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libraryofgage · 2 years ago

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A Place Like Steve in a Boy Like This

Part of: Steve Deserves Good Parents, Actually Debbie and Fester Addams One Rick and Evelyn O'Connell One (you're here!)

The Mummy (1999) is one my comfort movies, actually, and I realized Rick and Steve are very alike actually. It's the looks, it's the hair, it's the loyalty and devotion.

Anyway, here's an AU where Rick and Evelyn O'Connell are Steve's parents lol

If there are any other people you think would make good parents for Steve, let me know! I'll take them into consideration and see if inspiration sparks :D

Anyway, if you'd like a tag on any future parts, let me know!

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't ;P

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After being relegated to the open-air portion of some ruins in Crete, Steve entertains himself by slowly moving closer to the cats nearby in the hopes of petting them. His parents said he couldn't go into the ruins, but they didn't say a thing about playing with the ruins' inhabitants. Said inhabitants are gathered in a circle, some standing and some stretching out in the sun, but sticking together as though they're waiting for someone to begin a discussion.

He takes a piece of jerky from his bag, tearing it into small pieces as he peeks around the corner of a column. A few large stones are scattered around it, nearly reaching his shoulders and helping to hide him from the view of the cats on the other side. Though, in all honesty, they're probably only sticking around because they smell the jerky in his hand.

Steve grins and tosses a piece of meat over the stones, watching as it lands in the middle of what he's dubbed the Cat Council. A calico cat jolts, ears perked as she stares at the meat before taking a tentative step forward. She sniffs the meat, decides it's an acceptable offering, and eats it.

When it's gone, Steve tosses more pieces. He feeds a few more of the cats now, and he's practically buzzing with excitement. Deciding they're less likely to scatter, Steve clambers onto the huge boulder in front of him, managing to find little footholds to boost himself up. With a grunt, he makes it to the top and looks down on the Cat Council, ready to throw the last of his jerky when he hears the stone beneath him shift.

In the time it takes to blink, the ground crumbles beneath the rock, scattering the cats and dropping the stone out from under Steve. He falls with it, momentarily and terrifyingly weightless before gravity takes over and he drops. A yelp escapes him, followed by a pained cry as he lands feet-first on the rock, his ankles taking the brunt of the impact and, if not breaking, severely spraining for the effort.

Grit, dirt, and dust coat Steve's tongue and throat, and he coughs up as much as he can while taking in his new surroundings. Thankfully, sunlight filters into the underground space, allowing him to see the tiled floors and walls covered in a carefully carved and painted frieze that has, somehow, survived the centuries since its creation. Several figures wearing togas and carrying baskets line up outside a darkened arch. They don't exactly look happy to be there, but they seem resigned to their fate. Steve can even see the tears meticulously carved into several faces.

When he follows the frieze, he realizes the space he's in is really a hallway, one that seems to stretch forever on either side of him. Amazingly, there's no other sign of aging in it. No spiderwebs crowding the walls, no erosion from wind or water damage, and no sign of people having walked the passageway in centuries. It's the kind of perfectly preserved discovery Steve and his mother lose their heads over while his father waits for something to go wrong.

Steve is about to try standing (if he can stay upright, maybe he can explore a little and find something to show his mother before they realize he's gone missing) when he hears...a snort? Maybe it's more like a heavy puff of air. He tilts his head, twisting around to squint down the corridor to his right. Something glints in the darkness, close to what he assumes is the ceiling, and Steve grabs his flashlight.

He clicks it on, aiming the beam at the ground and slowly moving it down the corridor. He stops when the light shines on cloven hooves, a bad feeling beginning to build in his chest. With a now somewhat shaking hand, Steve slowly raises the beam, that bad feeling growing as it shines over furry hind legs and a furry waist that seamlessly blends into scarred skin just below the navel. Despite everything, he keeps going, only confirming his worst fears when his flashlight finally reaches the top to find the head of a bull staring straight at him, the horns cracked and nearly scraping the ceiling, the black eyes undeniably trained on Steve, and a glimmering golden ring looped through its nose, as untarnished by time as the friezes.

For ten seconds (Steve counts while trying to control his panic), he and the minotaur stare at each other. Then, it puffs out air again, the force strong enough to sway the ring in its nose. Steve grips the flashlight tighter, swallowing around the wariness threatening to choke him and briefly wondering if, maybe, centuries have somehow soothed the minotaur's anger.

And then it roars, deep and loud and powerful enough to shake the corridor and bring more dust and grit raining down on Steve from above. It lowers its head, aiming its horns straight at Steve, and charges with all the fury of a creature that's been denied centuries' worth of sacrifices.

Steve screams as the minotaur's hooves shake the ground with each step, too scared to do anything more than sit there and wonder if there will be enough of his body for his parents to identify when the minotaur is done with him.

He's just about accepted the answer (it's no; the answer is no) when something grabs the back of his shirt and yanks him up just before the minotaur crashes into the boulder. Strong arms wrap around Steve, holding him close as his father's familiar voice says, "I gotcha!"

Steve blinks, his heart still hammering as he clings to his father's neck and looks at his mother over his shoulder. She's staring at the hole, a frown on her face as the minotaur's enraged roar sounds from below. "Rick, I think we should go now," she says, grabbing the back of Rick's shirt and yanking him back just in time to avoid the minotaur's giant hand slamming into the ground next to the hole.

"Great idea, Evie," Steve's father says, his voice a little strained as he passes Steve over and pulls out a gun. "I'll cover you. Get Steve to the car, get it running, and I'll meet you there." The minotaur screams again, and Steve is still close enough to see it realize it can climb the stone to reach the surface.

"You have three minutes, or I'm coming back for you."

Rick looks over his shoulder, flashing a grin at Steve and his mother. "I'll be right behind you," he promises.

And he was. With a minotaur right on his heels and another week added to their time in Crete while they tried to get the whole situation straightened out without too many casualties or Steve's uncle Jonathan ruining more than one good pair of trousers.

-----

Steve doesn't think he'll grow used to the smell and sounds of the hospital. The antiseptic, sterile atmosphere isn't too bad, but the constant background noise has the potential to drive him up the walls. It helps that he, Eddie, and Max were finally moved to a room together, mostly muffling the beeps and PA announcements with each other's chatter, snoring, and other noises.

Right now, everything is drowned out by the kids arguing with Eddie about their next campaign. Eddie wants to do a sequel of their current one while they've been gunning for something sci-fi-themed if Steve is understanding their debate correctly. He's not sure why it's so important, but their voices are creating nice background noise, and Robin's rhythmic, habitual tapping of her fingers on his arm grounds him, so he lets his mind wander.

Honestly, Steve thinks they'd all benefit from a nice trip somewhere. Maybe Paris. They can't possibly run into anything in Paris, right?

Well. The catacombs do exist, and nobody knows what's down there. So they'd have to stay well away.

But still. Paris. The food. The Louvre. The history. And, you know, maybe they could just pop into the catacombs just so Steve can take pictures and show his mother later. Following a strictly regulated guided tour should be perfectly fine.

Steve drops his head back against the pillow, wincing slightly when the action tugs at the stitches along his throat. They hurt, but his worst injuries are on his sides where the demobats bit and feasted. The doctor said they'd scar permanently, looking somewhat apologetic about the fact until Steve waved her off. What's a few more for the collection?

Besides, at the time the doctor was giving him a rundown of his injuries, another had been doing the same for Eddie. His list was pretty similar to Steve's, and it only took him a few seconds to realize something very important: if Steve hadn't been there to share the demobat burden, Eddie would be dead.

That fact had sat with him for a while. Death is no stranger to Steve. In fact, he's intimately familiar with the concept. And all the ways it can be subverted. Steve doesn't want to think he'd be the kind to pull out the Book of the Dead after everything his parents have told him, but he also knows he'd do anything for the people he loves. Like Eddie. Like Robin. Like the kids.

Steve has risked his life for them numerous times, and he'd do it again without a moment's hesitation.

"I can't believe we're only just finding out!"

This statement comes from the hallway on the other side of the room's closed door. The voice is achingly familiar to Steve, one he's only heard over the phone for the past few months, and he sits up straight. The conversation in the room falters for a few seconds before picking up again after the kids decide it's probably not relevant to them.

And then comes hurried, angry footsteps outside the door and a doctor's voice saying, "I'm sorry, but only authorized visitors are allowed to see patients."

"I wouldn't stay in her way," a man's voice says, his tone teetering between amused and genuinely sympathetic toward the doctor.

Apparently, he doesn't heed the warning, and the room is silent enough that everyone hears the following tirade. "Authorized visitors? Authorized visitors?! Are you stopping me from seeing my son? Who on earth do you think you are? If you don't get out of the way, I will make you move, mister."

"I wonder when she'll realize she's got the wrong room," Dustin says, sounding amused.

"Ma'am, I ca--," the doctor's words are cut off by a sudden yelp and the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor outside.

The door is thrown up to show a woman, her shoulders heaving and her curly hair in disarray. She's covered in grime like she dragged herself out of a grave and came right away without stopping to clean up. Which, honestly, might be the case. Behind her is a similarly disheveled man, a fond smile on his face as he looks at the woman. "That's my girl," he says, the smile becoming a full-blown grin when the woman smacks his chest without turning around.

