one way to get that validation that they all seem to crave, even if they’d never admit it.

You’d learned long ago to never emasculate them. Any of them. In any form.

“You’re not breaking anything.” You only half mean it. You still think him quite attractive, if nothing else.

It pleases you to hear that he thinks the same of you. Even if you’re not surprised by it.

“Didn’t say I was,” he replies, crossing his arms.

You cock your head to the side. “So, why change?”

“Once my dad kicked me out, real-life hit, and I knew it was time to grow the hell up; the time for games was over. The attitude I had was never going to get me very far.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he speaks again. “What do you think of me as I am now?”

You shrug. “You’re okay so far. Definitely still a pretty boy, though.”

He scoffs. “Would a pretty boy have hands like these?” He asks, holding his palms up briefly, before settling them against his thighs.

“I was referring to your face, not your hands.”

He chews the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well, I’m not that.”

Seems like your comment, for whatever reason, has hit a nerve. “Whatever you say, pretty boy.”

He reaches over, grabbing one of your feet, like yesterday, and tugging your sock off, balling it up, and tossing it across the room before massaging the sole.

“Do you have a foot fetish or something?”

His lip twitches in amusement. “No reason why it can’t benefit you.”

You raise a questioning brow.

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t. It’s called being nice. You should try it some time.”

You slide down the couch, settling your other foot in his lap as well. “Oh, I can be very nice. To the right people. Honestly, you probably wouldn’t even recognize me if you saw me with them.”

You stare down at your hands in your lap then.

The latter-most statement had come off as a tad…sad to him. “Why?”

You look at him. “It’s a long story.”

He shrugs, taking your other foot in his rough hands. “No place else to be.”

You glance to the watch on your wrist, knowing Travis is apparently bringing by another cop today to get him dealt-in on the business. He’d asked last night if you’d be there today. You’d said maybe. Meaning that you don’t have to leave.

He looks at your watch as well, then at you. “Do you?”

Your eyes meet his. “Not technically.”

Ever the enigma to him. Never a straight-forward answer with you. You kept him on his toes and guessing, that much was for certain.

“Are you always this cryptic?”

You shrug. “Trust is earned.”

“Trusted me well enough yesterday.”

You glance to him from under your lashes. “I should’ve never told you any of that. It was a mistake. A stupid thing to do.”

His thumbs move to the ball of your foot. “You don’t need to worry. Your secret is safe with me. Besides, I already told you I don’t have any friends. So, who would I have to tell?”

It’s just a general feeling—same as it was yesterday—that he can be trusted. And that’s an unusual occurrence for you. To meet someone like that.

Like him.

He rolls his head to the side, looking at you.

The warmth in his eyes…it’s not often you see such a sight.

“So, who are ‘the right people’, then? Classmates? Boyfriend?”

You cross your arms, shifting uncomfortably. “Family friends.”

He hums, moving his hands back to your other foot. “Why aren’t you with them now?”

“Are you always this nosy?”

He smirks, moving his fingers to your ankle. “Told you yesterday that I only have a few dozen questions to ask. That I find you fascinating.”

“And what do I get for answering?”

His lip twitches. “Helped you with your homework, didn’t I? Sounds like a give-and-take to me.”

“I was doing just fine before you came along.”

He rests the crook of his neck back against the couch. “I think you needed me.”

“Sounds to me like you still have one hell of an ego.”

He chuckles. “Never said I didn’t, honey.”

You glance to your watch again and sigh.

He looks at you, moving his fingers back to your foot, which you then remove from his lap, standing.

You head across the room to retrieve your sock.

He sits up. “Are you leaving?”

You pad back over to your shoes. “Mhm.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “Want me to give you a ride home?”

You look up to him after slipping them both on. A strange man bringing you home—especially if Scott or Joe were there, or your dad was in a mood—is most certainly a bad idea.

Even at that, with Travis…things were still new and blooming. You knew he felt special—since the rest of them you’d known for years and years—and taking a new guy to bed so soon had made him believe there was something different about him for you. Seeing you with an unfamiliar, like Billy, would only give him doubt.

“No, thanks. I like walking.”

You pull your backpack on and he stands then.

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

You shrug. Normally, you didn’t come here on the weekends to begin with. But you’d procrastinated your math homework yesterday in favor of reading instead. And then had used the unfinished assignment as an excuse to come back today.

You wonder if he always works weekends as well.

He takes a step closer to you, floorboards creaking.

You stare up at him. “Will you be here tomorrow?”

He smiles. “If you want me to be.”

You don’t entirely know what to say to that. “Do you not have work?”

“I don’t work Sundays. And I only work every-other Saturday. It’s the only reason I’m out here today.”

So next weekend you’d have this place all to yourself from the sounds of it. You now had something to look forward to.

You step past him. “And here I thought you came for me.”

He laughs. “Now who has an ego?”

Once the two of you are on the front porch—you really wanted to begin trying to fix this place up, even just a little; perhaps the furniture upstairs could be put to use—you turn back to him. “What I’m doing tomorrow depends on today. Make of that what you will.”

If Travis’ fiancée was to be at work all night, you knew where you’d be this evening. And if you felt wore-out from it come tomorrow, you most likely would hold off on coming back until Monday after school.

Billy raises a brow. “Think I need more details to make anything of it.”

You stand on tiptoes then and press a soft kiss to his cheek, just like yesterday. Once you’re standing on flat feet again, you look up to him with a smile. “Bye.”

He’s blushing again now—you think it sweet that he’s still capable of doing so; the last man who you’d made blush was Rhett, and that was quite some time ago—and you turn, heading through the field to your right without another word.

Billy shakes his head. “What the fuck have I gotten myself into?”

When you come into the yard, you don’t falter in your steps when you catch sight of Travis and his friend leaned back against Travis’ cruiser—another parked behind it—as they speak to your dad.

You merely glance to them, and the new one—he’s perhaps forty, tall, with dark hair and tanned skin, his strong jawline covered in stubble—looks to you with dark eyes for just a moment. His demeanor is cold, hard, distant. Already he unsettles you.

He breaks the staring contest when he looks back to your dad as you head up the front steps, going inside.

You head to your room, softly shutting the door behind you and slipping off your backpack, setting it on the floor before flopping down face-first on your bed. You smile softly to yourself when you think of Billy’s hands on your feet—such an un-intimate part of the body that he’d made feel the very opposite—and the way he’d blushed when your lips pressed against his warm skin.

You had a crush.

The last time you’d felt such a thing was when you first set eyes upon Scott at eight-years-old. It was now a foreign feeling to you, but nevertheless felt…good. It made you giddy, warm, excited. You bury your face in your pillow and softly squeal, kicking your feet. You should’ve told him yes to tomorrow. You wanted to see him again. You wanted to see him every day.

At what was now your place. You still somewhat wish he’d never found it, but he seemed nice enough so far. Different. And he clearly likes you.

But he liked hard-to-get, had said as much out loud. Most men did.

It was always a careful, delicate balancing act upon a high tightrope you were forced to walk day-in and day-out. Glances and soft touches, giggles and flirtatious comments, precise body-language that could be easily construed one way or the other. But never so distant that it left them frustrated or wholly uncertain of your feelings toward them.

They always needed to believe they were the ones in control. That you might think you know what you’re doing, but in reality, they always have the upper-hand. That they know how to play the game far better than you ever could. Because you’re just a girl. Some pretty, empty-headed doll or sex-toy, while they rule the world. That you need them.

You’re broken from thoughts of golden curls, pretty eyes, and handsome smiles by a knock at your bedroom door.

You groan. Travis. You’re sure it’s him.

You turn onto your side, snuggling the pillow under your head. “Yes?”

When the door opens, you’re proven correct. He leans his tall, broad form against the doorway, crossing his arms. You notice his typically short dirty-blond hair is just a tad shorter today—he’d gotten a haircut. He’s wearing a gray t-shirt, which just says ‘HPD’ on the front, and jeans. At least he’d bothered taking his shoes off first—they all know how you hate them walking through the house with them on.

He gives you a small, soft smile. “Where you been all day?”

You shrug.

He hangs his head, shaking it with a smirk and a small chuckle before looking to you again. “Should come outside and meet Cyrus. I’ve told him a lot about you.”

That translated to: I tell him the things we do when Amy is away at work, and he’s interested in also getting to know you on such a level.

Honestly, you’re a bit surprised he would do so. He’d made a ‘joke’ the last time you two had had sex last week, asking ‘how to get you all to himself’. You’d told him that that’s not how things work around here. If some newbie—a cop in particular—came along and demanded you all to himself suddenly…it would not end well for him.

You sit up then, on the edge of the bed, and just stare up at him.

He glances around your room, then back to you. “She’s out tonight, pulling a double at the hospital. You could come over. I’ll even make you dinner. Spaghetti?”

Having dinner made for you was also different. It was the other way around with the rest of them. But he’s still new at this. Trying to woo you, even if it’s completely unnecessary. You don’t need presents to get you to spread your legs for him.

You doing so easily and willingly is a pivotal part in all of this—your role to play; cross to bear. It was one more thing that kept them all coming back—kept them working with your dad, even if he’s unaware of it. You think sometimes he suspects—he’d nearly caught you and Scott once on your bedroom floor—but he says nothing of it if he does indeed know anything.

If you ever stopped—decided to start telling any of them no—they wouldn’t take kindly to it. They saw you as something they were entitled to, something that belonged to them. And even if they accepted that: you wanting to stop—albeit reluctantly—the business would fall apart.

Having an attractive young woman to fuck whenever, and however they pleased for free with minimal effort put into your so-called ‘relationship’ was something they wouldn’t be getting anywhere else.

You don’t come home covered in bruises or crying, and haven’t gotten…well, as of two weeks ago you could no longer say that. That was the day you’d found the house. You’d never needed it more than in that moment after getting out of Joe’s truck a nervous wreck after leaving the clinic.

But because you always seemed fine, your dad let it go. Sometimes you wish he wouldn’t.

You cock your head to the side. “It’ll be just us?” Will your buddy be there, too? You’re asking.

He smiles again, nodding. “Yeah, baby, just us.”

“Okay.”

He grins. “I can take you home with me when I’m getting ready to leave?”

You stand, readying an overnight bag, incase you need it. “Just let me know when you’re ready to go.”

He comes closer to you, wrapping an arm around your waist, his other hand tugging gently at the hair at the nape of your neck, easing your head back, his lips coming down to settle over your pulse. He kisses, other hand squeezing your rear and he groans. You feel him pressing into your stomach then, hard and firm.

“I will,” he mutters against your skin, sucking on it for just a moment before stepping back. He winks at you before heading back outside.

You simply roll your eyes once he’s out-of-sight.

[xx-slug-xx]

//tw- antis, sa, death

Some shit I found on Twitter today. The fuck are antis on

When someone dies, it is traumatic. Full stop. Death is the worst fear that we, as people, instinctively have. If someone in our lives dies, it it’s terrifying. Not only is it a reminder of our own mortality, but it’s also heartbreaking to loose someone. Especially when it’s someone close to us. To say that it’s not traumatic because they are gone is absurd. It’s traumatic BECAUSE someone you love is gone. It’s not an “out of sight out of mind” type deal. People don’t suddenly mean nothing if they are dead. And if this anti was referencing how dead people can’t be traumatized by their own death, that’s still fucked up. It’s true, but their death will affect the people around them. And the people who experience attempted murder, and live with the trauma of living with a near death experience? Do they not matter? Should they have died instead of living?

If this is how someone truly feels about death (nonspecific and just generally death), I fully believe that they should seek therapy. This is an abnormal response to loss, and it can be a good indicator of underlying mental health issues that can and will cause further problems for both the people experiencing this sort of feeling and the people around them.

I don’t want the morality police to start saying this type of thing though. It makes their argument even more outlandish imo. If real death means nothing to you, but fictional death does, then what kind of moral stand point is that even supposed to be? And to say that people are better off dead than to live their lives with the experience of trauma is disgusting. Victims of sexual abuse, or anyone who has experienced trauma of any sort, often feel like they should be dead and struggle with suicidal thoughts. I know my own trauma has caused this in me when I was younger. By saying that victims are better off dead helps drive people over the edge. This is abhorrent. And maybe, that’s what they want. Victims deserve to live regardless.

There’s beauty in this world, and we are here too see it and to create more of that beauty for others. Nobody is better off dead because of the things in our lives that were out of our hands.

As a csa survivor myself, yes, my trauma is life long and will always affect me to some degree. However, I’ve grown past it. I’m more than my trauma, and so is every other victim out there. It’s important to my growth as a person and my experiences. But it doesn’t define my whole life. I won’t give my trauma the right to dictate who I am or how I behave. I’m not an animal that needs to be put out of my misery because of what I went through. Death is not a better option to living with past trauma

[ooihcnoiwlerh]

so...I have a new chapter of my Feyd-Rauta/Reader fanfic up and ready.

AO3 link: And I Don't Want Your Heart - Chapter 4 - ooihcnoiwlerh - Dune (2021) [Archive of Our Own]

I also have it below the cut. It does require some content warning/TW and is NSFW/not safe for minors.

CW: arranged marriage, forced marriage, forced pregnancy, dubious consent, implied/referenced self-harm, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced sexual abuse, implied/referenced incest, rough sex, blood and pain kinks, graphic depictions of violence

Chapter below the cut:

You wake up the next morning to the sound of the timepiece on your nightstand.

Idrisa had assumed correctly when she told you that just a half-tablet would help both with the pain and with getting to sleep later.  For half an hour afterwards, you sat in the bath, staring at the opposite wall and hoping the warm water would add to your relief.  Five minutes was all it took to start feeling better, your torn muscles relaxing, and half an hour to start feeling drowsy.

It took some effort, but you managed to get out, drain the tub, and clean your teeth before settling into bed, thinking about how this will be your nightly routine at least until you’re carrying his child.  Who knows?  You might be already. 

You’re sipping from the water still left on your nightstand when Idrisa comes in with a tray carrying a couple of mugs.  Over the past few days Idrisa’s learned that you like a bit of caffeine first thing in the morning but you’re not sure what the other mug’s for as she sets the tray down on the desk and hands you one.  You sniff at the contents; it smells savory.

“It’s bone broth for you, Na-Baroness,” she explains.  “I thought it might be nice.  It’s not medication but it has healing properties of its own.”

Bones of what, exactly? you think as you accept the mug.  “Thank you.”

“How are you feeling?” she asks, trying to keep her tone light, avoiding the direct question.

“Sore,” you admit after taking your first sip, and it tastes quite nice.  “But what you gave me last night helped.”  You expected your womanhood to throb, but there’s also a persistent ache in your legs, your hips, the undefined muscles in your abdomen.

“You still have more for tonight,” she says, “just in case.”

“I wish I didn’t have to,” you tell her.  She looks away before trying to figure out what she could possibly say to that.

