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roseghoul26 · 1 month

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Cooper Howard | The Ghoul x fem!Reader

Synopsis: After being captured by The Ghoul, he had dragged you through the hot desert of the Wasteland. You were so thirsty, and you’d do anything for a drink of water. And you meant anything. Tags: Smut, Practically No Plot, Humiliation, Begging, Spit, Blowjobs, Throat Fucking, Thigh Riding, Biting, Hate Sex(?), maybe OOC The Ghoul but I think I got it right, Not Beta Read, there's still consent because i can’t write severe noncon Author's Note: i had so many “why am i writing this” moments yet i still finished it i’m so sorry.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this thirsty in your life.

Scratch that, you don’t think anyone’s ever been as thirsty as you currently are.

Even though you had no saliva left to swallow, you tried anyway, your throat feeling like sandpaper. It caused you to cough, earning a disgruntled noise from the ghoul currently holding you hostage.

The Ghoul. Infamous bounty hunter and the cruelest person you’d ever met. Of course, you only found out who he was after he captured you. You’d never even heard of a ghoul until a few days ago, your sheltered life in Vault 14 withholding information about the surface to you.

You wished you were back home, suffocating as it was. At home, you wouldn’t be forced to walk countless miles under the boiling Wasteland sun. At home, you wouldn’t have a lasso around your neck, preventing you from running off. And even if you did manage to somehow escape the rope confines, you’d seen how accurate of a shot he was. He’d kill you before you managed to keep a foot away from him.

You glanced back at him, The Ghoul, who had his sawed-off shotgun casually trained on you. He seemed unaffected by the heat, by the sun beating down on your faces. His hat made sure of that, and you supposed that you didn’t have to worry about sunburn if all your exposed skin was melted by radiation.

It had been hard, looking at him at first. After spending your entire life surrounded by “normal” humans, it was a shock seeing him for the first time. You’d seen burn scars before, sure, but never this severe, every inch of him covered in them. Of course, that wasn’t the most off-putting part. That had to be the complete lack of nose, an empty socket where the cartilaginous appendage should be.

It unsettled you deeply, but you found that you couldn’t stop looking at him, a sick part of your brain enjoying it. You didn’t dare delve into that part of your mind right now, though, your current circumstance is significantly more important.

He had stopped you in Filly, and after a brief discussion had decided that he was taking you with wherever he was going. You had no say in the decision, and even when you fought and kicked and screamed he still managed to get you bound. A few people tried to help, not because they cared about you, but because they had also wanted to get their hands on a “Vaultie”. Apparently, you were worth something to them up here, a commodity of sorts. It made your skin crawl. You’d gotten firsthand experience, then, of how good of a shot The Ghoul was.

How you longed to be back in the stuffy Vault, working as a teacher to those kids. As annoying as they were, at least they weren’t currently threatening your life, or making you walk to who the hell knows. You’d take that over this any day. Hell, you’d take latrine duty with overflowing toilets every single hour over this.

You fixed your attention back in front of you, the endless stretch of sandy dunes in front of you broken up by partially destroyed houses and skeletons of buildings. Your feet were in incredible amounts of pain, every step feeling like you had fifty pounds of bricks attached to your ankles. And that thirst, never ending, overwhelming thirst you felt nagged at you, consuming every thought of yours. You’d take anything to drink now, even that definitely radiated puddle you’d passed hours ago. Or was it minutes? You couldn’t tell.

You knew dehydration had long since started affecting you. You were no longer able to form sweat, and you were certain that your body was slowly cooking from the inside. You were almost certain it would be a better fate than whatever The Ghoul was leading you towards.

You hadn’t even realized he’d stopped until you felt a sharp tug at your throat, nearly toppling you on your ass. You heard him chuckle as you steadied yourself, and you shot him a glare. Even faced with death, you weren’t going to let yourself be treated like this. “We’re stopin’ here,” he gestured to a dilapidated building to his right.

You had been surprised when he spoke the first time, not expecting a southern drawl. You’d never heard an accent like his before, only ever hearing them on the Holotapes your Vault would play for movie night. You’d also believed them to be fake, or to have died out with the rest of humanity. You had to admit, the one good thing to come out of this whole experience was hearing his voice.