The sight is so familiar that Steve nearly tears up. He hasn't seen his parents in months, and their appearance suddenly lifts a weight that he didn't even realize was on his shoulders. Whatever else happens, they'll take care of it.

Finally, Evelyn's eyes land on Steve, and the anger on her face melts away into relief and worry. She rushes over, sliding around Robin before she can move, and cups Steve's face in her hands. "Oh, my poor boy, are you okay? What have the doctors said?" she asks.

Steve's father hovers behind her, giving Steve a once-over with his eyes before determining he's fine. "Better question," he says, placing a hand on Evelyn's shoulder and leaning closer, "Where in the hell were your guns?"

Steve is about to answer when his mother whirls on Rick. "His guns? Our son is in a hospital bed, and you're asking where his guns were?! Are you daft? Have you lost your mind?" she asks, poking her finger into his chest.

He sighs, takes her hand, and wraps his other arm around her waist. "Evie, he's fine. He's awake, and nobody in here looks like they're preparing for a funeral. Clearly, he's gonna be discharged soon. So, I think asking where his guns were is reasonable because maybe he wouldn't be in a hospital bed if he'd had them."

"Dad is right," Steve says, getting his parents' attention. He grins at them. "I'm fine. Doctors said it would just be another scar. Or, well, like three more scars. Doesn't matter. I should get discharged later this week."

Before Evelyn or Rick can say anything else, Dustin asks, "What the fuck is going on here?!"

"Language!" Steve shouts, turning his head to glare at Dustin.

"Did you seriously just call him out on language?" Rick asks. "You?"

"His mom gets upset when he swears, so I've been trying to set a good example," Steve mumbles, slumping down in his bed. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Everybody, these are my parents. Evelyn and Rick O'Connell. Parents, this is, well, everybody."

"Oh, let me see if I can name them," Evelyn says, her eyes lighting up some at the challenge before pulling away from Rick. She points to each child as she correctly names them. "I already know Robin. So nice to see you again dear--"

"Nice to see you, too, Mrs. O'Connell."

"--Now, you must be Dustin. I've heard plenty about you, young man. And based on the haircut, you're Will. You've got to be Mike, and you two are Lucas and Erica. This must be El, and you're Max, right? I'm sure you'll get better soon, dear." When Evelyn turns and sees Eddie, she gets a softer smile. "And you're Eddie. I've heard quite a bit about you, too. All good, I promise. It's so nice to finally meet you."

"Wait," Lucas says, frowning slightly in confusion, "Eddie and Steve have only known each other for, like, a week?"

Everyone looks at Steve, and he shrugs in response. "Eddie was pretty impossible to ignore in high school," he says, brushing off the questioning looks until only Robin and Eddie are left staring, the former with a knowing glint in her eye and the latter with a confused one in his.

"Sorry, I still can't get over Steve having parents," Mike says, his nose scrunched up like this entire thing might be some hallucination.

"Did you think he was an orphan?" Robin asks, shooting him a similar scrunched-nose look.

"I don't know! He's never talked about them! I thought his parents were, like, absent assholes or something," Mike says, his shoulders raising defensively.

"That's our fault, I'm afraid," Evelyn says, smiling apologetically as she moves to stand by Steve again. She places a hand on his head, gently carding her fingers through his hair. The motion is familiar and reassuring, and Steve leans into the touch, unaware of Eddie staring at his mom's hand.

"Our work is pretty, uh, need-to-know," Rick says, shrugging as he reaches behind Evelyn and places a hand on Steve's shoulder. "As in, nobody needs to know."

Steve is nodding in agreement when more footsteps sound from the hallway and his uncle slides into the doorway, nearly tripping on his own feet. He clears his throat, adjusts his jacket, and looks up to find a whole room staring at him.

He blinks and tugs on his collar, shifting his gaze to Evelyn and Rick. "Well, after you lot ran off, I got us visitor passes," he says, holding up three stickers.

"You stole them," Steve and Rick say, their voices in synch and nearly indistinguishable.

To his credit, Jonathan doesn't question it. He just scoffs, walking into the room and slapping a sticker on Rick's chest. "I am offended. How could you possibly think I stole them?" he asks.

"Should I remind you how we met?" Rick asks, raising an eyebrow at Jonathan.

"Fair enough. Carry on," Jonathan says, looking away and moving to Steve's side. "Good to see you, old boy. Glad you aren't dead, and sorry it took so long to get your parents here. It's not easy making phone calls to the Amazon Rainforest."

Steve shrugs. "I figured," he says, watching as Evelyn pulls her hand from his hair to place the visitor sticker on her chest.

There are going to be endless questions later. The kids are definitely going to try to grill Evelyn and Rick about their work and about Steve as a child. But there's plenty of time for that later.

For now, Steve is happy to just relax and let his parents take over. He doesn't have to be the responsible one anymore, and he can finally breathe with that weight off his shoulders.

----

Tag List (let me know if you'd like to be added!)

@badgerburrows

#steddie #steddie fic #the mummy 1999 crossover #steve harrington #rick o'connell #evelyn o'connell #jonathan carnahan #eddie munson #the party #future steddie #here for a good time not a long time #that's the vibe with these crossovers btw #just enjoy the chaos lol

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mama-waterlily · 5 months ago

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Orchid

Addendum to Dahlia

This is an ABDL story with a much more soft, sweet tone. It does not contain any explicitly sexual interactions. All characters depicted are 18+

Lucy lay on her belly in the living room on the sofa. She held a soft, black stuffed bat in her arms; Ms. Batty, her favorite plushie. She was resting her head on an open coloring book, turned to the side and watching Blue's Clues on the TV. Her black pacifier bobbed in her lips as she gently kicked her feet, to the rhythm of a song when one came on in the show. Her feet, wrapped snugly in black stockings wiggled mellowly a few inches above the plain black diaper that hugged her bottom. She wore a black, cotton babydoll dress with a white collar that was decorated with prints of spiderwebs. The sleeves wrapped around the beginning halves of her soft hands, her fingers poking out with dark purple-colored fingernails. Her skirt was just barely long enough to reach her hips. The glass coffee table in front of her was covered with crayons, and a halloween-themed sippy cup sat on the floor next to where she lay, filled with cranberry juice, her favorite drink.

Lucy's tired eyes wandered to the cherry wood floor, dappled with the final traces of evening sunlight that shone through the leaves. Myra was usually home by now. Her thoughts wandered, yearning for the gentle warmth of her lover's embrace and the protective blanket of her arms. She squeezed Ms. Batty close to her chest, and placed the mouthpiece of her sippy cup in her lips to have a drink. It's okay. She's never gone too long. She reassured herself. She continued working on her coloring page as the comforting show from her childhood continued in the background.

About thirty minutes later as the sky had turned purple and the sun had set, Lucy heard a car pull up in the driveway. Her eyes lit up, and she looked out the window by the front door to confirm. She saw the scarlet of Myra's half-rim glasses on her cheeks as she collected her belongings from the passenger seat and held her phone to her ear. Lucy excitedly ran back to sit on the couch, placing a pair of Myra's spare glasses on her face and giggling. She cleared her throat and waited for the door to open.

Myra fiddled with her keys as she finished her phone call. Lucy could hear her muffled from the other side of the door.

"Yeah, no problem. Yeah, it sucks I had to stay late, but money's money, I guess. Alright, I'll see you tomorrow." She hung up the phone as she unlocked and opened the door. She wore a gray suit jacket with matching pants and a white button-up blouse underneath. Her golden, brown-tinted blonde hair fluttered just above her shoulders as she entered.

Lucy gave an adorable pantomime of a stern look and lowered her breath to her chest, doing her best "Myra-voice".

"You're late, young lady! Again!"

She couldn't hold it together, and broke out in laughter. Myra's face turned in a wide smile of delight as Lucy's contagious laughter spread to her.

"I do not sound like that! What are you doing with my glasses, silly girl?"

She removed her black, low-heel boots and approached Lucy, tousling her hair and lifting her up into a big, squeezing embrace.

"You look so adorable, Dahlia."

She kissed Lucy's forehead and looked into her eyes, removing the glasses from her face and placing them on the coffee table.

"Sorry I had to stay late, honeybee. I had so much to do and I've had to pick up so much slack since we've had so many people calling in sick lately."

Lucy smiled, holding up Ms. Batty and bobbing her head as she spoke for the plushie.

"That's okay! We missed you very much and we are very glad you're home."

Myra tried her best to speak through stifled laughter.

"Oh, well, thank you, Ms. Batty. And might I say, you're looking quite wonderful today. Did you do something new with your wings?"

Lucy gasped, forgetting about her stuffed animal bit. "Oh! Mommy, I wanna show you something!"

Myra placed her down as she picked up her coloring book, presenting it with a big smile. On the page was a pair of chibi-style skeletons holding hands. Lucy had drawn a set of red glasses on one, and a pair of black pigtails and a medusa piercing on the other.

"That's you, and that's me!"

Myra's eyes nearly watered as she looked at the picture.

"That's so wonderful, Dahlia! We'll hang it up for you later."

She sat down next to Lucy on the couch and held her close, wrapping one arm around her upper back. The other curled around her waist, resting her hand on her bottom, which she patted teasingly. She gently slipped two fingers into her padding, finding Lucy to be damp.

"Don't forget, we have to change you before we go to bed."

Lucy groaned at the inconvenience, her little voice carrying a glib affect. "Fiiiiine."

