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steddieas-shegoes · 5 months

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i wanna make your heartbeat run like roller coasters

for @subeddieweek day one with the prompts manhandling and accidental subspace

rated e | 3,520 words | please check ao3 for tags

⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕

Eddie gets pushed against a lot of lockers.

It’s rarely accidental.

It’s always painful.

He doesn’t exactly have a lot of meat on his bones. Every hit leaves a bruise.

So when Steve fucking Harrington does his own dirty work for once, even though he graduated the way Eddie was supposed to, it’s just a bit embarrassing that it doesn’t hurt. It feels…kinda like he should be on his knees.

Which is really not something he wanted to think about when Steve’s got a hand on his shoulder, gripping hard enough to bruise, and something like fear in his eyes. Why is he scared?

“Did you sell weed to Robin?” he asked, teeth clenched.

Jesus fucking Christ. Steve’s got himself a band nerd girlfriend. How the hell did that happen?

“No, I sold to her friend. She waited by the treeline talking to herself the entire time.”

Eddie could hear his own voice shaking, but he wouldn’t back down. Black eyes were kinda metal weren’t they?

“Which friend?”

“Dude, I don’t even know. Someone else in band.”

The hand on his shoulder tightened and he barely bit back a whimper.

Steve’s eyes were very pretty this close. They were pretty from far away, too. Honestly, having Steve this close was probably rewiring something already broken in his brain. Having Steve’s hand on him like this was making his brain do somersaults trying to stay focused.

And then his hand was gone.

Eddie breathed in, breathed out.

“Sorry. I-” Steve shook his hands out and backed away. “Sorry.”

Eddie ignored whatever the fuck was happening in his stomach. It shouldn’t be happening so it isn’t, simple as that.

“Maybe you should ask your girlfriend if you’re so worried about her buying drugs.” Eddie should learn to shut his mouth at some point. “I only sell to the people who come to me first.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I remember.” Steve wiped his hand down his face. “Sorry again.”

Eddie looked him up and down, taking in the fact that he was genuinely apologizing. No one ever apologized for knocking him around, not even when it was on accident.

“You good?” He eventually asked.

“Yeah. Just, she’s been through a lot. I didn’t really want her to get pressured into buying something,” Steve sighed. “Has she come out of the band room yet? I’m supposed to bring her to work.”

“Uh, yeah man, everyone left an hour ago.”

Eddie watched Steve’s face fall as he checked his watch and must’ve realized the time.

“Shit. Okay. I must’ve lost track of time.”

Steve looked pitiful. Eddie’s seen dogs in alleys who looked less beaten down and neglected than Steve currently did.

“I can help you find her?” Eddie offered for some unknown reason.

Well, he knew the reason, but he was choosing to ignore it.

“She’s probably already at work. It’s my day off so I ended up getting distracted with something and didn’t realize it was so late,” Steve admitted, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “Thanks, though.”

Wayne liked to tell Eddie he was too nice to undeserving people. Lord knows he gave his dad too many chances and got let down every time. He even tried to be friends with Tommy Hagan in middle school because he could sense something was going on with Tommy’s dad much like his own.

But Eddie liked to remind Wayne that Eddie is often considered undeserving and he took him in and gave him multiple chances regardless.

“You wanna smoke?” Eddie asked, despite knowing he barely has anything left after the long week of midterms for students. His busiest times of year were right before school breaks, midterms, finals, and graduation weekend. He usually stocked up, but with Rick being in prison again, he had to try to stretch what he had out.

“Uh…smoke what?”

“Weed.” Then it hit Eddie that maybe Steve was into harder stuff. But he hadn’t ever even bought from him in high school. Tommy had, Carol had, almost everyone at his parties had, but Steve never did. “I have regular old cigs too if you prefer.”

“Yeah, man, cool,” Steve sighed with relief.

“I got a spot behind the cafeteria if you wanna…”

“Sure, yep, let’s go,” Steve nodded, gesturing towards the double doors that led outside to the cafeteria and auditorium buildings.

As they walked, Eddie’s mind raced with thoughts of being alone with Steve, Steve’s arm brushing against his, Steve pushing him against the wall of the cafeteria, of Eddie dropping to his knees and unbuttoning Steve’s pants and-

“I’m really sorry about what happened back there.”

Steve’s voice shook him from his thoughts, but his dick didn’t quite get the memo. When did he even start getting hard?

“No worries, dude.” His face scrunched in disgust at calling Steve dude. What was next, the bro pat on the back? A fist bump? “Kinda jealous of how protective you are of your girlfriend.”

Okay, actually, what the fuck? Eddie needed to shut his fucking face, right the fuck now.

“She’s not my girlfriend, but uh, I don’t think you’re really her type either,” Steve gave him a look, one Eddie knew well and one he couldn’t quite believe he was seeing on Steve’s face right now.

“Right, right.” Eddie wouldn’t make him say it, especially if it was actually the look he thought it was, but maybe he could offer a little something in return. “Yeah, she’s not really my type either.”

Steve stopped just before they reached the hidden area behind the dumpster and picnic table for staff to smoke.

“Really?” Steve’s eyes were wide. “So you’re more into…someone like…me?”

Eddie was actually leaking into his goddamn boxers. Why was he getting turned on just talking to Steve?

“That would be one way of saying it,” Eddie said. Still easy enough to back out of it, at least. Could just say he likes women who wear polos and use more hairspray than Melvald’s has ever carried at any given time.

“Huh,” Steve continued walking to the picnic table, sitting on top of it and kicking some dirt off the bench by his legs for Eddie to sit. “So those rumors were true?”

“That depends on if I’m gonna make it back home to my very loving uncle if I say yes.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Obviously, I’m not gonna judge you about it when my best friend is-” He cut himself off and Eddie had to give him major credit. The Steve he used to know never would’ve cared if he outed someone, or at least never would have realized that was wrong. He coughed and then looked down at the bench. “You gonna sit?”

Eddie sat down on the bench, extremely close to Steve’s legs. Almost touching. Was that heat coming from his body or was Eddie just extremely warm?

“Did you actually wanna smoke or did you just wanna get out of the hall?” Steve asked after another minute of awkward silence.

“We can smoke.” Eddie reached into his pocket, hating how tight his jeans were in the front, and grabbed his lighter. His pack of cigarettes were usually stored in his van because he rarely smoked them, but luckily he’d brought them with him all week to sneak smokes between classes. He pulled one out and handed it to Steve.

He started to light his own when Steve leaned down, his face right next to Eddie’s, breath hot on his neck.

“You aren’t gonna light it for me?”

Eddie whimpered.

He would deny it a million times over if anyone asked. He almost had himself believing he imagined it.

But Steve laughed and backed away, pulling out his own lighter and giving Eddie a second to catch his breath.

What the fuck was that? Did Steve know he was making Eddie’s brain flatline?

He watched Steve take a long drag out of the corner of his eye, his mind shuffling between ‘what if he fucked me right here?’ and ‘get the hell away before your dick pops a hole in your jeans.’

Steve’s lips were so pink, and looked so soft, and just wet enough from licking his lips before taking the next drag, and Eddie was really going through it right now.

He’d gone through his Steve Harrington phase just like everyone else, thought it was over when he graduated. Had avoided the mall all summer when he heard he was working at Scoops so he didn’t have to see him in those tiny blue shorts. Had even gone so far as to avoid being around when the kids were being picked up from Hellfire because Dustin mentioned Steve was his ride.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Except for Eddie’s imagination was impressive, and his late night thoughts turned into very vivid scenes of Steve working him to the edge and making him beg, or pushing him against a locker and making him take his cock with barely any prep, or-

“Dude, anyone ever tell you you’re kinda space-y?” Steve’s voice once again lifted him from his thoughts, though he felt a bit hazy.

“Think I’m comin’ down with something,” Eddie squeaked out. All he was coming down with was a sickness deep in his chest: Harrington Heart-itis.

“Did you hit your head?” Steve sounded concerned now, setting his cigarette in the ashtray left on the table and moving so he had one leg on either side of Eddie. His fingers landed in Eddie’s hair, pulling his head closer and inspecting it for injury. “I didn’t think anything but your shoulders hit, but maybe-”

“No,” Eddie gulped. He should pull away. “Didn’t hit my head.”

Steve’s fingers tightened, not quite painfully, but enough of a bite to it that Eddie whimpered. Again.

Steve’s grip loosened, but his fingers stayed buried in his curls, and Eddie felt pressure guiding him to rest against Steve’s thigh.

“You eat today?” Steve asked, though his voice sounded kinda far away, like he was above the surface of the water and Eddie was sitting at the bottom of a pool looking up at the sun. “Eddie?”

“Hm?” Eddie blinked up at Steve. “I ate.”

“When?” Steve’s hand was cupping his cheek. “Lunch?”

“Mmm, no,” Eddie shook his head, blinked. “Breakfast? Cereal.”

Steve cursed under his breath.

He was so pretty. Had he been told how pretty he was? Surely when Nancy was with him, she told him.

Even if Robin liked women, she had to at least notice how pretty he was, right?

Steve’s sharp intake of breath somewhat centered Eddie.

“I’m gonna drive you home, okay?” Steve whispered, leaning down so his face was only inches away.

Eddie could kiss him. It would be the easiest thing in the world to lift his head the final two inches to make their lips meet.

“Eddie, eyes open,” Steve’s fingers tightened again, gaining Eddie’s full attention. “Should I call someone? Are you dynamic or something?”

Eddie’s brows furrowed. What did that even mean?

“Like the sugar thing?” Steve continued.

“Diabetic?” Eddie still felt a little hazy, but he was starting to come back to it with Steve’s hand migrating from his hair to his shoulder. “No, my sugar’s fine.”

“I’ve got some soda in my car. I can drive you home and then bring you to school in the morning. You probably shouldn’t drive like…this.”

It all came crashing down when Eddie realized how vulnerable he’d just been, how he’d actually lost track of time, not sure exactly how long he’d been sitting between Steve’s legs with his hands in his hair before he started coming back to earth. He stood up, maybe a bit too quickly, rocking a bit before finding his balance.

“Woah, take it easy.” Steve held his hands out, grasped his biceps to hold him steady. “You were pretty far out of it. Don’t rush it.”

How fucking embarrassing.

Eddie had only gone down that far one time with someone and they got freaked out when he was giggling and couldn’t walk on his own because his legs felt like jelly. But that had been on purpose. This was- Steve didn’t– Jesus Christ.

“I’m fine now.” Eddie was not fine. He knew what would happen if he left right now. Aftercare was a major part of this whether Steve was prepared for it or not. “Just, um, walk me to my van.”

Steve looked like a kicked puppy, but Eddie didn’t have the time to explain all of this to him.

Steve Harrington didn’t know how much of a freak Eddie was even if he did know he was gay. There’s no way Steve participated in any type of BDSM with the many girls he slept with in high school.

There was absolutely no fuckin’ way Nancy Wheeler let herself get tied to a bed and get fucked by Steve.

He shook his head at the thought.

“I’d feel a lot better if you let me drive you. I promise we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Steve sighed. “I just don’t know if you should drive when you went down so hard.”

“You have no idea what even happened,” Eddie argued, pacing back and forth. “I can drive. I just need to walk it off.”

“You don’t walk off subspace.”

Eddie froze. Steve was standing right in front of him now, concern in his big, stupid, adorable eyes.

“How do you even know about subspace?” Eddie whispered.

“I slept with half the high school and two guys in Indy. I know what subspace is, Eds.”

Eddie must still be in space. Or maybe another galaxy.

“Sorry, did you just say you slept with two guys in Indy?” Has Steve seriously fucked more guys than Eddie has? Eddie, the resident gay man of Hawkins, has only been with one man in his entire life and Steve has apparently slept with two?

“Well, I wasn’t gonna sleep with two men in Hawkins!” Steve threw his hands up before putting them on his hips. “I hit up a gay bar and didn’t realize it doubled as a BDSM club until I was already in it and then a nice guy showed me the ropes. Literally. There were ropes involved.”

Eddie snorted. Steve was pretty and funny. Great. Just what he needed.

“I have a quick recovery, so I’ll be fine to drive home,” Eddie tried, though even he could hear his voice still shaking.

“No one is that quick,” Steve wrapped an arm around his shoulders, tugging him into a hug. “Has that ever happened before?”

“Not like that.”

“We should probably talk about it.”

The last thing Eddie wanted to do was talk about how someone playing with his hair and moving his head around while showing the bare minimum of care was enough to send him into subspace, but he had a feeling Steve wasn’t gonna give up easily.

“Fine. What should we talk about? How no one ever touches me gently so the moment someone did, I slipped? How I’ve been avoiding seeing you anywhere in public because I knew it would make my crush come back full force? Oh, I know!” Eddie laughed hysterically as he pulled away. “Let’s talk about how I still think about you in your stupid basketball shorts when I’m fucking myself on four fingers, which is never enough because I can never reach the spot I need to. Or how I once cut out your yearbook photo to keep for jerking off material because my mags weren’t enough. Could even talk about how earlier I wanted you to put your leg between mine so I could rub off on you. Or maybe the weather if you’d prefer that.”

Eddie was panting, could feel the heat on his face rising as he realized everything he’d just said, admitted, to Steve.

He’d never said any of that out loud. Shit, he’d barely said most of it in his own head.

Steve’s arms were pulling him in and Eddie let himself have it, let himself feel small for just a moment. If Steve wasn’t completely disgusted by what he said, then he would at least accept this offering of kindness for now.

They stayed like that for a while, long enough that Eddie started to wonder if he could just live here, right in Steve’s arms.

“It’s looking a little cloudy,” Steve said quietly, hands still rubbing Eddie’s back slowly.

“What?” Eddie still felt a little out of it, but that was entirely out of left field.

“You said we could talk about the weather.”

Eddie snorted. “Oh my God, you’re so-” Eddie looked up at Steve, who was smiling down at him. He felt off-kilter, being the object of that particular Steve look. “Stupid.”

It was fond, probably too fond for someone who needed to protect himself from whatever the hell was happening. He needed to shut this down.

“It’s been mentioned,” Steve’s eyes flickered down to Eddie’s lips, then back up to his eyes. “You good to head out?”

Eddie started to nod, but stopped.

This was his only chance. He wasn’t dumb enough to think he’d ever be alone with Steve again. If he was gonna kick start a spiral over feelings, he might as well go all out.

He stood at his full height, almost eye level with Steve, and leaned in.

The kiss was not even close to perfect. In fact, as far as kisses go, it was probably in the bottom three for Steve. Eddie chose not to think about how he screwed it all up.

But once the initial shock wore off, and Eddie put his teeth away, Steve’s hand cupped Eddie’s cheek and he licked past his lips.

Leave it to Steve to turn this around, make it something worth the risk.

Their lips moved in sync, both of them deepening the kiss without making it too wet, too filthy for a public space.

It was, dare he say, romantic.

Most kisses Eddie had managed to have were dirty and rough, hidden away in dark bars and alleyways, not exactly prime teen romance.

Of course Steve was good at this, of course he made Eddie melt against him, and of course Eddie was going to start writing hearts around Steve’s name in his notebook as if they were high school sweethearts.

When they pulled apart, it took him a minute to open his eyes. How stereotypical.

Steve was already looking at him, softer than he probably deserved.

“You’re pretty good at that,” Eddie breathed out.

“It’s been mentioned.” Steve’s lips turned up in a smirk before he pulled away completely. “Let’s go.”

They walked back through the school, stopping at Eddie’s locker to grab one of his textbooks as if he actually would use it. By now, he didn’t really need the textbooks to get his work done. And he was actually committed to getting it done this time around.

They were quiet as they continued out to the parking lot, only a few cars belonging to teachers left, maybe a few students stuck here for football or basketball practice. Steve’s car was towards the back, but Eddie’s was almost all the way in the grass field by the main road. It was less risky leaving it further away, less likely that anyone would slash the tires or key the side.

“You’re sure you can drive?” Steve asked as they stood outside his car.

“Yeah. Only five minutes to the trailer. It’ll be fine.” Eddie shrugged like it was nothing, but he was actually a little worried the kiss set him too off balance to focus on the road. Fuck the subspace, Steve’s lips were like discovering a new galaxy.

“Can I call you later? To check on you?” Steve seemed hesitant to ask.

“Uh, yeah? Do you…have my number?”

Steve shook his head, opening the door to his car and reaching into the glovebox to find a pen and an old receipt. As Eddie wrote down the number to the trailer, he thought about how much worse this would be tomorrow, how shitty it would be to have had this absolutely out of this world experience with the one person he never thought he could and then be left with scraps for the rest of his life.

“You uh, you don’t have to call, man. Don’t feel pressured. My uncle will be home so it’s not like I’ll be alone.”

Steve took the paper and pen back, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket and throwing the pen back into the car.

“I’m gonna call.” Steve moved a piece of Eddie’s hair from in front of his face. “You got a phone in your room?”

“No, but the one we have reaches to the bathroom?” Why the hell did he need one in his room?

“Good. Need you to be alone.”

“Steve, what the hell does that mean?”

“How else am I supposed to tell you what I wanna do to you?”

Well, fuck.

Day two: ao3 | tumblr

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #subeddieweek #sub eddie munson #dom steve harrington

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yawnderu · 8 months

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Lamb of God — Nikto x Medic!Reader | Part I

Shot, stabbed, beaten... Mikhail has been through hell countless times, yet no amount of training or experience from years in Spetsnaz could ever prepare him for what Victor Zakhaev did to him. 8 missing nails, multiple new wounds on his already scarred body, and a face so disfigured he could no longer recognize himself— not only was his body broken, but so was his psyche.

His first visit was with the medics, wounds in desperate need of cleaning even with infection starting to set in most of them, the chemical burns on his face already blistering and itching despite being scolded by the medic multiple times for scratching himself. He was a difficult patient to say the least— not wanting anyone to touch his injuries or even look at him, only accepting treatment from the only person who dared confront him.

“'Stop that.” Your request comes in a sharp tone, not wanting him to itch his blistering injuries and make the scarring worse than what you knew it would be. A mumbled ''don't tell me what to do'' makes its way to your ears, though you decide to ignore it when he puts his hands way, adhesive bandages decorating his fingers where the nails had been ripped off.

“Sit up for me.” The man is an aggressive dog that defends himself with fangs bared, yet he somehow listens to your commands— even when he scoffs or grumbles before finally doing what you ask. Your gloved hand goes to his chin as you examine the red skin on his face, noting it was washed when he was first rescued, no residue of the acid left. He mumbles something and you raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to repeat himself.

“Is it gross?” His deep voice asks, accent even rougher with the raw emotion he's feeling. He knows for a fact it's gross, he saw it himself— he has blisters covering over half of his face, still remembering the acid dripping down his face from Zakhaev simply wanting to cause him pain.

“I've seen worse— at least you still have a face.” Being a medic for the military allowed you to see both human cruelty, and the extends injuries could go. You've seen multiple soldiers missing their face, skin pulled and bones poking out of their bodies— Mikhail's injuries aren't the worst you've seen, not even close.

“Your nose doesn't look too weird either, even when I was told it was broken. Your eyes still work, all your limbs are still attached... you'll recover from everything in no time.” You try to keep a positive attitude despite the way his baby blue eyes are staring holes into your head, pupils looking tiny despite the dim light in the room.

“I'm mostly worried about what's going on here.” You tap his head softly and he doesn't take long on pushing your hand away softly, a small smile making way to your lips when you notice how he avoids eye contact for a second before he's back to staring at you. You stare back for a while, trying to decipher what he's feeling before going to grab a cloth, filling a small bucket with cold water and making your way back to him.

“This might hurt a little bit, let me know if you want me to stop and we can take a break.” He looks down at the bucket of water and the cloth you're dipping in, squeezing the excess water as you wait for his approval. He gives you a nod in affirmation, flinching slightly as the cold cloth makes contact with his face. It doesn't hurt as much as he imagined— if anything, it feels almost soothing, the previous ache and itchiness disappearing even if only for a very short while.

“Заканчивай быстрее с этой хернëй.” He mutters under his breath despite how good it actually feels on his injuries, not wanting to get any pity from you.