Momentarily confused as to why you were stopping, your eyes focused, and you realized that the sun was half set. You’d learned rather quickly that it was suicidal and stupid to travel across the Wasteland at night, after an almost perilous encountered with what you assumed to once be a bear. You’d barely escaped with your life, climbing a tree until the creature grew disinterested and found new prey.

You almost wished it had torn you apart then.

Apparently you were taking too long, and you felt another tug at the rope, pulling you closer to him. “Ain’t got all day, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. The name was anything but sweet, saying it with so much condescension that it made you flush angrily. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Grumbling something under your breath, you stormed past him, another low chuckle leaving him. “Nothin’ good is gonna come from that mouth on ya,” he threatened, waving the gun at you in a go on motion.

The shifting sand nearly caused you to stumble as you ducked into the house through a window, and your eyes struggled to adjust to the low lighting. Holding your breath, you listened for anything else in the house besides the two of you, and when you were met with only your heartbeat, you continued further in.

Entering what used to be the living room, you saw a large couch, still in relatively decent condition, and luckily free of decomposed bodies. Any wood furniture, however, had already decayed, leaving only fragments where they once stood. You realized that if you were to sit on the couch, it would probably crumble under the weight.

The Ghoul entered behind you, and you made your way down the hallway, checking each room for anyone or anything that could do you harm. The first room was a bathroom, sand filling the bathtub like it was water. Out of desperation you almost tried to turn the handles on the sink, lift the seat of the toilet, do anything for a drop of water. But you refrained, not willing to stoop to that level yet. But you could feel that you were close.

The next room was a large master bedroom, completely destroyed from when the bombs fell. Sand covered everything, and the walls had practically caved in, leaving you exposed to the outside. There was no where you would stay there willingly tonight.

The third and final room was also completely devoid of life, but the empty crib in the middle of the room had you gasping, and you heard the click of a gun behind you as The Ghoul prepared for anything. You quickly shut the door. “Nothing, sorry,” you managed to croak out, and you heard him scoff.

However, you saw that he did manage to catch a glimpse of the room before you closed the door, and in those still human eyes you saw something flash through them. Sadness? Longing? Anger? You couldn’t tell, but you sure as hell weren’t about to ask him about it.

Living room it is, then. Heading back to the original room, you watch The Ghoul sit on the couch, right in the center of it. It held, surprisingly, but you could hear the wood groan in warning. Spreading his legs, you watched him tilt his head back, a content sigh leaving his mouth.

If you had the energy to blush, you would’ve as you watched him, finding yourself having to look away. Maybe dehydration was messing with your brain, the way you thought that was attractive. What the hell was wrong with you, you thought.

Thirst quickly chased those thoughts away, and you attempted to lick your dry lips, your tongue mostly sticking to them instead. You were about to go explore the bathroom until you remembered the rope around your neck.

Like he could read your thoughts, you watched him regard the lasso in his gloved hand. “You gonna run off on me if I take this off, sweetheart?”

You shook your head, excited to have the irritating rope no longer chafing your neck. “You’ll kill me before I could,” you responded, voice barely a whisper.

The Ghoul barked out a laugh. “Damn right I will.” He considered your response for a moment, and you fully believed that he was going to keep it there. That was until he stood, almost inhumanly fast, approaching you with long strides.

Holding your breath, you felt his tug the rope off your neck, those eerily human eyes never leaving yours as he did. You flinched when you felt one of his leather-clad fingers brush over the irritated skin. Your heart beat rapidly in your chest, mostly because of fear, but also for another reason that you refused to name.

With a satisfactory smirk, he looped the lasso back onto his belt. You quickly exhaled when he stepped away, eliciting a coughing fit, which was dry and only irritated your throat more. Fuck, you were so thirsty.

The Ghoul sat back on the couch in that same lounging position, and you debated sitting on the floor in front of him, but you feared that if you rested now then you’d never get back up. You watched him set a lantern on the ground, the weak oil based contraption the only source of light in the entire room. You didn’t ask why he didn’t start a fire; you also learned to not do that early on too.