“I can’t help you with that part,” is what she comes up with.  “But I can assist with almost everything else.”  She turns to your closets and rifles through, picking out a few items for you to choose from.  Over her shoulder she tells you, “You’ll be expected at breakfast in an hour.  It shouldn’t take too long to get you freshened up.”

One of the few things you quite like about the Harkonnen Fortress is the emphasis on good hygiene.  Of course, you have extra features to maintain that the rest of the Fortress doesn’t, but you brought the supplies and ointments needed for that and you know where to have more imported when you run out.

When it comes time to dress you decide on a combination of your own clothing and Harkonnen that doesn’t clash. A bit of a symbolic union of the Houses.  You can’t help but think that people will have certain ideas of you today as a newly married woman who had, as clear as day to everyone, fulfilled all the marital duties expected of her last night.  Your walk isn’t quite as stiff as last night, though, and if you just walk a little slower then your discomfort won’t seem obvious to anyone not looking for it.

Of course, everyone at breakfast will be looking for it; your family out of concern, your new husband and in-laws presumably out of amusement.  It’s all you can really think about as you leave your chambers and descend for the Dining Hall.  That and the look on your new husband’s face as he’ll undoubtedly want to assess the damage.

You manage a smile as Idrisa announces your entrance.  There’s an open seat next to Feyd-Rautha that’s clearly meant for you and you take into account that your family has only just arrived and everyone’s watching you.  Everyone but the Baron stands in respect as you keep your polite smile, the one that projects that nothing could bother you, and you greet the table.

To his credit, Feyd still displays the kind of chivalry your father would expect when in his presence.  He stays standing when everyone else sits down so he can pull your seat out for you.  The kindness of the gesture’s somewhat undermined by the look in his eye, gauging every movement, every minute detail, and it makes you feel naked again under his shark-like gaze.  

You don’t look him in the eye as you sit down, nor when he pushes your chair in and takes his seat beside you, nor when you quietly thank him.  You know he’s still watching you, wondering how effectively he’s broken you in already, like a pair of combat boots.

The table is laid with everything you could need as far as drinks, but as a courtesy it’s not until you sit down that food arrives, delivered on massive platters by slave girls in billowy white garb and whose biceps strain under the weight of each tray. You’re sure that the Baron’s patience is a pretense that he’s upholding to appear polite towards your family, not one that will continue after breakfast, especially when you see his enthusiasm when he digs in with the appetite of multiple men.  

The food itself takes up most of his attention, but he does discuss trade routes with your father, who seems subdued and withdrawn.  Father maintains his end of the conversation but doesn’t offer more and barely touches his food–the latter you can assume is because he’s put off by seeing the Baron eat, and you don’t blame him.  Even with the bone broth from earlier you’re pretty sure you’d have more of an appetite if you didn’t have to sit close to someone who inhales nearly half of a spread meant for eight people.

You break away from that thought when Feyd-Rautha says, “Oh, so you don’t need to head back to Arrakis so soon,” and you follow his gaze to the entranceway.

Rabban trudges in, nose heavily bruised and in a splint.  He nods in acknowledgement to your family, offering a brief salutation before taking his seat.  He doesn’t respond to his brother, but quickly accepts a small glass of what you can only assume is whatever he was drinking last night.  He pours it into a mug that he tops with coffee.

“I leave in the afternoon,” he says, addressing his uncle instead.  “The spice is abundant.”

As they briefly discuss spice production on Arrakis, you shift in your seat.  Sitting down, you’d quickly realized, is also uncomfortable, and you’re glad for your brother-in-law’s entrance causing a diversion.

It doesn’t last long, though.  The Baron says, “It’s lovely that we get to reconvene again after such a fruitful wedding.”

Fruitful .  You can’t help your blush and you’re sure everyone notices.  You wonder if they’re all thinking the same thing and as the meal stretches on, the longer the worry of it eats at you.

It all goes understood, and for you it’s excruciatingly awkward, and everyone senses it, but no one mentions it.  Rabban certainly wants to; you can feel it whenever he sneaks glances at you, and you’re certain it’s on the tip of his tongue as he looks at you.  You don’t think he’s really lusting after you, though.  He just happens to covet his sibling’s shiny new toy.  It’s more than a little immature, given that he has nearly twenty years on Feyd-Rautha, and had come of age by the time his brother was born, but you think you can understand.  You may love your siblings and they may love you too, but that’s not how the Harkonnens work.  For them, siblings are a safety measure just in case the first one dies.  They’re taught to fight one another for the approval of their parents–or in this case, their uncle–and are stripped of any sentimentality lest they become weak.

Oh, Great Mother.  What does that mean when you do finally have a child?  You’ll likely be expected to have more than one even if one is all you need to appease the Bene Gesserit.

You take a sip of water and avoid Rabban’s gaze.  He probably would’ve been amused to see how slowly and gingerly you were walking earlier, maybe he would’ve bit down on a cutting remark on how you’d be a lot sorer if he’d been your groom.

Oh, Rabban definitely wants to taunt you over what you all know transpired last night, but he won’t.  He can sense the power shifting within the family and if he wasn’t aware that his younger brother was their uncle’s favorite before, he certainly knows now and knows why.  He probably just wants to go back to Arrakis where he has unquestioned power.

The Baron is once again the one who actually comes close to mentioning it.  “With such a distinct change in environment I’m sure you’ll want to relax, especially once you’re with child,” he says.  “We have an excellent system for that, some well-trained attendants as well who can provide things like massage, special baths.  We can keep you comfortable.”

After last night, the concept seems nice, but you’ll go out of your mind with boredom if that’s all you have to look forward to.  You want to know as much as possible about the planet you’re inhabiting and the family you’ve married into, no matter how gruesome the details.  You doubt the Baron or your new husband probably had thought about that, and had just assumed you’d be content as a human incubator for the next nine months.

“That is a wonderful offer and one I’d be interested in another day, perhaps, but I was actually wondering where you kept your library?  Maybe a room of archives?” you ask.  “I’ve had some education about the history of the Harkonnen line and some of the infrastructure of Geidi Prime, but I’m interested in learning more.”

The Baron considers your interest in his people and his planet versus your dismissal of his original suggestion before saying, “We have a very fine library, young Y/N, and within it a room of records.  Your attendant will know where it is and can accompany you whenever you like.”

“I can take her, uncle,” Feyd-Rautha says immediately.  “I can give her a proper tour.”

I know you can take and give a lot with your new little pet , you can practically hear the Baron think.  

“If you prefer,” he says instead.  “We still need to discuss your birthday.  It’s only a few weeks away.”

Right.  Another gladiatorial “match.”  The one in which you’re to paint your new husband’s–-admittedly chiseled–-torso beforehand.

“We have time for that,” Feyd says.  “But I’d also like to show my bride the other parts of our Fortress, starting with the library.”  He manages to keep his tone casual, but you can tell his rebuttal irritates the Baron.  It’s almost comical, his surprise and annoyance that his nephew would want to spend any time with his wife other than the compulsory impregnation.

“Very well,” the Baron says.  “You can show her the library after our guests have left.”

They’re already packed up, as it turns out.  Worried about leaving you alone but eager to get back home, and perhaps ever so slightly assuaged by the fact that your new husband has some sense of decorum and that you seem intact.  Not your virginity, of course, but everything else.

You excuse yourself to use the bathrooms, a sort of salon with individual cubicles and sinks but a larger sitting area with vanities and larger mirrors.  You tilt your head at it, curious, because it implies that there are women of leisure on Geidi Prime, but there aren’t many that you’ve seen.  A single girl stands near the entrance and gives a small bow as you enter.

You also don’t expect to see your mother when you leave your cubicle and head for the sinks to wash your hands.

She stands in the middle of the room, looking like she wants badly to speak but not sure what to say.  You give her a small smile as you wash up.  The girl’s quick to hand you a towel and patient to wait until you’re done drying your hands before accepting it back without a word.

They truly have people for everything , you think, looking after her as she scurries back to her post and drops the towel in a hamper before you can so much as thank her.  You and your mother look back at each other.

“Father looks miserable,” you say, trying to keep your tone light.

“Your father has a hangover,” Mother says.  

“He didn’t seem drunk when I left,” you say, leaning one hand against the counter. 

“He wasn’t,” Mother says.  “He got drunk after you and your…husband…left for the evening.”

She doesn’t need to elaborate.  You open your mouth, exasperated, wishing you could explain how it feels to have everyone act as though you’ve been handed a death sentence that they put you up to.  She takes your hands without a word and nods towards the salon.

“How are you feeling, really?” she asks once you’ve acquiesced and you’re seated across from each other.

“All things considered, fine,” you tell her.  She doesn’t look convinced.  “Mother, I…” you try to articulate it.  “I can’t say that I’m happy about this arrangement, but I’m going to have to live with it for years to come.  If I act as though my life is over then it is.”

She looks down and runs her thumb over the top of your hand.  “I kept preparing you for something like this hoping it wouldn’t happen,” she says.

“Well then, you did exactly right,” you tell her with a small smile that feels fake but one that she returns, however briefly.  She sighs and looks down.  “I’m grateful that you’re worried, and trust me, I am, too.  But it would help more if you believed that I can survive this.”

Mother leans forward, eyes widening in hurt.  “Your father and I wouldn’t have let you near that man if we didn’t think you’d survive,” she says.  “The Bene Gesserit gave us their word that you will, and it’s the reason we’re here right now.”

You furrow your brow.  Mother hesitates, glancing at the girl in her gauzy white dress, who remains standing and silent, not acknowledging your conversation.  Mother needn’t worry; the Baron would never bother listening to a slave speak even if she had something to offer.  When the girl doesn’t indicate that she’s heard anything, Mother continues.

“When the Reverend Mother spoke to us, she assured us that as brutal as he is, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen won’t defy Bene Gesserit orders to make sure you’re safe to have and raise his child.  She also said that he has an ingrained sense of honor and loyalty to the Harkonnen line.  He’ll ensure your survival and your children’s survival.”  And even if survival is the best you can expect right now, you can still count on that.

....................................................

The Na-Baron accompanies you when you see your parents off; neither his uncle nor his brother does the same.  He offers you his arm and you could almost laugh at the formality of it, his entire behavior towards you when you’re both fully dressed juxtaposed against last night.  He can play the perfect gentleman all he likes, but you won’t forget how he pressed you onto your stomach and fucked you ruthlessly.  Still, you take his arm, appearing as his poised and docile new wife.  He offers his final respects to your father but otherwise stands back at a distance, watching in silence as you hug everyone one last time.  You wonder if he’s ever hugged anyone a day in his life.

He still stands, waiting, when they board their ship, when it takes off.  He watches you watch until their vessel is no more than a pinpoint in the sky before he approaches you, arm extended again.  “Shall we?” he asks.

You’re still trying to accept that it’ll be a long time before you see your family again, your correspondence with them likely to consist only of letters, and he’s probably waiting for you to speak when you have nothing to say to him.  He doesn’t understand what you’re feeling and you doubt he cares to try.  You just take his arm and he leads you to the Fortress library in silence.

“I hope you slept well,” he says finally.

“I did,” you tell him.  “Although Idrisa had to give me a mild sedative to do so.”

You glance over at him and think that another man would feel guilt over hurting his new bride, but of course you’re stuck–for now–with this one, who keeps his expression neutral but who you can already see in his eyes both that he’s satisfied that he caused you pain and that he doesn’t care what methods you used to relieve it.  At best, he’s indifferent to your pain given that you seem fine now.

“Good, because I’ll want you in my chambers tonight after dinner.  Same procedure as last night.  Your girl will collect you when it’s time.”

“Alright,” you say, and he waits for just a moment before you realize what he wants and add, “ husband .”

He glances sideways at you, as if to say, Good.  You’re learning.  Don’t get too confident, though.  What he says, though, as you reach a set of double doors, is, “Everything and everyone here is at your disposal.”  Just as you are at mine .

When he opens the doors and you get your first look, you can’t help but be impressed.  Your impression of Geidi Prime was that it was hardly a planet of scholars, but the library is immense.

Feyd-Rautha notes your surprise.  Not that he says anything, but you doubt he’s flattered by it.  A librarian’s quick to appear at your side, head bowed, and Feyd snaps his fingers in his direction before gesturing forward.  “Come with us,” he says, and gives a rudimentary tour of the layout, showing you the Archives room and different wings.  It’s even more expansive than you’d realized, and you’re grateful for it.  You’ve got your work cut out for you, you think as you see the impossibly high walls lined with shelves up to the vaulted ceilings.

How many of these have you read? you want to ask him but refrain as the tour ends.

“Make sure the Na-Baroness has everything she needs,” he says to the librarian.  He doesn’t look at him as he speaks, though.  He looks directly at you, then beckons you forward with a simple curl of his hand.  When you come forward he cups your cheek in that same hand, and his kiss is neither chaste nor passionate; it’s a simple statement that he’s claimed you.  He’s marking his territory.

“See you at dinner,” he says once he lets you go.

............................................

You know what you want to read up on first.

There’ve always been rumors about the depravity of the House of Harkonnen.  You’d heard a few of them regurgitated over the years.  Some of them, like cannibalism, you’re reasonably certain aren’t true, but there are others you can’t dismiss.

Father implied once that the Baron’s voracious appetite for food was the least repulsive of his desires.  You’d been too young at the time to understand what he was saying, nor were they for your ears as you’d been listening in, unnoticed, but you can’t help but think about Father’s disgusted tone, because you certainly know what he’d been implying now.  Not that a Harkonnen-sanctioned record is likely to provide such details in their own library, but it’s a possibility you’ll have to consider even as the thought turns your stomach. 

You start, though, with Feyd-Rautha.  It takes pulling out several books and bound sheaves from a couple of different sections to get started, but a worthy investigation once you’ve found a comfortable place to spread everything out and get to reading.

You hadn’t realized that he was born not on Geidi Prime, but on another planet, Lankiveil.  You had , however, heard about how his father, Abulurd Rabban, defected from the Harkonnen line and everything it represented, opting for a different sort of life on a distant planet with a Bene Gesserit woman who gave him two sons born eighteen years apart.  This leads you into reading about Lankiveil, how it’s cold and water-based like your own planet.  Its main source of industry is whaling, and it almost makes you laugh to picture Feyd in a raincoat on a dock.  It’s just so far-fetched, the idea that he almost had a life very different from this one.

Of course, that was never going to happen.  Rabban is infamous for one major act that changed all of their lives forever: as a younger man he killed their father for abandoning the bloodline and shaming the Harkonnen name.  For the crime of patricide, he earned the moniker “Beast,” which he wears with pride.  The Baron had already gotten his claws in his elder nephew by then, but Feyd-Rautha had still been a little boy.  You’re not entirely sure how much he even remembers his father.  You don’t know if they’re happy memories, or if he’d loved him.  It’s still hard to imagine him ever having a childhood, but not only did he have one, his early childhood had been free from the Baron, from Geidi Prime, from the expectations of the House of Harkonnen and with two parents who you’re sure must have loved him.