“Be patient.” It almost feels like he's getting scolded by his nana, faint memories of the old woman cleaning his scrapped knees come to mind, holding onto them to try and stop the bad thoughts from flooding his damaged brain.

“Mikhail.” Your soft voice slowly brings him back to reality, feeling an odd sensation all over his face. His hand goes up to feel his cheeks, only now realizing that you already dressed his wounds. He looks utterly confused, not even remembering you getting gauze, everything happening too suddenly. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn't remember most of the heli flight back home, too busy thinking about... what was he even thinking about?

“Mikhail.” You repeat, one of your gloved hands going to his shoulder in attempts to make him look at you. He's still staring blankly at the floor, just as he has been doing for the past 20 minutes, not responding to his own name.

“Quiet, I hear enough voices.” He brushes you off, finally getting up from the medical bed and quickly leaving your office despite the small limp from the beatings he took for days.

He hears voices? His next stop will have to be with the provided psychiatrist once his body recovers a little bit to test if he's still fit to be part of Spetsnaz, leaving your heart filled with worry until you move onto the next patient, making a mental note to check on him later.

A/N: Mikhail is Nikto's name in this fic, the person he used to be before turning into Никто.

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springsylph · 8 months

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WITCHING HOUR, CH. 1/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: most people in the area had issues with coyotes. yours wore a cowboy hat, but you let him in anyways. tags: marked 18+ for smut in later chapters, reader has a backstory kinda (but also not kinda), referred to as lady/ma’am/etc, arthur doesn’t know how chickens work, i really don’t know my farm lore

word count: 5.5k

a/n: setting this pre-chapter 2 ish and post chapter 1, except it’s winter for realsies, Because I Can. and please no questions about chicken logistics or I Will Cry.

you can find a link to the playlist here!

read on ao3 here | masterlist

The fictitious “stranger,” by all accounts, was possessed.

Possessed by an air so overwhelming, so sure, that it incited perversity in even the most upright.

He was an outlaw, by the cut of the whispers. The story went that he’d rolled in like a heavy fog, altogether quiet and unassuming, though still carrying the foreboding quality that preceded the raising of hackles. Mothers kept watchful eyes over their daughters, and more notably, the fathers brandished their guns.

And yet—that maddening yet—the mothers seemed to care little for their own warnings, and even the fathers were envious of a man dripping with exploits they didn’t have the luxury of entertaining.

Luxuries and lack thereof aside, the fickleness of those who spoke of him had not gone entirely unnoticed; it lent no plausibility, no substance to the dream-like tales they’d crafted in their drunken stupors. The most substance you’d seen had been spewed into the shadowy corners of Valentine, pissed into not-quite pristine patches of snow, foul stench leaking out onto already foul streets before it followed you back to the farm.

It stunk.

It stunk, and it loitered, and it’d been stealing from you.

Which is exactly why—when he shows up on your rickety porch just as winter has begun to bleed out into spring—you take up the mantle of digging your loaded barrel right into his sternum.

—

The front door tremors behind you.

The stranger shifts on his feet.

You shift with him, and gloved hands inch toward the stars in surrender not long after.

Amorphous mass comes to your mind first, rather than man. You can only discern the more essential points of his appearance: the gloves, the satchel, the rifle slung over his back. Knives are stashed somewhere you can’t see—if he’s worth his salt—but everything else blends into the dark line of trees behind him. You swallow a rather painful yawn.

His hat, evidently beaten to hell and back several times over, sits low enough on his forehead to cast shadows over his features—though not low enough to completely obscure the faint outline of a face from your view. The rest of him only falls into place once you crane your head to find his eyes.

As is customary in situations concerning your immediate safety, your throat constricts, and the second yawn you feel crawling up your throat nearly succeeds in asphyxiating you.

Petty crimes would have granted him a slighter frame, but no petty crime you can think of could have afforded him the sturdy chest, the buckling of the air around him, the crooked line of his nose, clearly less cared for than his battered clothing. He’s still a little blurred—largely from a lack of sleep on your end, and the protection of his hat on his. Even so, the hard set of his gaze offers nothing other than the tale of cruelty lived and the promise of cruelty to come.

There was no doubt. This had to be him.

(You might think him handsome, if not for the fact that it’s a quarter past three in the morning.)

The first breach in his stony composure that you catch is paper thin. Fleeting. And he’s quick to recover; any indication of surprise is sequestered with a blink. The second is an awkward shifting of his stubble-shrouded jaw, and you note with a squint that his bandana still hangs feebly off the jut of his chin.

He admits defeat after a few clumsy seconds. Cracks a wicked smile, bright as the moon peeking out from behind the crown of his hat. But it falls away quickly. Somewhere in the distance a tree branch creaks, tiny shards of ice scattering to the ground and tinkling like bells.

He was calm. Entirely too calm, considering where he stood. His hands haven’t budged, and nothing in his stance hints at an intent to attack. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks more annoyed by your presence than you are by his.

You try not to think about his eyes. There’s something else in there, too. Apart from the agitation that radiates from them, that is. It lurks deep beneath the blue and wades through the slight dilation of his pupils; it urges him closer—or, is it you?—like the distance between the two of you isn’t sustained by the twitchy arms of a jittery woman holding a rifle.

But there’s an abrupt wind that fiddles with the cotton threads of your chemise, and you’re suddenly struck with the realization that no, your hunting rifle isn’t loaded, and in your haste to confront him you’d forgotten your boots and shawl.

The nighttime chill, ever the tyrant, lodges itself where the wooden boards scratch eagerly at your bare feet. You were cold, so cold that it ached, and you were tired. But it’d do you no good to show your hand this early. So like the hiss of a rattlesnake, you keep your voice low, and you keep it lethal.

The stranger is named by the venom falling from your tongue.

“You’ve got ten seconds to convince me not to unload this lead into your chest, Morgan.” You track the added prod of the gun to ground yourself, eyelids still heavy with sleep.

It doesn’t do much, as far as threats go. Morgan’s ever steady breathing still accents the now stagnant winter wind, a stark contrast to the throb of your heart striking your ribs. But a small scar, carved into the flesh of his right cheek, has made an almost imperceptible shift. The rest of his features take far more liberties with their movement—

—and he’s scowling.

Your heart strikes louder.

God, the shit you would shovel to be able to read minds. Animals have always been more your speed; people were a hassle—far too unpredictable, and they tended to reap fewer rewards.

In your mind's eye, Arthur lies silently amongst the fallen snow, red unfurling behind him like wings. You’d hate to have to kill him, you really would. But there was nothing more dangerous than indecisiveness: it killed, and often relentlessly.

Only, you’ve been staring too long. It’s long enough to rouse Morgan from whatever state he’d been in before you’d spoken. He’s smart enough to keep his palms facing you, and he dips his head with the same mildness that one might use to soothe a startled mare. The scowl is tamped down, smile returning to him like water running through a scraggly creek.

“Evenin’, Miss.” He drawls.

And it works. You hate that it works. There’s a dull heat that seizes your lungs at the low timbre of his voice, something akin to fire.

No. No, nothing like it. It was more like the cheap whiskey you’d downed that first night working as a farmhand, all those months ago. It’d numbed your tongue, tumbled down your throat like sun-warmed stone, and simmered in your stomach. You hadn’t dared take another swig after that. Too dangerous. But it’s easy enough, passing your shudder off as a trick of the cold and cocking your head incredulously.

“Showing up uninvited, and you can’t do me the courtesy of knowing my name?” One push of the rifle sends him back with surprising ease—away from the cabin, and away from that damned moonlight. “Ma’am will do you just fine,” you spit.

His smile fractures. Not enough to truly frighten, but enough to make your fingers clench. “You talk to all your guests like that, Ma’am?”

You steel yourself. “Only the sneaks.”

At this, Morgan stills. Shuts his eyes.

Did he really think you wouldn’t notice?

The farm had more issues with coyotes than crooks; that’s what you’d been hired to take care of, more or less. Your employers—the Campbells—were getting on in their years, and were in desperate need of someone to help keep watch during the nights. So imagine the surprise when you’d found not a coyote, but a wanted man sliding through the shadows.

It’d angered you, that first time he’d gotten away. You’d only recognized him long after he’d left. But after that night, you’d made a show of firing off rounds into the nearby woods and roaming the perimeter of the grounds under the guise of a late-night hunt.

From what you knew, he hadn’t come back to steal, but you knew you’d seen him lingering. Felt him watching. Waiting for something—but you’d made sure that every pop of your rifle drove him further and further from whatever it was that he’d been aiming for. And now Arthur Morgan is here.

He furrows his eyebrows, purses his lips, and they disappear for a moment when he goes to wet them before he speaks again, a little less amused. “Now you know I mean no offense—”

“No offense? Well, I’d kill to see what you and your ilk consider offensive.”

The wind slams the front door shut.

“My ilk?”

You wonder if it’d been your goal all along, trying to rile him up like this. Accusations slide out of your mouth and into the night air far too easily for it not to be. But the thought of anything other than catching him red-handed occupying your head unnerves you, sending you another two steps forward and into the powdery snow.

“Jesus, woman! Alright, alright.” Morgan’s eyes finally leave you, darting between where your feet dig into the cold ground and the muzzle of the gun pressed to his chest. He slumps his shoulders and looks up to the sky, still an ugly grey-black from the thin dusting of snow the night before.

“Look,” he starts, hands fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, “I don’t mean no harm. I swear it. I’m—just give me a minute to explain, will you? One minute, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

There’s a please somewhere in there, left unsaid yet still ever so loud. You think it might have left him in the puff of breath that still hangs above your heads; hot and heavy in his mouth, but turned to nothing but vapors once it misses its chance to solidify.

You eye him warily. This could be over and done with in a matter of seconds, and you might be able to knock that godawful mustache clean off of Sheriff Malloy’s face. You kill him—or turn him in so long as he didn’t bleed out, whichever came first—and get whatever bounty was nailed to his head. Use the money to get out. Get your freedom. Stop biding your time, and get revenge.

And yet.

“…You lying to me, Morgan?”

His shoulders straighten out, suddenly very tense. “‘Course not. You think me the lyin’ sort?”

Your voice flattens. “I figured that much was obvious.”

“Ouch, lady. Not willing to pull your punches for little old me?”

“You’d rather the lady use the gun?”

“Neither, thank you. And, speaking of which–” His chest deflates a bit, putting space between the two of you without having to step back. “—quit swingin’ that thing around. You’ll take someone’s eye out.”

Exhaustion mounting, you lower your rifle slowly. You keep your eyes trained on a pebble that’s escaped the snowfall relatively unscathed, not trusting yourself to look anywhere else. Conceding with a sniff, you toss your head toward the front door. It’s quiet, now.

“Get in, before I change my mind—and no funny business, neither. Guns, knives, whatever else you’re hiding, drop ‘em. Right here.”

Too groggy to note the stalling of movement, you wait for the clinking of metal to stop. His boots retreat from your peripheral far more reluctantly than you expect. There’s a telltale groaning of wood, and you turn to find Morgan gazing down at you with an outstretched hand from where he’s hopped onto the porch. He murmurs with a reverence that you’re sure is misplaced, so quiet that you have to watch his lips to catch even a smidgen of what he says.

“Yes, ma’am.”

This was a game to him. You knew games. And so when you go to place your hand in his it’s to eye him down, back him into whatever corner would hold him and keep him there till you knew why he’d spent the last month haunting your lodgings like a ghost.

Calloused fingers wrap around your hand like a vice, and when he’s guiding you and your icy feet up the stairs it strikes you that maybe—just maybe—your assessment of your situation had been far too impetuous. Arthur’s touch is surprisingly clinical, but even through the leather of his gloves, it was warm. Too warm.

Ghosts weren’t warm. Or, at least you didn’t think they were. And Morgan, looking like the very paragon of the West, all bright eyes and honeyed words, had given you a glimpse of something far too beguiling not to investigate. It’s when he presses the back of his free hand to your wind-bitten cheeks that you wonder what your father might think.

“Chilled, right to the bone.” It isn’t so much a mutter as it is a rumble, reverberating somewhere deep in his throat and traveling up to where the two of you have made contact. You’re avoiding his eyes again, but you’re close enough now to be able to see his muscles working his neck.

His smell overtakes you much like the cold has. The freshness of the pine needles still stuck to his coat makes up most of what you’re able to distinguish. A little bit of horse, too—he’d ridden here. Where exactly he’d hitched his horse was a mystery. But with the proximity of his sleeve to your nose, you can make out the faintest hints of a potent musk. It’s everywhere: in your nose, your mouth, under your skin. Every inhale turns your muscles into piteous liquid. There’s no hiding your shudder, this time.

Morgan suddenly yanks his hand back as if scorched, and schools whatever expression he’d been wearing prior into one of indifference. He hums. Frowns.

“Let’s…uh, get you inside.”

You offer a tight nod and turn away, but Morgan is quick to the draw; he whispers a quick “pardon me,” and goes to retrieve the weapons he’d dropped in your stead.

Oh. You’d forgotten. It seems he’d forgotten too, brushing the mixture of dirt and snow away and mumbling something about keeping his guns warm. You’re left standing dazed on the porch, skin still blistering from where his fingers had met your skin.

Morgan has the decency to look at least a little troubled when he returns. He places what he’s collected into your arms before opening the front door, and gestures for you to enter. You offer one last look to the moon before following him inside.

Your judgment on Morgan—Arthur, now—was still up for debate. But your punishment for rushing to catch him had been doled out almost immediately.

For your feet, a numbness that the fireplace had been bullied into chipping away at. Your hands are still tight from the cold, and they sit tucked underneath your thighs with the added protection of a few blankets that’d been placed over your shoulders. Your eyes flick over from the fire to Arthur, and your chest tightens.

He’s found his seat across from you: coat and satchel on the back of a chair he’s pulled from the dining table, big hands tapping away absentmindedly at his knees. With the coat set aside, there’s nothing to hide the first few buttons of his shirt that hang open, pitch black and rolled up to his forearms to account for the warmth of the fireplace. His hat remains, hair still tucked away and settled at the nape of his neck.

You’d both been sitting in silence for the last half hour, despite Arthur’s insistence on “one minute,” letting the cold of the outdoors thaw out before saying anything that might get the rifle pulled again. You did gain a bit of satisfaction at the slight tinge of red in Arthur’s ears; it seemed the cold had gotten to him, too.

You watch as his eyes wander over the furnishings of your cabin. Thankfully, the door to your bedroom is only slightly ajar, and the knot in your chest lessens. It wasn’t often (or ever) that you had visitors over, which meant that most of your things were tucked haphazardly into corners or set on kitchen counters.

The Campbells—generous as they already were—had insisted you take up residence in a cabin on their property that once belonged to a daughter of theirs. She’d long since moved out, but the light in their eyes at the thought of it being occupied again was undeniable. It wasn’t much, but it was yours. And Arthur was seeing all of it.

“Don’t get too comfy.” You frown. “…Arthur.” He beams, and suddenly there’s something incredibly interesting lingering right by your foot.

His name still feels foreign when it leaves you. At first, you’d taken it as a show of good faith; he’d sworn to keep his mud-caked boots off of your rug in exchange for keeping his feet from becoming bullet-ridden by the time the sun came up. Arthur, feeling like he’d gotten the shitty end of the stick, had joked that you may as well call him by his first name. The last person with the guts to threaten him with a shotgun had, so what was one more?

It was a weak threat, if one at all. You knew, and he knew, that you were just about the only person this side of the Grizzlies who was vaguely aware of who he was. You’d seen it in his face when you’d called him by name. It’d be an insult to call it fear; an expectation of an inconvenience would be more accurate.

Luckily for him, you didn’t care. Not right now, at least. Imposing as he was, you refused to be cowed into going along with whatever it was that he'd planned.

Your heel messes with the leg of your chair. “Don’t you go forgetting why I brought you here in the first place.”

“Not quite sure if I’d use that wording—“

“Can it, Morgan.”

His jaw clicks shut this time, but he’s still got that goofy grin smeared onto his face when you chance a peek at him. You’ll let it slide, for now. You’ve stalled long enough.

“So. My eggs. You gonna tell me, or do I need to start pulling teeth?”

“No need,” Arthur assures, “shouldn’t be stickin’ your pretty little fingers in just anybody’s mouth, Ma’am.”

An outlaw and a flirt, to boot. Wonderful. You’re wondering how long it might take to chuck the nearest inanimate object at him when he pipes up again.

“You piss in somebody’s cigarette box, lady?”

“Did I piss—Morgan, quit it!”

This seems to reign him in a bit, and his smile dips.

“I’ll be frank, since you asked so kindly.” Arthur leans back in his chair, flexes his palms. “You had people tailin’ you.”

You quirk a brow. Ah, that’s right. He didn’t know, couldn’t have. But just as you attempt to explain, Arthur holds out a hand to stop you and shakes his head.

“Killers.”

The hand fussing with the material of your blanket falters.

“...I beg your pardon?”

“Hired guns, Ma’am. Out for you. You’re real…fortunate, I’d been passing by when I was.” A rueful look clouds his face. “Not much to hire once I was through with ‘em, though.”

The quiet that follows isn’t entirely unfamiliar. He’s an outlaw, you muse. Things like this are to be expected. But it doesn’t occur to you to ask who they were, what they looked like, what they wanted. Because Arthur didn’t know, didn’t need to know, and you aren’t sure if you want him here when you wrap your mind around the sobering fact that your long-held suspicions now bear fruit. So, you settle for the obvious.

“You kill ‘em?”

His jaw twitches. “Nothin’ gets past you, Ma’am.”

“...‘Suppose I should be thanking you, then.”

“Got my thanks when I checked their pockets.”

“But—”

Arthur gives a grunt of protest.

Jackass.

Though your concerns about theft were long gone, it doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about this any more than you do, so you do your best to set the conversation back on track.

“Well, uh…the eggs, then?”

The tension in his jaw lessens. Arthur unfurls a long leg, digs the heel of his boot out in front of him, and rocks his foot back and forth.

“You know these winters. I can tell you do—despite all the…” he trails off, nods the brim of his hat toward your newly cultivated relationship with the fireplace, and you flush. “So, I uh, started out sneaking a few off, along with some other things for my people back at camp. Snagged some extra rations. Kept an eye on you. Two birds, one stone.”

“So it wasn’t just the eggs you’d been stealing, then?”

“It’d behoove me to tell the truth and shame the devil, Ma’am. Not that he and I are unacquainted.”

So that was a yes.

The part about “keeping an eye” on you is tacked on rather reluctantly, but at the mention of camp, your brows raise. It was true, then. The tales you’d heard during your trips to Valentine, the new faces you’d noticed in corners and back alleys, they were all real.

There was a time when you thought you might be able to find your place sleeping under the stars, free to do as you wished and go where you pleased, so long as the law kept their greasy mitts to themselves. But circumstances had seen to it that your dream went unfulfilled.

You muster up what you hope is a sympathetic smile, and Arthur takes it stiffly.

Even so, something else with his phrasing catches your attention.

“Hold on now, you said ‘started.’ There something else you’re not telling me?”

A hand, previously settled on his knee, finds its way to the back of his neck and rubs.

“Uh, y’see,” he starts, looking damn near ready to wring his own neck, and you have to laugh, because what on God’s green earth could have Arthur Morgan this bothered? But instead of finishing his sentence, he turns his gaze toward the small sliver of moonlight coming in through the curtains and poses a question:

“You know anything about chickens?”

You blink.

“Arthur Morgan,” your eyes shut, and your mouth hangs open. “I work on a farm.“

“That you do.”

“And you’re asking me if I know about chickens?”

“That I am.”

He’s looking mighty sheepish; his hands return to their places on his knees and begin to tap again, with the added scrunch of a nose. You stifle a snort and oblige him.

“Yes, I’m well versed in chickens. Now tell me what the hell is up.”

And tell he did. Turns out, one of the eggs he’d snatched had somehow been fertilized, and hatched. Arthur, of all people, had been far too mortified to go and ask one of his own for help, so he’d spent the last two months slinking around to find out if his luck might earn him another to keep the one he already had some company.