Myra gave a small chuckle and continued her pats.

"Did you have a nice day, Dahlia?"

Lucy nodded. "Would'a been better if you were here the whole time, but I had a good day. Did you?"

Myra took a deep breath, releasing it in a sigh.

"Stressful. But that's all okay, everything's better now that I'm here with you."

They lay in silence, cuddling on the couch. Lucy fiddled with the pacifier that was clipped to her dress as Myra continued to gently pat her bottom.

"You know I love you, Dahlia?"

Lucy nodded. "Mhm. Love you too, Mommy."

"You know you're not all those mean things I call you when we're playing?"

Lucy nodded again. "I know. It was my idea for you to say all that, remember?" She snickered.

"That's right, flower. Yes, it was." Myra chuckled.

She looked down at Lucy.

"Did you eat?"

Lucy responded with a nod.

"Did you take your meds?"

Lucy nodded again. "Did you?"

Myra nodded, yawning and rubbing her eyes. "I brought extra food to work. I figured they might pull something on me like this today." Her voice was tinged with irritation. Lucy kissed Myra's cheek, her way of assuring her that everything is okay.

Lucy relaxed fully in her arms, resting her head against Myra's chest. They air was silent aside from crickets chirping outside and cars passing by. Myra's pats gradually slowed as she began to doze off with Lucy pulled snugly against her. Lucy looked upward at Myra's sleeping face. She smiled, deciding to let her have a bit of rest after her long day. We have to change you before we go to bed. Myra's words passed again through Lucy's head.

I can do it myself. She thought. She'll be too tired.

Lucy giggled to herself, laying her head back down and reveling in the enchanting warmth of her dreaming lover's embrace.

I love you. Forever.

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this is just a cute little epilogue i decided to write because i love these characters a lot.

also, my emotions were being really weird and i felt really bad for lucy because i didn't write any aftercare into dahlia, and just wanted to portray a bit of their loving relationship outside of the scope of bd/sm.

yeah it's sappy, but i'm a sappy girl. i love ordinary romance stories that aren't some grand spectacle. just the everyday joy of two people who love each other.

i hope y'all liked it, it warmed my heart to write.

#ab/dl #ab/dl blog #ab/dl girl #md/lg #md/lg blog #waterlily writes

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post-punk-revival · 1 year ago

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If I say my favorite color is grey and you say wow you must be fun at parties. I wasn't being sarcastic or saying I hate fun and pretty things. I think grey is beautiful. I think it's pretty. I love the sky during spring rainstorms and sharks and doves and mountains in the distance and autumn fog and winter sunlight and dew-covered spiderwebs and the ocean during storms and the moon. And all of these are things that would not be as special as they are if they were some kind of bright "beautiful" yellow or blue or whatever your favorite color is. If I could lift you from your limited perception and take you on an enlightenment journey into the wonders of grey and silver so that you'd finally see what I see then I'd do it but I think it would kill you.

#⋖

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casstheasswrites · 1 month ago

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NO SAINTS, NO SAVIOURS (9)

pairing: frank castle x reader (female)

summary: wrong place, wrong time. he saved her life, she patched him up. that should’ve been the end of it. some nights, you survive. others, you change.

trigger warnings: canon typical violence including blood and death. ptsd, trauma, eventual smut. at times, you get soft!frank. at others, he takes no prisoners. we love the duality of man <3

chapter length: 7.6k

authors note: PREPARE FOR ANGST AND HELLA YEARNING. in case you want more of this story faster, i've got ELEVEN chapters posted on my AO3 (linked below). just going to start double posting here on tumblr too :) i hope you enjoy and pls pls send me a message with your feedback or thoughts, if you have any! thanks a million.

archive of our own / feedback appreciated!

Frank guided you down a flight of rusted metal stairs behind a maintenance gate you never would’ve noticed on your own— half-shielded by ivy and shadows, as if the city itself had tried to forget it existed. You ducked your head as he pulled open a reinforced metal door, the hinges shrieking their protest. He then led you down a series of long, concrete hallways, until finally his footsteps slowed. The floor inclined, just slightly, like you’d moved just barely underground. He led you to an old and rusted green door, with the words MGRS OFFICE affixed to the front in worn letters. There was a keypad lock keeping the door sealed shut, and he made quick work of twisting the numbers into combination and then pushed his way inside. You followed just a step behind.

Inside was nothing but darkness, the air thick and damp like an old tomb.

The moment you crossed the threshold, the scent of old concrete and machine oil wrapped around you like a worn blanket. Cold, metallic, just sharp enough to sting your nose. You winced, unable to stop yourself. It was the kind of smell that would linger on your clothes and in your hair. That told you this was not a place for comfort— this was a place for survival. As if Frank himself hadn’t already warned you.

A soft click sounded, and overhead, a string of bare bulbs buzzed to life. The light was dim and flickering, strung up across the ceiling by stripped copper wire. They cast long, uneven shadows against the concrete of the walls, of the floor, revealing just enough of the room to let your imagination fill in the rest.

It was… small. Not cramped, but close. Like the space itself had been carved out in secret and never meant to be found again.

You turned slowly in place, taking it all in. Utility shelves were piled with supplies, dozens of canned goods and other non-perishables. Upon closer inspection, you noticed several boxes of MREs— your brow furrowed at the sight, your heart clenching within your chest. If this had been how Frank had been living, it was no wonder he’d seemed to savour every bite of the breakfast you’d made that morning.

As you looked around, you somehow managed to keep your expression guarded, neutral. You could feel the weight of Frank’s eyes on you— just for a beat, just long enough for him to step around you, immediately crossing the room. Getting to work. Not a second to waste.

Two small windows sat high on the far wall— thin slits of glass fogged by time and purpose. The panes were clouded, blurred with privacy film or something like it, designed to let light in but keep the world out. You couldn’t see through them— just barely-there hints of shifting shapes, the vague suggestion of movement. Like shadows behind a curtain. If it weren’t night, you figured that sunlight would filter in soft and dull, casting a muted gray glow that would do little to brighten the space. The bunker— that’s what you likened it to— was just a floor below ground level.

Water stains crept like spiderwebs across the ceiling. A military cot sat pushed into one wall, a single gray blanket folded at the edge. There was a sad excuse for a pillow at one end, flat enough that it likely didn’t do much. Two battered metal desks were pushed together near the center of the room, their surfaces buried beneath weapons, maps, and stray boxes of ammunition— some open, others sealed tight. The far corner of the room, across from the door, held a folding chair draped with a flannel shirt, sleeves frayed at the edges, elbows worn straight through. Near it, a mini fridge kicked on with a groan, like even it was reluctant to keep going.

There were no photos. No books. No softness.

You could feel Frank in every inch of it. This was who he was, when you weren’t around.

You stepped closer to the desks, further into the room, careful not to make too much noise. The back wall of the room was completely covered in notes, maps, blurry black-and-white photographs with red circles drawn around faces. Some had Xs through them, others didn’t. You knew what that meant.

Most of the faces in the photos were strangers. A few… weren’t. The men from the subway that first night, weeks ago, were there. Already marked as dead. And the men from the hospital, too. Red marker connected both sets of men— and in the middle— a photo of you. It was a candid shot, taken from distance, just outside your apartment building. It was from before the hospital— so he’d been watching you before that, too. Around your photo there was no red circle, no messy printing with details or crimes, just your first name scrawled beneath. The ink ran a bit around the last letter of your name; like his hand had paused there for a beat too long.

Everyone else on the board had more information affixed to the space around their photo; news articles, print-offs from the web, crimes they’d been accused of. But not you. There was no deep dive, no history searched and shared. Just your name, handwritten in that sharp, slanted scrawl you were starting to recognize. It made something stir in your chest— something you didn’t have the name for. He hadn’t needed more information. He’d already made up his mind about you.

You swallowed the knot in your throat and stepped back again, gaze flicking to the ceiling.

You could hear the city moving just overhead— traffic rumbling, pipes groaning, someone’s muffled footsteps echoing through old infrastructure. On the way over, Frank had told you this place used to be a building manager’s office— tucked in the basement of some forgotten apartment complex on the far edge of Hell’s Kitchen. While people still lived in the many floors above, the basement hadn’t been used in decades and he’d been here for months. Knew every bolt, every blind corner. Every way in… and out. He told you that tomorrow, he would run you through each of them, just in case.

Just as you turned towards him, Frank shifted in your direction, one of his hands lifting towards your back. You paused, waiting to see what he was doing, before you realized— his hand slid over your shoulder and wrapped around the strap of your backpack, giving it a gentle tug until it began to slide backwards. He removed your bag and carried it towards the cot— the one cot— before he set it down at the edge.

Then he turned to you, expression clear in the half-light, waiting. He looked exhausted— not just from the day, but from the weight he always seemed to carry. You knew it well. Still, there was something in the way he watched you. Like he was waiting for you to flinch, or settle, or leave. But you didn’t do any of those things.

“I’ve had worse,” you said, voice a little quieter than you meant it to be.

One corner of his mouth curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. Just that unreadable expression he always wore when he didn’t want you to see how he really felt.

You weren’t sure what you wanted to see, anyway.

The bunker was cold. That much was obvious, but you imagined it was intentional, too. Frank couldn’t afford warmth. Not in his body, not in his bones, and definitely not in the places he chose to rest his head. Comfort made you soft, slow. And he didn’t survive by being either of those things.