It's an irrefutable fact that he’d come to Geidi Prime at the age of seven.  And that is where rumor and fact intermingle.  Some have claimed that Feyd’s mother sent him away for what she thought was his own protection; after all, she had never been on Geidi Prime nor known her late husband’s family, so it wouldn’t have been unreasonable for her to assume that her son would be better off with his uncle.  Some believe she sent him away as punishment or for her own self-preservation, sensing danger in him at a young age and fearing what he’d grow up to become.  Others have insisted that the Baron had his youngest nephew taken away to ensure the possibility of another heir, having no sons of his own. 

You pause only part way through when Idrisa come in and suggests you take a break, maybe retire to your quarters and have something to eat and drink to tide you over before dinner.  Apparently no one will mind if you take whatever documents you choose back to your quarters.

“We are at the Na-Baroness’s disposal.  Whatever she desires,” the librarian assures you when you ask, his head inclined in a bow and his gaze downturned.  It’s still a foreign feeling, the way no one can bring themselves to look directly at you, their fear of you by pure association.  You clamp down on that discomfort as you thank him and return to your quarters with as many documents as you and Idrisa can carry between you.

As you reach your quarters and get settled in again, you wonder about Feyd-Rautha’s mother and the theories behind the Baron taking over as his guardian.  The first theory, you decide, is unlikely.  If she knew that her lover had defected and renounced his lineage, she would’ve known why.  He would’ve warned her about them, even if she’d never been and even if he hadn’t, the Bene Gesserit would have.  The second theory is entirely possible; you have no idea what Feyd was like as a young child.  You’d assume he was made rather than born, and that personality traits aren’t inherited, but perhaps the darkness was always there.  Perhaps she’d felt that he was doomed to be an extension of everything the Harkonnen represented.  Still not terribly likely, given his age, but possible.

What you can likely imagine, though, is the Baron simply plucking Feyd-Rautha from his home to collect and repurpose as his own.  He’s never been married nor produced any children and to simply claim one from a deceased family member, knowing no one could truly challenge him over it, would be an easy solution for that.  From what you already know about him, he probably wouldn’t even see it as kidnapping, just taking what rightfully belongs to him.

You’re aware that Feyd’s an orphan, but nothing as to why beyond Abulurd’s murder.  You find that there really isn’t enough to go on as far as his mother’s concerned other than her Bene Gesserit training and identity as Abulurd Rabban’s concubine, until you finally find the date and cause of death.

Feyd’s mother, according to the records, died when Feyd was fourteen.  She’d been murdered in her own home.  No one was caught, which means that the culprit’s been fiercely protected.  You’d be willing to bet real money that the Baron had someone kill her and take away the one motivation he’d have to return to Lankiveil.  It would line up with something else that you read; Feyd’s mother’s murder would have taken place shortly after Feyd-Rautha had attempted to assassinate his uncle.  It had been quickly thwarted and fourteen-year-old Feyd-Rautha had been punished severely but spared his life.

You can easily imagine the Baron killing the one family member left not connected to the Harkonnens so his young nephew would be so isolated that he’d have nowhere else to turn.

Are the lashes on his back part of the punishment he faced?  It would make them just over a decade old.  You’re still not sure about the scars on his inner thighs.  He likes pain; could they be self-inflicted?  Maybe done to him at his own request by a lover?  There’s an intimacy to them that you can only hope was done in an act of passion rather than a punishment administered by his uncle.

Although, and it makes you feel sick to think about, that option is also entirely possible.

If they were self-inflicted, or done for his own gratification, you wonder if he’ll one day ask you to draw a knife on him as well.  The more you think about it, the more you realize that you’d be willing to; certainly rather him than you.

“Idrisa,” you start, looking up as she enters the room carrying what looks like a pair of black dresses.  “How much do you know about the time Feyd-Rautha tried to assassinate his uncle when he was a boy?”  She hesitates.  You wait.

“My apologies, my lady,” she says, looking down, “but I wasn’t in the Fortress then.  It was before my time.” Instead of elaborating further, she holds up the dresses, one in each hand to compare. “The Baron wants you to dress in the traditional Harkonnen style for dinner this evening.  Which of these would you prefer?”

You glance between the two.  Both long, both structured, but one with paneling and a more elaborate bodice that looks like it would take more time to actually get in and out of.  “That one,” you say, pointing to it.  If Idrisa knows your logic behind your choice, she doesn’t bring it up.  She just waits for you to put your documents away and after you’ve taken to the bathroom to freshen up, helps you get ready.

When you arrive for dinner, you’re almost the image of a Harkonnen lady, the only traits betraying you being your hair and eyebrows.  As expected, the Baron is already eating and while neither he nor Feyd-Rautha stand for you when you enter, your groom does stand to pull your chair out once more as you reach the table.  It’s a simple formality, you assume, to hold up the pretense that this is a normal marriage and as something he can easily take away.

“What did you think of our library?” the Baron asks when you sit down, accepting only one answer.

“Truly impressive, Baron,” you tell him.  “A testament to the House’s power and resilience.”

If you were worried what he would think about you wanting to look into his bloodline and history, those worries were unfounded.  After the exchange he barely acknowledges you the entire meal.  He and Feyd-Rautha, however, discuss the arena and new spice routes.  You quietly take everything in and watch them interact.

The Baron switches between backhanded compliments, mean-spirited little quips, and the occasional genuine compliment for his nephew.  He oscillates between seeming to respect him as a man fit to ascend the throne and still undermining him as hardly more than a child out of his depth handling any conflict.  Feyd’s frustration remains quiet, just beneath the surface, but palpable.  He seems to know that the Baron’s toying with him, testing him constantly, wondering which new way he flatter him only to put him down again. 

It’s also immediately clear that Feyd doesn’t like that you’re seeing him like this, that once again as soon as he’s gotten what he’s wanted he’ll abruptly send you away.  Whatever control his uncle takes from him he can always claim from you. 

He tried to kill him once, when he was much younger and weaker than he is now.  What changed?  Does he still think about killing him now that he’s entering the very prime of his life?

You’ve long since finished eating by the time you realize that the men at the table have probably forgotten that you’re even there, so you clear your throat to get their attention.

“My apologies, but may I go to my chambers to prepare for the evening?” you ask, voice light.

You wait.  Feyd-Rautha turns and gives you a small nod.  “I won’t be too much longer,” he says, exchanging a cold look with his uncle.  You don’t want to think about what they say about you when you’re not around, or what kind of innuendo the Baron will leave.

..........................................

The second time of what you’re sure will become a nightly routine is a little less nerve-wracking, but not one that you’re looking forward to.

When you’re stripped down in his bedroom again you choose the same position, even as you feel like a completely different person than you were just one day ago.  There’s no fear this time, just resignation.  You’re not sure if it’s going to hurt again but it also doesn’t matter, won’t change anything.

He comes out of his bathroom in the same manner as last night, naked and only partially erect.  The sight may not scare you anymore, but you still, unfortunately, find his body nice to look at.  You’re getting used to everything else, as well.  The black teeth and gums nearly made you flinch the first time; now you’ve accepted it as the only mouth you’ll kiss from now on.

He approaches the bed.  “Lay back,” he says as he starts to climb into it with you.  “Spread your legs.  I want to check something.”

You blush, thinking, Can’t we just get this over with? as you comply and take a breath to calm yourself, staring at the ceiling to avoid looking directly at him.  You try to tamp down the embarrassment at how exposed you feel.

He inspects the damage, his fingertips pressing against your swollen folds and eyes darting back up to your face at your sharp inhale.  He gives your privates a more thorough pass-through than you were willing to give yourself last night.  You blink, concerned, as he takes his hand and spits on his fingers.

Why would you? --you think for only a split second before he brings his fingers back down to your torn and stretched womanhood, circling your bud in lazy circles and keeping his thumb there before dipping a finger inside of you.

You instinctively clench around the digit even as it doesn’t actually hurt.  “Relax,” he says, as if that’s something you can easily do in your situation.  His thumb continues working your bud as he curls his finger inside of you, pressing forward, and you see his brief smirk as you whine, taken aback by the jolt it provides.  He does it again, slipping in a second, and the stretch doesn’t burn quite as much, doesn’t pinch so much as it tugs.  You glance between his legs to see that he’s filling out the rest of the way from the sights and sounds of you skewered on his fingers.  That in itself makes you gasp and flush at the idea that this, warming you up and seeing you aroused, gets him going.  In many ways this preparation is just as much for him as it is for you.  

Just as last time, you sense when he decides, Alright, you’re ready .

He has enough decency to pause when he’s pressed all the way inside of you, because he still feels massive, and like there’s not enough of you to accommodate him, as though your insides need to rearrange themselves for this intrusion.  

It doesn’t hurt as much as last night, you remind yourself.  You breathe through your nose as you tremble and hold onto him, gripping his shoulders and remembering how he likes the way you “get your little claws in.”  The rocking of his hips is steady and deep but not too rough, not yet.  You whimper and adjust your grip on him, managing to breathe, taking in the way he slides in and out of your bruised canal.  It’s okay.  It’s fine.  You’ll get through this .

As soon as he can sense that you’re adjusted he goes harder, faster, relishing the way your nails scratch down his back.  You raise your knees up to his ribcage and squeeze, trying to get some leverage in.

It’s no real use; he controls the pace, grips your hip with his free hand and seems to like when your whimpers and moans are laced with discomfort, wordlessly begging for him to please slow down, be gentler.  Even if he doesn’t force you onto all fours like last night, it still feels animalistic when he speeds up further, grunting against the flushed skin of your neck, keeping you locked in place around him until you feel him coming, shuddering as he fills you up.  

For a moment he raises himself up from his forearms to his hands, looking down at you with an expression he can’t place, before drawing a few errant strands of hair away from your face and pulling out.  You don’t look at him as he collapses onto his back beside you.  Somehow you feel even more used than before, more like a warm hole than a woman.

The two of you lay together in silence as you wait for the throbbing to subside.  It takes a couple of minutes, but when you start to feel better you sit up and slide your legs to the side of the bed.  You won’t wait to be dismissed.  You sense him turn his head to look at you but don’t acknowledge him.  You’ll head back to your chambers, soak in another lukewarm bath, and take the second half of the tablet from last night, even if you don’t need it as badly.  It’ll at least help you sleep. 

You get up and head for his dresser, reaching for your clothes when Feyd-Rautha’s voice stops you.

“Where are you going?” he asks.  “I didn’t tell you to leave.”

You turn and look at him, your eyebrows raised.  “You want me to stay?” you ask.

“I didn’t say I was finished with you yet,” he says.

You give his still-softened dick a pointed look.  “You look pretty finished off to me,” you tell him, and step into your slippers.

You realize you made a mistake as soon as you say it.  Feyd-Rautha’s up and at your back before you can finish pulling on your chemise.  He tears it off you, throws it to the floor and wraps an arm around your ribcage as he lowers his head to your ear.

“I won’t tolerate you questioning my own body or abilities,” he says.  “If I say I want another go, then I’ll have one.”

You squirm, and he turns you around, pinning you to the dresser as he grabs your hair and tightens.  You wince and try to push away from him, but he only grabs your wrist in his free hand and brings it down to the dresser.

“I won’t be disrespected in my own bedroom,” he says, and you force yourself to look him in the eye.  It’s the first time he’s seemed angry with you; the harsh angles of his narrow face more pronounced, his eyes pale and pupils blown out, his full lips the closest you’ve seen to a thin line.

Maybe it’s you he’s actually mad at, maybe not.  Either way, you’re the one he can take his frustrations out on.  

Play along, you tell yourself.  Even if he’s not going to kill you for insolence, he’ll find ways to make life worse for you .

“What do you want me to do?” you ask finally.  His face seems to relax slightly, and you realize when his chest moves again he’d been holding his breath.  After a moment he decides how he’ll punish you for your so-called disrespect.

“Kneel on the bed, hands braced on the headboard, with your legs spread.  Make sure to keep ‘em there,” he says.

You slowly step out of your slippers and turn, walking towards the bed.  The seconds that pass as you get into position are silent, agonizing.

You wait, and when you don’t sense him move any closer, turn your head to look at him.

He’s still staring, taking in his fill, before he strides forward and settles in behind you, one hand braced beside yours against the headboard, the other cupping your breast.

It doesn’t stay there, though.  After giving the soft flesh a squeeze for good measure he moves his hand upwards, around your throat.  Your first instinct is to freeze, wanting to move.  

He’s not going to kill you; he’s just trying to scare you, you tell yourself, and it’s working.  You try to breathe, calm your rapid heartbeat.  He can taste your fear; he revels in it.  He doesn’t squeeze but he deliberately leaves his thumb against your windpipe, his long fingers curled around your neck.

I won’t kill you but I easily can, he seems to say.  Unarmed and naked I could still kill you in brutal fashions you’ve never heard of.  And then he gently nuzzles against your hair, and the shift disarms you, makes you feel all the more helpless as you whine.

He releases your neck and you inhale, closing your eyes.  His hand trails back down, squeezing your other breast this time, down your stomach and to the apex of your thighs.   He idly strokes your bud, and it gives you a jolt despite your nerves.

“Who else has ever touched you here?” he asks.  It’s not a threat, but you could easily picture him killing anyone you name–it’s also not lost on you how fucked up that is.  Thankfully you can provide none.

“Just myself,” you tell him.  He huffs, as if to say, Yeah, I thought so , before taking one of your hands from the headboard and guiding it back in between your legs.

“Show me how you do it,” he says, his hand over yours.

You flush with embarrassment, but comply, bringing your fingertips to your bud and pressing down in a circling motion.

He gives a hmm , as you trail your fingertips to your slit, collecting the combination of his spent seed leaking out of you and your own growing wetness before bringing your digits back to your bud, has you whimpering at the slick of it.  He follows, hand tight over yours, learning your movements.  Despite your nerves it’s easier to get slicker, and to your horror you find yourself rocking your hips up against both his hand and yours.  You give a breathy whimper, unsure how your own body can betray you like this.  He finally tightens his grip on your hand and moves it to the headboard, leaving you in shock as he spits on his fingers and takes up where you’ve left off.  

He mimics your movements exactly, touches you the way you’ve touched yourself over the past few years, and yet it feels all the more exhilarating to have another hand there that you can’t help but gently move against his fingers, larger and so much longer than yours and yet so precise and deliberate.  

Before you realize it his cock, stiff again, slides against the cleft of your ass.  You gasp, wanting to turn around but he’s so close to you, chest against your back, and he grabs your hips to jut out further behind you, pulls you down his level, your thighs on top of his.

“Don’t move,” he tells you, withdrawing his hand from yours and settling back.  You can feel your body flush, your nipples stiff against the air, holding onto the headboard as you sense him grip himself in his fist and press against you.