He’d named it and everything, so eating it (Marlene, he corrects gruffly) was completely off the table. By the time he’s finished his story, you’ve spent an exorbitant amount of energy fighting off several fits of laughter, and you’re fighting off your ninth when Arthur interrupts.

He leans forward, as if to confirm something, then settles himself back into his chair once he finds what he’s looking for. “You ain’t from around here, are you.” It’s a statement when it leaves Arthur’s mouth, not a question.

Observant. Observant, and deflective.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you pocket the uneasy feeling in your chest for later.

“Long story,” you offer. And a difficult one, at that. It wasn’t one you liked to revisit.

Arthur replies almost instantly. “Shoot.” For a moment his face pinches, like he’s dropped his last cent down a splinter-ridden nook he can’t reach. He deliberates, for a bit. But the money is long gone now. “Got a full audience right here,” he continues, a tad slower. “I’ve got…time. Why the hell not?”

There’s no smile, but there’s a genuine curiosity that creeps into his voice. It wafts over the crackling of the fire, blows fresh wind underneath wings long forgotten.

This wasn’t good. Not one bit.

You cast a skeptical glance toward the bottle of whiskey on the table. It’d been set out on instinct when you’d let him in, a habit formed from a time long gone. Would Arthur want some, maybe? He seemed like the type. And you weren’t too pissed about the eggs now, anyways. So you wrap a blanket around yourself, stand, and turn to the cupboards to find a glass. But something stops you from making it over, and you instead choose to wrap a hand around the bottle and offer it to him.

If Arthur is as confused as you are, he doesn’t show it. He mutters a word of thanks as he takes the proffered bottle. But you don’t miss the way his eyes rake over your bare legs like hot coals. Or the slight twitch of his fingers—now free of their gloves—at the light brushing of your hand over his as you pass the bottle to him.

You follow the bobbing of his throat for what feels like a lifetime as he takes down gulp after gulp. Amber liquid slips from the corner of his mouth; it catches the firelight on its trek down, and steals your air along with it when Arthur moves to wipe it away with the back of his hand.

It startles you, how quickly you’ve become accustomed to cataloging his movements. You’ve met him before, you’re almost certain of it now. If not in the fields here, then maybe somewhere in Valentine, or the woods. But somewhere. He felt too familiar to be new, too invigorating. A part of you wants to pinch yourself for giving in so easily. Maybe…maybe the folks in town had been right? Maybe Arthur Morgan was possessed? It was either that, or you were an idiot. You sincerely hoped it was the former.

The sound of the glass bottle hitting the table is what snaps you out of your trance. Blinking rapidly, you chance a peek at his eyes again, only to find them peeking right back. You do your best not to turn away. That thing you’d seen lurking out on the front porch is still there, submerged in the depths of his pupils. Still waiting.

You pull the top off of the bottle, take a quick swig, and return to your chair with an inhale and newfound resolve in tow.

Blabbering seems to come unfortunately easy with Arthur. He sits, silent and attentive throughout the entire retelling—save for the occasional grunt of approval, disapproval, whichever was appropriate. You tell him of your mother, young and hungry, and how she’d made herself available to the highest bidder—your father. Some wealthy businessman from God knows where. Twenty years your mother’s senior, it’d been no secret what exactly he’d gotten out of their short-lived union: a wild young thing to look after his progeny and keep his bed warm.

He was nice enough, for a time. Or at least nice enough for your mother to be able to tolerate. But something had sent her fleeing from that big, big house. She’d kept you in her arms and her heart till you’d found somewhat of a safe haven in the Grizzly Mountains.

“Safe” had been a bit of a stretch, though. Anyone with half a brain knew exactly what the Grizzlies were like. Arthur agreed. But your mother had been raised there, just as you would be, if only for a little while. You’re only able to remember a short split of time—just before your mother passed, and before your father had come to take you away from her.

By then your mother had already taught you most of what you’d needed to survive: reading, writing, hunting, flattery, the works. The only thing she’d left out was how to survive without her.

Your father had come to find you only a few days after, bearing news of his intentions to turn you into a “proper lady.” He made no mention of your mother or where she’d been buried.

Polite society hadn’t taken too kindly to a daughter hailing from unsavory origins, and it was safe to say that you hadn’t taken too kindly to polite society either. So, you’d spent the last decade or so making your father’s life a living hell and warding off any potential suitors.

But it became clear stunt after outrageous stunt that he had no intention of cutting ties. Rather than cutting you off, he’d settled for the next best thing: manual labor. Your father was old friends (though “friends” was a bit dubious) with the Campbells, and deemed it an appropriate enough punishment for your wrongdoings. He’d relied on your aptitude for hunting to pawn you off on them, and with the help of some expertly feigned resistance, you’d gotten him to plant you exactly where you’d wanted to be.

Away, and alone.

“Threw a wrench in my plans, but…life here has been peaceful, I reckon.” You pick at the beds of your fingernails, head bowed.

Peaceful.

Peaceful and quiet, save for the occasional moo.

Though, now that you thought about it, you’d have to tally it up to several wrenches if you counted the hitmen. But you could open that barrel of horse shit later.

The creaking of wood alerts you to a shift in Arthur’s positioning, and his voice barrels down at you from the ceiling; he must be looking up.

“You don’t seem all too ‘at peace,’ if you ask me.”

“I ain’t ask you.”

“Tuh.”

The two of you fall into yet another bubble of silence. It’s comfortable enough, though still laced with the slightest bit of awkwardness.

You couldn’t get a read on Arthur. Just about every decision he’d made tonight—or told you he’d made—had been a contradiction. It didn’t make a lick of sense. But now that you’ve had more time to ruminate, it didn’t seem like it made much sense to him, either. His body language divulges as much.

The quiet agitates you, now. Itches. You need to know more. Understand more. But you can’t do that without retracting your fangs and reigning in your apprehension. Finger beds picked raw, you test the waters.

“Not at peace, hm?” You mutter. “…How you figure?”

You hear him shrug. “Dunno.”

Silence.

You wait for him to continue, but it’s not until you look up at him that you realize he’s been waiting for you to look back. Arthur’s voice cuts through the silence once you can meet his eyes without squirming.

“Met enough people to know who’s livin’, and who ain’t.” He crosses an ankle over his knee, and gives an exhale when he puts his hands behind his head. “I’m in no place to be dealing out life advice, but you seem awfully dead, Miss.”

“Ma’am,” you correct.

Arthur makes a face, and you bark out a laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. Some stranger he was, telling you off like this.

Your eyes crinkle, smile working its way from the inside out. “Takes one to know one, I assume?”

He blinks at you. “Yeah. Yeah, somethin’ like that, I suppose.”

More silence.

“Do you think—”

“I ought to be heading out, now.” The dream is cut short. Arthur is standing suddenly, intercepting before you have the chance to say something incredibly, incredibly stupid. He tugs on his coat, fingers closing the buttons with frightening efficiency before he gathers up his gun and whatever else he’s brought with him and heads for the door.

You're scrambling up out of your chair before your brain has a chance to process.“Arthur,” you say, half to him and half to the floor, “Arthur, wait a damn minute!”

The spurs on his boots cease in their clinking. He’s got one hand wrapped around the doorknob, squeaky and now half-turned.

“…Got business to take care of.”

“At three in the morning?”

He glances at the small pocket watch you’d left open on the table. “Half past four, actually.”

“Didn’t realize you could tell time.”

He hums.

And Arthur stares at you for a moment, unabashedly. It’s unreadable at first. But then scars are shifting, and he’s leveling you with a look so bitter that it nearly has you reaching for your rifle again.

“Goodbye, Ma’am.” Arthur waves a noncommittal hand at your feet as he turns the knob. “And…go and see about those feet of yours, will you?”

He sweeps out the door.

He’s left it open.

It’s only after the faint sound of hoofbeats is nothing more than a whisper that you realize he isn’t in the cabin anymore. But somewhere between the shutting of the door and the hanging of your rifle, the faint impression of his parting words is pressed into your palm.

You look down, a bright sting and the sight of red specks on the floorboards making themselves known rather insistently.

“Oh.”

—

next chapter >>

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #ao3 #archive of our own #fanfiction #I literally put off two essays to write this #plz be kind this wasn’t supposed to be this long #witching hour

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jeanmoreautemple · 2 months

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Thea Muldani: a rant

I feel weird about Thea but I can’t really put into words exactly why? So I’m writing down some things I’ve thought.

I honestly didn’t think much about her before TSC, like she was okay (I wish she’d been introduced earlier tho or that she hadn’t graduated already so she was a recurrent Raven player or something).

After reading the extra content I wasn’t bothered about the age gap between her and Kevin but yes a little bit about the fact that Kevin was fourteen when they first met + the -you fuck like a virgin, maybe some practice will make you better at it- comment that Nora included. It was uuhh weird but the rest of the Kevthea story was okay, and Thea is 100% not a groomer. Plus, Nora technically deleted the extra content so in theory nothing there is canon yet.

Now in TSC we get her sole appearance in TKM from Jean’s POV, who has known her since he was fourteen (like Kevin- this is important to keep in mind). The scene starts out cute! We find out she took him under her wing and even had nicknames for him like Paris and her little duckling🥰. So the fourteen year boy that just arrived from france with broken English looked up to her, Thea was ~21 at this point.

We know Jean is going through HELL during this time:

And we also know the Moriyamas were always particularly cruel with Jean, getting more physical him than with Kevin. Even though It’s said that Riko would torture Jean and Kevin (broken hand incident) in private, hence the other Ravens not knowing the whole picture, how can a fourteen year old kid hide such pain? But apparently , as we later find out, Thea was too deep into the Evermore raven cult mindset that she didn’t find anything strange about the coach and Rikk’s behavior towards Jean.

At 15 Jean is given a number and place in the perfect court, but only at 16 joins the lineup. He gets a lot of hate, especially from the other defensemen, whom Thea works with:

Although the Ravens are know for being extremely violent training, at least in the court Thea must have noticed that the defense line were especially brutal to Jean. Or SOMETHING.

But here comes the worst part: during this same year Riko forces Jean to sleep with 5 defensemen. By the time Jean is a junior most of these have graduated which means they were 20 or older. So Thea had been playing with each of these guys for at least 2 years (except for Grayson), she knew them.

They went on to joke and talk about the whole ordeal as Jean paying for his perfect court number. Thea also being in the defense line could have heard all of this first hand, we don’t know. But It’s so widely talked about that it reaches Tetsuji and we do know Thea witnessed Jean’s punishment:

Coincidentally Thea starts a sexual and emotional relationship with Kevin this year (it’s her last too).

So here’s the part that made me dislike Thea very much. In TKM she goes to Kevin demanding answers, Kevin then brings her to Jean, who is looking like this:

It’s been three years since she graduated but she’s still wearing her Raven number in a necklace, and when she sees Jean’s state in TSC she comments how if Kevin hadn’t said anything she’d think it normal:

By now it’s clear she at 26 is still 100% brainwashed, but this next line of hers cemented it:

YOUR OLD TRICKS ?!

So let’s break that down:

1. The immigrant kid (16!) she watched over for two years from age 14 to 16 suddenly starts having sex with members of HER (23!) defense line who are all around her age and openly hate him for 5 consecutive nights and she doesn’t suspect anything?

2. Said defensemen then brag and shame Jean afterwards calling him a whore, which leads to Jean getting beaten half to dead by their coach and still nothing?

3. Years later she recalls the incident as Jean being up to his little tricks and being rightfully beaten to a pulp?!!!!

I can’t. I know she’s also a cult victim but no. It was super common for Ravens to have hate sex with each other but her being close to Kevin (and somewhat Jean) during the time Jean’s (a 16 year old!) assaults were happening and still remaining this clueless… I’m sure she must be lovable for both Kevin and Jean to respect and care for her so much but her one scene convinced me she’s way too deep into the Raven spirit and her presence around Kevin and Jean would be just so harmful.

But I have to give credit when it’s due, apparently after some hours with Kevin and 7 years later she believes her King broke Kevin’s hand:

In conclusion:

Thea is absolutely no groomer but if one takes a look at her attitude towards Jean’s sexual history when he was 16 and how her relationship with Kevin was happening simultaneously, her you fuck like a virgin, maybe some practice will make you better at it and tell me you weren’t up to your old tricks comment combo, it all makes me dislike her. Cause you’d think someone who at 22-23 was dating a boy who had just turned legal would be careful or mature enough to choose her wording better when talking about the sexual activity between a boy close in age to her own boyfriend with people around HER age, but nope. The fact that Kevin married her, has a child and lives happily ever after with her seems unbelievable to me.

PS: Her and Kevin’s (we don’t know if he believes Riko) apparent ignorance or lack of suspicion of Jean’s freshman year assault was the most hurtful part of TSC tbh (not counting Elodie). Imagine having the closest people to you misunderstand/ believe lies about such a traumatic event. I guess this is why Nora didn’t include a Andrew POV, I would have died or wanted to kill Nicky and Aaron for not looking deeper into Andrew’s attitude.

#jean moreau #the sunshine court #kevin day #aftg #all for the game #the foxhole court #tsc #Thea Muldani

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marauderonthepirateship · 8 months

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HAZBIN HOTEL EP 7 AND 8 QUICKK REVIEW

contains major spoilers, let's start!

how about we start with episode 7, hmm?

i must say, before the episode were released I had a theory, that alastor could make a deal with charlie and try to get her soul to(following the theory about lilith having alastor on a leash) try to exchange charlie's soul for his own BUT it did not happen, and I cannot say it's disappointing for me

as hannibal fun and an expirienced cannibalistic-joke maker it feels like a personal win to have cannibal town being one the most comfortable places in hell with cannibals being really wholesome and polite guys

and of course the diamond of the crown - rosie

she was amazing in this episode. she definitely has the vibe of this rich auntie who visits you once a year and gives the best gifts and advices. she actually gives amazing advices, that's for sure. and i love her friendship with alastor, i bet they meet every weekend and share gossips

all of us should be proud of charlie and the way she becomes leader and takes responsibility for her people. this is THE character development

here we are slowly coming to episode 8 also known as the finale of season 1!!

it was a bright culmination of all of the season 1 and it turned out amazing

but dear readers, i'm sure all of you have already watched it (maybe even 2 or 3 times, right?), so why don't i just say a few words about my favorite moments

the scene before big battle, where everybody is just spending time with other is exactly what shows how much are this lost souls now bonded. they realise they have no idea what is there, waiting for them in tomorrow and that's what make this scene

and let me just say it: huskerdust

it is a big joy to know this actually happened

i also might say that the victory wasn't easy nor unreasonable. think about the fact that nobody knew how to defeat angels is the exact reason hazbin's crew won. indeed the more power you got the less carelessness you should have.

and i'd really enjoy to share some of my highlights of this battle if I do say so

here wee goooo:

sir pentious kissing the girl he loves than heroically dies and goes to heaven. absolutely nailed it

charlie's demon form. and shall we not forget ruzzle and duzzle in their dragon form.

that absolutely iconic show up from lucifer and him in the whole battle

niffty killing adam. i'd say this is hilarious

alastor being beaten, afraid and panicked. yes, i WAS talking about it. it was important to show he can feel real emotions and fear and loss are one of them

three vees watching battle for hotel and living their best lives(i still hate val, just to be clear)

what is really natural about the battle that they don't just celebrate victory. they mourn pentious, and charlie feels guilty, but they still go on, rebuild hotel singing one of the best songs for the whole show

i am intrigued by what the season 2 has to offer for us, my dear friends and I surely will be waiting for it

now i'm just about to thank you for reading this and wish you a pleasant day!

#hazbin hotel #huskerdust #alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #angel dust #husker hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin charlie #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin hotel lilith

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moutainrusing · 3 months

Text

whump

706 words, @wolfstarmicrofic

Oh shit. Sirius winced as the Death Eaters grabbed his wrists, pinning them to his back. His wand was long forgotten. Although he could’ve beaten them if he wasn’t so outnumbered. In fact, he could have taken on ten, except eleven had to show up, signalling his doom. Oh well. He was betting he could still escape.

Somehow.

He was Sirius Black, after all. He’d escaped his parents’ prison.

There was hope. Remus’s mum was called Hope. Lovely woman. Shame how her son had turned out.

The Death Eaters apparated him very inconsiderately to some clearing in the woods, bordered by shambolic huts and toppled barrels. His stomach lurched, and he thought he was about to take a topple similar to the barrels, except then he was grabbed and twisted until he was shackled to a tree.

Death Eaters had to take things so seriously, didn’t they?

“Greyback,” one of them called. “Yours. Sirius Black.” Then they all vanished.

A man, who looked more like a prowling animal with an overgrown mane and knives for teeth, emerged from a hut, eyes raking over Sirius in a cannibalistic manner. Greyback. See, Remus sucked, but Greyback took things to the next level.

Greyback hurt Remus, so he deserved the weight of the Earth to crush his body and shatter his bones into small, sharp shards, which Sirius would then use to drive into his flesh and make him suffer for all eternity.

Sirius hated Remus, but that wouldn’t stop him from raging hell upon people who hurt the person he hated. The only person he’d ever hate. Only Remus could make Sirius feel those all-consuming, violently enlightening, tumultuously numbing, shatteringly soul-crushing, knife-to-the-throat and heart-in-your-throat type of feelings. Only Moony.

“Black,” Greyback growled. “One of mine asked for you if you were captured. Wanted to torture you for themselves.” He called, “Lupin!”

When Remus emerged, Sirius wasn’t surprised. Sirius already knew he was the spy anyway. Even though Grayback had made his life shit, Remus still went back to him. Why? Did Sirius not make Remus’s life any better? Remus preferred Greyback over Sirius?

Remus looked at him, expressionless. Sirius did not return the look. He was seething. His rage was so potent, he thought his shackles would crack from it.

Greyback smirked, watching as Remus raised a hand, but before Remus could do anything, a voice permeated Sirius’s thoughts.

Fake Cruciatus.

Sirius stared at him. Remus subtly raised an eyebrow, before performing his non-verbal, wandless torture. Nothing. Fake Cruciatus! The voice yelled, and Remus slammed his hand down through the air.

So Sirius writhed against his shackles, screaming in agony as he recalled how the curse felt, even though he wasn’t actually under any spell. He cried until his vocal cords were stretched raw and snapping, and he thrashed until he was pretty sure he’d damaged something vital in his brain.

Greyback was smirking. “Impressive, Lupin.” Remus smiled, glancing at Sirius for a second. Sirius wanted to laugh in Greyback’s face.

But then Greyback was cracking his knuckles. “Time for physical. We’ll stop when you give us information.” And then he was punching Sirius.

Survive. Survive, survive, survive! Remus was staring at him intensely, his voice begging Sirius’s brain to survive!

Chill out, Sirius thought, as his jaw throbbed and nose went numb, blood falling into his mouth.

Remus glared at him.

What? I’m a victim here!

“Enough for today,” Remus spoke, voice rough and cutting. “He’s mine, remember?”

Greyback reluctantly pulled away. “Fine. Dark Lord did agree that you’d be able to get the most outta him.”

Remus nodded tersely, and Greyback backed away, into his hut.

“Motherfucker,” Remus hissed, discreetly taking his wand out of his animal-skin cloak and pressing it against Sirius’s bruises to heal them.

“Me or him?” Sirius grinned.

“Both. Take this,” Remus shoved his wand into Sirius’s hand. Sirius raised a brow.

“Get out of here,” Remus insisted.

“Yeah, but one question. How the fuck did you get in my brain?”

Remus smirked. Werewolves are creatures of Dark magic, love. We can do a lot more than wizards expect. Now go, Remus backed away.

“Greyback! He’s still got a wand!”

And as Greyback rushed out of his hut, Sirius disapparated. Thanks. Love.

#marauders #remus lupin #sirius black #wolfstar #remus x sirius #microfiction #wolfstar microfic #first wizarding war #marauders era

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mlmxreader · 10 months

Text

Mornings At Home | Simon Ghost Riley x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Ghost with

31 “Y'know, I hate being a thousand miles away from you”

73 "Try and stop me from stealing your clothes, I dare you" ❞

: ̗̀➛ Ghost isn't used to being home, but he does have moments where he adores it.