So you remained standing, even though your feet screamed for relief. You ignored them, shifting to try and alleviate the pain slightly. Rubbing your neck, you could feel that he hadn't once taken his eyes off of you, and it was making you increasingly unnerved. “You gonna stand there all night?”

You crossed your arms. “Yes.” You tried to sound defiant, but it came out more like an airy noise.

“Suit yourself, then.” He rolled his eyes, making a show of getting comfortable on the couch. “It’ll be a long night for you, that’s for sure.”

Swaying, you leaned your back against one of the barely-standing walls, screwing your eyes shut. You occupied your thoughts with memories of home, trying desperately to ignore the pain. You were mostly successful, that was until you heard the sound of a canister being opened.

Curious, you opened your eyes back up, nearly falling to your knees when you saw him drinking from a circular canteen. You must’ve made some noise, because he was now smirking at you. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and you watched a droplet of precious water trail down his scarred chin, dripping onto his dusty clothes.

“See somethin’ you want, sweetheart?” He was unabashedly cocky with his tone.

You son of a bitch, you thought, glaring daggers into him.

“Now, now, no need to be like that,” he chuckled, taking another sip. “Just tell me what ya want.”

He wanted you to ask for it. He wanted you to be at his mercy. Groaning, you rest your head back against the wall. You don’t think you’ve ever hated anyone as much as you hated The Ghoul. Any humanity left in him had been stripped away, leaving behind a cruel excuse of a human. Despite that, you couldn’t deny the way your heart continued to patter in your chest as he stared at you expectantly, that cocky attitude doing things to you that would leave anyone who knew you horrified.

“I…” you tried to talk, but your voice proved to be too scratchy. Clearing your throat as best you could, you tried again, ignoring the way he looked at you like a predator would his prey. It was similar to the bear from earlier, but you’d take that now over the ghoul in front of you. “I need water.”

He tsked, crossing a leg over his lap. “And here I thought you Vaulties were raised with manners.”

It took everything in you to not just snap at him, but that would leave you without any water. “I need water, please,” you gritted out.

The Ghoul shook his head disapprovingly. “Shame,” you heard him mutter, before he was slowly pouring the water out onto the floor behind him.

Sheer panic tore through you, and if you were able to form tears, they would be in your eyes. “Wait, wait, wait,” you pleaded, your voice cracking and breaking, and you lunged forward. The click of a gun had your blood going cold, but he at least had the decency to stop pouring. You held your hands up, taking a few steps back.

Registering that you weren’t going to attack him, he lowered the gun, but he still kept it on his lap. If he had any eyebrows left, you’re sure one of them would be raised, waiting for you to continue.

“I’m- I’m sorry,” you stammered out, keeping your hands in the air. “I just… Can I please have some water? Please, I-I… I need it. I’m begging you… please.” You wondered if he could even make out your words.

You watched his eyes travel up and down your body, and he cocked his head. “Are you?” You made a confused noise, and he chuckled lowly. “Are you beggin’ me?”

One problem that you always had at the Vault is that you never knew when to shut your mouth, and what you said next certainly made it clear that you hadn’t learned yet. “You want me to get on my knees, then?” You had meant it sarcastically, and you immediately regretted it when his eyes went dark.

You heard the creak of the couch as he planted both feet on the ground, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees. His guns barely stayed in his lap, but he didn’t seem to care. “Now that you mention it… yeah.”

Humiliation warmed your cheeks, and you nearly let your pride stop you from sinking to the floor, but then you saw the way the canteen hung precariously in his hand. Damn it all. Taking a deep breath, you lowered yourself slowly, unable to look at the man, not wanting to see his victorious reaction. The sand shifted beneath your knees as you rested on them, but you could barely feel the relief your feet finally felt.

“Can-”

“Closer,” he cut you off gruffly. “And I want those eyes on me.” His voice had turned husky, and you realized he was enjoying this. Were… were you enjoying this too? You honestly couldn’t tell.