It doesn’t hurt this time when he pushes in.  He can sense it in your moans, the way you’re wet and pliant for him, ready to take him however he comes to you.  You almost hate it, that he can do this to you.  That he probably could have from the beginning.  He rolls his hips up into you, the glide and pressure of it only on the verge of discomfort, but a welcome ache, a stretch inside of you.  

You reach a hand behind you, skimming along his flank, wanting to touch him, but he’s just out of reach and you drop your forehead against the headboard, your moans and whines spurring him on.  He grabs your hand and presses it back against the headboard before giving a deeper thrust into you, one that would’ve hurt yesterday but the push of it provides a delicious throb now.

The tension builds.  You can feel it like flames licking up your spine and belly, and he can hear it.  Your cries become increasingly desperate, your own hips rocking back down to meet his.  You hardly register that you’re doing it or why; your body takes over and makes the decisions for you.  He brings one hand to fondle your breasts again, one after the other, before bringing it down to your bud, and you can only imagine how smug he must be feeling that not only does he have you exactly where he wants you, that he’s making you enjoy it.

It finally feels good.   You’d almost assumed that it never would, but it does.  If anyone listened in, they’d hear the unambiguous pleasure in every noise you make and Great Mother, does Feyd-Rautha draw a lot of noises out of you.  

But then his hand comes back to your other hip, leaving you so close to the precipice and after several more thrusts he comes, grabbing your hips and pushing upwards with a harsh grunt against your hair.  He spears you onto him, pausing, rocking his hips up once more, and once he’s certain that he’s finished pulls out, grabs your jaw, and turns his face as much as he reasonably can to yours.

He sees your stunned expression, can feel that you’re still throbbing and in need of some sweet relief, and nods his head dismissively towards the door.

“ Now you can go,” he says.

You stare at him for a moment, not sure if you want to slap him across the face or pull him in for a furious kiss.  He can see the warring impulses on your face and looks at you as though he’d be perfectly content with either, but still will react differently depending on which you choose.

You settle for a kiss, grabbing the back of his head and mashing your lips against his.  You think that you’d like nothing more than to push him down and take him for yourself, for your own selfish pleasure like he did.  You’re not entirely sure of the positioning but you’ll figure it out.  You shift, managing to turn to face him properly before resuming the kiss.

He allows it, even responds to it, for a minute before grabbing the back of your head and pulling you away.

He tilts his head at you as if to say, ‘ Next time don’t question my virility or how I can make you feel, and maybe then I’ll let you come. ’

You bastard, you think, wondering how much he’s enjoying the clear indignation on your face.  He likes provoking you, that much is certain, whether it’s fear or lust or anger.  You don’t want to give him the satisfaction, then, and so after some awkward shuffling you dismount the bed and pointedly look away from him as you walk to the dresser.  It would probably be more dignified if you didn’t have his seed leaking out of you, trailing down your inner thighs.  

You don’t bother to look back or say anything as you quickly redress and leave.

Neither you nor Idrisa speak as you head to your chambers, but as soon as you’re behind closed doors again you tell her that you’ll need a moment alone in the bathroom.

You’re grateful that she leaves you to it without an explanation this time as you glance in the mirror and the remnants of your blush that start at your hairline and follow down to your chest.  

You shrug off your robe and turn on the faucet before finally, shamefully, bringing your hand between your legs and feeling the slick of him there mingling with your own slick and rub down, cursing Feyd-Rautha and cursing this planet and hoping that the sound of the running water drowns out your cries as you brace yourself against the sink, head bowed, and come, shaking and twitching, to the memory of his tongue and fingers against you, of him inside of you.

When it’s over you can’t bring yourself to look in the mirror was you wash your hands and turn off the faucet

You’ll need the half-tablet tonight.  Not for pain, but because otherwise there’s no way you’ll be able to sleep tonight.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Whumpee who went through familial abuse but never told their partner until it was forced out months- maybe even years- into their relationship. And Whumpee telling their partner “I didn’t know how you would react if you found out that the people who raised me don’t even want me. I didn’t think I could handle if you started asking ‘why’ and realized that you felt the same.”

tw: implied/referenced abuse

whumpee falling in love with caretaker because caretaker is “everything their abusive father is not”

whumpee falling in love with caretaker because caretaker makes it feel like home for the first time, since whumpee’s house, where they lived with their abusive family, was never a home to them. but rather a prison.

whumpee falling in love with caretaker because caretaker makes them feel safe the way their parents could never.

whumpee falling in love with caretaker because they can truly be themself around caretaker without having to live in constant fear that they’d do something wrong that might anger the other.

whumpee falling in love with caretaker because, for the first time in their life, they don’t have to be afraid to let themself be happy anymore.

and caretaker reassuring whumpee that their past is behind them, and all those scars whumpee has — whether they’re on the outside or the inside — caretaker will kiss each and every single one of them because they’re a part of whumpee, and caretaker accepts and loves every part of whumpee wholeheartedly and unconditionally.

caretaker reassuring and reminding whumpee that they are deserving of being happy and loved.

caretaker reassuring whumpee that their family can never ever hurt them again.

caretaker reassuring whumpee that whumpee is a survivor.

[gremlinmodetweeker]

A Boy, A Twisted Memory and A Desire for Love

So this is the first official Ghost story on my blog. I know, I know, it's been a long time writing and I've not written something for the guy, but it's really just because I get so worried about writing him poorly.

I know he's a big military guy who hates having emotions and kills any and all kindness in his heart, but I also really like the idea of him exploring the concept of healing from his trauma? I dunno, I just thought about it.

Also, like König, I can't imagine Ghost keeping normal pets. Originally I had him get a spider, but then I read over his backstory again and it made more sense for him to get a venomous snake. I think it's a major step to overcoming his trauma. By the way! Big trigger warning, this is about a snake! This entire fic centres around a snake!

Anyways, I had some fun writing this but it made me super sad.

TW: Snake, discussion of past abuse, emotional trauma, child abuse (referenced), emotional disregulation

Wordcount: 1.7k

Art from This Post

Story Below the Cut

A Boy, A Twisted Memory and A Desire for Love

Simon locked eyes with the little black and yellow creature housed deep within its cave. It was a small thing, barely hatched from its egg it looked like. The length of a ruler at most. It was a light thing, covered in fine scales along its supple body. This thing was venomous, yes, but it couldn’t do any real damage. It was a threat maybe to a mouse, but a man such as himself wouldn't fall to such weak poison. Swelling, pain, nausea, yes. But death? Not quite.

And yet, his heart quickened within his chest. He could feel the sweat forming on his brow. It had been so long since he’d seen one of these beasts, and yet the same fear from back then wormed its way inside him now.

“Hungry?” Simon’s voice was particularly gravelly, roughened by sleep deprivation and lack of use.

The creature made no move. He’d be surprised if the thing even heard him. Did it even have ears? He’d have to ask the breeder later.

“Been a long time since I’ve seen one of yer kind before,” he admitted. He didn’t quite know why, but it felt somewhat soothing to speak to the thing.

“I killed the last one of ye that I saw. Crushed the fucker right under my boot, I did.”

It didn’t seem to scare the beast off. He wondered if it really was more afraid of him than he was of it. He hoped that was true. He didn’t want to admit that the fear still wriggled under his skin.

“He wasn’t anything like what my dad ‘ad,” Simon closed his eyes as the oppressive memories washed over him, “that one was a right bastard. Bigger than anything I’ve seen ever since. Shoved it right in my face, he did. Wouldn’t let me go till I kissed it right on the lips. If it bit me, I wouldn’t be standin’ ‘ere. But you,” Simon opened his eyes, dark eyes matching two glassy eyes of inky black, “you’re nothing. You're pathetic. You’re… You're so small.”

Simon turned back to the breeder.

Finally, the creature came to its senses and slithered back further into its burrow. So sleek and streamlined, and yet so slow to move. It was afraid of him, that Simon decided the moment he noticed that despite backing away, it didn’t dare look elsewhere.

“How much for this one?” he asked as he pointed at the plastic cube.

“That one?” the woman blinked and looked at what he was pointing at, “the female or the male?”

“The female,” Simon clarified.

“Oh she’s pretty, isn’t she?” the woman adjusted her glasses as she slid behind the plastic cube, “poor girl’s probably pretty scared being out here.” She didn’t mention how terrifying Simon was in his dark clothing, rough fabric stretched tight across his broad frame. He was used to scaring people by this point. Sometimes, like now, he wished he wasn’t.

“How do you pronounce that?” Simon pointed at the name that had been scrawled in blue ballpoint pen on a blank sticker.

“Boida dendrophila,” the woman replied, “she’s pretty young, but she’ll get big soon enough.”

“She’s one of them big ones, yeah?” Simon asked aloofly.

“You bet your arse,” the woman grinned, “she’ll be big soon enough. Don’t know much about ‘em?”

“Oh no,” Simon leaned down to take a better look at the little beast, “I’ve been doing my reading.”

“You got a big enough enclosure for her?” the woman quizzed him.

“Sure do,” Simon hummed, “I built her an enclosure myself. It’s nearly as tall as me, long too. Got some nice branches for her to climb and all that..”

“Wow that’s a lot of space. You sure that’s not too much?” the woman frowned.

���She won’t be in there for a bit, I’ve got something for while she’s small,” Simon reasoned.

What a stupid question.

“Oh well that’s fine,” the woman broke out into another smile, “but yeah she’s eating mostly baby mice, an adult once in a while. You know she’ll be eating bigger things when she’s full grown, right? You can handle that?”

“I think I’ll be quite alright,” Simon mused, “have to admit, she’s a right beauty.”

“She really is, isn’t she?” the woman gushed, “I’ve been raising her since she was just hatched. But now? Well, normally I sell them off a bit sooner, but she grew on me. Unfortunately, the husband isn’t too fond of her and wants her to be moved on.”

“Why’s that?” Simon looked at the woman from behind his sunglasses.

“Oh he got bit when she was the length of a pencil,” the woman laughed, “he’s held it against her ever since!”

“Heard her kind can get pretty feisty,” Simon commented as he looked back at the spider.

“They can get a bit aggressive, I won't lie to you. A bit territorial, too,” the woman explained carefully so as not to scare off the only interested customer she had all weekend.

“Real fast,” Simon continued on, “with nasty bites.”

“Sounds like you’ve done your reading,” the woman laughed uncomfortably.

“Course,” Simon refrained from rolling his eyes, “so how much is she? The sticker’s ripped.”

“She’s on sale, actually,” the woman grinned, “only a couple hundred quid.”

“That much, eh?” Simon straightened up to tower over the slender woman.

“Normally she could be anywhere up to four hundred,” the woman fought back against the subtle threat of intimidation.

“Well then,” Simon looked down at the cube, “looks like I got a good deal then.”

“You won’t go stompin’ on her, will you?” the woman furrowed her brows.

“No ma’am, that was just what I had to do when I went out to the Middle East,” Simon chuckled humorlessly, “I wouldn’t dream of hurtin’ this here little lady.”

The woman grinned as she counted her bills, Simon smiled just slightly as he picked up the container and brought it back to his car.

When he got home, he carefully moved the little creature into the glass enclosure of dirt, leaf litter and cork bark. He put it back in its place on his shelf and smiled.

“Dendrophila, eh?” he chuckled, “how ‘bout Ophelia? That’s a cute lil name for ya.”

The creature only burrowed away under the cork bark, eager to get out of sight of the frightening giant before her. He didn’t blame the little thing, he’d be terrified of himself if he was a younger man.

Once, he’d hardened himself into an unstoppable thing, a monster of a man. He had formed his shell through cruel lashings the world had lavished upon him. He took ablutions in raining blood. He was festering sickness or silver sin. He was what he despised in the world, the monster he tried to protect his own family from. When his brothers in arms welcomed each other warmly, they regarded him as a feral dog to be kept at a distance, chained in the backyard, out in the rain.

In Simon’s heart there was no room for love. He was not a man forged in kindness and love. He was the unfortunate son of Mr. Riley, cursed from birth to be raised in the muck and mire of human atrocities. He had been calloused by the time he was nine, and by the time he joined the military even the recruiting officers were afraid of him. He was too cruel, too strict, too much for anyone to handle. He could brute-force his way through life, but only for so long.

Even monsters had hearts. This was the unfortunate fact that Simon had learned far too late in life. He hated himself for how he wallowed in his loneliness. He thought his team would be enough, but there was a despicable part that still resided deep within him. He could offer his rotten sort of love to his teammates, but he could never care for them like he needed to. There was a part of him that had been stunted since childhood, and far too late it breached his skin to scream into his ears, begging him to please just notice me, notice me and don't let me die here inside of you.

He didn’t want to, but he spoke to a therapist. It was Price's advice after he'd broken down with a bottle of whisky in one hand and a revolver in the other. Price promised to never say a word as he unwound his lieutenant's fingers from the trigger.

A week later he'd arrived at a small office. They’d been cowed by him at first. Everyone was, but something about frightening the one person he wanted to be helped by hurt a part of Simon he wished to rip from his chest. Once he would have laughed, but in that office, he could only hurt. No tears fell, but his walls did and he was able to speak openly for the first time in his entire life without the help of a bottle of jack and a pair of dice. It felt wrong. He hated it, but he learned.

His therapist told him that to help rid himself of this festering parasite of an emotion, he should try to nurture the damned thing. Simon had laughed in the man’s face. He then told him to go to Hell. The man had learned not to flinch in the face of a predator, and so pushed forth. He said that to grow, Simon could try getting a cat or a dog. Something he could raise with the love he never had been given as a boy.

He said that he needed something to love or else he'd never be able to heal. Simon scoffed and left the room, but not before booking another appointment. The smug look on his therapist’s face disgusted him. He turned quickly and left.

So maybe it was out of spite that he bought Ophelia, but there was a part of him that felt like he needed the little creature. He needed something to love, and so he did. He loved the Ophelia with all his heart. He nurtured her and cared for her as best he could.

Months passed, and he started to handle Ophelia. She hissed, she scurried away, she did everything to get away from Simon’s touch. He figured that if he had to face himself, he’d do much the same. He wasn’t a creature born of love and compassion. He was death, in face and in heart, but each time he brought Ohpelia’s container out and changed her water, when she ate from his tongs, he could feel his rotten heart beating within his chest. It made him smile despite himself.

He was not a creature of love, and yet it was love he felt when Ophelia tentatively reached out and slithered up his hand. When he raised her up, ever so gently, he couldn’t help but cry.

How cruel was the world that a boy, born from street gutters and raised by heavy hands, would only ever feel love for the first time in a dingy London flat on his thirty-first birthday, alone save for the venomous snake in his hands?