: ̗̀➛ dissociative symptoms, trauma, swearing

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Ghost grumbled as he yawned and turned onto his side, still not quite used to there being a dog at the foot of the bed or another person at his side; for months, he had been away on deployment, for months, he had gotten used to sleeping on dingy cots that were too small for him and harsh cold floors that made him shiver and shake something awful.

He was home now, but that didn't seem to change a damn thing. He still slept mostly on his back with his arms stiff at his sides. He still drank coffee black with no sugar, even though he always used to drink it with milk and two sugars. He still refused blankets at night, no matter how cold it was.

He still woke up sweating, screaming and panting heavily. His hands still shook when he looked at himself in the mirror, and although he rarely told you, he sometimes thought that he was in a film. Watching himself from a distance, He felt like that a lot. He never told anyone but Gaz about it.

Ghost told Gaz everything. Gaz told him everything in return. But he couldn't tell you.

You were… different.

Ghost never wanted you to panic, he never wanted you to become worried and anxious for him; he couldn't stomach the thought of such a thing. There were a lot of things that Ghost never told you, wanting to save you from the fact that he had been to Hell and back and had come out more than burned and charred.

Wanting to save you from himself. But as he turned over now, and he felt you squirm into him, fitting into his embrace as he lazily allowed his arm to flop over you, he couldn't help but to smile a little. There was no doubt in Ghost’s mind that he had already gotten a text from Gaz asking if he wanted to go for a morning run, or maybe one from Price asking if he would be down for going to the pub and playing a game of darts or snooker.

But he couldn't honestly find it in himself to care as he pressed his face to the back of your neck and inhaled the scent of your cologne, your shampoo and body wash, your conditioner; he grumbled softly, a weak protest when he felt you start to stir. Stretching and nearly breaking free from him.

“I need a hoodie…” you murmured. “I've gotta meet Hesh later…”

“Don't steal mine,” Ghost mumbled, pulling you tighter to him.

You laughed, the sound low and breathy as you relaxed, turning over and onto your side so you could get a good look at him. “Try and stop me from stealing your clothes, I dare you.”

He huffed, shaking his head as he moved to lay on top of you, his head on your chest as he grabbed the bedpost. Trapping you. “Consider it down.”

“That's not fair,” you huffed, squirming beneath him as you did your best not to laugh. The dog looked up, his ears perked up as he tilted his head to the side. “You woke the dog up.”

The dog in question was more yours than Ghost’s; a dark blue greyhound, he had golden eyes with one being slightly lighter than the other, and long thick black whiskers on his muzzle.

You had talked Ghost into getting him, insisting on getting a rescue greyhound instead of the retired military working dog that Ghost wanted. He caved after you showed him the skinny, beaten up, shell of a dog.

“You woke the dog up,” Ghost muttered, moving to kiss your neck sweetly. “You were the one squirming.”

You laughed, pushing him off of you and wheezing when the dog, thinking that Ghost wanted to play, pounced on him and started barking.

“Get him, Greywind! Go on!”

Ghost laughed as he gently pushed the dog aside, giving him a good pat on the shoulders to let him know he wasn't in any trouble before he turned to you. “Y'know, I hate being a thousand miles from you… ain't the same when I wake up without you.”

You smiled, daring to lean your head on his shoulder as you put your arm around him, gently running your hand up and down his bicep as you hummed softly. “Why do I always feel like there's something you're not telling me?”

He shrugged, swallowing thickly and frowning. “There's stuff I can't tell you. You know that.”

“I don't mean about work,” you sighed.

“I don't want you to worry,” he told you, shaking his head. “I can't tell you.”

“You promise if you're not alright, you'd tell me?” You asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Ghost lied with a curt nod. “Of course.”

“I'm still stealing your hoodie,” you told him softly. “I'm stealing your camo one, it's warmer.”

He rolled his eyes, but knew that he had lost that war; if there was any fight he was bound to lose, it would be over you asking for something. But then again, it had always been a war that he was happy to lose.

Seeing you smile made him feel less like he was utterly hopeless, and knowing that he was the reason behind it made him feel like he wasn't entirely too far gone.

Any war lost to you was a blessing.

Besides, as much as he didn't particularly like to admit it to anyone else except you and Gaz, there was nothing more that Ghost liked than to see you in his hoodies; knowing that you would smell like him, knowing that you would be infected by it and that everyone would be able to smell it on you.

He liked knowing that.

“Where are you and Hesh off to?” He asked curiously.

“We're gonna go to the museum,” you started, “and then we're gonna grab some food, then do some shopping… you're still welcome to come, y'know.”

“He's your friend,” Ghost hummed. “Not mine… I'm sure me and Greywind will be fine for a couple of hours without you… you deserve to have fun.”

Gently, you missed his cheek. “If you're lucky, I might just buy you a new hoodie.”

Rolling his eyes, Ghost grinned as he laughed.

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anika-ann · 10 months

Text

Back and Forth - part 1

Part 1 - Snap Back

Type: series; agent!reader, inhuman!reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 7400

Chapter summary:

In which the mission goes to hell and you and Steve clash. Again.

Series masterlist

Warnings: blood, canon-typical violence, mention of gunshot wounds, hints of unhealthy relationship to pain, mention of death, some angst

A/N: ALWAYS MIND THE WARNINGS; dividers by @firefly-graphics 💕; moodboard is for the vibes and does not necessarily reflect reader’s appearance

Steve Rogers was a very large man. Over two hundred pounds of muscle, over six feet three tall, he towered and loomed and hovered above everything and everyone. And yet, his body seemed too small to contain the huge ball of righteous anger, too small to contain the magnitude of the jerk he was being at the moment.

It must have been one of his greatest talents.

And you understood. You understood why he was pacing around, his face the perfect storm with lightning flashing from his eyes, his voice thundering; the mission was a failure, fire and destruction left behind without the important data retrieved. Hell, you understood a little too well how much of that was your fault therefore he had every right to be angry with you.

And yet. Yet, you couldn’t comprehend how that supposedly righteous man spitted around words full of rage when he was to blame himself too.

He was the one to pull you out. He was the one to shake you and break your concentration before your spectre, able to waltz behind locked doors without a key, could deliver the drive to another agent. He was the one to make you snap back, your astral projection dissipating.

Yes, your spectre had been barely walking. Yes, it had got shot in the gut and you really damn felt it. Yes, you – it, really – had been hanging on a tread, with you already at peace with the fact that once you’d snap back, you’d wake up in a hospital bed, because your body wouldn’t handle the strain. Yes, maybe you would have failed anyway, snapping back before you could do what you were supposed to. But now you’d never know, would you?

Because Steven Grant Rogers, Mr. Captain America with the ego of the size of his very moniker, couldn’t have handled you straying from his explicit order to get out earlier.

You were still shaky on your feet, barely having beaten your dizziness and having been walking the fine line of consciousness for way too long, hurting like hell the whole time, but good god, did you have the energy to fight that blonde disaster screaming you down. Especially since he was doing so in front of everyone as you remained seated on the stretcher and kept pulling at the i.v. with custom-made saline to get it from your arm and make the situation at least a bit less humiliating for you.

The audacity. The audacity it had to take for him to call you reckless and scold you for not disappearing faster despite the fact there had been another set of files that caught you eye and needed to be copied. His utter confidence that his plan was as flawless as the first kiss in the early era Taylor Swift songs; confidence that you would have got out safely and the Hydra agent would have never caught you off guard if you just listened to your Captain.

Well fuck your Captain.

You knew you were a failure. You knew that in the end, you were to blame for not getting the intel out in time before the base blown up, the flash drive lying somewhere in the corridor abandoned. Tony Stark might like to tell you that with your abilities defied the basic laws of physics, namely the law of conservation of matter and energy, but you didn’t defy them that much. You couldn’t carry things back by simply grabbing them as the spectre and snapping back to your real body; you had tried countless times, but that wasn’t how things worked, even if you wanted them to – and surely Captain Rogers did as well.

But he was the one to make you snap back. And he was able to do that, because despite the poorly masked hate he appeared to feel towards you at times, he still often made the strategic decision to be the one protecting your actual body; your paraconscious, softly levitating body, completely vulnerable to an attack. Apparently, he was the only one who could be trusted to do it after all.

Whoever called him a golden boy and actually meant it had to be an idiot.

“You should have let me do it! I would have been able to get it to Lincoln or someone else!” you argued, hands pushing at the stretcher to stand up at last, wincing at the ghost of a sharp pain tearing at your abdomen. Never mind that, that was nothing new – Rogers’ unsolicited attack and complete lack of accountability were.

He only scoffed at your argument, crossing his arms on his stupidly wide chest. The bragger. The impossible cannot-do-wrong arse-

“Would you? You were going to pass out! I know the signs by now-”

“So what?!”

“So what?!” he echoed on full volume, throwing his arm out just as wildly as the whole tantrum. “I carried you out of there because you couldn’t walk!”

How dared he-

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you feigned regret, lowering your voice as you finally managed to rise to your feet. “I must have been such a terrible imposition to your superstrength!”

“That’s not the problem and you know it!”

Then what was his problem, you wanted to ask, but you knew that question was futile. You knew the answer already and it was annoyingly fitting to a considerably newer Talor Swift song: it was you. You were the problem he had. And the even bigger problem was that he couldn’t have you delivered back express to Coulson, because lately it seemed this team needed someone with the ability to project more than the new SHIELD did. He was stuck with you; with your apparently incapable ass.

“Do I?!” you questioned. “Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t just walk off a massive blood loss!”

Rogers winced as you spitted out the words; good. Maybe he’d think twice before yelling at you next time when the Quinjet hadn’t even touched the ground yet and everyone could watch your failure in HD since he served it to them on a silver platter.

You winced too as you breathed in deeply and fresh claws of pain dug into your abdomen again; really not good. But not unusual, even as there was no trace of the bullet wound on your body – because it wasn’t your actual body that got hit, not really. Still, the pain remained.

Yet, that was nothing to stop you from staring at Rogers as he glared at you with hard eyes, leaning forward, jaw so damn tense you might cut yourself on the tendons if you touched it.

“You wouldn’t have suffered-- that if you’d have just followed orders!”

“Oh really?! Get over yourself, oh Mighty Captain!”

“Get over-” he repeated as if he couldn’t comprehend you just said that, breathing in deeply to ground himself and failing spectacularly since his voice was still full of accusation. “You should have brought us intel and instead we have nothing!”

You stepped forward to get your retort across almost as quickly as you felt everything in you recoil in guilt – because Rogers was right. Of course, he was right. And you knew that. You wanted to scream and cry and throw up and take a damn nap or maybe just wake up from this fucked up dream but you couldn’t, could you?

You could barely do anything.

“Well, I’m sorry! Okay?! I couldn’t do it and I’m fucking sorry! I know I fucked up! I should have pushed through more, I know, and you have no idea how pissed I am at me! But maybe I would have been just fine, if--- you shouldn’t have stopped me!”

“I wouldn’t have to snap you back if you just did what you were supposed to do!”

You grinded your teeth. Stupid, big-headed pig-headed supersoldier, if he had had any idea-

“What were you going to say just now?” he demanded, standing even taller than before, the mask of anger and disappointment shifting towards challenge.

Fight me. Yell back. Try telling me I’m wrong, when you know I’m not.

Goddamn him. He was so damn self-assured, so overconfident it would get him killed one day and you’d be there to watch like a useless dumbass, because you couldn’t do the one thing every single agent on this team should do: have your teammates’ back.

But you couldn’t tell him that. You couldn’t.

Your shoulders sagged, exhaustion washing over you.

“Doesn’t matter,” you said, minding your volume even as most Avengers and other agents got the memo and tried to give you as much privacy as possible. Bless that useless gesture. “I told you, I’m sorry. I know I need to learn to push myself more despite the pain when the stakes are high, but it’s…” You caught a flash of a new emotion you couldn’t decipher in his eyes and you looked away, scoffing, frustration flaring up again. “Why am I even telling you, what would you know about that, huh?”

What would the perfectly mighty walk-it-off Captain know about you peasants and your struggles. Ziltch. He was perfection personified, never wrong, never weak, never-

The sharp intake of breath had you snap your gaze back – and your heart stumbled in your chest. One brief glance at him and you regretted your words instantly. For one, you were too well-aware of the fact that they were bullshit. For two, you might as well wave a red cloth in front of an already enraged bull.

Steve Rogers bristled, teeth practically bared like those of an animal; he snarled like one too, but it was the tone that had cut you. The tone said so much more than his actual words and that message was like a muleta for you for a change.

“Is that what you think? You think I don’t feel pain?!”

“Maybe you don’t feel anything at all!” you snapped, throwing your arms up, gritting your teeth and closing your fists at the sharp bite at your belly at the movement. For fuck’s sake- “It sure as hell looks like it to me, to everyone! Especially since you’re yelling at me right now! I know I fucked up but it’s not easy on me either!”

The realization that he was acting like an asshole must have been quick – he froze for but a split second – but the fact he cared little for that was even faster, his counterattack coming in hot.

“Well, allow me to correct you, agent, I do feel pain – and I don’t have the luxury to switch it off when I snap back into my real body because I only have one!”

And you laughed. The burst of sardonic laugh tasted like hysteria on your tongue, actual tears burning in your eyes.

Switch it off. Switch it off as you pleased. God, that was funny. That was hilarious. So hilarious you wanted to cry. You pretended that the palm that you lifted to your face was to muffle the laughter and not to check whether some of your tears didn’t escape.

“Ooooh, ohohohooo, you think being me is so great, don’t you? Walk a mile in my shoes, Captain, we’ll see how you’ll like it!” you spat, laughing again. “But I’m sure you wouldn’t only walk, would you? You’d fucking dance en pointe and throw in a few grands jetés en tournant just for the kicks, huh? Because you are Mr.Perfect!”

Despite your challenging words, his demeanour changed in as if you snapped your fingers and the reason for that had your chest tighten in panic.

He noticed the tears. You could tell because he blinked, eyes suddenly roaming your face, his voice falling so quiet you barely heard it all of sudden; but perhaps that was only due to the ringing in your ears, the pulsing in your temples.

“That’s not--- I didn’t mean to--“

You cared shit about what he meant or didn’t mean at the moment. He saw you weak. Again. Not only you had failed, hadn’t handled the mission physically, now you were falling apart mentally right in front of him.

He was going to bench you. Worse, he was going to send you express to Coulson despite needing someone with your abilities and he would never ask you to join the Avengers again.

Fight. Show him you have the fire. Show him you’ve got what it takes. Don’t let him think you gave up.

“Well guess what, Captain, I feel pain too and I don’t have the luxury to heal in a few seconds!”

“I don’t heal that-“ he objected lowly and that was the last drop. The last drop and you cracked.

“I KNOW, okay?! You heal faster than anyone, but you still need to heal, because you can get hurt and you can get killed!” His eyes went wide and you gulped; he heard your voice break. Fuck. “Even if you don’t act like it, because you’re the mighty Captain, after all-“ you added quickly to divert his attention.

And the distraction worked. Too bad it didn’t work for you, words still spilling since the dam had been broken.

“Would you stop calling me-“

“Not all of us can be perfect soldiers, the ultimate heroes! Not all of us can do what you do, just push through everything! We fail, we hurt and we barely survive only to disappoint people like you!” you cried out.

It was the line about disappointment, you were certain – something in his expression shifted again and this time, all fight left your body for good, something inside you breaking. The new emotion on his face almost looked like compassion and you didn’t need that. You didn’t need the demigod amongst men and women to pity you and feel for you, especially not now. Not now when you didn’t deserve it because he was right and now this? You hadn’t been fast enough and strong enough – and he might have scolded you for in front of everyone, but now it seemed as if he regretted that because he needed to be the bigger person just to be fucking more perfect and you couldn’t bear it. You never could.

There was a reason why you always jumped to defence when he showed disappointment in you.

Your voice came out as but a whisper, but you made sure it was firm one. “I failed. I disappointed you and everyone else, I know. I’m sorry. I shall accept the punishment as you see fit even if that doesn’t make up for my failure.”

Nor blind nor deaf, Steve’s demeanour changed too; his eyes were suddenly as kind as his words and that was the worst part.

“I have no doubt you tried your best, Spectre, and that’s all we can ever do. The only punishment which will come is one for not following orders.”

You couldn’t help it. You should have, since you were already in such a mess, most of it of your own making, but hearing him utter those words, him of all people. The irony. You scoffed.

And like a charm, all of his benevolence evaporated in an instant; his back straightened, head held high.

“You’ve got anything to say?”

The words prickled at your tongue but you swallowed them. No. Don’t say it.

“No, sir.” Good girl.

“Clearly, you do,” Rogers opposed, eyes dark as they watched you sharply.

Well, then. Bad girl it was.

“Do I? Fine. You’re a big fat hypocrite.”

You might have as well stuck a bar into a bee hive and poked around, aiming for the queen. Rogers went from slightly annoyed to ballistic in a split second, back in your face.

“Excuse me?!”

“Excused. I bet you were aaaaaaall about following orders in your time, weren’t you?” you mocked him, knowing you were so on point it had to burn him – that was, if he took a moment to actually consider your words, the words of the inferior, painfully imperfect being. “Even now. Never reckless, never out of line if you feel like it’s the right thing to do. Never pushy with your superstrength, never just removing people who stand in your way, because you can and you will get away with it, because you are the saint who does no wrong, not at all-“

It was his turn to scoff, his eyes burning with bright blue flame of righteousness – and disdain.

“You think being me is so great, don’t you?” he threw back your earlier words, bitter, clearly regretting the sympathy he had found for you earlier. He crossed his arms on his chest again, shaking his head, a sardonic smile on his lips. “You have me all figured out.”

“Yes. Yes, I do. So I know you’d do the same in my place and I know that’s why you’re so angry with me. We always get mad when we’re offered a mirror, don’t we?” you pressed, mirroring his bitter smile indeed.

Something flashed in his eyes, voice dropping low. Dangerously low. “I am angry. You have no idea, Spectre.”

Good. Then you had at least something in common.

“Well, so am I. You have no authority to decide when I have enough-“

“As your captain, I actually do-” he interjected, raising his voice again and you just rolled your eyes.

You were insanely grateful for the familiar sensation of slight popping in your ears, the gentle swing of the floor under your feet. You’d be more grateful for it if you didn’t have to stifle a cry, when your body naturally attempted to balance it out and didn’t feel the burn in your abdomen, but you couldn’t always get what you wanted, could you?

Case on a damn point.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, right,” you said, looking straight into your captain’s eyes, sticking your chin out defiantly, saccharine voice of obedience dripping from your lips, heavy with sarcasm. “Well, if you, sir, have anything else to say, say it now, because we’re landing and I’m about to take a shower and sleep for a week. That is if I am allowed. Or do I need to submit an official request?”

You couldn’t tell whether he wanted to shout again or do exactly what you suggested you would do; because suddenly he, too, seemed dead tired, as if your shouting match exhausted him more than the mission or your failure. He stared at you, silent, for a few long moments – a few too many, almost enough to make you feel guilty again for calling him out on his bullshit, enough to make you consider apologizing for that.

Then he sighed. “No, you don’t, Agent. I hope you’ll rest well.”

You blinked, your heart skipping a shocked beat. His voice was surprisingly soft and sincere, his gaze roaming over you head to toe, seemingly concerned.

Did you just break him? Kindness was far from uncommon in him – once you’d calm down, you’d be more inclined to believe that again, you knew as much – but the sudden change genuinely startled you.

“Uhm… thanks,” you muttered, too taken aback to talk back as you walked backwards. He truly looked worn down to a bone, his brain no doubt racing, already figuring out how to fix the mess you had left behind. He looked like he needed a goddamn nap himself. Except you didn’t think he’d take it; that was part of his problem.

Hypocrite.

You swallowed the you too and simply nodded sharply before you walked away, emotions swirling wildly; and at the centre of them all, remorse and puzzlement, wrapped in a familiar sensation of agony.

Winter Soldier was a moniker Steve Rogers loathed; but the reputation which came with that name was not unearned.

When Bucky appeared behind his shoulder out of nowhere, no sound having been made, Steve nearly jumped out of his skin; and it was a true testament to how upset he was that he hadn’t heard Bucky sneak up on him despite his slightly enhanced senses.