You were grateful for the jacket you’d grabbed before you left. Grateful for the extra layers beneath it, even though the fabric was already starting to cling in the wrong places— damp from exertion, heavy with the day. Still, the chill found its way in. It crept under the hem of your sweater, licked at the delicate skin between your knuckles. Settled at the base of your neck and stayed there. A hint of what was to come.

Without realizing it, your feet had carried you toward the desks in the middle of the room. His base of operations.

You paused a few inches away from the edge of the nearest desk, your eyes drifting across the objects arranged there. Not messy, not cluttered— just deliberate in a language you didn’t speak. Clips. Ammunition. An oversized, cracked radio with the casing half-screwed off. The thing had dial upon dial on it, and you wondered if it might have been older than you were. You’d never seen anything like it before. Next to it, there was a notepad filled with numbers, scratched out and rewritten again. Frequencies, maybe. Paths he’d tried to explore and deemed unworthy.

You didn’t touch anything. You just looked, scanning over his world without stepping into it.

Frank wasn’t far. He’d dropped into the nearby folding chair, a half-turn away from you. One of his pistols lay disassembled in front of him on the other side of the desk, pieces laid out like organs on a metal table. He moved with that same precision of motion he always did— like he was saving every ounce of energy he had for something that might need killing later.

He reached for a small black bottle with no label and uncapped it. The sharp, chemical scent of it hit the air instantly, and your nose scrunched before you could help yourself. It was acrid and bitter, something that didn’t belong in lungs. But Frank didn’t flinch. Instead, he poured a bit onto an old rag, the cloth already dark from past use, and started to press it delicately against specific spots along the exposed barrel. He moved with surgical precision; a man who’d done this a time or two before.

It was like watching a ritual. Not worship, not quite. But familiar. His shoulders stayed low, steady, the way they always did when his mind was a thousand miles away but his hands remembered the route. Autopilot.

You leaned your hip against the edge of the desk, arms crossed loosely over your chest, and watched him for a while.

He looked up once, just for a split second. His gaze met yours, weighted and familiar, but he said nothing.

He just kept going.

When the weapon was finished— clean, reassembled, gleaming beneath the low light— he cleared his throat. He didn’t look at you this time, just tilted his head slightly toward your bag at the foot of the cot.

“Hand yours over,” he said, voice low, steady. “Gotta keep a weapon like that clean. Can’t afford to let it jam.”

You hadn’t even considered it, the idea of cleaning your gun. The idea that you’d need it more than once. But of course he had— of course Frank had already thought through every variable. His back-up plans had back-up plans.

You moved back toward your bag and unzipped the front pocket, fingers closing around the familiar shape of your weapon. When you returned, you didn’t set it down in front of him. You just stood there, waiting. Waiting for him to look up.

And when he did, you held his gaze, a sharp set to your jaw.

“Show me how,” you said. Quiet, but firm. Your voice was steady, even if your insides weren’t. They trembled beneath the weight of what you were asking for— the burden you were willingly taking on. You knew that if Frank taught you, he’d expect you to keep up with it. It would be a job that would be all yours. “I need to learn, don’t I?”

Frank’s eyes held yours for a long moment. He didn’t blink. You could see something working behind those coffee-coloured irises, the amber in them flickering in and out of sight. It was like he was trying to read you, figure out what it meant that you were asking this, and what it might cost. You or him, you weren’t entirely sure.

Finally, he exhaled.

“S’not a bad idea,” he muttered, dragging his hand across his jaw. “Just surprised, is all.”

You won’t always be around, you wanted to say. But you knew if you did, the words would come out laced with hostility— like you were bitter. And that wasn’t how you meant it; not really. It was more like you had grown… resigned… to that fact. That as much as the two of you had begun to accept this new dynamic, as partners, there was an inevitable expiration date. And each day brought you closer to it.

You knew that no matter when that time came, it would be too soon. Because now that you’d begun to know him, how could you go back to being only strangers?

You swallowed the emotion clawing at the back of your throat, doing what you could to push it down, shove the thoughts away. You could wallow in it all later; for now, you needed to focus.

The bunker around you was quiet, still. The air in here didn’t seem to move much, growing stagnant around you, pinning you down with the weight of it. One of the bulbs overhead flickered, just once, and your gaze briefly darted up towards it. It didn’t flicker again; you wondered, for a beat, if your mind was playing tricks on you. If it was an external representation of the turmoil happening inside.

You set the gun down on the desk before him, next to his own. Frank looked at it for a second, then shook his head. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, he nudged it gently back toward you with one finger, eyes dipping between your face and the weapon.

“Nah,” he said. “Keep your hands on it. This is yours now.”

He reached across the desk, clearing space, shifting aside a rag and an open bottle of that same, bitter solvent. Then he leaned back, and nodded to the gun in front of you.

“Alright. Clip comes out first.”

Your fingers wrapped around the grip and you did as you were told. You heard the clip click free, felt the subtle shift in weight as the metal slipped from the grip. It startled you, for a beat, how easily handling the weapon had become. Your hands were steady, no hint of shakiness.

“Now pull back on the slide, there— yeah, like that. What do you see?”

You squinted, turning it onto its side, peering inside the open chamber. “Nothing… it’s empty.”

“Good. You gotta check that every time. Don’t skip it.”

You nodded, jaw set tight, even as your heartbeat pounded at the base of your throat.

“Now you need to pull the trigger.”

You hesitated, eyes flaring wide. You gaze jolted to Frank’s. “What?”

“There’s no round, no clip, no danger. It’ll click. You gotta hear that. Then rack it again.”

You obeyed, the sharp metallic click breaking the silence between you.

He walked you through the next steps— each motion careful, efficient. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t over-explain. Just simple, spare instructions, delivered in that gravel-worn tone of his. You were clumsy at first— your fingers slipped, fumbled, and you cursed once under your breath when the recoil spring jumped sideways.

Frank stood and leaned into your side, the warmth of his chest brushing across your back, your shoulder. His hand closed gently over yours atop the weapon— not stopping you, just redirecting. He adjusted the pressure you used on the weapon, loosening your grip with a nudge of his fingers over yours.

“Here,” he murmured, voice low enough that you felt it more than heard it. “You’re pressin’ too hard. Let it slide into place. Don’t force it.”

You didn’t dare move. Couldn’t. The heat from his palm bled into your skin, and suddenly everything else in the room blurred into background noise. The hum of the lightbulb above you. The low buzz of the fridge. All of it, gone.

All that remained was the way his fingers wrapped around yours, the steady rhythm of his breath against your temple. His scent settled around you, hints of salt and something warm, like a late-night campfire on the beach, waves rolling against the shore. For another moment he didn’t move, just stood there, hand on yours, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or press in closer.

When he finally pulled away, it wasn’t abrupt. More like the kind of retreat that takes effort— like the parting of hands that almost forget they don’t belong there. You watched him as he went, unable to tear your gaze away. His eyes lingered a second too long on your fingers before he reclaimed his seat, jaw tight like he’d given away more than intended.

“You’re getting it,” he said, voice rough again, but not unkind. He watched each of your movements carefully, like a teacher who knew you could do it on your own— but wanted to stay within arms reach, just in case. “Keep goin’.”

You did. You finished the disassembly, with his instructions, and lined up the pieces of the weapon in the same way he had. Next, he handed you the rag he’d used on his own weapon, and you turned your gaze to his, your eyes hesitant, questioning.

“How much do I use?” you asked, teeth digging into your bottom lip. He chuckled and nodded, unscrewing the cap from the solvent for you. Not overstepping, but helping.

“It’s not like WD-40,” he said. “It’s just for slippin’ between the parts. Keepin’ it smooth. A few drops is all you need.”

And so you did as he told you; you dabbed a few drops of the oil in the areas he pointed to with one of those long, thick fingers of his. It took you a beat too long to draw your eyes away from it. He then walked you through how to reassemble the weapon, only stepping in with instruction when you paused, eyes wandering to his, lost. You managed to work your way through a few of the steps on your own, and your eyes flickered to Frank’s when you finished— the warmth in his gaze made your heart soar within your chest.

You handed it back to him for a once-over and he didn’t hesitate. The way the weapon moved in his hands was much different to how it had in yours— to you, it was unfamiliar, a new object you weren’t sure you wanted to learn. But to Frank, it was like an extension of himself, something he knew like the back of his hand.

He checked it through once. Twice.

You waited with bated breath, nerves frayed, eyes locked on his face. And finally, his gaze lifted to yours, and his lips curved just slightly in one corner. You were startled by how much amber had leaked into his eyes— more than you’d ever seen before. The shade of his eyes nearly glowed in the dim light coming from above.

“Atta girl,” he said, the words coated in nothing but warmth. Pride. “Good work. Real good.”

The praise landed like a match to dry grass, a sudden flame that caught too fast. It travelled across your entire body, your cheeks flushing, crimson springing to your pale skin. Then it traced a trail down the center of your body, pooling at your core, burning you from the inside out. Your lips parted, breath catching on nothing, and for a moment, you couldn’t even remember how your hands worked. You were still. There was nothing within your mind, just the echo of those words— “Atta girl”— circling around and around, like a carousel you couldn’t climb off of.