Stories

Ghost Dump

[mc-i-r]

Disposable Heroes

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four Ao3

A/N: Guys, I’m so sorry for the late update! Life has been crazy for me the past couple weeks but I hope that I can get back to writing more regularly. This chapter is the well-awaited Eddie pov, as well as a ton of backstory for him that I didn’t really plan on but it just kinda came out. This chapter is kinda rushed, I’m gonna be honest, but I wanted to get it out to you guys as soon as possible since its been awhile. There are gonna be some major warnings here so I’ll post them below. Take care of yourselves and stay safe, now enjoy!

Tw: homophobia, homophobic language, child abuse, domestic violence, referenced drug use, Eddie being incredibly gay

———

It’s a muggy Sunday morning, the summer sun burning through the last vestiges of chilled night air and frosted dewdrops as it rises from its slumber. Like the sun, Eddie rises as well. However, it’s with much less fanfare and grace due to the obnoxious pounding at his front door.

He groans dramatically, shoving his face in his pillow and willing whoever the fuck decided to bother him at—he glances at his alarm clock on the other side of the room, squinting to read the numbers—nine in the morning to go away. His wish must have pissed off some universal god because the knocking only gets louder, making the window above his desk rattle with every shake of the door.

With a sigh big enough to rival the windy intro of “Holy Diver”, he pulls himself to the door in a zombie-like state. Movements sluggish from his interrupted sleep, he misses the doorknob twice before finally turning it, throwing it open with newfound strength to find one Robin Buckley in all her glory. Her fist is raised and ready to knock again, her face the epitome of righteous fury as she glares at him.

“Uh, hey Buck. Whatcha doi—“ he begins, only to be interrupted by Robin shoving past him and barging into the trailer. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and pulling on his hair slightly before shutting the door.

Kids and their manners nowadays.

“Yeah, sure, come on in. Totally fine. I wasn’t sleeping or anything, noooo,” he says to himself before turning to face his intruder. Whatever Buckley is upset about seems serious, and from the icy look she’s giving him it also seems like it’s his fault. Her hands are on her hips like she’s in a Steve Harrington impersonation contest and plans on taking home a first place prize. Something in him squirms at the thought.

But, he is nothing if not a performer. So, of course, he puts on a show.

“Lady Buckley,” he declares in a posh British accent, bowing deeply with a flourish on his arm. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company on this fine morning?”

He’s expecting a fond eye roll, or a laugh, or huff, or something. He gets silence.

“Cut the bullshit, Eddie. We need to talk about Steve,” she demands.

Steve… Now isn’t that an interesting subject?

Now, Eddie has always been different. He was loud, and jumpy, and fidgety, and the other kids never wanted to be friends with him because they were scared. He was always covered in dirt, always barefoot because he either forgot to put on shoes or the ones he had were too small for his ever-changing feet. He would talk to himself, mutter little reminders under his breath or work through the questions plaguing his mind aloud because he just functioned better that way.

Then, at eleven, he found out just how different he really was. He was outside during recess when he fell off the monkey bars and scraped his hands and knees. He huddled on the ground, tears falling down his small cheeks because it hurt and his wounds felt like they were throbbing. Then a boy, James, ran up to him and asked him if he was okay. James had stark blond hair, a face full of freckles, and bright green eyes. He looked so concerned for Eddie, and was gentle when he picked up one of his hands to inspect the cuts littered there. It was that gentle touch that elicited a flutter of butterflies in his stomach, and ever since then Eddie knew.

When he had gotten home to the trailer that day, he felt confused. Other people in his class were constantly talking about who they “liked”; boys liking girls and girls liking boys. About how they would get all nervous around their crushes, and Eddie realized he had never felt that before. All of the girls in his class were just… girls to him. They never gave him that fluttery feeling James had. But… no one ever talked about boys liking boys. No one ever said if it was okay, so Eddie thought it must not be. That boys liking boys wasn’t okay. That he wasn’t okay.

It took awhile, but he finally confessed to Wayne that he liked boys, that he got all the little butterflies that boys were supposed to get about girls. Wayne shook his head and told him that he could feel butterflies for anyone he pleased, as long as they made him happy. They both cried that night, and ended up in a hug so tight they nearly fused together.

Since then, Eddie’s come to accept the fact that he’s gay. Has added it to his whole anti-conformist persona, even. So when high school hit he let himself finally be free. He joined Hellfire club, made friends with the upperclassmen who ran it, and learned all the intricacies of D&D that he never imagined he would. After two years, he met Gareth and Jeff who joined Hellfire much in the way he did. Then, Grant joined halfway through Eddie’s junior year and he quickly recruited him as well. He found his friends, his people, and he finally let himself be himself around them.

He told them he was gay after a long session of lazily practicing in Gareth’s garage and smoking, the weed having loosened both his limbs and his lips. They were all extremely chill with it, even after the weed had worn off. That, however, didn’t exempt them from making fun of him though.

Eddie was loitering in the hallway after school, waiting on Gareth to finish up a quiz he missed the week prior, when none other than Steve Harrington walked out of the pool room in nothing but those little speedos that leave zero to the imagination. Seriously, all those girls were right, holy shit. After he picked his jaw up off the floor, he noticed Steve was looking at him with that adorable little confused puppy look before a god damned smirk fell across his face. Eddie’s face, he knew, had to rival that of a Victorian nobleman fawning over a sliver of pale skin shown by a lady across the room with her face hidden by an elaborate fan because he was literally drooling for the man in front of him.

It got considerably worse when Steve leaned down to drink from a nearby water fountain, making Eddie’s mouth go completely dry with this blatant offering of ass right in his face. In hindsight, it might not have been an offering, per say, but it was definitely there and Eddie was definitely staring. So it really wasn’t a surprise that he jumped when Gareth tapped his shoulder, Eddie having not heard him come up behind him, and he turned on his heel so fast he’s surprised he didn’t get whiplash.

“Dude, you good?” Gareth asked. Eddie opened his mouth, squeaked out, “I’m fine” and immediately felt his face go up in flames. Gareth glanced over Eddie’s shoulder and he could see in slow motion the series of thoughts that crossed his mind. Gareth went from concerned to confused to understanding to smug so fast it was almost comical. When their eyes met, Eddie’s went wide.

“Don’t you dare say a word,” he hissed, and the smug look only intensified.

Once they got to his van, Gareth immediately rounded on him.

“Seriously? Steve Harrington?” Gareth teased. “Of all people, it had to be that douche?”

Eddie groaned and clenched his eyes shut. “I know, Garebear, now shut up before I push you out of the van.”

Of course, news about his little crush spread around his friend group like wildfire, and soon enough he was being teased by them relentlessly. Eddie knew his crush wouldn’t get very far, Steve was very clearly straight and in a happy relationship with Nancy Wheeler of all people. Still, Eddie couldn’t stop thinking about that smirk.

Just as his crush began to fade away, Steve showed up to school with a busted face and eye bags deep enough to rival shitty vampire Halloween make-up from a toddlers costume contest. Feelings came rushing back, the intense need to protect, to find out what happened and get justice for that pretty face.

Then it kept happening, and Steve showed up to school with a beat up face yet again. However, judging by his stumbling and droopy eyes, it came with a concussion this time. Just when Eddie was trying to figure out who did it, Billy Hargrove came stalking through the empty halls and all attention was focused on his scabbed knuckles. On the hungry glare he sent Steve’s way. On the way Steve shrank back a little on instinct.

And Eddie… Eddie just couldn’t leave well enough alone, now could he?

He walked up to Steve, brows furrowed. “Harrington?”

Harrington didn’t turn, eyes still focused on the spot where Billy had been before. Eddie tapped his shoulder. “Steve?”

He jumped that time, like Eddie had actually hit him, and spun to face him. Up close, his face looked a hell of a lot worse and Eddie had to suppress a wince just looking at him. Steve looked at him confused, though it was hard to tell between the swelling and assortment of bandages on his face.

“…Munson?” Steve began. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come up.”

He said it flippantly, with a wave of his hand towards his left ear like that explained everything. It didn’t, but Eddie felt like it wasn’t his place to push.

“You good, man? You look like you got in a fight with a dump truck and lost,” Eddie said. “Badly.”

He expected Steve to scoff and roll his eyes, push past him and hit his shoulder too hard to be an accident. He expected him to spit some barb and walk away, to leave Eddie there in the hallway alone. None of that happened, though.

Instead, Steve smiled. A little self-deprecating, but a smile nonetheless. He huffed a laugh.

“Make it a supercharged dump truck and you’ve got it right,” Steve joked at his own expense. It resulted in a shocked laugh bursting from Eddie’s lips, which he immediately stopped by smacking a hand over his mouth.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, pulling his hand away. “That’s not funny. I mean… your joke was, just not,”—he gestured to Steve’s… everything—“this.”

“It’s okay man, I know what you meant,” Steve said sincerely and Eddie doubted why he was ever called King Steve. The person who stood in front of him was the furthest thing from what those jocks supposedly worshiped that Eddie had to hide another bubble of laughter.

“Seriously, dude, did you even go to a doctor?” Eddie asked, and at Steve’s wince he knew the answer. He rolled his eyes and slung an arm around his shoulders, careful not to land too hard in case he was bruised there too, and led him down the hallway towards the nurse’s station.

“Uh,” Steve began. “Where are we going?”

“The nurse,” he explained. “Figured a look wouldn’t hurt, right?”

Steve’s shoulders relaxed a little under his arm, and Eddie decided to focus on him during their walk down the empty hallway. He noticed the way his hair bounced a little with every step, how a couple strands were threatening to fall from their perfectly coiffed positions. He noticed his moles and freckles, how he had a smattering of faint ones all over his face from time in the sun. He noticed how his nose was a little crooked now, with a bump on the bridge that wasn’t there before the weekend. He noticed how pretty his eyes were, with at least three different shades of brown all swirled together like melted chocolate with flecks of forest green nestled in the folds.

He noticed that Steve was looking at him.

They had come to a stop in front of the nurse, yet Eddie’s arm was still over his shoulders. He quickly retracted it, but Steve didn’t move away and neither did he.

“Well, this is your stop,” Eddie nearly whispered out. Steve smiled, just a small quirk of his lips, and his eyes flitted across Eddie’s face.

“Thanks, Eddie,” he started. Steve took a step backwards toward the station and did a little wave with his fingers that had no right being as endearing as it was. “See you around.”

With that, he disappeared behind the thick mahogany door and Eddie was left there alone, face full of flames and smiling like he was in fucking love with the guy.

Fuck, maybe he was a little bit in love with the guy.

That feeling didn’t waver, not even after seeing him in a skimpy sailor uniform as he scooped overpriced ice cream for toddlers in the Mall. Or, when he was pinning him to the rickety wall of the boathouse he was hiding in after seeing Chrissy murdered in front of him by some freaky wizard from an alternate dimension with a broken bottle to his beautifully freckled throat.

That feeling greatly intensified when he saw Steve take an honest to god bite out of a demonic bat and spit the flesh and blood out on the dried lakebed in the previously mentioned alternate dimension.

And, really, you can’t blame him for falling all the way when he found out exactly who dragged his half-dead body out of hell and saved his life.

So yeah, Steve was a very interesting subject indeed.

“Is… Is he okay?” Eddie questions as he straightens from his hunched position, head tilting to the side and making his bangs fall in his eyes. Robin throws her hands up with a mighty huff and a frustrated groan.

“Obviously not!” She exclaims. She starts pacing around his living room, back and forth in front of the coffee table. “He’s obviously not okay because you’ve been avoiding him and making him feel like shit for months and I’m actually really worried about him ‘cause he’s been doing stupid shit that can get him killed and I don’t know how much longer he can go on like this before it completely ruins him.”

As Robin rambles, her face turns a bright shade of pink. She finishes her speech, sucking in a deep breath as if she ran out of air. Eddie’s brows furrow.

“I haven’t been avoiding Steve,” he defends weakly. He hasn’t, not really. He just… he doesn’t want to get hurt.

Okay yes, Eddie is practically in love with the guy, but that doesn’t mean Steve feels the same about him. They’re friends, that’s it. Steve is going to find some beautiful girl and get married and have the houseful of kids he’s always wanted and Eddie will be here, still pining from afar. He knows it would be easier to just forget about him, and forget about the feelings clutching his heart like a starved hawk with its first fulfilling catch in months. That’s why he’s been slowly letting go over the past few weeks, trying—and failing—to get that stupid pretty boy out of his head. Of course, it’s not working, and every day he spends not talking to Steve feels like hell.

So no, he’s not avoiding Steve. He just doesn’t think he could survive it if he confesses and Steve rejects him completely. Staying away means he won’t accidentally reveal his feelings for the man, and judging by how much he’s feeling, it wouldn’t be very hard for that scraggly cat to come clawing and screeching out of the proverbial bag.

Robin, however, thinks the opposite because according to the look she’s giving him, she says he absolutely fucking has.

Eddie sighs. “Okay, maybe I have just a little bit but it’s not—“

Eddie freezes, stomach plummeting as Robin's rambling words take purchase in his mind. She said Steve was doing something stupid, something that could kill him. Flashes of a night now a distant memory play in his mind, one filled with panicked breaths, stilted tears, and a bloody bat with nails.

“Robin… What do you mean by ‘stupid shit’?” Eddie asks tentatively. Part of him wants to know the answer, while part of him fears the idea of ever finding out. Robin only gives him a confused look and crosses her arms.

“Eddie, that’s totally not the point of this conversation and you know it—“ Eddie cuts her off by waving his hands.

“Robin! Just…” he trails off. Should he tell her about Steve? He promised he wouldn’t but…

“Okay, I have to tell you something about Steve but please please don’t tell him I told you because I promised him I wouldn’t but if you also know something about him then I think you should know about this too,” he rushes out, words tumbling fast out of his mouth as his lungs scream for air. Robin’s icy glare has melted a bit, turning into one of anxiety and caution.

He sighs and flops down on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks down at his hands. He feels more than sees Robin sit next to him and he knows he has her attention.

“What happened, Eddie?” She prompts, and he takes it as a sign to continue.

“I had a visit from Steve awhile back, around four or five days ago,” he begins. “It was early in the morning and I couldn’t sleep so I was writing notes for a new campaign idea in the living room. I could feel that something was… off, so I looked out the window and there he was.”

He ran a hand over his face, pushing his bangs back and pulling on the ends. He glances over at Robin to find her looking at him. He squeezes his eyes closed for a moment before looking back at her.

“He wasn’t all there, Robin. Like… like he was trapped in his mind or something. I thought,” he huffs a deprecating laugh, “for a moment there, I thought he was cursed.”

He doesn’t mention that the image found its way in his head and can’t seem to find its way out, like a stubborn housefly who keeps banging against the glass hoping to be freed. The thought of Steve floating—eyes rolled back in his head while his lids flutter and his limbs shudder and break one by one—has kept him awake on more nights than he can count. The thought of him being subjected to his worst nightmares given life, all the lies that he tells himself turned to truth. The thought of Eddie being completely helpless, watching him die in agony in front of him.

He doesn’t mention that every night since then, he’s called Steve. He needed to hear his voice, to know he was okay. To know he was alive. He never got a call back.