“Well, that went spectacularly,” Bucky hummed, instantly making Steve groan internally.

He did not want to deal with this – he wanted to forget about this whole ordeal. The fact itself that Bucky was cheery about a sleeper Hydra cell simply because he had an opportunity to tease him about what had just gone down only added to his annoyance.

He was tired. He was mad. He was confused. He was disappointed – both in you and himself. He was… frustrated. So frustrated; then again, those emotions and the last one in general were no news in your presence, much like many others, but those in particular he wanted to ponder over even less.

“Bucky, don’t,” he warned his friend lowly, glancing at him from the corner of his eye as they made a slow way out of the jet.

It was a waste of words, really: Steve didn’t know what he was thinking, believing the warning would actually discourage Bucky from speaking.

“You know, maybe if you told her that the main reason why you’re so pissed-“

“Buck-“

“- is the fact that she’s challenging your authority which makes you question yourself, and that you’re terrified every time she gets hurt or loses consciousness, be it her projection or, god forbid, her real body, because you care juuuust a little too much for her, then maybe… “

Steve loved his best friend; but if looks could kill, the one he shot him at the verbalized implications, however truthful, could have murdered him on spot.

“Just saying,” Bucky said, shrugging as he kept up with Steve’s sudden strut, a grin audible in his voice. “Communication is key.”

“You need to stop hanging out with Sam,” Steve grumbled. “And I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Bucky snorted, causing Steve’s head to whip in his direction in annoyance. Didn’t Bucky have a lady to tend to? Why did he have to stick around and poke around Steve’s already exhausted brain and feed the already messy whirlwind of emotion? Oh right. Bucky would say it was payback for all the years Bucky spent saving Steve’s puny ass from the back alleys.

“Right. Just like you had no idea what she was talking about when she called you a hypocrite, because you wouldn’t do the same, try to deliver all the files you could even if it meant you’d bleed the heck out, right? Your real body, that is, because you only have one…”

Goddamnit Bucky.

“Bucky, that’s enough.”

“Nope,” his friend quipped, smiling charmingly at the group of agents they passed in the hallway and briefly, Steve imagined what they had to look like; a brooding Captain practically running away from the sunshine-like Winter Soldier. Clint would call them comedy gold; and Steve didn’t give a damn. Today had been a clusterfuck of disasters with you and him in the centre of it.

“It’s enough when I say it’s enough,” Bucky said matter-of-factly. Steve just shot him another glare as they rounded the corner, the corridor now blissfully empty. And sadly, endless with nowhere to hide. “Too bad, punk. You might be the Captain, but you’re still my friend. I’ll be bothering your reckless ass and call you out till the end of the line. And I’m telling you – you two need to get your shit together and make up. And maybe you should finally tell her you’d like to make out. But if I were you, I’d start with that apology.”

Steve stopped so abruptly Bucky nearly collided with him. The flare or anger – because goddammit was Bucky right in certain things and it was truly bothersome to hear those – licked at his gut. As he turned to give his most loyal and precious friend a piece of his mind in return, he found him with a knowing smirk on his face. Why were they friends again?

“Really? An apology?” Steve questioned, the idea absurd even as guilt had already joined the party a while ago. “For what exactly? She should have--- one of those days, she’s gonna-” Steve swallowed against the lump in his throat. He did not like the way the sentence could end. How you could end. But he’d scream at you again before he’d admit that; you brought out that side of him for some reason. You brought out a lot of things, most of them unpleasant. Most of them. “She should have followed orders.”

Bucky’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline – which wasn’t too high given how much he’d let his hair grow, but it still served the purpose of irritating Steve.

“Sure she should. And if you have always followed orders, I’d be dead.”

Steve winced as if he got punched in the gut, all flames of anger put out at once. Bucky just shrugged, unbothered by his hypothetical death.

“That’s a fact, punk. And here’s another: your mother would have boxed your ears for treating a lady the way you just did.”

And this isn’t you, Steve heard the unspoken words and with those he couldn’t argue.

The truth was, Steve didn’t recognize himself around you. He hadn’t more than once but it had never got as intense as it had just now. He felt almost possessed, an astral projection of his own, except he couldn’t control it as it raised its voice like that, in front of the whole team no less. And the worst thing was, it wasn’t a projection; the blame was entirely on him as he failed to contain the onslaught of emotion so sharp and large that he just let it all out. Almost all of it.

The one urge he tried to contain was the one to just slam you to a wall and scream the whole truth before he’d vent his frustration with you in a completely different way, with nips of teeth on that lower lip of yours, always pouting a bit when you got into one of your not so frequent but not so rare arguments, having you scream his name in ecstasy instead of defiance, a breathy whine of Mighty Captain without the snark. He was sure that would have raised a few eyebrows, but hopefully the room would clear in three seconds flat after your back would have hit the wall.

In all honesty, the whole scene had been surreal as it was; Steve had had trouble recognizing you as well. You had disagreed with him a few times, yes, you challenged his authority and questioned his decisions, yes; he had a pretty strong feeling that he was most definitely not your favourite person and more often than not, he didn’t quite understand you – but you had never so blatantly disobeyed an order. You had never endangered a mission or your teammates, never played this much of a Russian roulette, even if one might call you an overachiever which sometimes came with a bit of recklessness by default.

It was true that you could be unpredictable at times; one day you followed instructions to a tee, dutiful, meticulous even; another day, you stood firmly in opposition. One day you dotted on others in almost an overbearing quality, another day it was like you evaporated from the face of Earth, completely absent. But what came over you today, Steve had had no idea – you had been not only reckless, but to a great point, careless. Steve’s mind was blown, but not in the good sense.

That said, he was not pleased with himself either, particularly with the fact was that he had acted impulsively during the mission too. You were definitely right to call him out on it; but that didn’t mean he liked it.

He glanced at Bucky, who was watching him with one corner of his lips still raised knowingly, only fuelling Steve’s ire. Despite all that, Steve knew Bucky was right. And unlike when he was in your presence, he didn’t feel the need to deny that completely.

Sarah Rogers, god rest her precious soul, would have been profoundly disappointed in his behaviour and she would have let him hear it too, despite the infinite kindness and forgiveness she had carried in her heart.

“I know,” Steve sighed. “I shouldn’t have--- she’s just so- I-“

“I know, punk,” Bucky said forgivingly. “I know. That girl has some serious fire in her and she’s not the easiest to deal with, even if she means well, no doubt. Who does that only remind me of…?”

Steve glared at him, unimpressed – he was aware, thank you very much. Not only opposites attracted. Though he was quite certain this attraction was one-sided; and completely insane.

Bucky just grinned and patted Steve’s shoulder.

“Take a nap, Steve. We all deserve one, even if things didn’t go as planned. We’ll get them next time – as a team. Share some of that burden you strap to your shoulders every time to strap on that shield, would you? It can do wonders, believe me.”

“You really do need to stop hanging out with Sam and spend more time with Nat,” Steve uttered, a small smile gracing his lips.

“Shut up, punk, you love me mental health conscious.”

A full grin attacked Steve’s lips now, troubles forgotten momentarily, unlike the fact why Bucky Barnes was his best friend.

“Jury’s out, jerk”

Even as you felt the fire of rage slowly dying, you tried to feed it; because it kept you on your feet. You had not in fact went to lie down, even as you felt those feet dragging more than walking to Natasha Romanoff’ office. She didn’t spend too much time in it, always having better things to do than paperwork, but you knew she’d want her report to be done as fast as possible to move on exactly to those more important things.

And you knew that as long as she was there, her office was conveniently the best place to talk, the camera system disabled.

“Well, hello,” the redhead hummed as she had Jarvis let you storm in, breathless for more than one reason.

Your abdomen was throbbing, but you didn’t have time for that. It wasn’t like you were going to bleed out from a non-existent wound.

“We need to go back there and fix it.”

The infamous Black Widow only raised her eyebrow at your dishevelled state and frantic words, leaning back into her chair. You admitted you had to be a sight to the devil himself since you probably looked like hell, but you rarely let that stop you.

“Water under bridge, Spectre. The base is blown so there’s nothing to go back to and the rest of them will go deep under-“

You shook your head, stalking to her desk, leaning onto your hands, fingers spasming at the bite of pain. Bad idea. And bad phrasing.

“No, Natasha, we—” She scanned you head to toe, her other eyebrow arching as well as you had boldly invaded her space, practically asking to be removed. Violently. You didn’t have the energy to lean back, not right away. You weren’t friends, so you had no right to be so close, but she’d get over it, you were sure. The worst thing to happen would be her breaking off your wrist or something. “What I mean is that we have to act now and get those files. All of them.”

Her gaze zeroed on your face, unnervingly searching and seeing, head tilting to side in genuine curiosity.

“What exactly was in those files that it made you hesitate? You rarely ignore orders,” she stated matter-of-factly, causing you to retreat and step back. Oh. Crap. Black Widow in offensive. She walked around the desk, leaning her weight onto it, crossing her arms over her chest. “What did you see, Spectre?”

You gulped; there was no way around it, even as panic made your breathing even harder. There were so many things wrong with what you were about to say and you had no capacity to analyse why you felt the way you felt about it, let alone why you felt even worse about the fact you were the reason why you hadn’t got the intel to others.

“Steve’s initials.”

Even as her brows had smoothened, they arched again now, eyes growing wide. You swallowed against the lump in your throat.

“I tried to copy it and just opened it for a bit, too immersed to notice the unfriendly. Naturally, I got the bullet for my trouble before I neutralized him, but that’s beside the point,” you said, not missing the corner of her lips twitching. “They were… Natasha, they weren’t just some photos or whatever. Those were… they were inventing some shit. It was physics, chemistry, half of the things I didn’t understand, but I don’t think they were replicating the serum – I think they were trying to neutralize it, neutralize Steve specifically.”

And there was no way I was going to leave that there, was left unspoken, but she heard it. Of course she did; this was Natasha Romanoff you were talking to. She didn’t need you two to be friends to read between the lines of what you were saying.

“I see,” she said slowly, the damn intensity of her gaze not relenting. “And you didn’t tell Steve that when he was yelling you down, because…?”

“It was irrelevant.”

“Bullshit.”

“He wouldn’t believe me.”

She scoffed, glaring you down. “That’s bullshit too and you know it.”

Okay, that was fair. But believing was a lot different from taking action. His damn pride would have still had him snapping you back to your real body even if you had yelled at him through the comms what kind of intel you had been carrying on the drive before he messed it up for you – and him. What the heck had he been thinking, breaking your concentration like that? The utter confusion at his actions – because surely it couldn’t have been he had been so angry with you to endanger the mission – only made the matter of your fight worse.

Natasha was right, however – that was just water under bridge. You sure as hell weren’t about to go ask him what possessed him to be more insufferable than normal and you could hardly fly to the pile of debris you had left behind when the place blew up to search for scraps of hard drives.

“Fine. I didn’t think he’d take it seriously,” you admitted at last.

“Now we’re talking,” Natasha said, nodding, a small smirk appearing on her lips, making you frown.

She sure was taking it in stride all of sudden, almost as if--- was she amused? You hoped that was only a mask and in her sharp mind, she was already building a battleplan. She had to. She was one of Steve’s closest friends, real friends, you knew as much. Sometimes her nonchalance truly irritated you. Would it kill her to show more emotion?

Hypocrite.

“But that’s not enough,” she added. “Steve, bless his heart, can be an ass, but not a complete idiot. Any other particular reason why you’d keep it from him?”

Your face was a mask of neutrality. Or you hoped so.

“Nope.”

Natasha watched you sceptically and you swallowed against the lump in your throat.

Naturally, there was a plethora of reasons and on top of them sat the fact that he’d know. He’d know how much you cared. He probably figured out anyway and maybe he wasn’t one to make fun of you for that – scratch that, he definitely wasn’t, he was too much of a good guy for that – but that meant nothing. Caring for people was dangerous; caring for people when you failed meant they’d be taken away. Having people to care for – good people – was a privilege, a reward, one that could easily be confiscated unless you reached perfection.

And yes. You knew Steve Rogers was a good guy, even when he decided to yell at you in front of everyone and challenged you and made you want to smash him against the wall and bite into his stupid plump lower lip and then cuddle him and tell him he didn’t have to be so strong and that people cared about his safety too. Of course you knew he felt pain, but he just never showed it, and it was just so damn irritating, because you needed him to be only human too, so you wouldn’t feel so pathetic despite your powers, so you’d feel a little more worthy. You were well-aware that your way of thinking wasn’t healthy, especially since Steve was a person you could never and should never compare yourself to because that standard was just impossibly high, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t try to meet it. That didn’t mean your family hadn’t set the standards just as high. Perfection was not an unreachable standard, even as it always seemed to be out of reach for you.

However, knowing that precisely that was one of the main reasons why you admired Steve as much as you wanted to punch him to his perfect teeth didn’t help you coexist with him or stopped you from acting like a five-year-old in his vicinity.

On top of that, you were fully aware of how disappointed he would be in you for failing in one particular task which you were sure he considered the most important one: to have your teammates’ six. And you wouldn’t handle that; you were selfish even to that point. To have Captain Rogers learn you hadn’t been strong and fast enough to retrieve data which increased the chance of keeping a key member of your team safe and watch his reaction up close would break your damn barely patched up heart.

Natasha continued to watch you as you zoned out, her smirk growing. “Right. No other reason at all then.”

Oh, she knew about it all, alright. You had no doubt. She might not show much emotion, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t mastered reading other people’s tells. If you had any emotional capacity left, you’d be ashamed at how your face burned under her watchful gaze.

“Will you please tell the others about the files?” you asked instead, causing her to tilt her head to side a fraction again.

“I will, but why should I? Why, when you can be the one to do it? If nothing else, you should tell Steve,” she said, almost motherly you supposed – not that you’d know. “Those were files about him – he deserves the truth and to hear it from you. I’m sure he’d be less angry with you too.”

Somehow, her last suggestion was even more terrifying than Steve Rogers being all in your face and snarling. You attempted a smile, masking the anxiety curling in your gut by exhaustion.

“Maybe. I just… it might be childish, but I don’t… I don’t have the energy for that now. Tell me what else I can do and I will, but not that.”

She watched you silently for several long moments, a small smile curling up her lips – almost a compassionate one. What was it with people and their damn compassion today? You had fucked up. Why was Steve the only one to acknowledge that and why was he relatively nice about it in the end, just like Natasha now? Frankly, as much as you preferred not being completely on Black Widow’s bad side, earning her pity was exponentially worse.

“You know, most things are not going to go away just because you pretend that they don’t exist. Least of all feelings.”

It’s been working out pretty well for you, you wanted to throw back, but Bucky Barnes, the love and the lover who was one of the few people who could slip under the hard shell of Natasha Romanoff, would probably argue with you that it worked for her the best when she did let someone in. But unlike you, Natasha Romanoff did not make mistakes and was an epitome of perfection herself so she could afford that. Natasha Romanoff was terrifying; you’d like to watch someone try to mess with her.

You, on the other hand, were no Black Widow. You could and even had to keep pretending in order to exist.

“Just watch me.”

She sighed, letting her hands fall to her sides. “Go to bed, Spectre. I know you still feel that gunshot wound.”

You froze.

Your heart skipped a beat – several beats, you were sure – because your chest suddenly hurt, panic clawing up your throat anew.

She knew. She knew.

How did she--- how? You always fought so hard to hide it, as much as of a pain that was; horrible pun included.

Yes, you sure as hell still felt the gunshot wound. With every move. With every breath. Every time you had strained your muscles to yell back at Steve.

The pain of whatever injury your spectre sustained alwayslingered. Ironically, it was only thing you actually were able to carry when you snapped back. It stayed with you for a while; not the whole time that it would take for the wound to heal, but it still took days sometimes, days of pain whose intensity slowly faded away. An invisible aching wound – like a pain in a phantom limb. There was no evidence of an injury in your body, but your brain still registered it. No therapeutic approach had worked when you finally accepted that despite what you had been taught, this wasn’t normal; only for having to accept that with no solution in sight, it actually was normal. Then again, what was normal when you only had one sample to examine?

“You mostly hide it well, don’t worry,” Natasha’s voice snapped you from your dark thoughts, uncharacteristically soft. “Your secret is safe with me. But that doesn’t mean it should.”

“It definitely should,” you said in at instant, eyes hard despite the tell-tale burn of tears you felt. If anyone knew – anyone else, that was, apparently – you’d be done. Benched forever.

I do feel pain and I don’t have the luxury to switch it off when I snap back into my real body, Steve had thrown at you. If he hadn’t noticed, you were good; you had indeed hid it well enough and that was all that mattered; despite bickering and yelling, he was still willing to work with you. But that would change very quickly; and he had the authority to kick you out of this team and this business completely.

Sure, Natasha had the power to bench you and even fire you as well, but judging by the way she was looking at you now, no matter how disapprovingly and somewhat proud at once, she wouldn’t. It would be okay – as long as she’d keep her mouth shut about it just as Andy had. Andrew Garner, the only person who had known your painful secret and encouraged you to engage with various therapy approaches to rid you off your burden. He had taken the secret to the grave, never having told nor Coulson, nor the rest of his team.

The one person who had known about this was dead; and if that wasn’t a clear enough message that no one else was supposed be trusted with this, you didn’t know what else would.

“It should,” you repeated, inhaling and instantly regretting it. You swallowed as Natasha didn’t miss the tiny hitch in your breath. Dammit you needed to get better at hiding it. And you would. “Please. Tell me what else I can do.”

Perhaps it was your true superpower to make people sigh, not to project into another room, because the redhead observed you for another long moment before sighing again.

“I meant it, Spectre – go to bed. After I’ll tell the others, we might need you. Rested. With as much as you can give.”

One corner of your lips rose in a tired defiant smirk. “I can give everything.”

The look Natasha gave you before you spun on your heels told you that precisely that was both the blessing and the problem. But you didn’t need to be told more than twice to go to bed.

As you walked out, trying your hardest to walk completely straight and not hunch over even a bit, you heard Natasha’s completely exhausted sigh.

Next chapter

Series masterlist // S.R. masterlist

Alright folks, life's been quite busy so this was born through sweat and tears and I don't think it will get better any time soon, but hopefully the result will be worth it 🥰

There are and will be a few distant references to Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. I think you should be fine whout having watched the show.

Thank you for reading 🥰 As always, if you have he time and energy, I'd greatly appreciate your reblogs and feedback, be it even a key smash or yelling at me should the need arise 🤭

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x you #captain america x reader #captain america x you #captain america imagine #agent reader #shield agent reader #avenger reader #inhuman reader #steve rogers #captain america #anika ann #back and forth

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corpsebasil · 1 year

Text

Toxic 18+

Nikolai and you have a toxic relationship, but you’re getting sick of it.

You were fuming as you stormed down the hallway, headed towards Nikolai’s room. You pounded on the door, your knuckles almost splitting skin against the wood. He opened up, glaring right back at you, already having had felt your presence like a sixth sense.

“Where the fuck do you get off having me taken off the mission?” You demanded, eyes narrowed as you took in his slightly flushed appearance and his open-buttoned shirt.

“You’re not good enough for it.” He said, tone lethally calm. “I filled your spot with someone better.”

“Someone better?” You scoffed. “I’m a Tidemaker. This is a sea mission. I’m the best one there is!”

“I dont agree.” He told you, blue eyes sharp. “I think you’re weak. I think you’d be risking Grisha lives and wasting my time.”

You tried to ignore the flare of hurt at his words.

He’d been like this as long as you’d known him. Undermining you, berating you, making you feel no better than dirt under his shoe. You gave it right back to him, but sometimes, sometimes, when you saw him being so sweet to others, his charming, boyish self, something in you ached. What was wrong with you? Why was he so cruel when he was so kind to everyone else?

You’d dealt with men like him your entire life. Men who saw your power as a danger—as a threat to their own manhood. You’d been whipped for your power, beaten senseless for using it, all up until you finally fled your home country and went to Ravka, hoping to join the Grisha ranks.

But of course, the physical blows were exchanged for verbal.