You weren’t used to hearing praise like that. Not from someone like him. Not from anyone. It lodged somewhere deep, unfamiliar— dangerous, maybe, given how much you wanted to hear it again. Like there was a tank that needed to be filled, and he’d just given you the first few drops. You were an addict and he’d slipped you your first taste.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed— how long you’d allowed the room to lapse into silence. When your heart had finally stopped pounding against your ribs, your eyes refocused, and you found that he was still watching you. There was a hint of something on his face, like he was weighing his options again… trying to decide whether or go left or right. Just as your lips parted, about to ask him what he was thinking, he stood from the chair and began to nod his head. He’d made up his mind. Chosen his path.

“Now what do you say I teach you how to use this thing properly, yeah?”

You went still all over again; the gun in your grasp suddenly gaining weight. It shouldn’t have— you’d already fired it once, been prepared to use it a second time, if it hadn’t been Frank who’d appeared in your apartment the day before. But he was right. You didn’t have the first clue what you were doing when that cool metal was pressed into your palm. And if you wanted to keep going on this path, walking alongside him, you’d need to learn.

Who better to teach you than him?

Slowly, you began to nod, a nonverbal confirmation. You were buying in; whatever he wanted you to know, you’d do your best. He was the expert… and you hoped you could be a fast learner. You hoped he might give away some more of those warm words, the one that had you shift your weight again, your insides still overheated.

You wanted to believe that what you lacked in strength, you could make up for with speed and agility. Before the last few weeks, you had regularly been going to the gym, always focused on endurance training and gradually increasing your strength in the areas you needed it. But you’d been losing weight, too, and you had a feeling that a lot of what you’d lost had been muscle. It would take time to build that up again.

“Alright,” Frank said, pulling you from your thoughts. With a jerk of his head, he directed you to back up a few steps, spread further into the room where there were less obstacles. His gaze never left you, even as you moved. It was hard not to shrink beneath the weight of his eyes, because this time, he was looking for something in particular— he was critiquing. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Back foot slightly behind. Put your weight on the balls of your feet— knees soft, not locked.” He paused, waiting for you to do as he’d said.

You adjusted, shifting until you found something that felt like balance. It wasn’t comfortable, not even remotely, and didn’t feel natural. But it felt like you could move in any direction, quickly, if you needed to. That was probably the point.

He approached you, then, and began to move around you in a slow semi-circle. He was quiet, just watching. There was something about the way he moved— measured, assessing. Like he was watching not just your stance, but the way you held your fear. Like he was deciding what kind of fighter you might become.

“Now your grip,” he said and you lifted the gun in your hands, eyes following the movement as you stared at the way you held it in your grasp. “Two hands, dominant one high and tight on the backstrap. Other hand wraps the fingers— thumbs pointing forward, not crossed.” When your hands finally settled as he’d instructed, he hummed, the sound reverberating through his chest. He was somewhere behind you, peering over your shoulder.

He stepped in behind you to guide your hands, then, his palms brushing over the backs of yours. His fingers adjusted the placement of your thumbs, just slightly, his knuckle grazing the inside of your wrist. You committed the placement to memory, flexing the joints of your fingers, getting a sense for how it felt, too.

“You don’t wanna be fighting the recoil,” he murmured, close enough for the sound to settle behind your ear. His smell began to wrap around you again and you held your breath, trying to keep a hold of your composure. Your knees wobbled at his proximity and your eyes pressed shut for a beat, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “Let the gun do what it’s built to do, but keep control of it.”

“Arms out, extend,” he said. “Straight, but not rigid. Shoulders down and elbows unlocked. Your grip’s where the strength comes from, not your arms.”

You extended and he watched. Not just the posture— you. Though you still couldn’t see him, not even from your periphery, you felt the weight of his gaze on every inch of you. Trailing over every area he commented on, ensuring you had it right.

He stepped forward again, fingertips brushing your upper arm. “Relax here. You're gonna tire yourself out faster if you stay tense.”

You tried. Loosened your shoulders. Let the weight of the weapon settle in your hands instead of your muscles.

“Now look down the sights,” he said, voice a little softer now. “Front post sharp. Rear blurred. Focus here—” his finger tapped the top of the slide, just above the front sight, “—and breathe.”

You lined it up as best you could, eyes narrowing, tongue pressed to the roof of your mouth in concentration. When you’d fired at the man in the hospital, you hadn’t even looked— your eyes had been pinched shut, too afraid to watch whatever you had been about to do. You could still feel the pull of that trigger, the slam of the gun in your hand, how your shoulders immediately burned with the effort. You could still hear the echo of it, too, the ringing in your ears. That blind panic, the wet slap of blood against tile. You hadn’t aimed. You hadn’t known how. And it was only luck— Frank— that kept you breathing.

“You want the shot to break at the bottom of an exhale,” he continued, low and steady. “Squeeze. Don’t jerk. Don’t anticipate. Just... let it happen.”

Your breath came out slow. You clicked the trigger. Even with no bullet, the release of tension jolted through your wrist.

Frank gave a low hum of approval, his exhale blowing against the side of your head, jostling a few strands of your dark hair. As if he, too, had noticed it, he reached up with a hand and brushed them away, tucking them back behind your ear. You were frozen solid at his gesture— the tension you’d just managed to release returning ten-fold.

That wasn’t instruction. That wasn’t survival. It was something else entirely, something heavier, something deeper and unspoken. It was something you didn’t know what to do with. Didn’t know if he did, either.

He moved around your side, appearing in your periphery before he was in front of you, just slightly to your left. You relaxed your hold on the weapon, dropped your arms a bit.

Then, without warning, he reached for the gun. “Now let’s see what happens when someone tries to take it.”

Your stomach turned and you flinched back a step, eyes flaring wide. “Wait—”

“You need to know this,” he said, already moving towards you again. “Don’t matter if it’s loaded or not. If you hesitate, you lose.”

He grabbed the barrel, slow and deliberate, watching your reaction. Your fingers froze around the grip. You didn’t move, didn’t react. Just let him grab it.

“You don’t fight the pull,” he said, stepping in close, his hand still wrapped around the front of the weapon. “You turn with it. Pivot your body, break the angle. If you don’t, you’ll end up with this in their hand. Pointed at you.”

He showed you— gentle, controlled— how your grip could be turned against you. How easily he could grab the weapon, pull you in, disarm you. Never once did his fingers grace the trigger— they always remained pointed straight, resting along the side of the barrel. He showed you again, slower. Letting you feel where to move, how to drop your weight, how to own the fight. He gave pointers, telling you where to focus your hits, giving you ideas of how to rattle your attacker. You were fast, you needed to use it— a foot behind an ankle, a hard kick against the back of a knee.

“Try it,” he said, goading you, leaning forward on the balls of his feet.

You hesitated again, not sure how you were supposed to take it all so seriously when it was him coming towards you. The last person you’d ever want to point a weapon at.

He didn’t hesitate this time, or take it slow.

His hand came down again, faster this time, and instinct took over. You twisted your wrist inward, ducked under his arm, pulled your shoulder across the centerline the way he’d shown. You slammed your back into his chest— rougher than you meant to— and he released you just as you moved. You staggered, half from force, half from the sheer charge of it. Then you twisted out of his reach and jolted forward, giving yourself more distance, though you weren’t exactly moving on solid feet.

Once you’d regained your footing, you looked up.

Frank was watching you with something unreadable behind his eyes. Not pride. Not quite. Something with a bit more of an edge— something a bit wearier.

“Again.”

Before you could so much as nod, he came for the gun.

You pivoted but this time, he blocked. You tried again. He caught your wrist and spun you with him, showing you how easily control could slip through your fingers. Your stomach dipped at the sudden exchange of power, your pulse racing against your throat.

You fought it. Let the weapon drop to your off hand like he’d told you to. You sent your elbow back towards him, perhaps a bit more force than you’d intended, but his freehand caught your forearm mid-swing.

“Not bad,” he muttered. Impressed.

You didn’t answer— couldn’t, not with the way he moved you. He ripped the pistol from your grasp, tossed it across the room, the sudden sound of metal against concrete making you flinch.

He pivoted behind you, one arm slipping across your chest to trap your movement, the other snaking low around your waist. He kept you there for a beat, anchored tight against him.

You stilled, holding your breath. Your lungs burned in protest.

Every inch of him pressed into you— his chest flush against your spine, his thigh braced between your legs, the heat of his breath grazing the shell of your ear. One of his hands had splayed across your sternum, palm flat, fingers curled ever so slightly where your heart beat wild beneath them. The other rested just above your hip, low and heavy, keeping you grounded or caged— you weren’t sure which.

Finally you had to breathe— a sharp, shallow gasp, your entire chest trembling against his touch with the effort.

“Here,” Frank murmured, voice low and rough, the vibration of it pulsing through your back. “You feel that?” His hand shifted against your chest, not pressing, just… present. “That’s control. You’ve got the power but only if you don’t panic. Move fast. Use their momentum. Stop second guessing yourself.”

You barely heard the words. Not with the blood rushing in your ears. Not with the way every nerve ending had started to scream beneath your skin. Your fingers were wrapped around each of his wrists, tight, beginning to go numb from the pressure. You could feel the outline of his thighs pressing against yours, the steady drumbeat of his pulse against your shoulder blade.

His chin dipped slightly, breath exhaling slow against your neck, and you swore— swore— he lingered. Until slowly, he let go.