“I got him to come inside but he didn’t stay long. Something spooked him, I think, I just… I don’t know, it was really weird. Like…” he trails off, unable to find the words.

“Like he was in fight or flight mode?” Robin suggests, and he nods.

“Pure instinct.”

Robin groans. “Shit, this is worse than I thought.”

“Wait, did he tell you?” He asks. Steve was so insistent on Eddie not telling her—made him promise, in fact—so why…?

“Well… after a very long, very emotional, and very vulnerable conversation, yes. He told me on his own terms though, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she supplies. “He… He didn’t tell me a ton of details, though. Not… Not like that.”

There’s a pause as Robin clenches her eyes closed and looks away from him.

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” her voice comes out just barely above a whisper, something he wouldn’t have heard if he wasn’t right next to her. Eddie stays silent, unwilling to break the solemn mood. Robin, however, misses that message entirely as she smacks his arm.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me, doofus?!” She accuses, giving him a half-hearted glare that is no less threatening. Eddie holds his hands up in surrender, unable to hide the exasperated look on his face.

“He made me promise!!” Eddie defends. “Plus he gave me those damn puppy dog eyes and I couldn’t say no.”

“He is really good at that, especially when he wants something. He says he has no clue but I bet you he does,” Robin whispers, almost conspiratory as if they’re sharing a terrible secret. Eddie can’t help but smile and shake his head. Screw Harrington and his stupid pretty eyes.

“Did he say anything else while he was here?” Robin asks after a moment of silence.

“No, that was the only thing he said really, other than an absent ‘I’m fine’ before he bolted out the door. It was a very uh… one-sided conversation,” Eddie explains. “He mostly gave only one or two word answers before he panicked and ran.”

“I’m gonna assume he didn’t tell you why he left?” She asks, and at the shake of his head she curses. “Fuck.”

“Fuck indeed.”

Robin shifts beside him, raising her hand to mindlessly chew on her thumbnail. He thinks the conversation is over. Or, rather, wishes it were over.

That universal god must really hate Eddie today because Robin roughly shakes her head and waves her hands around, letting out a huff.

“Okay, one problem at a time. That was totally not the point of this little talk and you know it, Munson,” she admonishes. “Why. Are. You. Avoiding. Steve?”

She punctuates each word with a, quite literal, punch to the arm. Eddie reels back, dramatically clutching his bruised arm and gives her a fake glare.

“Ow!!” He rubs his arm. For her incredibly bony arms, she really can pack a punch. He’s only half joking that it hurts.

“Answer the question!”

“Fine fine…” he takes a deep breath, knee bouncing with building anxiety before he stands up, unable to quell the urge to move. He paces twice in front of the coffee table before he has the nerve to look at her waiting gaze.

“So, as you know, I am a raging homosexual,” he states, and at his pause, she nods. “And I miiiiiight have a teeny weeny, itsy bitsy, enormous crush on him.”

The end of his sentence is rushed out, words jumbled together as he screws his eyes closed and waits for… whatever Robin’s response is going to be. He waits for five seconds. Then ten. Then twenty-five because yes he’s counting. If he knows one thing about Robin Buckley it’s that she doesn’t know when to stop talking so silence is a very rare occurrence for her and now its been a whole minute and something must be wrong so he opens his eyes to find her—

The only word that even remotely comes close to encompassing the expression on her face is seething.

He instinctively takes a step back.

“Edward Lee Munson you better explain yourself right fucking now or I swear to every god out there that I will rip out your spleen and feed it to the neighborhood dogs before you take a step out that door,” Robin all but growls out, eyes icy and cold as they stare through him. He’s quick to explain because he really quite values his spleen, thank you very much.

“Okay, okay, geez I get it! Fine,” he huffs. “I’ve been avoiding Steve because it’s hard to be around him.”

Robin only raises an eyebrow. Eddie groans. He really wishes he didn’t have to explain his big, fat, gay love this early in the morning.

“It’s hard because he’s so…. So Steve all the time. He’s so kind and caring and hot— god, Birdie, he’s so fucking hot—“

“Okay, yeah, I didn’t need to know that,” Robin interrupts.

“Sorry,” he says, a bit sheepish. “Every little smile he gives me feels like a swarm of butterflies are fighting horde-style to get out of my stomach. I just…

“I think I’m in love with him,” Eddie confesses. The way her eyes blow wide is comical, and he’s half expecting them to pop and burst like they do in cartoons.

“But I know better,” he gives her a sad smile. “I know that I’m not special, he doesn’t mean it like that. Like I want it to. And…. And I know he never will.

“I thought that distancing myself would make the feelings go away, make it… I don’t know, hurt less? But not seeing Steve at all… fuck, it hurts worse than dying and I know what that feels like. Now I don’t even have him as a friend,” he scoffs at himself, shakes his head a little and focuses on a framed picture of him, Steve, Robin, and Dustin from graduation on the wall. Focuses on how Steve’s arm is wrapped around his shoulders, hand gripping his upper arm as he smiles shyly at the camera. How Eddie himself is leaning into his side, tucked under his arm as if he belongs there. As if he’ll ever belong there. He looks back at Robin.

“But this is what’s best. I can’t have my stupid heart feeling things my brain knows it shouldn’t,” Eddie ends his little speech by flopping back down on the couch. Part of him regrets telling her, but another small, itty bitty part is almost grateful.

Eddie’s always had a way of caring too much, even from a young age. Wayne could tell you better than anyone that Eddie has always had a soft side. He could tell you that Eddie refused to let him kill any of the bugs that got into the trailer when the weather turned cold and insisted that they be put outside under the trailer where it was at least a little warmer. He could tell you that every time Eddie would see another person cry, he would too.

He’s just always been like that, so carrying this around with him everyday? It was becoming too much to bear, having to put on a face around everyone so no one could tell. So no one could see how it was breaking him inside. Wearing him down to the bone. Slowly, slowly killing him.

Robin sighs beside him and he had almost forgotten she was there. Her voice is quiet and strangely gentle as she speaks.

“Why do you think that, Eddie?”

What?

“What?” He asks incredulously and knows his face is in a similar state to his voice.

“Why do you think Steve wouldn’t like you like that? Has he said anything to make you think he wouldn’t?” She clarifies, which really doesn’t clarify anything at all for him because what?

“Um… are we talking about the same Steve? You know, Steve Harrington, Hawkins’ resident ladies man? Why the fuck would you think I’d have a shot?” He explains. “He’s so painfully straight and I am so painfully not, Robin.”

Robin just looks at him like she’s trying to read his mind. Or, rather, push a thought into his mind. Waiting for something to click. It doesn’t. Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Besides, Steve never tried to talk to me about the whole distance thing, so I just—“

“You know what happens when people assume things, Eddie,” Robin interrupts.

“—figured that he didn’t mind,” Eddie finishes with a glare. Robin closes her eyes and takes a breath as if calming herself. She pinches her nose, right between her eyes like Steve always does when he’s frustrated or tired, and turns to him. She takes his hands in hers, and her face is only a mere mask of calm, the tumbling waves of anger rolling just under the surface.

“Eddie,” she begins. “Have you ever thought of the possibility that Steve doesn’t talk about his feelings? That he would keep it all bottled up inside like he does with literally everything else?”

Well, when she puts it like that…

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Robin agrees. “I only found out about this whole… thing two days ago and that was only because I just so happened to catch him falling asleep at work. He wouldn’t have told me if I didn’t ask him, I know that for sure. He… Eddie, he honestly believes that this is all his fault. That he’s the one that fucked everything up between you and he kids.”

Eddie’s brain screeches to a halt. “Wait, what do the kids have to do with this?”

“You haven’t told them anything?” Robin asks, eyes going a little wide.

“Have I told a bunch of teenagers—whose opinions I regretfully respect—that I have a crush on their babysitter? No, I have not.”

“Okay, yeah that was a stupid question, sorry,” she amends. “Just… the kids are avoiding Steve and I can’t think of a reason why.”

“They’re what!? Wait, why haven’t I heard of this until now?” Eddie exclaims. Robin gives him a look that makes him deflate a little. “Let me guess, you only found out two days ago?”

“Bingo, we have a winner!” Robin fake cheers, raising her arms in a mock-celebratory fashion. She drops them with a huff. “They haven’t talked to him in weeks, Eddie, and I think it’s because you have been avoiding him.”

Her tone isn’t accusatory, but it still makes him feel like shit.

“They must have picked up the sense that something was going on between you two and assumed they should be avoiding him too,” she suggests. Eddie leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I don’t get how they could think that, though. I mean, Steve has been nothing but good to them for years now.”

“I know,” Robin agrees. “But they’re kids. Stupid, dumb, ungrateful kids, but they’re still kids.”

Eddie drops his head in his hands, pressing hard on his eyes until spots form behind his eyelids.

“I really fucked this up, didn’t I?” He asks it rhetorically, but Robin gives a noise of agreement anyway. “How do I fix this, Birdie?”

“You could start by talking to him,” Robin suggests.

Now isn’t that a terrifying thought?

Because knowing you have feelings for someone is one thing, but telling them? That’s something so far out of the realm of possibility for him that he’s never even thought about considering it.

“Have you lost your fucking mind, Buckley?” Eddie exclaims, looking over at her with wide eyes. “I’d like to keep all my teeth if you don’t mind. I mean, I know I’m not your type and everything but some poor schmuck would probably like to look at this face one more time before it's beat all black and blue.”

Robin only rolls her eyes at his rambling—which is rather hypocritical of her if you ask him, since she seems to treat rambling as an Olympic sport she plans on winning every time she opens her mouth. She grabs his face between her hands and honest to god shakes him.

“I can’t tell you everything, but I’m telling you to trust me and talk to him,” she practically demands, giving him a pointed look much like the one from before. Except he still doesn’t know what it means, as that final piece has yet to click into place.

He nods in her hold, partially afraid of her now, and she releases him.

“We need to fix this. Now,” Eddie insists. He looks over at her. “We need to talk to the kids.”

Eddie stands up, running to his room and groaning at the mess he left. Tossing his sheets and blankets back on the bed, he reaches under his bed for the walkie he knows he last saw under there three days ago. Except, it’s not there. He stands up, scrunches his eyebrows, and thinks.

Let’s see… it was next to the keychain that was on top of the VHS sitting on the books on the corner of the desk, then he moved it when he had to answer one of Lucas’ questions which he did while he walked around the trailer and he laid it down when he finished to get some cheese from the fridge, meaning—

Eddie runs back to the kitchen, finding the walkie on top of the fridge, right where he thought it would be.

“Got ya!” He grabs it and runs back to the living room where Robin is waiting very impatiently.

“Where even was that?” She asks but he ignores her, electing to set the frequency so he can talk to the kids all at once instead of answering her. He presses the button.

“This is Eddie the Banished calling an emergency Hellfire meeting pronto,” he orders into the speaker. “I repeat, emergency Hellfire meeting.”

He waits for a response. One minute. Two minutes. Three—

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Eddie mumbles, pressing the button again. “Over.”

Immediately, Dustin responds. “Hear you loud and clear, Eddie. Is this a code red situation? Over.”

“Nope, not a code red. More of a uh…” he glances over at Robin who shrugs. “Code yellow? I think. Over.”

“What the hell is ‘code yellow’? We don’t even have one of those,” comes Erica’s, as always, sarcastic remark. Eddie can faintly hear Lucas yelling in the background.

“Munson, you better not be shitting with us.”

“I promise you, Red, I wouldn’t. Not about this.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, people! You’re supposed to say ‘over’ when you’re done talking! Over.”

“Shove it, Dustybuns, the adults are talking.”

Eddie has to hold the walkie away from him at Dustin’s responding shriek. He presses a hand over his eyes. These kids are going to kill him one day.

“Guys, this is serious. Just get your asses over to my trailer as soon as possible. Robin’s already here, does someone have Little Byers and Supergirl?”

“I’ve got them. Over and out,” Mike responds.

“Erica and I are on our way. Over and out,” Lucas says.

“Be there in fifteen. Over and out,” Dustin declares. Eddie glances at Robin, sharing equally nervous and worried looks. This is not going to be fun.

Thirty minutes later, all of the kids are cramped in Eddie’s living room. Lucas, Max, El, and Mike are scrunched together on the couch, while Will and Dustin sit on the floor in front of them. Erica claimed Wayne’s recliner as soon as her and Lucas got there, refusing to move for the older teens.

Robin is standing next to him, hands on her hips again—really driving home the whole “Steve is my platonic soulmate” bit—as he stands there with his arms crossed. The two of them remind Eddie of disappointed parents about to tell off their kids, which, in reality, isn't too far off.

“Okay, what the hell?” Dustin asks, still breathless from the trek there. “I literally just got home an hour ago. Why did you call us and make us bike all the way here in the heat?”

“Because you deserve it for being shitheads,” Eddie defends and rolls his eyes. He’s met with a cacophony of dweeby teen voices as they retaliate.

“What did we do this time?”

“What?! We didn’t do anything!”

“What did Dustin do, now?”

“Me? Why am I the one being blamed? I wasn’t even here!”

“Because you’re too damn nosey, dude.”

“Ouch, Lucas. Ouch.”

“Hey!” Eddie yells, clapping his hands to get their attention. It startles them all enough to quit talking over each other and look back up at him. “Okay, I’m just going to get to the point. Why are you all avoiding Steve?”

Mike gives him a confused look and crosses his arms, his expression the epitome of teenage angst.

“We thought you hated Steve, dude. You would always leave the room whenever he was around with some shitty excuse so we just decided to do the same,” Mike answers. Dustin nods from his spot on the floor.

“Yeah, we all thought he did something or said something to you since every time we brought him up, you’d shut the conversation down somehow. It just… naturally progressed from not talking about him to not talking to him either,” Dustin explains.

“Steve stopped showing up to things, too. He used to help me practice but he’s not shown up in weeks,” Lucas adds.

“Mom’s gotten really worried about him. He’s not shown up to dinner in a while, either,” Dustin chimes in. He shrugs. “We just thought the feeling was mutual.”

Eddie clenches his eyes closed and throws his head back. Fuck, this is worse than he thought. He hears Robin shift beside him, and knows firsthand the look she’s giving them right now.

“Have any of you even considered asking Steve about this?” Robin asks accusatively. “Or even talking to him about anything other than rides or movie nights?”

Silence falls over the room, so thick and suffocating that Eddie briefly prefers the air of the Upside Down to this. He pulls his hair, scrunching down on the floor and balancing on the pads of his feet.

“This is all my fault,” he groans, twisting strands of hair frustratedly.

“It is,” Robin agrees and ignores the glare Eddie sends her way for that. “But we can still fix this.”

“Wait, what’s going on?” Mike asks.

“Why does Eddie look three seconds away from strangling himself with his hair?” Max hesitates, sounding the most cautious he’s ever heard her. Eddie groans and avoids eye contact with the group.