No one else seemed to have an issue. In fact, you’d been praised for your gift. Rare ability as it was, Grisha had flocked to your side, curious and excited to see what you could do. The children, smaller Grisha with wide eyes and stunned smiles, watched with delight as you formed little animals out of water and made them dance around. They howled with laughter when you played water fights with them, soaking their Keftas and making them squeal with joy.

Nikolai had watched you one day from his window. Watched as you chased the small Grisha, sending bunnies made out of water to hop around their heads. Watched as the children cling to you like you were their older sister, constantly itching to be at your side.

Something in him tugged at the sight, but he wasn’t dumb enough to get close to you. Not when your power was so dangerous that assassins weren’t out of the question. He couldn’t risk it. Not now, not ever.

“You aren’t going.” Nikolai said calmly, watching your furious expression morph into cold hate. “End of discussion.”

He slammed the door in your face and you gritted your teeth against a scream of frustration, one that was only dampened when one of the Grisha children ran down the hallway, a little one named Pepe, immediately jumping up on you and laughing when you swung the small boy around in a playful circle.

Behind the door Nikolai leaned against it, closing his eyes when he heard your laughter. Then he peeled away, headed to his desk, ready to get back to his work.

You’d snuck onto the ship.

The Grisha there had welcomed you with opened arms, obviously scared shitless when they realized they’d be engaging in a sea-battle without their Tidemaker. And you’d saved them all, winning the battle easily, but not before an arrow had sliced through your arm. A small cut, really, though it stung like hell.

You walked back into the Grand Palace, laughing with two other Grisha women. You were clad in a tight tank-top, your arm exposed, wrapped up in gauze. And when you saw who was waiting, leaning against the opposite wall as you turned down the hallway to your room, you froze. Then you rolled your eyes, moving past him.

“Y/N.” Nikolai called out, but you kept walking. “Y/N.” He said again, this time walking after you, his boots loud on the hall floor.

“What?” You demanded, exasperated. “What do you want?”

“I want you to explain why you decided you had the right to disobey my direct orders.” He snapped, blue eyes blazing as he moved forward, getting into your space. “I told you not to go. Not to. And yet you went.”

“They needed my help. I saved your entire damn ship—”

“They could’ve done it just fine without you.”

“How are you—” you wanted to pull your own hair out. “How are you so arrogant that you can’t even see past your own nose—”

“You’re the goddamn arrogant one—”

“—and realize I’m the one that saved them. I’m an invaluable member to that team and I saved them.”

He was breathing heavily, inches from you, before his eyes drifted to your arm. To the spot of red that was stained against the gauze, the stitches having had leaked a bit on the journey back to Ravka. Something like concern flickered in his gaze. Something like—like worry for you.

“You got shot?” He asked, eyebrows furrowing as he stared at the blood. As if he could use x-ray vision to magically see the gash through the fabric. As if, if he tried hard enough, he could heal you with his gaze alone.

“Yes.” You said tightly, ignoring the worried look in his eyes and what it did to your worn-down heart.

You’d liked him, at first. He looked like a prince from a storybook—handsome, charming. Absolutely flirtatious. But the moment he’d found out you were a Tidemaker he’d been a fucking bully and an utter asshole. Now, though, he was looking at you as if he cared. As if he actually gave a shit that you’d been hurt.

That was until he opened his mouth.

“Guess you aren’t as invaluable as you think.” He said, eyes sliding away from the gauze to your own. “If you cant even complete a mission without getting yourself shot.”

The rapid stab of hurt that hit you made you blink at him, especially when he let out an annoyed sigh and turned to walk away, muttering, “Pathetic excuse for a Grisha” under his breath.

And when the tears welled, when you couldn’t take it anymore, you yelled after him, uncaring who heard.

“Why are you so fucking mean?” You called out, your voice echoing down the hallway. He paused, body tensing. “What did I ever do to you?”

Nikolai’s shoulders rose and fell as he breathed, then he turned around, striding back over. He paused a hairs-breath away, his eyes focused on yours, before he spoke.

“Do not speak out of turn to me, soldier.”

“Or what? What will you do?”

“I’ll have you whipped—”

You slapped him. Slapped him so hard his head cracked to the side and your palm stung. You got into his face again, glaring, tears of anger filling your eyes.

“If you ever take a whip to me,” you snarled, the aching memory of your past searing phantom lashes across your spine. “I will kill you. I will drown you and you will suffer.” You were panting as the first few tears slipped down your face and you watched as his expression turned to one of disbelief.

But he didn’t speak, not as you whirled around and stormed to your room, wiping your face free of the wetness as you went.

Nikolai didn’t know what to do.

He hadn’t seen you for the rest of the day. When he asked around, he was told you were sequestered in your room, refusing to come out. One Grisha, one who he knew was your friend, glared furiously as she passed him in the hallway and, with a brashness he was stunned by, gave him the most disrespectfully shallow bow he’d ever seen before she strode past, looking down her nose at him.

He didn’t know why he’d said what he’d said. Why he felt the need to—to hurt you so deeply. He had seen it in your face—the rage, but underneath that, the heartache. And when you’d slapped him, when he saw the tears on your face, something in him cracked. So he made his way to your room cautiously, hand hovering over the door before he steeled himself enough to knock.

He heard no response. None.

He entered slowly, glancing around the utterly silent room, but steam and the smell of lavender was coming from the bathroom, so he moved towards it.

“Y/N?” He called out, footsteps soundless on your carpeted floors as he moved towards the open door. He peered in and froze—goosebumps broke out across his skin as he stared at you. Agonizing shame filled him, along with utter, utter horror.

You didn’t look at him; you sat in the tub with your knees pulled to your chest, your shoulders curved as you sat stone still in the bath. And your back—your back was—

“Saints, I—” Nikolai swallowed the sudden tightness in his throat as his eyes ran across long, pink scars that covered the expanse of your back. Long lines that could only be from—

“Looks like someone beat you to it.” You mumbled, glaring over your shoulder at him with wet eyes. You were shivering, he realized, even in the hot bath. The memories had swarmed you the minute you’d gotten to your room, and it had taken everything in you not to scream.

“I’m—“ Nikolai tried again, but he felt frozen to the spot.

“You what?” You whispered, but there was no more menace in your voice. No more fire. Only a startling, unnerving defeat. “Come to tell me how worthless I am? Unable to resist the idea of me broken?” You laughed mirthlessly. “I cant even be in my own room without you telling me how much you can’t stand—”

“I’m sorry.” He croaked, eyes still on your back. He couldn’t imagine that level of pain—of fear. “Who….when?”

“Back in my home country.” You sighed, turning away, a bit shaken by his apology. But it wasn’t because he cared. No, he was just trying to pretend he wasn’t a giant asshole now that he’d seen his threat had brought back traumatic memories. “They don’t take kindly to Tidemakers either. You’d fit right in.”

“I’d never hurt you.” Nikolai insisted, moving to crouch next to the tub. “Never. I didn’t mean it.”

You stared at him, meeting those blue eyes of his, those stunningly blue eyes, and wished you could believe him.

“Okay.” You mumbled, looking away to stare at the wall. “You may go, now.”

“Do you forgive me?”

“What do you want with my forgiveness?”

“I want—” he fumbled for words. “I don’t know.”

You closed your eyes against the sheer heartache running through you. It’s not enough that he hurts you. Not enough that he threatens you. But a fake apology? One only caused by guilt? You didn’t want to hear it.

“Please go.” You whispered, quiet as a mouse, and he did.

That night, you sat in the grand hall with the other Grisha, chattering about the mission and laughing. You felt good, for once. Nikolai didn’t spare you a glance, thank the Saints, and you indulged in a glass of wine or two. But then the room hushed as he stood, raising a glass in his hand as all eyes moved to the prince.

“I want to thank you all, for today.” He said, piercing eyes of his moving across the team you were with. “Without you we would’ve never won the battle on those treacherous waves.” You almost rolled your eyes at his dramatics, but then he looked at you. “And Y/N,” he continued pointedly, and your heart stopped. “a Tidemaker is a rare gift indeed. A gift to Ravka, to Grisha, and to me. May we all pay her the respect she deserves for leading the team today.” He nodded to you and took a sip of his drink, and the Grisha around you cheered, knocking back their glasses and jostling your shoulders, careful not to hurt your injured arm.

You only stared at Nikolai, stunned, as a warm look lingered in his eyes, watching you. You looked away, feeling his stare on the side of your head, and you ignored him for the rest of the dinner.

Afterwards, you walked to your room, moving quickly down the hall. But not before a hand managed to grab your own, tugging you back, and you came face to face with Nikolai.

“What the fuck?” You whisper-hissed, well aware other Grisha weren’t too far away. “First you shit on my powers then you give a little speech?”

“I wronged you. I know that.” He started, eyes pleading with you. “But I cant—I cant stand you sometimes. All you do is provoke me—”

“Provoke you?”

“And you—yes, listen. And you drive me fucking mad.”

“You think I make you crazy? What about me?”

“Come on,” he urged. “I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

“What, with deep, soul-consuming hatred?”

“Like you’re undressing me with your fucking eyes.” That shut you up, and you blinked at him. “Come on,” he continued, voice lowering to a seductive drawl that make your skin hum. “I know you want me, Y/N. Despite our little squabbles.”

“I wouldn’t call them little.” You mumbled, but your breath hitched at the raw hunger in his eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

“Do you want me, or not?” He asked, moving closer, his soft breath on your face. And you only stared, blinking slowly at him, before you turned around, walking to your room.

He followed you wordlessly, watching as you glanced over your shoulder and moved into your room. When he followed, shutting the door behind him, you turned, looking up into his handsome face. You’d thought about him…about having him…plenty of times. But the shame that you’d felt after was almost crippling; how you could possibly be attracted to such a cruel prince blew your mind.

“I want you.” He murmured, moving closer. “How do you want it?”

“I want it—” you paused, not sure what you were even saying. “Want it…slow.”

“Slow?” He let out a dark laugh. “I don’t do slow, sweetheart.”

He backed you up towards your bed, watching as you slid off your dress, holding lust-filled eye-contact. And you felt that shame again, that embarrassing shame, at the deep desire that ran through your body. Especially when he moved towards you, hovering over your body, yanking off your undergarments, his hands unbuckling his trousers.

“I still hate you.” You told him, biting your lip as he parted your legs for him. You were sure he’d fuck you hard, so hard it’d hurt, but you still wanting him. Desperately.

“Hate you too.” He murmured against your mouth, and kissed you as he pushed into you slowly. It was heady and ridiculous how much you wanted him as you let out a soft moan into his mouth, his soft tongue running along your own. “Feels so good, love.” He whispered.

Love.

You felt your heart break at the word. But then he was moving and—it wasn’t rough at all. He was making love to you, slow strokes that had you practically keening under him, as he rubbed up against that spot inside you that had you gasping for breath. His hands sank into your hair, kissing your mouth, and the intimacy of it was startling.

“Knew you fucking wanted me.” He muttered, leaning down to kiss your neck, and you screwed your eyes shut. Even now, he had to be a bastard. “Been thinking about taking you since you disobeyed me.”

You turned your head away, looking at the wall as he moved, the blinding pleasure not nearly as strong as the sudden wave of sadness. You couldn’t believe you were allowing him to touch you—to fuck you—after everything. And suddenly you wanted him out.

“Stop. Stop.” You gritted out, chest tight as he froze.

“Y/N?”

“Just—just go.”

He panted for a moment, his hands still gripping your hips with bruising force, before he pulled away, fastening his trousers back with a sound of finality. You rolled onto your side, curling into yourself, as your chest heaved. You couldn’t look at him. Not when he sat down on the bed next to you and ran a hand down your side, stroking your skin almost lovingly.

“What did I do now?” He breathed, continuing to draw long, slow trails down your side, his fingers warm. His touch gentle. “Y/N?”

“You cant even treat me kindly when you’re fucking me.” You whispered, tears filling your eyes as you stared into the distance. “I just—I just wish you could be kind to me.” You felt pathetic, like a child begging for scraps. But then you felt a kiss against your spine, then another, and you squeezed your eyes shut.

“It’s hard to be close to you.” Nikolai admitted softly. “Every day I—I think somethings going to happen to you. That some rogue Grisha is going to take out my most important soldier and you—” his voice hitched and he paused, taking a deep breath. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t.”

You turned to look at him, sitting up slowly.

“You’re telling me that you’re cruel because what, you care about me?”

“Yes.” He snapped, expression more serious than you’d ever seen him. “Because I care. And caring is dangerous.”

You stared, watching him, painful hope in your heart.

“I’m not going to forgive you for everything you said.” You told him, ignoring the hurt that flashed in those eyes. “But I—” he reached out to take your hand and you allowed him. “Nikolai..”

“Such beautiful hands.” He murmured, tracing your fingers with his own. “So powerful. You amaze me, you know? Even when you’re headstrong.”

“Me? Headstrong? Look at you—”

“Let’s not fight.” He groaned, leaning forward to kiss you, his mouth sweet and gentle on yours. “Don’t fight me.” He said again, and grinned against you when you kissed him back eagerly.

You pushed him back down on the bed and, though it would take time for the two of you heal your dynamic, you hoped there was a place for each other in your lives.

this was a whirlwind ANYWAYS

#shadow and bone #nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov x reader #wattpad #nikolai x reader #shadow and bone imagine #smut #nikolai lantsov smut #Nikolai lantsov angst #angst

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cloakedsparrow · 4 months

Text

Jason’s Attack on Titans Tower Aftermath AU Ideas

1) Initially upon coming back to life (and then again after regaining his mind due to Talia dipping him in the Pit), Jason had a lot of nightmares about his brief but terrifying time captured by the Joker before his death. The nightmares had subsided to the point that he only got them a few times a month before he attacked Tim. Afterwards, though? He has nightmares every night for the first several weeks (and often enough afterwards), wherein his memories of being beaten by the Joker alternate between the memories of him beating Tim. The comparability makes him sick. He’s wracked with guilt but doesn’t know how to fix it.

When Tim recovers enough to return to his regular Robin activities, Jason avoids the kid like he’s still carrying the apocalypse virus. He doesn’t want to remember how much he hurt him or how much he enjoyed it. He’s afraid the kid will flinch away from him in fear and he has no idea what he’ll do with himself at the reminder that he probably scarred a child nearly as much as the Joker scarred him.

Tim finds this behavior suspicious because plenty of Rogues have nearly killed him and never avoided him afterwards. Therefore, he figures Jason must be plotting something and he won’t be caught unaware again. Jason does not understand why he cannot avoid the walking reminder of his guilt Robin all of a sudden.

The eventual confrontation does not go as either of them expected (Tim was not expecting self-awareness, chagrin, and remorse; Jason was not expecting easy forgiveness, understanding, and a borderline blasé attitude about the whole thing).

2) Some of the Gotham Rogues who like the third Robin (such as Poison Ivy, Riddler, Catwoman, Azrael -who is technically more of an anti-hero but close enough) learn that Red Hood had gone after the boy twice, and very well could have killed him on both occasions. They make it their personal mission to be as much (if not more) of a pain in Hood’s ass as they are in Batman’s. Hood has no idea why they all seem to have a personal beef with him at first and is surprised to eventually learn it’s because they all have a soft spot for the kid. He eventually learns why some of them like the Pretender and is so annoyed to learn that he’s actually a great kid and an excellent Robin. Now he can’t even misdirect his anger at the little shit.

3) Similar to the last, only it’s some of the street-level criminals who learn the Red Hood has temporarily taken Robin out of commission twice now…and could’ve taken him out permanently because slit throats and beatings that end in unconsciousness can easily go bad even when you know what you’re doing. They remember (with a healthy dose of fear) what Batman was like after the second Robin died. They remember (with no small amount of respect) what it was like when the third Robin was still reeling him back in. They all keep letting Hood know -in no uncertain terms- that no one is taking that kid out unless they take the Bat out first because no one wants to go through that hell again.

Jason needs some alone time to process the fact that his dad apparently lost his shit after he died and that Tim probably went through hell bringing the man back to something resembling his old self.

4) While he’s healing up after the attack, Tim has plenty of time on his hands to replay the whole thing in his head over and over again. He realizes that Jason is under-informed about the aftermath of his murder. Someone needs to fill in the blanks for him and, well, Tim already dragged one reluctant Wayne back from grief-fueled rage, why couldn’t he do it again? So he sets out to correct Jason’s misunderstandings, address the glowing green elephant in the room, and bring the undead asshole back home.

Jason is not prepared for the concern-fueled, unrelenting determination of his brilliant but somewhat feral little successor.

Bonus: Alfred, Barbara, and Helena are the only ones Tim allows to learn anything of his plans/doings. Alfred figures it out on his own and Tim doesn’t deny it. Alfred believes in the boy and he would very much like to have Jason home, so he just keeps his mouth shut and subtly prepares Jason’s room. Barbara, Tim figures would probably be the most likely to notice something, so he tells her what he’s doing. She understands Jason’s rage and decides to help cover for Tim in the hopes that they can stop Jason from doing anything worse than what he already has. Helena, Tim brings in because he needs someone more mobile than he is while he’s healing, she doesn’t have any history with Jason, and she’ll be less judgmental about some of Red Hood’s methods. She helps Tim because she doesn’t want him getting hurt trying to do it all on his own. Plus, she understands family.

5) Dick learns about everything. He’s pissed that Bruce didn’t tell him about Jason right away. He’s devastated over Jason attacking Tim twice now. He’s also overjoyed that his little brother is alive. All of these emotions lead to him deciding to confront Jason himself.

No plan. No backup. He’s just gonna find his wayward brother and wing it.

He does. Emotions run high. Words are exchanged. Several blows are, too. But in the end, he has his little brother back and taught him a lesson about hurting their baby brother. He’s calling it a win.

The boys all recover together at Dick’s place and don’t tell Bruce anything for weeks.

6) Red Hood: The Lost Days/Red Hood and the Outlaws/The Return of Ra’s al Ghul crossover. In which Talia decides to intervene after Jason’s attack on Titans Tower.

She’s seen Jason using his detective skills and inborn compassion to help all along. She knows he’s not a lost cause like her father. She’d tried using training and suitable targets for his rage to distract him until he can calm enough to think clearly, but if he’s attacking innocent kids at this stage, then she needs to step in more firmly. Either he had some sort of set back and will never forgive himself when he regains his senses and realizes he hurt a child… Or he’s becoming like Ra’s. In which case, she definitely has to stop him.

The confrontation doesn’t exactly go smoothly, but Talia’s not Bruce nor is she a fifteen-year-old. She can handle anything Jason throws at her. And she’ll persevere because failing this boy simply isn’t an option for her.

Once he’s burnt himself out, she gives him more information she managed to dig up on Tim Drake. She can’t tell him exactly how the boy came to be Robin, because no one other than Batman and Robin likely know, but she can drive home the point that he’s an innocent child who is just trying to help people, the same as Jason had been when he was killed. Jason is horrified once that sinks in.

He asks Talia for help. Different help than what she’s been offering so far. The kind that will help him control, if not be rid of, the rage that his murder and the Pit left him with. So she takes him to the All-Caste. He trains. He heals. He teams up with some old friends and becomes a different kind of hero than Batman or Robin, but a hero nonetheless.

When Ra’s returns and decides he needs Damian’s body after several others fail to contain his tainted soul, Talia asks Jason for help. He agrees to take Damian to Bruce. Of course, he doesn’t realize what a spoiled brat the pre-teen is until they’re already on the way. Or that he’s Bruce’s biological son.

7) The other Teen Titans don’t take kindly to Jason drugging them and attacking one of their own. Instead of leaving it for the Bats to handle, they decide to track Jason down themselves. Kon, Bart, and Cassie naturally focus more on the whole ‘you hurt Tim again, we hurt you’ angle. Vic and Kori are cautious (they aren’t going to let any of the teens get hurt on their watch again) but a little more understanding. They want to protect the Teen Titans, but they also want to help Jason.

They explain that they didn’t put a statue of him up because of how much his death hurt Dick. They didn’t want him to keep seeing it and being reminded of the little brother he believed he failed. They tell Jason about the fights he and Bruce got into. Of the attempts both of them made on the Joker’s life. Of the way Dick feared he’d lose his father as well until Tim came along to save him.