Not all at once. Not clean. His hand dropped from your chest first, fingers dragging lightly across the fabric of your shirt as they slipped away. Then the weight at your waist vanished, leaving behind only warmth and pressure and something you couldn’t name.

When you turned to face him, his expression was a wall of stone— completely, utterly unreadable. There was only darkness in his eyes, no hint of the amber you often searched for. His chest heaved with a long, extended breath of air, and then he nodded.

You bent at the waist and retrieved your weapon, rolling out your shoulders before you resumed your stance. It felt more comfortable now, more familiar.

Then it was you who said, “Again.”

Frank didn’t nod, didn’t acknowledge what you said. He just moved. Fast. No longer taking it easy on you.

He reached for the barrel with that same deliberate confidence, trying to test you again. His other hand went for your other wrist. But this time, you didn’t hesitate. You pivoted into him, not away, using the motion of his own hand to bring your body closer before swinging beneath his reach.

Your foot slid, caught behind his ankle. You twisted with the full weight of your hips, dropped your shoulder, and used the angle to pull him off balance. The gun was already halfway behind your back, safe in your other hand.

His grip faltered. Just for a second. But it was enough. You didn’t have the time to peek at his face— knew it would just push you off center. Instead, you shoved forward, into him— not brutal, just enough to unseat him— and he stumbled. Not far. Not hard. But he let it happen. That much you could tell.

And still, somehow, you ended up in his space again— chests nearly brushing, your hand against his wrist, your body angled into his like instinct had made the decision for you.

For a beat, you both just stood there.

The air between you went thick. He stared down at you, lips parted just slightly, breath caught somewhere between restraint and something else. You could feel the warmth of his skin through your sleeves, the flex of his arm beneath your palm.

“Boom,” you murmured, the word barely audible as it brushed past your lips. You wiggled the pistol in your other hand, alerting him to the fact that you had it pointed straight at his stomach. “Your dead.”

His mouth twitched. Barely. Just the ghost of a smirk.

“Good,” he said, voice low, almost gruff. He was nodding as he stepped back, his eyes on the floor beneath your feet. “Real good.”

You stepped back, too, brushing your wrist with your fingers, half expecting to feel a bruise. You didn’t. Just the ghost of his grip, like a mark no one else would see.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded, breath catching. “Yeah.”

He glanced at your feet. “Good. Practice makes perfect.”

Your fingers flexed around the grip of the gun; not quite steady, not quite certain. But not as afraid, either.

* * * * *

Time passed, taking you further into the night. The quiet hum of the bunker was your steady companion in the silence. You could count on the dim buzzing of the lights overhead, of the groan the mini fridge let out every few minutes. The rattle against the windows as cars drove past, ignoring speed limits, was just about your only reminder that the outside world continued to exist.

Frank had you run through the drills a few more times, testing you, building up your endurance. He commented and corrected you as he needed to, and gradually, he stopped making it so easy for you to come away victorious. By the time he finally declared you’d done enough for one night, you were nearly panting, your hair clinging to the back of your neck with sweat. Your fingers ached from the unyielding grip you’d held on the gun. And he remained unshaken, not a hair out of place. You were nothing of a formidable opponent for him.

It didn’t give you much hope for how you’d do against anyone else his size. But at least you’d do better than before.

Frank showed you to the bathroom— if you could even call it that— and you got ready for bed slowly, taking your time. You showered, though there wasn’t much in the way of hot water— hell, it hadn’t even reached warm. You were frozen to the bone as soon as you stepped out. You rushed to dress, pulling on wool socks, heavy sweatpants, and a long-sleeved shirt beneath your sweatshirt. Still, your body trembled, seeking warmth that wouldn’t come.

The mirror above the free-standing sink was cracked, the jagged edges of broken glass spreading out across your face, distorting your view of yourself. It was probably for the best, anyways. There was no room for vanity here. You made quick work of brushing your teeth and braiding your damp hair back, away from your face. Then you traced your way back to the bunker, following the hallway Frank had led you down a while earlier.

As you pushed open the door to the bunker, you pulled the sleeves of your sweater low over your hands, clinging to them with your nearly numb fingers. Frank looked up when you stepped inside, but only briefly. He was on the other end of the room, now, crouched to unroll a sleeping bag across the concrete, moving slow and quiet like he’d done this a hundred times before. He’d already told you— in no uncertain terms— that you’d be taking the cot.

Even still, as you approached it, you hesitated. “You sure you don’t want it?” you asked, voice low.

He didn’t look at you this time, just shook his head once. “Nah. It’s yours.”

You opened your mouth to argue. Closed it again. You knew better.

“Alright,” you said, softer now. “Thanks.”

He hummed in response— a vague sound of acknowledgement, maybe approval. You couldn’t tell.

You put away your bathroom items and dirty clothes, shoving them into the backpack that had come to house all of your remaining belongings. All of the things that hadn’t been left behind, locked within the walls of your apartment. A place you weren’t sure you’d be returning to anytime soon.

You climbed into the cot and lay on your side, facing the wall, your back to Frank and the rest of the bunker. The blanket was thin, scratchy. You curled beneath it anyway, tucking your hands beneath your chin. Frank moved behind you somewhere, the sounds distant but distinct: the creak of leather as he kicked off his boots, the muted thud of something set down, the low exhale of breath that carried more fatigue than he’d admit.

Then silence.

For a moment, you thought that might be it. No goodnight, no reminder that he was here.

Then his throat cleared. And into the cool air that enveloped you both, he said, “Get some rest.”

You turned your head, just slightly, until you could see the outline of him in the dark. He’d settled on the floor a few feet away, facing you with his back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. His arms were crossed over his chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You too.”

Sleep came, but only in brief, sporadic bursts. The cold held you hostage, jostling you awake just when you’d thought you’d escaped it. It had seeped in past skin and muscle, lodged itself somewhere deep. The dampness in your hair didn’t help— you wouldn’t shower at night again. Not for a long time.

You shifted, subtly, trying to be quiet. You suspected Frank was the type to wake easily— especially here, especially now. You repositioned your body, curled in on yourself as tightly as you could, tugging your knees into your chest.

It didn’t help.

The shivering started in your fingers, traveled up your forearms. A low, bone-deep tremble that wouldn’t ease. You pressed your palms between your thighs, searching for any ounce of warmth you could find. You tried to breathe through it— mind over matter, right?— but even biting down on your tongue so hard you began to taste blood didn’t help.

Then came the teeth. You tried to hold your jaw still, you really did— but the chatter set in anyway, harsh and helpless and loud in the relative silence around you. Every so often you would press your palm over your mouth and hold your breath, listening for the sound of Frank’s breathing behind you— it remained slow, rhythmic. But you weren’t sure how long that would last.

A beat later, as if you’d asked for it, you heard him shift. You went still, palm still pressed over your mouth, though your teeth continued to grind against themselves involuntarily. His breathing hadn’t changed. Your mind flooded— then emptied. Had he ever been asleep at all?

His sleeping bag rustled and a soft creak sounded, his body rising from the floor. Your eyes pinched shut, your stomach twisting with shame. Your hand slowly lowered from your mouth, instead wrapping around the hem of the blanket, tugging it higher over you.

You tried to stay perfectly still, then, tried to pretend you were asleep. But it was no use.

Muffled, quiet footsteps sounded, him crossing the room towards you. You felt the weight of his gaze on your shadowed figure, but you didn’t turn towards him. Your eyes opened, stayed locked on the concrete wall in front of you.

The cot dipped behind you, the frame groaning under the sudden shift in weight. It startled you— not because you hadn’t expected it, but because you had. You’d felt it coming like a change in weather, like the static in the air before a storm. Your breath caught in your throat, sharp and immediate, your whole body stiffening with the tension of anticipation.

Frank didn’t speak. Not when he climbed in. Not when he tugged the blanket up higher, slow and careful, tucking it around you both like he’d done it before. Like this level of intimacy wasn’t brand new and terrifying for you both.

Then came his arm— slow at first, hesitant. It slid around your waist, that familiar weight settling low, the curve of his forearm bracing itself across your stomach, palm splayed wide just above your navel. As he moved, the hem of your sweatshirt rose, his fingertips brushing the exposed skin beneath. His hand was rough, calloused. Warm. You felt every ridge of it as it curved against you, fingers pressing lightly into the dip where your ribs met softness.

“Jesus,” he commented, voice low, the exhaled air warm against your neck. “You’re freezing.”

“Didn’t want to ask,” you whispered in a rush, the shame crawling up your throat. “Didn’t want to make it weird.”

Frank let out another slow, stifled breath. “Ain’t weird,” he said. “You’re cold. That’s all.”

But you didn’t believe him.

Not entirely.

His chest aligned with your back a moment later, and the contact there was overwhelming— startlingly solid. Like being braced against a wall. His body heat poured into yours at once, devastating in its relief. The contrast stole your breath. Warmth poured through you so fast it felt like pain— sharp and electric. A tremor rolled through your chest, this time from something deeper than cold. Your hips shifted, pressing back into him. Into his— was he—

Oh. He was.

Frank stilled behind you.

“Careful,” he warned, the hand against your stomach moving to your hip, pressing it forward an inch. You weren’t sure if he was trying to protect you, in the moment, or himself.