“The reason I’m avoiding Steve isn’t because I hate him. It’s uh… quite the opposite, actually,” he explains, nervously fidgeting with his rings and pulling a thick strand of hair to hide his face. He glances at Robin, who gives him an overly enthusiastic thumbs up, and he rolls his eyes.

Max and Erica give him equally smug smirks while Will looks at him with wide, understanding eyes. The rest of the group, however, look confused.

“Wait, then why are you avoiding him?” Dustin asks.

“Dude, that makes zero sense,” Mike counteracts. El just looks lost, almost like she’s trying to read his mind. Which… he really wouldn’t be surprised if she could at this point. Eddie sighs.

“That’s not the point,” Eddie redirects. “The point is that an issue with me and Steve shouldn’t affect you guys’ relationship with him.”

“Yeah,” Robin agrees, and he deftly ignores the pointed look she sends his way. “Steve has been there for all of you for years.

“Dustin, wasn’t it Steve who helped you catch D’art when he escaped from your cellar? He bought pounds of meat for you to lure a demodog away with, then fought a pack of them by himself to keep you safe. Steve put himself in the line of fire again against said demodogs in the tunnels after he was beaten unconscious by Billy, then sacrificed himself to Russians just so you and Erica could make it out alive a year later.”

Dustin clamps his mouth shut from its gaping position—likely from him wanting to defend himself from the truth—and has the decency to look sheepish. Eddie turns his gaze to Lucas.

“Lucas, wasn’t it Steve who helped you train for basketball when you started to show an interest in it? He practiced with you every week, even after a long shift at work or when he felt like shit, just because you asked. Steve protected you against Billy because it was the right thing to do, and took a beating so you wouldn’t. Not many people can say they’d do that for someone else, especially not against anyone as vicious as Hargrove,” Eddie adds. Lucas drops his head in his hands, knee bouncing from his place on the couch.

“Max,” Robin begins. “Steve checked up on you every day after Billy died. He would bring you food or ice cream or a distraction, but he was always there. He would drive you to the arcade just to cheer you up, let you beat him at Dig Doug and Pinball just to see you smile. Steve was terrified to let you be the bait for Vecna, he… he kept telling me that he wished it was him instead. That he should be the sacrifice, not you.”

Robin wipes her eyes where they begin to tear up, and Eddie uses the pause to look at Mike. He still has his arms crossed, but the smartass look on his face has dwindled a little.

“Mike, I know you don’t like Steve because of him and Nancy, but you can’t hold onto that grudge forever. What happened between them had nothing to do with you, so there's no need to be mad at him for it,” Eddie states. Mike isn’t looking at him now, and something tells Eddie that the kid just needs a reality check. Hopefully, this will work. “Steve has been protecting you from the beginning, even when you were more than hostile to him. You’ve at least got to give him credit for that.”

Eddie looks around, sees the morose expressions on the kids’ faces.

“Steve has picked you all up countless times from Hellfire, waiting the entire session out in the parking lot while wasting away in his car. He was there rain or shine, snow or sleet, and he never missed a day. Not once,” he states.

Eddie first found Steve’s presence after Hellfire to be confusing, an anomaly. He didn’t know that the Steve the kids talked about was the same Steve he had a debilitating crush on in high school, not until he saw him waiting outside after the first session the kids attended, leaning against his maroon BMW like a Calvin Klein model. A ball of anxiety formed in his stomach at the sight, because one thing about Steve Harrington was that he’s unpredictable. Eddie just didn’t know if it was good or bad yet.

“You know, usually when people graduate they tend to stay away from high school, not willingly come back,” Eddie teased.

His words seemed to spark some life into Steve, as he jolted from his relaxed position against the hood to stand firmly beside his car. Steve ran a hand through his hair, and looked Eddie up and down.

“You’d probably know more about that if you managed to actually graduate, Munson,” Steve quipped, but it wasn’t mean. He had a smile on his face, and the air around him was friendly. Some of the anxiety churning in Eddie’s gut eased at the sight.

“Besides, who says I’m here willingly?” Steve asked rhetorically, as Dustin made his appearance by running up to him and immediately began talking his ears off about the new campaign. Steve turned his full attention on the boy, nodding along to certain comments even when Eddie knew for sure Steve didn’t know what the hell Henderson was talking about. The other kids soon crowded around the former jock, all talking so incredibly fast that Eddie was surprised the sound barrier survived their cracking voices.

Eddie watched as Steve glanced at him over the kids’ heads, giving him a loose smile and a shrug as if saying, ‘what can ya do?’

Soon, all the gremlins piled into Steve’s fancy car, still talking and gesturing wildly with their hands. Eddie had a passing thought that he should get Steve some earplugs or something to at least help drown out the noise. He immediately shook his head at the thought and jumped in his old, beat up van, driving home to an empty trailer and trying desperately to forget Steve Harrington existed.

“He always waits until the excitement starts to wear off before he takes you all home, letting you talk to each other for nearly an hour after each session despite the fact he never has a clue what you’re talking about. He always listens to you guys, no matter what,” Eddie supplies. “Did you guys know he has mixtapes for each of you?”

At the question, they all look at him with varying degrees of confusion and an all-too-late realization. Eddie huffs, while Robin mutters something under her breath that sounds a lot like, ‘of course they didn’t.’

“There’s one for each of you, filled with songs you like or mentioned liking at some point despite some of them not being his own taste. He listens to you, all of you, and it fucking hurts to know you don’t see that,” he exposes, and part of him regrets letting a bit of his anger out. Though, the kids need to know this is serious, that you can’t go through life assuming the worst in people, so if being angry is what it takes then so be it.

The kids have various emotions on their faces, ashamed and regretful being the two most prominent. Dustin clears his throat and looks up at Eddie, flicks his eyes to Robin, and returns them to his lap.

“I… I didn’t realize he did so much for us,” Dustin quietly admits, and a small part of Eddie cheers at finally teaching the kid a thing or two about humility.

“We’ve been taking advantage of him for… for so long,” Lucas breathes out. Max nods morosely beside him, and Will raises a shaky hand to cover his mouth.

Mike rolls his eyes, still petulantly crossing his arms. “Why should we even care about him? All he’s probably doing is wallowing in his fancy house or something.”

He says it with a layer of snark so thick, all the kids turn to him with varying levels of bitchy glares. Eddie, however, can tell his attitude is a mask, a way for him to hide how he’s truly feeling to prevent from being too vulnerable. From being too open. Eddie knows a lot about that.

It started when Eddie was four and he scraped his knee on the harsh gravel outside his parents’ run-down home in Kentucky. Tears rolled down his chubby cheeks as he ran inside to tell his mom, who he knew would take care of him. She told him to play outside, and not come in until she told him so, but his knee really hurt and he was scared they would have to cut it off if it bled too much. At least, that’s what Charlie—a kid who lived two streets over—said they would do.

When he stepped over the threshold, something felt off. The house was quiet, more so than normal, and it set him on edge. The TV was filled with static that grated on his little ears, and he covered them with his hands as he made his way over to turn it off. He picked up the antenna off the floor, wondering how it got knocked off the top of the TV in the first place. He looked around the living room, finding it in a similar state of disarray. He followed the trail of broken things before him; the overturned coffee table, a spilled ashtray, a stray pillow, and the chair his dad always sat on, pushed far out of its normal place. He questioned who could have messed up his house like this, leaving a big mess behind.

He found his answer when he ventured into the kitchen, just a few short steps from the living room, and found his mother laying on the floor. She was on her stomach, arms splayed out as if she tried to catch her fall and head turned to look at the doorway where little Eddie stood. Her eyes were closed but she was still breathing, the floral pattern of her dress moving with each breath. Shards of ceramic were spread out around her, littered with droplets of dark blood that spilled from a cut on her forehead. It dripped down the side of her face, along the curve of her cheek and onto the floor where it formed a small puddle. Her skin was pale in the artificial light of the house, the soft yellows doing nothing to soften the tones of her ashen face.

“Mama!” He ran up to her, falling to his knees beside her still body. He shook her, trying to get her eyes to open, but all it rewarded him was a pained grunt. His eyes welled with tears again, this time for his Mama, but nothing he was doing was working.

A shadow fell over the floor and he looked up to find his father blocking the light from the gold-colored light fixture above the kitchen table. His face was stern and dirty looking, his stubble well past the point of a five o’clock shadow and leaning more towards a sleazy strip club owner. There was a smear of blood on his face from his hand, which he noticed was bruised around the knuckles. However, the sight of what was in his other hand made him freeze, entire body going stock still.

In his father’s left hand were the remnants of the broken plate on the floor, the jagged edges cutting into his skin where he gripped it tightly. Matching blood littered the edge, and a splatter of the dark liquid traveled up his hairy arm and disappeared into his rolled up flannel sleeve.

He looked up at the figure before him, and the tears spilled over against his will.

“What happened to Mama?” He asked. “Why won’t she wake up?”

“‘Cause she’s sorry, son,” his dad answered, throwing down the ceramic and causing it to shatter against the floor. Eddie flinched, and his father caught the motion. He hadn’t been able to quell it, hadn’t learned how to hide his fear yet. The man scowled at him, lip curling as he grabbed Eddie’s arm and hauled him off the floor in one solid motion.

“She’s weak, Edward,” he began. This close, Eddie could see the redness of his eyes, and the deep purple bags that hang underneath. “Just like all women. Do you wanna be weak, boy?”

Eddie shook his head, and his father gripped his arm tighter. “Answer me!”

“N-No sir,” Eddie muttered, voice small and weak in the face of his father.

“Then stop that fucking crying, don’t be a sissy. I ain’t raising a fucking faggot, Edward.”

With that, his dad dropped his arm and stumbled into his bedroom down the hall. As soon as his figure was gone, Eddie turned back to his mom, crouching next to her. Sometime when his dad was talking, her eyes had opened and her breathing grew stronger. Eddie felt like it was nothing short of a small miracle.

“Mama, are you okay?”

“‘M okay, baby,” she replied, pushing herself off the floor with a grunt. She sat up with Eddie’s help, and frowned when she saw the reddened mark on his arm. “I shouldn’t have let him do that to you.”

“You were hurt, Mama. ‘S not your fault,” Eddie reasoned, pulling his arm out of her grasp to wipe at some of the blood on her face. “You’re bleeding, too.”

“Oh,” she began, reaching up to touch the wound as if she hadn’t realized it was there. “It’s nothing, Eddie, just a little scratch. Mama will be okay, promise.”

She didn’t look okay, this close, with her sunken-in face and slowly forming black eye Eddie hadn’t been able to see before. But his Mama was always right. Always.

“Pinky promise?” Eddie asked, holding out his little pinky. His Mama smiled, and raised a shaky hand to lace her pinky with his.

“Pinky promise.”

A year later, he was riding in the car with his Mama, backpack at his feet. She was dressed nicer than he ever remembered her being; a baby blue, short-sleeved dress hugged her slender frame, paired with white heels, white bug-eyed sunglasses, and a sheer white scarf she had tied around her hair. Her suitcase was in the trunk, but his father was nowhere to be found.

“Mama?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Where’s Dad?” He asked. His Mama cleared her throat before she answered, voice shaky.

“He’s not coming with us, Eddie,” she said. “We’re going somewhere far away from him. Somewhere new.”

“Where?”

“Have a look for yourself, honey,” she said, pointing to the window. Eddie crawled up on his knees to look out, seeing a sign welcoming them to a place called Hawkins. He sat back down in his seat, looking back at his mother.

“What’s here?” He asked. His mother smiled.

“Your Uncle Wayne. He’s my brother,” she supplied. “We’re just going to pay him a little visit, okay?”

A few short minutes later, they were parked in front of a small trailer, a gruff looking man waiting for them on the newly-built porch. They got out of the car and Eddie grabbed his backpack, slinging it over his shoulders before his Mama led him up the steps.

“Eddie, this is Uncle Wayne,” his Mama informed. He looked up at her and she nudged his arm, urging him to say something.

“H-Hello, sir,” Eddie greeted, sticking out his small hand for the man to shake. Wayne huffed a laugh and crouched down, causing Eddie to take a step back on instinct, before he took his hand and shook it.

“Nice to meet ya, Eddie,” Wayne began. He let go of his hand but stayed crouched. “You can call me Wayne, or Uncle Wayne, or Uncle, or—hell, Todd for all I care. Just none of that ‘sir’ business, you got me?”

Eddie smiled and nodded. “Sorry, si—uh, Uncle Wayne.”

“That’s better, boy,” Wayne said, smiling as he clapped his shoulder softly. Wayne had kind eyes, blue and soft around the edges. They weren’t mean like his fathers. Instead, they looked exactly like his Mama’s—save for a few extra wrinkles around the edges. “Why don’t you go on inside while your Mama and I talk?”

Eddie did as he was told, walking in the trailer and taking in his surroundings. It was small, smaller than his house, but cozy. A couple mugs were hung up on the wall, paired with three trucker hats and a framed picture he was too far away to see. An old, floral patterned couch sat on the long wall of the living room, a coffee table in front littered with an opened can of Coke and a half-eaten bag of chips. The windows were open to let light in, making the space feel much bigger than it actually was.

He stepped into the kitchen, just a pace away from the living room, and took in the red-toned wooden cabinets and cream countertops stained with coffee rings yet to be wiped away. There was a hallway to his left where he found a single bedroom and a bathroom. The bathroom was small, just big enough for a stand-up shower, toilet, and sink. A single toothbrush sat in the cup on the side of the sink along with a bar of soap and an almost empty tube of toothpaste. On the other side of the sink though, Eddie noticed an unopened toothbrush. It was blue and had sparkles throughout its plastic. At the bottom, there was a small dog sticker and it made him smile a little.

His attention soon wandered to the bedroom, where he found a little twin-sized bed and tons of boxes. The bed was bare, save for a folded up quilt near the bottom with a pillow on top. The boxes were filled with various things; clothes, books, a cassette player, shoes, and tons of other small trinkets. He sat on the ground, pulling a box closer to look through it. There were thin books near the top labeled ‘Hawkins High’, and he flipped through it to find pictures upon pictures of people. He read the names, sounding them out to see if he could get them right. Some of them were weird, though, and he quickly put the book down to look at something else.

There was a box of cassette tapes to his left and Eddie scooted over to look through it. There were tons of names he didn’t recognize as he rifled through the plastic cases, though one stood out to him.

He picked up the Fleetwood Mac tape along with the cassette player from a box near the closet, plugging it into the wall and putting the tape in. He eyed the front door, seeing it still firmly closed. Just then, the tape clicked, causing him to jump, and he pressed play.

The familiar voice filled his ears, and he smiled. He and his Mama used to listen to Fleetwood Mac back home in the kitchen while they made supper, singing along with the tape or the radio to fill the house with music. The sound of it brought a smile to his face, and he closed his eyes as he listened to the words.