Wordlessly, you obeyed, shuffling forward until your knees bumped into his shoes. Your ears burned worse than they did out in the sun, and you wished it would just explode and incinerate you right now. “Eyes up, sweetheart,” he practically purred.

You took a moment to prepare yourself before you were looking at him through hooded eyes. The brim of his hat cast a shade over his face, and you could only see the hungry glint in his eyes matched with a predatory smirk. Oh, he was loving this, and you couldn’t help but squirm under his gaze, heat pooling in your belly that was quickly doused by shame.

“Can I please have some water? Please? I- I’m really thirsty and… just a bit. Please.”

His grin grew more as you begged, and you sagged with relief when he brought the canteen closer, no longer dangling over the back of the couch. “See, that ain’t so hard now, was it?”

“I’m sorry,” you found yourself apologizing, for what, you weren’t quite sure. You weren’t too upset about it, though, especially when he brought the canteen to your lips.

“Head back,” he ordered, and you did, your neck straining at the angle. You swore you heard him groan when you parted your lips, never breaking eye contact with him. The water was disgusting and acidic, but damn if it wasn’t the best thing you’d ever had the pleasure of drinking. He poured it into your mouth, and you desperately swallowed every single drop, the dryness in your mouth and throat instantly being quenched.

But it wasn’t enough, and you couldn’t help the disappointed noise you let out when he ceased the pouring. “More, please,” you found yourself whining, any remnants of shame tossed out the broken window you’d climbed into.

“Manners, Vaultie,” he growled.

“Thank you, thank you,” you repeated like a mantra, and The Ghoul let out a pleased hum. Thirstiness still clung to you like a second skin, but you felt better than you had moments ago. Some of your energy had returned, and you felt like you were no longer in the grasp of death.

“You want more?” He asked, and you immediately nodded.

“Please,” you whispered, and you saw something almost wicked pass over his features.

“Don’t worry,” you felt one of his gloved hands sneak around your back, collecting a handful of hair and tugging, forcing your head back even further. You cried out, a mix of shock and pain. “You’ll get more. Just keep that pretty mouth wide open, just like that.” His normal drawl had turned into an almost rasp, and you shuddered.

You watched as he took a swig for himself, but he didn’t swallow, keeping the water in his mouth. Confused, you closed your mouth, but as soon as you did you felt him pull hard at your hair. Obediently, you opened it back up, a shaky exhale leaving you.

If he had a nose, it would be currently pressed up against yours. He adjusted so that he was practically towering above you, and man did the angle kill your neck, but you didn’t dare complain. With increasingly widening eyes, you watched as he slotted his mouth above yours, not touching, but you could still feel the heat from his body.

You nearly flinched when you felt the water hit your mouth, fighting every instinct that told you to shut it. The act was filthy and degrading, but you’d be a liar if you said it wasn’t getting you incredibly aroused. Your Vault-Tec suit was becoming suffocating; it hadn’t even felt this bad when you were outside.

As he sat back on to the couch, his lips glistened in the dim light, stray remnants of water still coating them. As you held the water in your mouth, he frowned disapprovingly. “Do I gotta spell it out for ya?” He shifted forward again, grasping your face. “Swallow.”

When you did, he let go, tapping your cheek lightly. “Atta girl,” he cooed, and you sputtered, cheeks growing warm. Shifting where you sat, you tried and failed to relieve some of the tension in you. You thought you were subtle in your movements, but his sharpshooter gaze locked onto it immediately.

He laughed, a mix of surprise and condescension in one. “This gettin’ you turned on? Maybe you ain’t all that innocent, Vaultie.”

You eyed the half-hard tent in front of you. “I’m not the only one,” you grumbled out, and he laughed again.

“I ain’t the one on my knees, sweetheart.” Scoffing, you watched him lean back again. You expected him to say something, do something, but he simply watched you with anticipatorily. Something shifted in the atmosphere, and you realized he was putting the situation in your hands, wordlessly asking you how far you were willing to take this.

You needed this. You needed him, as bewildering as it was for you to admit to yourself.

Desire running deeper than that for water coursed through your veins, and you nodded. “More.” You both knew that you weren’t fully talking about the canteen in his hand.