Your cheeks flamed and your eyes pinched shut. Horror washed over you like a tidal wave and you wished for a sudden, swift death.

“Sorry.”

You felt the slight lift of his chest as he inhaled, then the slow exhale that ghosted against the back of your neck again. Like he was trying to calm his own racing pulse. His hand returned to your stomach, then, fingertips flexing once against your abdomen. Not possessive. Not testing. Just a simple shift, like he was grounding you. Or maybe grounding himself.

Your own hand moved— slow, uncertain— until it hovered over his. You didn’t press down. Just let your fingers hover, shaking faintly from cold and tension and something else. A second passed. Then two.

Then you touched him.

Your fingers found the edge of his pinky first. Brushed the back of his hand. His thumb twitched in response, barely a movement, but it felt like a jolt straight to your sternum. You closed your hand over his gently, not intertwining, just holding. Just acknowledging. A silent thank you.

The cot was too small for both of you. His knees bumped the back of yours, the heat of his thighs bracketing yours completely. His other hand— where was it? Beneath the pillow? Tucked near his chest? You didn’t know. You couldn’t move enough to find out, terrified of pressing into that same, dangerous space you’d already discovered. The space between your shoulder blades and his collarbone shrank with every breath.

His nose brushed your hairline once. Not a kiss, not even intentional. Just the result of motion. But it burned like one.

You closed your eyes, willing your heart to calm down. Willed your breath to stay quiet. Willed your mind to stop cataloguing every inch of him— how warm his bicep was against your ribs, how his breath slowed against your skin, how the weight of his hand made you feel safe and exposed all at once.

You’d been freezing moments ago.

Now, you were burning alive.

But you didn’t move.

And neither did he.

#frank castle #the punisher #frank castle fanfic #frank castle fanfiction #the punisher fanfic #the punisher fanfiction #frank castle x you #frank castle x reader #the punisher x you #the punisher x reader #no saints no saviours #no saints no saviours 9

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teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps · 8 months ago

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steviewashere · 1 year ago

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Rhetorics and Bad Days

Rating: General CW: None apply! Tags: Post-Canon, Post-Season 4, Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington Has a Bad Time, Steve Harrington is an Ugly Crier, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Calls Steve Harrington Pet Names, Forehead Kisses, Slight Love Confessions, Getting Together (Sorta Kinda/More Implied Afterwards)

Tripped and fell last night and wrote 3.2k words. Inspired by @scoops-aboy86 idea and my stupid little headcanon from this post!

💕—————💕

It seems like everyday was a bad day when you were somebody like Steve Harrington. Considering the good majority of his life the last four years, give or take, has been a cartwheel of nightmares and torture and blood and injuries—And, well. Obviously he has bad days.

Though, typically, it can be resolved and done over with a hot shower, maybe some stupid movie that he honk-laughs at, a warm blanket and a freshly dried pillowcase. Little things. Little good things that are able to calm him some, at least. Give him something else to think of, at most. He doesn’t have to do anything like cry or breakdown or yell until his voice is hoarse, that’s what he tells himself. Because, what’s been ingrained in his head, men don’t cry. Men don’t get hysterical. Men don’t break that emotional mold.

Though those words are definitely booming and deep and flat like his dad’s. That’s not his brain. Those aren’t his words. But it sure as hell is what he’s been exposed to for far too long.

And maybe that’s why, standing in the barren living room of his brand new (albeit worn down, caulked heavily, all too warm) apartment, he finds the rhetoric silenced. In a fresh space. With crooked blinds and awfully filled tack holes. A kitchen fit for a (former) king. Little breakfast nook that only allows for two dining chairs under the south facing windows. Barely any sunlight able to stream through. His bedroom cramped with just a queen sized mattress placed haphazardly on the floor, definitely crushing some well-loved Playboy magazines, crooked to the wall at his head because the movers carrying it were too tired from the recently odd mid-fall heat, and a decently sized freshly made spiderweb in the corner—he shivers at the thought of something alive and crawling watching him sleep at night. And the glorious bathroom—preemptively marked with darkened piss stains on the floor and a smell birthed from over-indulgence on alcohol.

It’s his, though. Well, his and Eddie’s.

Eddie has his own bedroom, similar size to Steve’s (think of a shoebox used to bury that poor hamster from your youth, dead from eating too many baseball cards), ceiling light stained with god worshipping moths, and a window that half-opens if he jiggles it the right way. They share that grimy bathroom. And he brought the living room couch, something that had been sitting on his and Wayne’s back porch for some time, definitely a little mud stained and mildew smelling from rain, but it’s not the worst. Not the best. Not even good. But it’s their space, freed from the confines of Hawkins, new and shiny for all of Indianapolis to see.

The rhetoric is gone in Steve’s brain. Like skin shed from his sunburned body. Peeling and crackling to every surface he finds himself on or leaning against or standing with. It evades him. Leaves him with something viciously young and terribly hungry.

Steve Harrington is prone to bad days. Bad weeks. Bad things.

The unfortunate luck begins anew an exact week from when they move in.

October 20th, 1986 is his first day back at Family Video. He’d been transferred, referred much to Keith’s dismay, but probably his pleasure, too. (Considering how immediate his response had been to Steve’s question.) But it was his first day back. Didn’t need to be trained. Just hooked like a fish to deceased worm bait, thrown out to the river that is their block’s neighbors and strangers and mere acquaintances that feel no better or worse about having new people take residency on their street, but he’s also not reeled back in at the end of his shift. If anything, he’s tangled in his own wire, flopping, gasping for water, drying to the gravel by the shallow give of the river’s flow. He is stranded behind the register. Returning customers telling him he should know what they like, or what discount they need, or how many movies they’ve checked out previously. That he should know that a particular customer is friends with the owner of the Family Video he so sorely resides in. But he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. So he makes do. He powers through it. Feigns mundane annoyance like gum flavorless between his teeth, though he’s biting his tongue to not sob.

That’s not where the bad ends. No. Of course not.

He’s within walking distance to their apartment. Which should be fine. In fact, it’s incredibly handy because even if he were running late to work, he could blame it on something stupid. (‘My key broke off in the lock, had to bother the landlord.’ ‘Yeah, had a leak in the bathroom this morning, have to report it just in case it tries to flood the downstairs neighbors.’ ‘It’s odd, seems like the lock loves to devour my keys.’ Nervous laughter.) But just because he’s within walking distance does not mean that life is plainly simple. No, what happens is he gets soaked with dirty road rain water. Was it mentioned that it’s been raining all day? No? Well, it has been. And it’s a downpour. Forecast said it would happen tonight, not midday, not while he’s trying to power walk home so he can make the peanut butter and jelly sandwich of his dreams. But it does. Because of course. And some asshole, screaming out their window to tell him that he should’ve worn a raincoat, speeds by. Coating him from collarbone to toe in the mucky rainwater of a city that’s too busy for a place like bumfuck Indiana. At least in Hawkins everybody knows your name; at least they have the common decency to let you stroll on by before they make a major move like that. But in a city bustling with busy, selfish, awful people—because aren’t all city inhabitants like this, should he have realized something like this was bound to happen? Well, he did. Just didn’t think it would take less than a month for it to occur.

Sopping wet. Exhausted and burnt out. Hungry like a rabid stray dog. He walks briskly. Skipping over the cracks and lines in the sidewalk, no matter how much disdain he tastes for his mother. Missing freshly spat out gum by mere centimeters. Shoulder checking a few too slow pedestrians, their sneering faces burning into his back. And the next awful thing comes in like a planned prank on some mocking little sitcom show. Dog shit. Pure dog shit, brown and putrid and soft on the sole of his right Adidas Superstar. His brand new shoes. The shoes he got himself less than a month ago. Shoes that he had been eyeing for years, but couldn’t muster the courage or the reason to buy them. And now there’s dog shit on the bottom of his shoe. He smears it on the concrete, squishing it further into the ridges of his sole, scraping it against the harsh ground. Tries his best. Checks the bottom of the shoe precariously. And without missing a beat…topples down onto his ass, thankfully away from the smeared shit, but down onto the ground nonetheless. He prickles, stands up on his shaky legs, dusts off his ass, and storms the rest of the way home.

Maybe he shouldn’t slam the door. But it’s barely anything in comparison to the rest of his day. He shouldn’t do it. He knows that it could get them a noise complaint. Though, the way it vibrates against his back, settling deep into the wood, stepping out of his sneakers to wash in the tub in a few—it’s all too good.

The anger begins to dissipate from him in just that small action.

Then, again like a well-mannered sitcom scene, in barrels Eddie from his bedroom. Arms crossed over his chest, hip popped to the side, harsh scowl to his face. “Man, are you fucking serious?” He spits.

“What?” Steve asks, panting, breathless, absolutely done with today. With tomorrow. With the rest of this week.