Engrossed in the music, he barely registered that the front door had both opened and closed until a soft hand was laid on his shoulder.

“Eddie, baby, I have to go,” his Mama said, and he jumped to his feet. He kinda felt bad about going through Uncle Wayne’s things without him being there, but if they were leaving then he didn’t think he would get too mad.

“Where are we going now, Mama?” Eddie wondered. His mother’s face turned pinched, and she lifted her glasses to look at him directly. She wore make-up, much more than she usually did, and as she crouched down Eddie could see it was barely disguising a bruise along the top of her right cheekbone.

“Eddie, only I’m leaving,” his Mama corrected. “You’re staying here with Wayne.”

At that, his whole world fell apart.

His mother, his Mama, was leaving him. It didn’t seem fair that he couldn’t go with her, that he couldn’t stay with his Mama like he wanted to. Wayne seemed nice from their brief interaction, but he didn’t know him. Not like he knew his Mama.

His stomach sank to his feet, and it felt as if someone poured ice-cold water over him. His eyes grew wide as tears welled, spilling over his cheeks.

“Why, Mama?” Eddie sobbed, wiping at his face because he wasn’t supposed to cry. “Why can’t I go with you?”

“You just can’t, Eddie, I’m sorry,” she stated. It felt hollow, her explanation. Like she was hiding something.

“But why?”

“Because you just can’t, Eddie!” She snapped, and Eddie’s breath caught. She sounded mad, but Eddie had never heard her get mad, not at him at least. He didn’t know what he did, only that she wouldn’t let him go with her.

She took a breath and cupped his cheek. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“But- But you can’t leave me!” Eddie wailed. “Mama, please!”

She opened her arms and he fell into them, clinging hard enough to deem separating impossible. She hugged him back just as tight, and Eddie saw evidence of tear tracks streaking through her caked-on foundation.

“I know, baby, I don’t want to leave you either,” his Mama soothed. “But Wayne is going to take care of you, okay?”

Eddie looked over her shoulder to see Wayne leaning against one of the kitchen countertops, smiling sadly at him. Eddie screwed his eyes shut and buried his face in his mothers neck.

“You’re gonna come back, right?” Eddie mumbled before he moved to look at her. “Pinky promise you’re gonna come back for me.”

His Mama cried and wiped at her cheeks, smearing the make-up and making the bruises appear fresh on her pale skin. She held out a pinky, and Eddie laced his with hers.

“I promise, Eddie,” she said, leaning forward to kiss his forehead before getting to her feet. Her and Wayne shared a hug on her way out, and Eddie caught Wayne wiping his eyes too. He and his uncle stood on the porch as his mom drove away, waving until her taillights disappeared around the curve of the road.

That was the last time he saw his mother.

Unfortunately, it was not the last he saw his father.

He stayed with Wayne for two months until his father found him. They had grown accustomed to each other in that time, Eddie having warmed up to another parental figure and Wayne having gotten the basics down for caring for another being. Wayne insisted he start school in the fall, and he was two weeks in when all hell broke loose.

His father rolled up to the trailer in a fancy-looking sports car Eddie knew his dad didn’t have the money for. He stumbled out on the gravel, banging on the door until Wayne pulled it open.

“The hell are you doin’ here?” Wayne asked, standing firm in the doorway.

“I’m here to get my son,” his father demanded. He pushed past him and stormed the place until he found Eddie in the only bedroom—Wayne having set up a cot in the living room.

Eddie hadn’t expected to see his father again, mostly because he didn’t think the man really cared for him. That was prominent when he snatched Eddie off the bed and hauled him out of his room.

“Dad?” Eddie questioned. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m taking you away from here,” his father responded, glaring at Wayne who stood blocking the doorway.

“You’re not takin’ him anywhere, Al,” Wayne countered. He crossed his arms, looking far more intimidating than Eddie ever imagined. “He’s happy here.”

“He’ll be even more happy with me,” his dad insisted. “With his real family.”

“Son of a bitch, Al, I am his real family!” Wayne yelled. “You ain’t got the means for takin’ care of that boy, and you know it.”

His father stood toe to toe with his uncle, glaring at him. He whispered something Eddie was too far away to hear, but it made Wayne deflate completely.

Eddie didn’t want to leave. He found that these past two months with Wayne were filled with more happy memories than he ever remembered having back home. Wayne was nice, a little rough around the edges but he was a big softy inside. He cared about people, that much was evident in the way he was constantly helping people out around the park. He was a good person, so leaving him felt like his Mama all over again.

“Come on, son,” his father demanded, grabbing his arm and dragging him out of the trailer. Eddie looked back at Wayne, eyes stinging. He waved, and Wayne waved back. He watched the trailer from the backseat until he couldn’t tell which one was theirs, only facing the front when his dad snapped at him.

They rode for hours, far past the Indiana state line, until they ended up in a strange city filled with tall buildings and blinding lights that made Eddie’s eyes sting. They went through the city, stopping on the outskirts in a run-down neighborhood even more decrepit than his old house in Kentucky.

He spent two years with his dad in a city he came to know at St. Louis, but it never felt like home. Not like the trailer with Wayne, or anywhere his mother was. He learned how to hotwire cars and how to drive like a bat out of hell whenever his dad told him to. He learned that he was too much to take care of; his father constantly complained about feeding him, keeping him clothed, taking care of him like a father should. He learned that showing emotions would only get you hurt, that he had to hide them to survive. He learned what all the different white powders did to someone, how they would affect your mind and your body. How they made his father violent, or remorseful, or depressed, but never happy.

His father was on a bad trip when a rush of red and blue lights invaded their windows, sirens blaring and making Eddie’s ears ring. Their front door was kicked open, the old wood splintering easily under the force of a steel-toed boot. Police flooded the house, and Eddie was grabbed and dragged out before he had time to comprehend everything that was happening.

He was sitting in the back of a cop car with the door open, body completely still as police went in and out of their house. He couldn’t let them know he was scared out of his mind, that he was afraid of what they would do to him. He knew the best way to get through it was to show nothing at all. To be indifferent. Emotionless. It was the only thing his father taught him that he deemed useful.

His father was dragged out of the house by two policemen, kicking and screaming at them but Eddie couldn’t hear what he was saying, ears having gone deaf to anything other than the ringing in his head. Next thing he knew, his father had broken free and punched one of the officers, causing several to tackle him to the ground and handcuff him before practically throwing him into a car and hauling him away. All Eddie could do was watch, knowing there was nothing he could do to help him.

“You got somewhere to go, kid?” One of the cops that took him out of the house asked, leaning against the open door and blocking the flashing lights. Eddie nodded, and the cop took him back to the station where he called Wayne.

“Eddie, son, where are you? Are you okay? If that bastard hurt you, I swear to god—“

“Wayne,” Eddie began, his voice rough from not using it. “Can you come get me?”

A pause. “Sure, kid, where are you?”

“St. Louis,” Eddie supplied. There was cursing on the other end, muffled so Eddie couldn’t tell what was said but he knew Wayne well enough. Even after only two months, the man had become more like a father to him than his own dad ever was.

“I’m coming right now to get ya, just hold on tight, okay? I’ll be there ‘fore the morning.”

True to his word, Wayne showed up right before dawn in his beat up truck. He stormed the station like a madman, looking for him. He was rumpled, like he threw on just enough clothes to be decent before booking it all the way here. If he knew Wayne, that’s probably exactly what he did.

“Eddie? Eds, where are ya?”

“Sir,” the lady at the front desk interrupted. “I’m going to have to ask you to lower your voice—“

“Wayne!” Eddie perked up from the desk chair he was sitting at in the station, running around desks before jumping straight in his uncle's arms. Wayne held onto him just as tight, and he could’ve sworn he heard a sniffle or two come from the man.

“I was so worried, Eds,” Wayne whispered. “I tried lookin’ for ya, I swear I did, just—If I’d known he’d taken ya to another state I wouldn’t’ve stopped ‘til I searched the whole damn country.”

“I know, Wayne,” Eddie muttered. “I missed you too.”

As much as Eddie tried, he couldn’t put up that mask of indifference around his uncle. He could try, sure, but it never worked longer than five seconds before he saw right through it and it crumbled at Eddie’s feet.

“Let’s get you home, son,” Wayne insisted and before he knew it, Eddie was asleep in the passenger seat of the truck as they took the highway home.

Since then, Eddie and Wayne had become inseparable. There were no secrets between them, no masks. They weren’t needed, not when Wayne was more than good to him. They weren’t wanted, either, since Wayne made sure to remind him that showing emotions wasn’t a bad thing. That it was good, healthy.

It wasn’t until much later in middle school when he learned that having a mask was necessary sometimes. Especially when people started calling him a freak and a weirdo because he wasn’t identical to everyone else. Because he lived in a trailer with someone that wasn’t his biological parent and wore hand-me-down clothes that were baggy on him since his growth spurt hadn’t hit yet. He donned the air of indifference he had left behind long ago, letting the names and rumors bounce off his skin like water off an umbrella.

That need intensified when high school hit and the rumor mill grew exponentially. Suddenly, he was bombarded with accusations of Satanism, prison time, drug dealing—though that one was true—pet raccoons, and, at one point, an army of undead babies he sucked the life out of that he could command at will. Really, the shit people came up with was astounding, and Eddie learned to shove it all away. None of it was true—save for a couple things he would never, in a million years, tell another soul at Hawkins High—so he made sure to act like it was true. Let people believe what they want to believe. In the meantime, Eddie used it to his advantage to prevent anyone from getting too close. From looking past the barrier he put up between himself and everyone else.

So yeah, Eddie knows a little bit about where Mike’s coming from.

“Actually…” Robin starts. “Steve’s not doing so great—“

“What?!” Dustin squawks out, cutting Robin off and all but jumping up from his seated position. “Why the hell did you not start this whole damn thing with that?!”

“We were getting there, Henderson!” Eddie clarifies. “Now sit your ass down.”

Dustin—for once—does as he’s told. Eddie looks to Robin and gives her a nod, letting her have the floor.

“Steve’s got it in his head that he’s the only one allowed to sacrifice himself for us, that he’s only needed or wanted when he can put himself in the line of fire. So, like the caring dumbass he is, he’s been wandering around Hawkins at night because he’s worried that something will happen.”

“But I closed all of the gates,” El starts, head cocked and eyebrows scrunched like a confused puppy. “We are in no more danger.”

“I think part of him knows that, Supergirl,” Eddie explains. “But he needs to know for certain, to make sure you guys are absolutely safe.”

She nods, and sadness finds its way to her eyes. Eddie feels a pang of sympathy for her, knowing that learning how to live all over again is never easy.

“He’s not been sleeping much,” Robin continues. “It’s like he’s barely there anymore. Like he’s just… a shell.

“He thinks you all hate him. He thinks he deserves this for all the shit he did in the past, even though we all know he’s more than made up for it by becoming a decent fucking human being,” she spits out. There’s anger in her eyes now as she glares at a stain on the carpet, unwilling to look at the kids but needing to get her point across. “He broke down in my arms because this is the fifth fucking time the people he’s loved has left him and I think… I think this time broke him.”

She raises her head and looks over the kids, tears balanced on her lower eyelashes and threatening to spill over.

“You’re his family, the family he got to choose, and you still… you left. Just like everyone else has.”

The room fills with silence as the words sink in.

“How… How do we fix it?” Will asks, his quiet voice now loud. Eddie sighs and rakes a hand through his hair—a motion that keeps reminding him of Steve—before shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I know part of it is my fault, I admit that. I shouldn’t have just stopped talking to him all of the sudden, I should’ve… well, there’s a lot of things I should have done but I didn’t, so I plan on fixing that,” Eddie admits. He looks around the room, makes as much eye contact as he can to drive his point home. “You should too. A simple ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t going to cut it, not this time. Not for this.”

The kids all nod, and Eddie gestures to the door to dismiss them. They all look like kicked puppies with slouching posture and ducked heads, walking out of the trailer with their tails between their legs. Dustin and Mike are the first to hop on their bikes, ready to either apologize and get it over with or get as far away from his and Robin’s disappointed glares as possible. Before they can push off, Eddie calls out to them.

“Hey! Give it a couple days,” Eddie orders. “Steve… He’s going to need some time. Go to him when he’s ready, okay?”

He’s met with various nods and ‘will do’s as some of them take off, their knobbly knees hitting the handlebars of their too-small bikes. Then, he notices a particular brunette has yet to leave, her bike with little white training wheels still standing in the grass. Her big brown eyes lock with his and, even though there's a porch between them, he can feel the seriousness in her gaze.

“I miss him. He was always very nice to me,” El confesses. “He always gave me piggyback rides.”

Her face falls a little. “I did not know we were being mean to him.”

Eddie finds himself softening a little at her words.

“I know, Supergirl,” he winks at her. “That’s why you’re my favorite.” 

She giggles in response and hops on her bike, meeting up with Max who stopped to wait for her a few yards away. 

Eddie closes the door, falling against it with a thud. He groans, the sound bouncing off the thin door and out in the empty trailer. He turns to go to his room, preferably to wallow, before nearly jumping clean out of his skin. 

Well, he thought the trailer was empty, except there now stands one Robin Buckley who has resumed her unimpressed, hands-on-her-hips, "you're a fucking dumbass" position from earlier. 

"Jesus H. Christ!" He exclaims. A hand comes up to grab at his heart which is actively trying to beat out of his chest as his lungs grapple for air. "Birdie, I forgot you were there."

"Yeah," she deadpans. "Clearly." 

Eddie straightens up, and quirks an eyebrow at her rather over dramatically. Robin rolls her eyes.

"Well?"

"It's a deep subject," Eddie sarcastically responds. Robin, unfortunately, doesn't find that funny. "'Well' what?"

"Go apologize!" She yells. 

“Okay, okay, geez!”

Eddie pats himself down, looking for the keys to his van before Robin clears her throat. He looks over at her to see an unamused quirk of her eyebrow before she points to the hook by the door where his keys hang. 

“Thanks, Buck!” he exclaims, pressing his hands together in prayer to the saint she is. Grabbing them, he throws the door open and clears the steps in one jump, stumbling a bit on the landing but really, he’s quite proud of this rare athletic appearance. 

Jumping in his van, he slams a random tape in the deck, grinning a little at the song that plays first. Despite his obvious avoidance of the second track, the Master of Puppets album still holds a very special place in his heart. So it's really not a surprise that the song that just so happens to play first reminds him of the very man he’s going to see, sacrificial tendencies and all. 

He slams on the gas, tires squealing as he peels out of Forest Hills trailer park faster than he ever has before. 

He’s not running away this time; not running from a small cheerleader’s body trapped on his ceiling, not running from angry town hicks with their fiery pitchforks, and not running from a creepy interdimensional demon who enjoys sucking the life out of depressed teenagers. 

No, this time, he’s running to something. Running to Steve. 

He just hopes Steve will let him.

———

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