Finally, they invite him to join the new Teen Titans, with the understanding that he isn’t going to be left alone with any of the younger members for a while, and under the condition that he agrees to see Kori’s psychiatrist in Metropolis.

He agrees.

#AU #fic ideas I haven't the time for #ficlet #fanfiction #dc #comics #bat family #teen titans #jason todd #red hood #tim drake #tim wayne #robin #talia al ghul #dick grayson #nightwing #bat brothers #batpups

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angelwings-crossbowstrings · 1 year

Text

Series Masterlist

Chapter 2

Chapter Warnings: Violence (Man on woman), just really horrible treatment of reader, allusions to sexual assault

You weren’t even sure what was happening. First, you had reached for the man’s arm— stupid, stupid, stupid, you knew better— and then you were on the ground. It didn’t hurt but it was startling. You kept your head down, moving slowly. Maybe Todd hadn’t seen. The stranger’s boot fell into your line of sight, just before Todd’s shiny loafers.

Shit.

Todd’s grip on your bicep was bruising. It would definitely leave marks, would have even before he yanked you up so hard that your head snapped back.

“What have I told you about touching the customers without asking?”

Your mouth moved without sound, surely making you look like a fish out of water. You really didn’t know how to answer. You knew better! Stupid!

“Hey, man, she—”

You should have expected the strike. You deserved it, really. It was the one thing that had been beaten into you over and over. Not all clients reacted as strongly as this one had, though. They would yell at you, call you names. Sometimes they’d call over Todd or even Big Jazz himself. None before had ever physically thrown you. Yet, from the stricken expression he wore, he had the nerve to feel bad about it.

You knew better than to argue. Talking back only made things worse. You had seen worse too many times before they had managed to break you. You didn’t make a sound when Jazz wrapped your hair around his fist to force you to your feet.

Through the small gap between your fingers, you saw the stranger leaving but he seemed reluctant; a haunted look in his eyes that you knew well.

“Hey!”

You lowered your hands but only slightly. Jazz and Todd would only make it hurt more if you were caught looking at the client you drove out.

“How much for her?”

What?!

You staggered out behind the two men and fell against the building’s exterior to shield your eyes from light you had not seen in— wait, how long had you been there?

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“Ya saw what they was doin’ to ‘er, same as I did!”

“It wasn’t our problem!”

“It don’t hafta be our problem now! She’s free!”

Free? You weren’t free. You had been sold. Auctioned off like livestock. A new boss, a new set of rules to follow. Never free.

“Maybe she can give us a ride then, Daryl, because otherwise we have a long walk ahead of us!”

“Man, just get the bags outta the car!”

When the men grew quiet, you slowly slid your hands down your face, blinking a few times to let your eyes adjust. The sun was so bright, so warm on your skin. You’d forgotten what that felt like. Your clothing—or lack thereof— only allowed for more warmth to seep in, stealing the chill from your bones. You inhaled deeply. You didn’t even mind the stench of death that seemed to linger in the air; it did little to overwhelm nature’s scent. The sky, the trees, the birds; it was as if you were seeing it all for the first time.

“Ya alright?”

You gasped, standing as straight as you could, but wobbled on your silver heels. You hoped your makeup was still okay. You hadn’t cried but the slap from Todd had probably made a mess of your eye. Hopefully, you’d be at least close to what he had wanted. If he tried to sell you back, Jazz would—

“S’your name?” The man asked, his southern drawl thick but not unattractive. Even the layer of dirt on his skin had some sort of appeal. In fact, without ogling, there didn’t seem to be anything about him that was unattractive. Except maybe the permanent scowl he seemed to wear. He’d had it inside as well, save for when Todd had hit you and the moment just before he’d started the transaction. You’d never forget that look. Still, even now, there was a kindness in his pretty blue eyes that betrayed him.

You jumped when he snapped his fingers just in front of your nose. Shit. Five minutes in and he’d already have to punish you. You quickly lowered your eyes.

“Y/N, Sir.” You answered meekly. Never speak louder than Sir.

He merely grunted in reply, his friend approaching with a backpack outstretched. Maybe he hadn’t noticed you staring, though you found that hard to believe. You looked up from under your lashes and watched him sift through the pack to produce a half-empty bottle of water and a granola bar. He held both out to you, arching an eyebrow when you stared at the offering quizzically.

“It’s, um—it’s not lights out, Sir.”

“Name’s Daryl. This s’Rick. And what the hell s’that mean?”

“Sir?”

“Daryl. Lights out. Whaddaya mean s’not lights out?” He looked as confused as you felt.

“I only, uh, eat at lights out. Sometimes in the, uh—-sometimes in the morning if I did good the night before.”

“Th’fuck?” He sounded genuinely outraged. Maybe he meant to only feed you once. Maybe Jazz had actually been kind in his own way after all. “Y’ain’t gotta worry ‘bout all that anymore.” He offered the food again, pushing it closer.

“Sir?”

“Daryl. Take it.”

With trembling hands, you accepted the items and held them close, not daring to open either until he had explicitly given his permission. “Thank you.” You whispered.

“Ain’t nothin’.” Daryl shouldered the bag, and pointed toward his left. “Nothin’ much down that way ‘less ya got people ya might be lookin’ for. I’d say North’s ya best bet.”

“Sir?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, the other man— Rick— snickering behind him. “Daryl—y’know, don’t even matter. See ya, Y/N.”

“Good luck.” Rick gave you a curt nod before both turned and began walking the very direction Daryl had just said was a waste of time.

That really threw you for a loop. Was this some sort of test of your loyalty? Your obedience? Heels click-clacking against the pavement, you caught up and fell in behind them, keeping a respectable distance. Your throat burned and your stomach growled, but he hadn’t told you to partake of the food and water. Maybe he would once he saw how good you could be.

You watched him glance over his shoulder before sharing a look with Rick. He stopped and turned to face you. “Wha’re ya doin’?”

“Was that not enough space?” You asked sincerely. The man stared at you with the most bewildered expression. “Too much?”

“Nah, why ya followin’ us?” Daryl looked angry now, stepping the slightest bit closer to cast a frightening shadow over your smaller form.

“Be-because you own me, Sir.”

His eyebrows shot up toward his hairline as he floundered for a moment before settling back into the stoicism you assumed was his natural state. “Y’ain’t property. That place s’fucked up. Ya can go wherever ya want now.” You stared at him, wide eyes blinking slowly. He didn’t say anything else before turning and starting away from you again.

“Sir?”

He stopped, shoulders tensing. “S’Daryl.”

“I, um—I don’t have anywhere to go.” Your voice was so small that you thought you might have to repeat yourself. Still, both men turned toward you yet again. “I—don’t remember how to be anything else.”

They shared another look before Daryl rolled his eyes and nearly stomped back over to where you still stood. “How many walkers ya killed?”

“Daryl.”

He held a hand up to silence Rick, actually looking a bit shocked when the other man shook his head and crossed his arms but said nothing else.

“How many?”

“None.” You answered just as quietly as before.

“Wonderful.” That was dripping with sarcasm. “How many people?”

You met his eyes again, suddenly terrified to answer. He was obviously irritated but that kindness was still there. You just didn’t feel like you should— or even could— lie to him.

“One.”

“Why?”

You took a deep breath and stood a little straighter, feeling your face heat up when his eyes dropped to your almost completely exposed breasts before snapping back just as quickly, like he didn’t mean for it to happen.

“One of Bigg Jazz’s men. He—he, um, needed to make sure I could do what they wanted. So he—” You trailed off, hoping he could fill in the rest. “I fought back. Killed him. That’s why I was treated differently from the other girls. He was Todd’s brother.”

His expression remained the same. It frightened you just how unreadable he seemed to be. He turned to Rick, apparently communicating his question without the need for words. The other man shook his head and put his hands on his hips, reminding you of your father.

“Don’t look at me. I wasn’t the one to start this.”

Daryl promptly raised his middle finger and dropped it before giving you his attention. After a few uncomfortable moments, he sighed. “What the hell m’I doin’? Alright, fine. But eat that so ya don’ keel over an’ take those off.” He was pointing at your heels. “Make too much racket.” He spun and walked toward Rick.

You nodded, just barely succeeded in containing your enthusiasm. You dared not smile. “Thank you. I’ll be real good. You won’t regret it, Sir.”

He froze mid-step, but didn’t turn. Shaking his head, he continued forward while you managed to remove your shoes and take a bite of the granola bar at the same time.

Ahead of you, Rick watched as Daryl passed him by, smirking as he fell in step beside him. “She’d better keep up if we’re going to cover any ground before making camp.” He paused, lips twitching in an effort at self control. “Sir.”

“Shuddup.”

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salllzy · 4 months

Text

Sal's ramblings #1

One of the issues that plague me is too many ideas, as I work on fics I always get ideas for other fics. So here is one. Alastor is part angel and he despises it, partly due to the fact that they aren't the good guys that everyone on earth seems to think that they are. So he hides the fact that he is part angel, he loved his mother but he is well aware that their angel heritage brought them nothing but pain and trouble. But no matter how much he loves his mother he refuses to fall into the same trappings as her. She had married a monster of a man all because she had formed a bond with him and he despised her for it. It is the only thing that he has never forgiven her for, she could have married anyone else. He didn't care that he wouldn't have existed, she would have been happy and alive. Not beaten to death before his 11th birthday.

But he knows that despite his best efforts he cannot escape it forever, angels form bonds and it is something that he cannot escape. So anytime he feels a bond forming he snaps it and keeps snapping them until they stop forming. So imagine his horror when he finds out that he is beginning to form bonds with those who live at the hotel, as an Overlord he cannot have such a blatant weakness, but as Alastor? He refuses to be chained and that is what he sees the bonds as. Chains.

It doesn't matter that they are meant to be symbols of his love and care for them, he had seen what bonds could do. His mother was a perfect example of that. Then it all goes tits up when Heaven finds out that his grandfather is a high-ranking angel (Uriel) and that he should never have been in Hell, to begin with, but he isn't as accepting as they want him to be. So they try to use the idea that he could have bonds with them. That they could be family. And Alastor just loses it. He hacks his wings off in front of everyone and tosses them to a horrified Sera and Emily. "There, now you have something to take back." Every angel is horrified, Lucifer and Vaggie know the pain of having their wings removed and Alastor had just done it willingly in front of everyone. Then he just leaves.

Alastor's mother is in tears as she explains that it had been his father's favourite way to punish Alastor, to remove his wings whenever he felt like it and it just makes things worse because Alastor had been a child. She then tries to explain that Alastor never had any bonds as a human, she had looked in on Alastor a few times when she lived in Heaven. As much as she hated what her son had become and the actions that he had taken, he was still her son. But she also knows that Alastor won't allow himself to form bonds with anyone, regardless of who they are and she knows that she is to blame for that.

Alastor doesn't want to go to Heaven and he has no plans to do so, but he knows that Heaven won't leave well enough alone. So to prove his point, he decides to slaughter his way through the Pride Ring, killing those that he knows deserve it. He doesn't kill those of fairer means after all. In the end, Lucifer kicks them out when it becomes clear that Alastor isn't going to stop and will keep going. But it also gives Lucifer an idea, he has been looking for a replacement for Lilith. It is clear that she isn't coming back and has no intentions of being in Charlie's life. But Alastor? Alastor has already proven that despite him not believing in Charlie's dreams, he will still support her, which is far more than what Lilith ever did. So Lucifer begins to slowly court Alastor, he has no intentions of changing Alastor. It was Alastor's fire and defiance that caused Lucifer to fall in love with Alastor after all. But that doesn't mean that he can't twist things to his advantage. Alastor is unaware that this is happening and when he feels a bond begin to form with Lucifer, he tries to snap it. Only it doesn't snap. Which causes him to panic, he won't be chained, he refuses to be chained. Lucifer is the King of Hell, the damage that he could do to Alastor isn't something that Alastor wants to dwell on. But the more the bond strengthens the more fearful Alastor is, he knows it is only a matter of time until Lucifer reveals his true colours. Only for Lucifer to reveal that he had it wrong the whole time, that Lucifer had no intentions of harming him, he never did. But he would like to court Alastor.

#sal's ramblings #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #lucifer morningstar #hazbin hotel lucifer #radioapple #alternate universe

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kachowden · 2 years

Note

I am already in love with the pink lemonade cowboy 🥰😍

Vampire!Cowboy! Yandere x GN! Reader

——————-(<3)—————

A/n: I do not condone yandere behavior, this is purely fictional. This will be a short series. If you want to see what our yandere looks like you can see him here <3 also this technically isn’t a slow burn but the juicy stuff will show up in part 2

Part 1

——————————————————-

The rain thudded dully against the roof of your old rusty car. Your windshield wipers squeaked across your windows, flinging off thin sheets of water that blurred the dark road in front of you. Puddles reflected in your single headlight.

You’re grandfather was a cruel man.

As sweet as honey, you loved your grandfather dearly. He was always especially generous on the holidays.

But he was cruel. Because while he was on his “retirement vacation”, he left his massive farm in your care.

You! The grandchild who hadn’t done a lick of farm work in their entire life! Hell the closest thing to a farm you’d ever been to was a petting zoo when you were- what 6??

How were you expected to do anything remotely useful! In fact you were 90% sure that these crops and animals would be dead and gone within a week under your care.

But ohoho! Lucky you! You grandfather has a helper on the farm! A complete Fucking stranger who you’d never met before was going to be sharing a house with you for the next 6 weeks! Thank you grandpa! Love you SOO much!

You did love him. But you were irritated and you felt like you had a right to be so! He dropped this bombshell on you, not even asking if you had any plans!

Which you didn’t but that wasn’t the point!

Plans could’ve popped up at any moment!

With a very stressed sigh you pulled your beaten up car into the drive way of the rustic red farm house. Your engine wheezed with exhaust as your wheels rolled to a bumpy stop on the wet pavement. It took about 5 hours to drive to where your grandpa lived. Which meant you couldn’t just stay at your house and visit everyday to water the animals and feed the crops or whatever.

You physically had to stay here.

I mean it was a paid vacation but come on! You’d rather be working at the café than on a farm! At least you knew what you were doing there!

You let your head fall softly against the steering wheel, sighing again at your circumstances.

“Whatever. No use in complaining now.”

“Probably not kid.”

“Holy Sh-!”

The violent sound of your car horn scattered birds and animals for miles. Though there were few to begin with in this dreary weather. The stranger who had peered through your open window winced, covering his ears with a snarl.

“Oh shit- i am so sorry you just- actually- no what the fuck you scared the shit out of me!”

Typically you weren’t one to point fingers but you were in a particularly bad mood today so you felt that it was justified. Plus he did scare you!

The strangers lips twisted into a grimace, and you felt your body sending various warning signals when his turquoise irises narrowed down on your figure. Jeez this dude had a judgmental stare. You prayed this guy wasn’t your grandfathers “help”.

The mystery man clicked his tongue. “You the old mans grandkid?”

Fuck

You glared deeply at the totally not gorgeous cowboy, “..and I suppose you’re his “helper”?”

The stranger didn’t seem to take very kindly to your attitude, what with the way he leaned his head a little further into your car window to stare you down.

You had half the nerve to try and close it on him but the dumb thing was a window crank and you wouldn’t have gotten it up in time anyway.

“The names Micah. Your pops calls me Mickey. It’s either Micah or Mic to you, kid.”

Asshole!

“I’m pretty sure we’re the same age Mickey.”

He didn’t respond to that, merely pulling himself out of the car with a deep exhale.

He backed up slightly from the vehicle, you assumed to wait for you to get out, but when he lifted his boot up you got a little more worried

“Hey what’re you-“

With a sharp kick, Mickey smashed his boot into the lower side of your car door causing it to shoot open like a spring lock. Aka causing you to flop out onto your ass with a loud cuss.

Crying out you scowled deeply at the cowboy who didn’t even bother to send you a snarky look in return.

You could feel the water drizzling through your hair and clothes.

Looking painfully disinterested, the redhead(?) began walking away from your slowly soaking form. Leaving you to bring in your luggage. In the rain.

“I thought cowboys were supposed to be friendly or something..” you growled somewhat pitifully into the empty cold rain.

Glancing down at your wet knees you sighed, beginning to pick yourself off the ground, in hopes to spare a little of your own dignity.

Though it was for not when you felt your non grippy shoes slide against a stray patch of mud.

You didn’t have time to do much more than gasp when you felt yourself fall forward, only to land into a surprisingly secure and- kinda cold, set of arms.

Your breathed deeply for a moment, pulling back to stare at Mickey, who’s own eyes peered down at you from the brim of his now spotted hat.

You didn’t want to acknowledge the size of his forearms, or how you could feel practically everything under that flimsy wife beater he wore despite the weather.

You swore you heard him mumble something along the lines of “city folk”, but you became too distracted when noticing the purple spotted umbrella that now shade the two of you from the rain.

“Oh..”

You think you finally saw a small smile on the cowboys lips.

“Still thinkin I ain’t nice?”

You flushed, mostly in embarrassment at the fact that he heard you.

“Ah dip, you heard that?”

His laugh was fucking hot dude.

“You’d be surprised on how much I can hear, Kid.”

“Creepy but okay.”

Mickey laughed again though a bit shorter this time before propping you back up. You swore you heard a deep inhale, but you weren’t sure due to the sound of rain pelting the umbrella and car.

“Why don’t you head inside. I’ll grab your luggage.”

“Oh no, I can take care of it-“

The man glared at you, though you felt it was considerably less hostile than it had been originally.

“Just get in or else the foods gon’ get cold.”

Food?

“Say less!”

You had half a mind to be embarrassed when Mickey laughed at the sight of you practically skipping up to the porch and through the rustic door.

—————————————-

There was a loud and aggressive knocking at your door.

You decided being cruel was a country thing.

Because while Mickey had been sweet enough to make you dinner last night and breakfast this morning, he also rudely woke you up at the ass crack of dawn and kicked you out into the field to help with the chores.

Now mind you, typically you were a morning person! A go-getter of sorts! But the sun wasn’t even awake yet! So why were you out here picking peas, tomatoes, squash, peppers and so on, when you could be sleeping peacefully, cozied up in the slightly itchy and heavy wool sheets of your guest bed! Something about “the morning dew” apparently.

You weren’t even sure how Mic got in your room after you didn’t respond, seeing as you were once again, 90% sure you locked the door. Then again, the food he made practically sent you into a coma once you were done.

You weren’t sure if it was coincidence or not, but Micah had made all your favorite foods that evening. You wanted to assume your pa had told him, but you didn’t believe for a second that, that rude cowboy would go out of his way to make your favorite foods for you.

Especially considering he didn’t eat any of it.

All he had was this weird cup of, what you could only assume was wine or cranberry juice and a few pieces of a steak he popped in the oven.

This guy was weird.

“Hey kid! You done pickin or are your city hands to sensitive to finish the job?”

Speak of the bastard and he will come! Unfuckenfortunately

Your scowl was probably noticeable from a mile away, and especially from where the tall country man stood, given his smug grin as he walked over to examine your work.

He whistled mockingly, freaky blue-green eyes scanning your baskets.

“Not bad, for city folk anyway. But here.-“ crouching down in front of you the, ginger(?) reached his rough hands out and softly pulled the baskets from your arms.

“You wanna keep your herbs separated from each other. Some of them are harder to tell from others and you don’t wanna go mixin them up.”

You watched quietly, mostly in your own mental brooding, as he carefully separated the different herbs and spices from each other. His hands were large, but you noticed how precise he seemed to be. He had to have been working here quite sometime, cuz you couldn’t tell much of a difference between half of the things he was organizing.

“There we go.” His voice was soft this morning. Blending in with the sound of the faint winds, and the after rain dripping from the gutters and into the soil. It was still too early for the birds to be chirping. The sun still had yet to rise but the stars gave just enough light to see the gentle gaze the farm boy had set on you.

This moment of silence was odd for you. Especially given the two of you bickering since your arrival yesterday. This guy before you made no sense. Like a switch, he was harsh and snappy, and then gentle and calm. Caring almost. At times he almost acted like he’d known you for years. Though that seemed to mostly happen when he was doing something around the farm.