“I told you this morning that I was going to be studying in my room! All day! Told you that I wanted it to be quiet, and the first thing you do when you get home is slam the door shut?!” He growls. Snarling, he continues, “And what about the noise complaints?! We can’t afford any of those, we need this place! Could you not—“

Steve pushes past him, shoes in hand, work bag slung down like a bomb to the floor. Leaving its contents scattered. A copy of Airplane! on VHS, some stickers reading ‘Be kind, rewind’, measly three dollars, and his Family Video vest. All of it strewn about their place. Pooling murky water on the surface, just as Steve’s clothes were dripping everywhere else. He closes himself in the bathroom, but doesn’t lock the door. In fact, that stupid fucking lock doesn’t even work. Nothing works. He stays in there anyway. Really, they should clean in here. Clorox the hell out of every surface. Maybe see if the piss stains will come up with a harshly gripped mop. But instead of those important things, he tosses his sneakers into the bathtub, and sits with his head in his hands on the closed toilet lid. Mushy socks to the tiled floor. Pants uncomfortably drying and chafing on his legs. Underwear like a second skin to his balls. His polo tight across his back and terribly moist.

Shoves his palms harsh into his eyes and whistles through his nose. “Fuck,” he mutters, lip wobbling with the word.

A tentative knock to the door startles him. “Steve?” Eddie’s voice rings out. It’s murmured, careful, testing the syllables on his tongue. “Hey, can I come in? I’m—“ He sighs, the anger he had before blowing away from him. “I’m sorry,” he sincerely apologizes. “I’m sorry that my first instinct was to get mad. I—“

“Just come in,” he croaks. It’s not very loud, but it must be enough because Eddie pushes the door open mere seconds later.

He sighs, mouth downturning when he sees Steve on the toilet. Meekly holds up Steve’s also brand new messenger bag. Stained like the tiled flooring under their socked feet. It’s sodden and depressing. “Hey,” he mutters.

Steve just hums in return. Looking up to Eddie from the toilet, he must be a sorry sight. All soaking wet, spine hunched and scrunched in a horrifically twisted amalgamation, hair limp in his eyes. Something has to read on him for Eddie to be gazing at him the way he is. All big eyes and sorry mouth and his shoulders slouched like he’s admitting defeat. Part of Steve doesn’t want him to, wants him to keep getting riled, yelling about their lease and the slammed doors and the forgetfulness that seems to flow through Steve just as easily as blood. Wants to be called names. Wants to have a non-delicate conversation about how much of a screw-up he is, how he should’ve listened to his father and never moved away, why he’s a disaster of a person. Tell Steve all the ways in which he’s deserving of the bad days. Deserving of their frequency. Deserving of misery.

“Are you—No, you probably aren’t, but I’m asking anyway. Are you okay, Steve?”

That—Well, that breaks something in him. The final block on his wobbling tower of everything and too much. Under his skin, like weak twigs, his ribs are snapping. Crumbling beneath him to make room for the way his lungs expand with the need to gasp. The need to hiccup his way through a terrible explanation.

His mouth twitches, lips pursing. Looks away. “I—“ Steve rasps. “No,” he sobs.

Warmth crowds him, all too sudden and all too much. Hands gravitating to his magnetic pull. Squeezing his shoulder and pushing back his stringy hair. Though, immediately and dizzyingly, he is reminded of that stupid rhetoric. He shouldn’t follow it. Shouldn’t even allow it to have the vice grip it does on his brain.

But he shakes Eddie off, standing uneasily from the toilet, walking around him. He paces into the kitchen, hungry and shaking and needed to do something. Get his energy out one way or another. Fight off the tears, no matter how relieving they would be. Clatters through the cupboards. Finds the cheap, shitty, generic white bread. And an already half-eaten jar of peanut butter, odd peaks and valleys in it as if somebody’s been chowing down on it with a spoon. That doesn’t matter, though. At least there’s any peanut butter at all.

Eddie’s not too far behind him. Standing in the kitchen’s entryway, hands floating in front of him, reaching out for Steve. “Hey, Stevie, I can make you a sandwich. Y’know, if you want to change out of your clothes. Must be uncomfortable,” he’s placating.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Steve lies to himself. Because he needs this to be true. Just this one good thing. One thing he can do for himself. Make something he wants to eat. Something he’s been thinking about all day. Something that plasters an easy enough smile to his already half-puffy face, tears encroaching and sobs clawing their way up to his throat. But when he grabs for the jelly, “Are you fucking kidding me?” He slams the door of the fridge closed. No jar in sight. Not a single kind. No marmalade or strawberry jam or even the nasty grape jelly he bought for when Robin visits. There’s nothing. “Are you—“ He groans, huffs, and hiccups.

Attempting to cover himself, he shoves his hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes.

The one thing he can’t let Eddie see, because crying is going to happen whether Steve likes it or not, is that he’s an ugly crier. The ugliest, and he knows that. All bubbled snot and dripping its residue over his top lip. Lips bitten red raw from muffling the sobs. Spit burbled in the corners of his mouth. Choking on wet gasps, hiccuping with his whole body, trying to drink the air around him. Skin going splotchy red and hideously swollen, the swelling still apparent even two hours later.

With the first sob, he knows it won’t be possible to hide this breakdown. Eddie’s already inching closer, hands still out in front of him. Steve is a wounded animal, it seems like. He cries loud and shameful, mouth dropped open, his saliva bubbling between his teeth. Already choking on his first gasp.

“It’ll be alright, Stevie,” Eddie tries to soothe, “We can get more jelly, it’s alright.”

“No,” Steve cries, “No! It’s not—“ A series of short, hiccuping, wet gasps. Followed then by a snotty snort, bubbled and causing his breath to whistle. “Such a bad day,” he attempts to explain, voice keening, high pitched in the back of his throat. “Everybody was so mean—Clothes are—All wet and gross—“ Heavy swallow like trying to consume large shards of glass. He flaps his hands at his sides, scrunching them, trying to squeeze himself back to his ordinary box. But instead, more snorting sobs leave him.

Eddie places a warm hand on the back of Steve’s neck. Thumb digging into a knot that’s forming. He puts his other palm on his bare arm, coaxing him over to one of the dining chairs. Settles him down and crouches in front of his sob-riddled, hiccuping, contorting body. Holding Steve’s face with one hand, he reaches for the crumpled bandana in his back pocket, raising it between them. “Look at me, Stevie baby,” he murmurs, “Let me help you.” Steve drags his eyes away from where they’d been zeroed in on the floor. Locking with Eddie’s own sad and soft gaze. “There you are,” Eddie whispers. He gently strokes Steve’s cheek with the edge of his bandana. Gliding it over his skin, patting at the drying tear tracks. His other hand, thumb wedged near the corner of Steve’s mouth, wipes away at the spittle. “I’m sorry you had a bad day,” he mutters, “But we’ll get it back on track, alright? You’ll be okay, sweetheart. I promise you’ll be okay.”

Steve’s lips wobble. “I thought you were mad,” he nasally whispers. “Why are you being nice to me?”

Stopping his slow and careful work, Eddie stares in heartbreaking dismay. “You deserve nice things, Steve. It doesn’t matter that I was mad. I’m not mad anymore.” And then he runs his bandana over the snot trails under Steve’s nose. Looking on with an odd mix of sadness and reverence. Thumb not even wiping anything away anymore, simply caressing over Steve’s heated, swollen skin.

He swallows glass again. Blinks sluggishly. Calmed down, oddly. This is probably the quickest cry he’s ever had. He chuckles, “God, I’m such an ugly crier, man.” Sighs. “Can’t believe you’re willingly wiping at my snot right now. ’T’s nice.”

“Stop being so hard on yourself, sweetheart. I don’t even think you’re ugly.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, right.”

“What—I’m being honest!” Eddie quietly exclaims. He shifts the hand on Steve’s jaw, palm cupping his cheek, fingers splayed over his ear, holding him in a sweet yet fragile way. “Steve, you’re, like, gorgeous. I hate seeing you so upset, but you’re like an angel or something when you cry.” He draws his bandana away, but brings it back to cover the end of Steve’s nose. “Blow into this,” he instructs. And so Steve does, blowing out whatever didn’t already leave him in his crying episode. Eddie pulls it back again, not even grimacing at what is surely a squelching snot-covered mess in his hand. He massages his fingers into the hair around Steve’s ear. Gazing. “You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, reiterating. “And you deserve nice things, especially after what a clusterfuck of a day you must’ve had. And you deserve to breakdown every once in a while. Don’t have to hide just because you think you shouldn’t cry or because you’re ‘ugly’ or whatever.”

“Thanks, Eds,” Steve squeaks. Face flushing with heat, gratefully not from tears. He flashes a small smile, modest but there, for the first time today. “You really mean all that? Even when you called me sweetheart?”

Eddie is bashful, smile stretching, going red in the face, tilting his head as if assessing. But the lovesick sheen to his eyes says he’s already made up his mind. “Yeah,” he murmurs, careful and devoted, “yeah, baby. I do mean all that I said.”

“Can I have one more good thing?” Steve tentatively asks.

“What’s that?”

He touches between his eyebrows. “Forehead kiss?” (And sure, maybe he does pout a little, but can you blame him?)

Eddie, without missing a beat, leans forward, fiercely cupping Steve’s cheek, pressing a slightly damp kiss to Steve’s skin. Then under his eyes. The tip of his nose. Corner of his mouth. Pulls back, whispering, “You can have all the kisses you want, sweetheart.” Still caressing Steve, he offers, “How ‘bout I go get you some new jelly while you take a warm bath? And when you’re out, clean clothes and not shivering, we can curl up on the couch and watch that movie you got?”

“Okay,” Steve mutters.

“Okay,” Eddie murmurs back. He presses one more kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth. “Let’s make this a good day, baby.”

💕—————💕

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington is an ugly crier #hurt/comfort

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