Caught up in your own thoughts, you missed the way Mickeys eyes were burning into you. They moved languidly over your figure, taking in your attire, dressed more warmly for the morning chill. Nearly every part of you was covered.

Except your neck. You had forgotten to pack a scarf apparently.

The pale man’s jaw clenched tightly, his shoulders tensing before he scowled and stood up, interrupting the once peaceful atmosphere.

“Get up. We still have work to do.”

His tone was cold and biting like the morning. Your breath came out in foggy puffs. But his didn’t. At least you couldn’t see it from where you were.

You watched with furrowed brows knit confusion as the cowboys boots carried him into the farmhouse, right as the first rays of the sun stretched over the country side and bled into the fields.

What was his deal?

For the rest of the day, Mickey seemed to be adamant about being as big of a thorn in your side as possible. Barking at you to hurry up. Scowling at you when you slipped or did something even slightly wrong.

Perfectionist asshole.

He also seemed to be avoiding looking at you.

At least directly. Every time you turned to yell at him, or glare, his back was always turned or his head was to the side, seeming adamant on not meeting your eyes.

Moody much?

The only time he did look at you was when he thought you weren’t looking. ‘Specially when you were moving heavy objects and you had to take off your jacket so you wouldn’t drown in your own sweat.

To some extent you prided your self on your work. You weren’t lazy by any means, and actually considered yourself a fairly hard worker, if the muscles of your forearms were any indication. You weren’t ripped. But it was something right?

You assumed that Mic agreed, though granted he could’ve just been comparing yours to his own massive forearms. But with the way his eyes were trailing all over you and zoning in on your barren arms and shoulders, You were almost flattered!

Almost. If the same guy who was checking you out wasn’t also being bloody ruthless with the chores. You got a few scrapes and bruises by that time noon, and you practically fell into the rickety kitchen dining chairs.

“Holy fucking shit I’ve never moved that much in my entire life..” a pain groaned poured from your lips as your aching muscles strained with your body heaving itself upwards.

Mickey let out a soft scoff at the sound, though still considerably gentler than he had been all morning, as he placed a very aesthetic sand-which In front of you.

Your stomach growled particularly loud at the sight, and with new found energy you picked up the scrumptious food with a grateful thanks and began eating.

Mickey, once again, without a lunch of his own opted to watch you openly instead. His belt buckle jeans pressed into the kitchen counter top, muscular arms propping himself up against it.

He watched quietly, and you would’ve been freaked out if you weren’t so damn tired.

“There’s still more to do. We haven’t gotten to the animals yet. And the roof on the barn needs leak repairs.”

You choked.

Hacking violently you smacked your chest before unlodging the piece of fresh bread from your throat.

Gulping water quickly you exhaled and turned to look at the cowboy in what you hoped was a glare, but was more accurately a very pathetic frown.

“I-!” You opened your mouth to argue before closing it softly with a tired sigh.

You’d complained enough today.

Mickey had been doing this kind of work for who knows how long, and he was going out of his way to accommodate your pace, though not by much, and was even making you food. It felt rude to comparing at this point.

You just hoped that if you died from exhaustion Mickey wouldn’t use your body as fertilizer.

So with a resigned groan you sat up after finishing your delicious sandwich. “..Yeah, okay.” You mumbled, getting ready to move to the trash can and toss out the crumbs and paper, but a large pale hand forced you back into your seat, without much pressure given how tired your body already was.

You gazed at Mickey curiously.

The tall cowboy looked down at you firmly, his expression odd as he scanned your bruises and sweaty face. Sighing completely inaudibly before reaching into his back pocket and placing a tube of some kind of muscle cream and a pack of wraps.

“Go upstairs and run yourself a warm bath. You stink and the water will help relax your muscles so they wont hurt as much tomorrow. You can spend the rest of the day doing whatever you need to do, but I expect you down here and out at the gate by 5 to bring in the cattle. Got it?”

You were stunned. The smile that worked its way on your face seemed to embarrass the farmer slightly as he turned away from you with folded arms and a grumpy frown.

“Don’t look at me like that, I’m only letting you off because at this point you’ll slow me down more than anything. I don’t need a clumsy city kid messing up my work.”

You chose to ignore the bastards insults in favor of gently placing your arm on his lower bicep.

“Thanks Mic.”

You missed the deep inhale and weird glow of the cowboys eyes that followed you up the stairs and into your bedroom.

“…..”

It was good to see you hadn’t changed much.

#yandere #yandere cowboy #yandere vampire #yandere x reader #x reader #yandere oc #Micah/Mickey oc #part 1

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nailbatss · 3 months

Text

"Lie to Me"

This is another entry for @harringrovesummerbingo !!

Square & Prompt: A3 - “Lie to Me”

Rating: Angsty

Word Count: 3.1k

Major Tags: Harringrove (obviously), angst, like the most hurtful piece I’ve probably written, blood, mentions of wounds, confession of feelings, aaaangst, character death

Summary: When things go wrong in the Starcourt Mall, who’s going to be there for you when things all go wrong? Billy doesn’t have anyone, or so he thinks. That is, until things go wrong for him to find out.

Who can you count on when things go south? Who’s going to be there for you to patch your wounds when you get in a huge fight?

If you were to ask Steve, he would easily say this group of weirdos that he pulled together last minute.

If you ask Billy, he’d answer nobody. He couldn’t count on his friends back in California, they’ve probably long forgotten him. Tommy H and Carol weren’t even his close friends either. They were groupies looking for the next hottest commodity, him.

What happens when you lose that fight?

Steve would answer he gets drugged by the Russians and forced to tell the truth about something he doesn’t even want to spill out. He was pretty sure his head would be raging about that one. It was already bad enough he got the shit beaten out of him by Hargrove and he hated him for that, but he understood his panic about Max. That part he could forgive, now his comment about Lucas? Absolutely not.

That was his kid. He wasn’t going to play around when it came to his kids. Hell, Billy couldn’t blame him for protecting his little sister. In fact, nobody could actually. He realized he lost his connection to her the moment she decided to drug him and knock him out in that abandoned house.

He lost everything.

Billy wasn’t the type to sulk about, in fact, he was going to do the exact opposite. He was going to pretend like none of this shit bothered him.

That’s why he almost had a thing with Mrs. Wheeler. Yeah, he doesn’t like to think about that. It was only for show anyway since he felt sick the moment she started to reciprocate and pretend to think about leaving her husband to be with him.

God, what was he thinking?

That night when he was driving to the motel, he was actually going to break it off. He wasn’t going to continue flirting with her since someone else had caught his eye. He had it bad for Harrington; that he wasn’t proud to admit, but it was something.

He’d stopped flirting with girls, stopped trying to pick them up, and instead, he started to lay it thick on the brunette boy. Though he was older, Billy took that as a challenge to keep doing it. He liked pushing the envelope and seeing how much he could get away with.

Crash. Squealing of brakes. Smashing of glass.

After he had wrecked by the old mill, Billy pulled himself out of his car for now to investigate what the hell had happened. Rubbing the back of his head, his sharp blue eyes scanned the area, searching for any sign of what could have made him crash. Raising his brow, Billy knew it was better not to ask who was there in the darkness. Huffing to himself, he shook his head and turned around to return to his car.

Fwoop. Snatch!

“What the hell?!” He exclaimed as something wrapped around his ankles, pulling him back towards that abandoned factory. “Hey! What the fuck, let go of me!” He roared as he tried to kick whatever had its hold on him off of him. “LET! GO!”

His heart was racing with something he was very familiar with, fear. His screams were contained within the walls of the steelworks, his hands gripping everything in his path to try and hold himself off. His cries of anguish weren’t heard by anyone and he was sure this was how he died. Someone had him and they weren’t going to let go anytime soon.

A single tear slid down his cheek as he whispered an apology into the darkness.

“I’m sorry Steve… I’m sorry Max…”

That was all before he was dragged into the darkness.

~*~

“What are you doing out here, amigo?” He confidently strides up to Steve, playing coy for a moment. He noticed a figure in the window as soon as they started talking. Now wasn’t the time to draw attention there yet.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Steve retorts and puts his hands on his hips. Bitchy, he liked that in the man.

“My thirteen year old sister goes missing, all day. Then I find her out here with you, in a stranger’s house, and you lie to me about it.” Billy’s face contorts with an almost angered expression.

“She’s not with me, man.” Steve scoffed.

Suddenly, Billy gestures with his lit cigarette towards a window, seeing a familiar figure in the dim lighting of the house.

“Then who’s that?”

“Oh shit.”

The air was knocked out of Steve’s lungs as he hit the ground. Billy tossed his finished cigarette into the woods somewhere and he exhaled the smoke.

“I told you to plant your feet, pretty boy.”

Then he swaggered on into the house, the door closing behind him.

Stars danced on the edge of Steve’s vision as he was once again knocked down. He couldn’t lose. Not this time.

So he pushed himself to his feet and chased after him.

~*~

Dark. Everything was so dark. Billy began to wonder what happened as he recalled that sudden memory. Was this all Steve’s plan? Did his little group of freaks crash his car and do this to him?

No, they weren’t smart enough for that.

Well, maybe the curly-haired one, that kid was freakishly smart from what Max told him.

Either way, he didn’t like this.

“Hello?” He called out as he stumbled through the dark, attempting to find a light source, anything like that.

“This isn’t funny.”

“You mean you do not like this game?” A growling voice questioned him.

There was a chill in his bones. Something didn’t feel right here.

“What the fuck? No, I don’t like this! Let me go!”

“Oh, but we cannot. We have work to do, William.”

Yeah, Billy most definitely did not like that.

“What do you mean?” His heart rate picked up, obviously frightened by the voice and how it knew his name. His real name. Not the nickname he went by.

“You and I have work to do. These people, this place, it did not give you anything. I will make things right, you will see. Everything will be perfect.”

“Stop speaking in fucking riddles! Tell me what you want from me!”

A deep chuckle rang out, making the ends of his hair stick up on his neck. Something was deeply wrong here and he didn’t know how to go about fixing it.

“We will start by fixing your relationships with your family. Your sister will thank you for this.”

“Leave Max out of this!”

He was met by silence, then suddenly, he was left alone it felt like.

The darkness quickly gave way to a window opening, which he seemed to realize was his body. He watched as his hands lifted up, his ring glinting in the pale sunlight as it crept through the boarded up windows.

“Oh shit.”

That wasn’t him moving anything.

That thing was moving him.

And he had no idea where it was headed.

~*~

Hissing, the creature hated the fireworks as they hit his body, and Billy stood still, watching it all happen from inside. He was screaming for himself to wake up, to not harm anyone else. He was tired of seeing the destruction that befell his hands. He had already sacrificed Heather and her family to this thing. Now, he had to watch as it was after that girl Max was friends with.El, he seemed to recall.

Before he knew it, his body was turning, heading towards the girl as she was on the ground. He was wrestling with her in an attempt to pick her up. Her leg was damaged and she was a prime target for that creature who was made up of their townspeople, the people who had lived in this town and he had made fun of. Soon, the monster slammed him away from the window, his body slamming into the floor. He picked himself up and he decided to sit on the nearest surface, a perfect mockup of his bed.

He hoisted himself up, sitting down on the not so plush surface to wait. Tears were falling down his face at this point. Nobody could save him, not even himself. This creature had caused mass destruction and the town was fearful. He didn’t know if anyone was left. Or if anything was left for that matter. All there seemed to be was this stupid mall.

Billy balled himself up and he let the tears flow, apologies flowing from his lips.

~*~

Basketball. He was good at that.

His father had found out that he wasn’t actually into girls. He screamed at him and berated his son, throwing punches left and right, beating the hell out of him to “teach him a lesson”. Blood poured from his nose, bruises were blossoming underneath his t-shirt. Neil wasn’t stupid enough to leave marks were people could see them.

That’s what made getting away with it so easy. Neil didn’t have to worry about Billy snitching to anyone because that would mean he loses the roof over his head, he loses the food that’s on the table, and he loses access to the one person who treated him like a son.

He took beatings for Max too. She was too young to go through that.

He wasn’t going to lay a finger on her.

This one was particularly bad. He sat on his bed and wiped his nose, wheezing from the beating he took. Hearing a soft knock at the door, he didn’t even move. He knew that was Max from the pattern of her knocks. He didn’t have the strength to tell her to piss off. He could actually use the company.

“‘Min.” He muttered.

Max must have understood, or she was coming in anyway, that was a choice too. Lifting his head, Billy acknowledged her with a nod. A soft gasp escaped her as she took in the sight before her. Neil hadn’t been so careful this time and really let Billy have it. His nose was busted, his lip was too, and his eye was swelling shut. There was no way he could write that off as an accident.

The red-haired girl approached him with a first aid kit. It broke his heart knowing she had to know how to fix him up. Kneeling on the floor in front of him, Max opened the kit and immediately began tending to his wounds.

“How d’ya know how to-”

“Fix you? I’ve bandaged you up a few times.. You know, Mom showed me how to do this.” She answered with a soft scoff. “He beat the hell out of you, huh?”

“I’ll fuckin say.” Billy muttered and winced as she put a cotton ball on his forehead. It was soaked with hydrogen peroxide to clean out the wound. Damn, she’d be a good nurse if she wanted to be.

“You shouldn’t have to do this.” He said quietly, so quietly that Max almost didn’t hear him.

“What kind of sister would I be if I didn’t? After all, you took that one for me, didn’t you?”

“No… I deserved it.”

“Why?” Max questioned as she paused wiping the wound to bandage it.

“He found out I don’t play for the same team.” Billy answered somberly.

“What does that-” Max paused to process what he said, “Oh…”

“Yeah, oh.”

“I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry.” Max whispered.

“Why are you sorry? You didn’t do this to me.”

“Because you didn’t deserve it.”

Billy’s bottom lip nearly trembled from hearing how heartbroken she sounded. After she closed the kit and stood to leave, his arms snaked around her and pulled her in for a hug. Leaning his forehead against her stomach, he swear he didn’t feel the tears start racing until she hugged him back.

One day they’d get out of there. One day he wouldn’t have to hide who he is.

~*~

“You ever think about what it would be like to get out of here?” Billy questioned one night.

He and Steve were at the Harrington residence and smoking outside by the pool. It was a warm enough night and the pool had been cleaned since Barb’s death. He wasn’t about to let some bad juju come back while he was trying to have a good night.

Steve exhaled his smoke. “I do, yeah… Other times, I feel-” He paused to think of the word he was looking for.

“Trapped?” Billy finished.

“Yeah, yeah, trapped. That’s it.” He took another drag from his cigarette.

“You never did tell me why you called so suddenly. And what happened to you?” Steve asked as he turned his attention towards the blonde.

“My dad found out something I was hiding from him and he didn’t take it too well.”

“Shit, dude, I’m sorry.” Steve’s expression softened and his brows furrowed in worry. “Don’t hit me for this. But why did he hurt you? Like what exactly did he find out?”

Billy chuckled softly, ironically even.

“Neil Hargrove doesn’t like the fact that his son likes dick, not pussy.”

“O-Oh.” Steve coughed and he tried to recover from what he had just heard.

“Right on, good for you dude.” Steve flushed with a brilliant shade of red. “How’d you find that out?”

“I tried sleeping around, nothing ever felt… right. Not until I met someone.” He shrugged. “Not like I’m going to pursue anything with him though.”

“Why’s that?”

“I think he plays for the opposite team. He likes chicks too much.” Billy shrugs.

“Well, how do you know?” Steve questioned, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him now.

Billy took that moment to look at him. “I don’t know, Harrington, do you like dudes?”

Steve’s eyebrows furrowed inquisitively. “I- why are you asking m- oh.”

It was silent between the two of them for a while until Billy stood up. “That was stupid, forget it.”

Before the blonde could completely walk away, Steve stood up quickly and caught his wrist.

“Hey, I never said I didn’t like dudes.” Steve smiled softly.

“You also didn’t answer my question. Just let me go, we’ll forget about it.” Billy tried to yank his hand away.

But that was before Steve caught his jaw, pulling him in for a searing kiss.

His eyes widened before he melted into the kiss. The boys pulled away for air a moment or so later. Their eyes met; blue met brown in a clash of colors, all their feelings being unsaid, but lingering in the air. It was obvious they had a connection.

One that Billy wasn’t going to let go now that he had it.

"Be mine?"

"Fuck yeah, pretty boy. M'all yours."

~*~

The next time Billy lifted his head, he saw her standing there. That weird girl, El, her name was. He could see the 011 tattooed on her wrist. How she had one so young, he’d never know, but she was a badass in his eyes for it.

“It is time to go now.”

“Go? Go where?” He questioned. “And how are you here?”

“Go home.” El smiled. “I came to find you.”

“You mean?”

“Yes, out of here.” She extended her hand, wanting him to take it, so she could bring him home. “Back to the others, to Max, to Steve.”

A blush creeped along his cheeks. Yeah, he wanted to go home, back to Steve, and where he felt the most comfortable.

“Okay.” He placed his hand in hers, standing to his feet, “Take me home.”

Whoosh!

After opening his eyes, Billy’s met those concerned brown ones all over again. He was laying on top of her and keeping her pinned beneath his body. Suddenly, he felt sick, so he stood up and faced towards the loud screeching noise. The Mindflayer was extending its tentacles towards the two of them. He figured since he had been sacrificing her to it, that’s why it was creeping so slowly.

He grit his teeth together and reached out, basically pushing the tentacle’s arm away. He screamed, “Don’t touch her!”

Steve watched on with agony as Billy was doing that. “Billy stop!” His heart was pounding. Robin grabbed his hand and pulled him back. “Stop! You’re only going to get yourself killed!”

“He’s going to get himself killed! Rob let go!” He panicked and he looked at her. “Please.”

“No, Steve, I’m sorry. I can’t lose you.” Robin pleaded.

He managed to turn back, only to watch as that other tentacle impaled Billy right through the stomach. His scream erupted through the mall as he shoved the thing away from him, obviously taking back his authority.

“Fuck you! I’m not letting anyone else run my life for me!” He growled, desperately trying not to choke on his own blood.

The next tentacle went right through his chest, making him fall to his knees. Before he could completely collapse, he felt someone cradle his head and pull him into their lap.

Cloudy blue eyes met those deep pools of chocolate.

His smile was tinted with blood, his own blood. “H-Hey pretty boy. F-fancy meeting you here.” He coughed.

“You promised me… You promised!” Steve sobbed softly.

“I-I know I did.” Billy wheezed again, staring up at him. Picking up his hand, he gently placed it on Steve’s cheek.

“Need you to do me f-favor.”

“A-Anything! I’ll do anything!” Steve sniffled.

“Lie to me, pretty boy.”

“W-What?” Steve was confused.

“Lie to me. Tell me we-we’re going to make it. T-Tell me about our lives after this.” Billy requested softly and his gaze seemed slightly far off.

“We’re going to get the hell out of here. A-And we’re, we’re going to get married. I don’t give a shit if it’s legal or not.” Steve sniffled. “I-I want a house on the beach with you. I-I want about two or three kids.” He wiped his tears away. “We’ll get a dog.”

“W-What kind of dog?” Billy wheezed.

“A golden retriever, o-or a lab. And you’ll be a mechanic to fix cars, I’ll be a teacher. We’ll just be happy, I don’t give a damn how, but we will.” Steve sniffled.

“S-Sounds good. M’tired, p-pretty boy.” Billy’s eyes were slowly shutting.

Steve knew he was losing this battle. He wasn’t going to be able to fight anymore. After all, he spent his whole life fighting. Billy had been through it all.

“Go ahead, baby, you go ahead and rest, okay?” Steve choked out.

“M’kay. L-Love you, S-Steve.”

“I-I love you too, Billy.” He stroked his cheek, getting the curls out of his face.

The gesture made Billy smile slightly before his eyes fully shut, slipping off into that peaceful warmth that he felt. His hand fell into Steve’s waiting one and a sob rang out from Steve’s chest.

His beautiful California boy was gone. With him, Steve’s heart.

#hsb2024 #stranger things #harringrove #harringrove angst #billy hargrove deserved better #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #steve x billy

22 notes · View notes