“Good answer.” Before you could even register, he was gripping your face again. Fingers pressed into your cheeks harshly, opening your mouth back up. Taking another swig, you expected him to repeat what he’d done last time, but you were startled when you felt his lips on yours.

It was a strange kiss, his closed mouth against your open one, but it didn’t stay like that for long. His lips pulled apart, and without needing further prompting you swallowed another precious mouthful of water. You could feel that bastardly smirk against your mouth, and if you were anywhere near being able to create a coherent thought you would’ve said something.

But you didn’t, you couldn’t. It was like you were caught up in some haze, but you were sent out of it when you felt his tongue sweep into your mouth. You’d kissed a few people, sure, but never like this. It elicited a startled noise from you that had him pulling back an inch, and you had to fight yourself to not chase after his lips.

“Never had that before?” He chuckled, and he found your following silence an adequate enough answer. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you.”

He didn’t even give you a moment to react before he was crashing his mouth back against yours. It was all tongue and teeth and it had you moaning, and you felt the grip on your face tighten. Your head spun, and you tried to keep up with his movements, but you ended up just letting him take over, moving his mouth against your however he’d like.

He nipped at your lower lip with his teeth, and your hands shot out, no longer able to just keep them idly in your lap. You found purchase on his thighs, the sinewy muscles tensing under your touch. But the grip on your face tightened more, almost incredibly painful. Your eyes shot open, alarmed, and a pained noise left you.

He had pulled away again, a string of saliva still connecting your mouths, but he was glaring down at you. “You better watch those hands.” Even though his voice was husky, the threat didn’t make you any less terrified.

You were confused, and you watched his eyes trail down to his lap where your hands were. Unable to move your head, you had to strain your own eyes to look down, and sheer dread washed over you when you saw his gun still in his lap, your hands a mere inch away from it.

“I- I wasn’t… I didn’t… ” you gasped breathlessly. “I didn’t know! I- I’m sorry! Please.” Out of all the times you’d begged and pleaded tonight, this time had to be the most genuine. Immediately retracting your hands back to your lap, you awaited his response tensely. What you failed to notice was the way his eyes darkened as you groveled, his pants growing tighter.

His gaze returned to your face, and out of the corner of your eye you watched as he moved the gun from his lap into his hand. You half expected him to point it at you next, but you let out a very audible sigh of relief when he set it on the couch beside him. It was completely out of your reach now, but he could still easily grab it.

He loosened the grip on your jaw, still holding it, but no longer digging into your flesh painfully. “I won’t stop you next time,” he growled, and it took you a second to register what he was saying: he won’t stop you next time because you’d be dead as soon as you began to reach for it.

You nodded as best you could. “Good,” he’d lost the threatening tone, but his voice was still gravely and raspy. “Now, where was I?” His eyes flicked down to your lips, and you sure they were swollen and shiny. “That’s right.”

Like nothing had happened, he returned to his ministrations, teeth grazing your bottom lip again. You hesitated when you set your hands back on his thighs, gaining more confidence when he didn’t stop you. In fact, he was actively encouraging your explorative touches, a pleased noise rumbling his chest as your fingers trailed up his thighs.

Another swipe of his tongue and a particularly harsh bite had you gripping onto him, barely able to find purchase on the thick material of his pants. You desperately needed air, but he held his grip on your jaw, seemingly unaffected by the issue you were having. Did ghouls need to breathe? It seemed like they didn’t, because he had yet to tear his mouth away for air once as he first kissed you.

As your hands reached his belt, it was then he finally tore away, a groan leaving him. Sucking in as much air as your lungs could handle, you ran your touch across the prominent bulge. You felt the hand on your jaw go lax, falling to his lap. “You gonna take care of that?” He was giving you another out, giving you an opportunity to stop you from doing something you could regret.

Rationally, you knew you should stop here, and pretend like this didn’t just happen. You knew the version of you from the Vault would do that. But this new part of you, exposed to the Wasteland and the savagery of the surface world found that you wanted to continue. Besides, you were probably going to end up getting killed in the next few days; why not have some new experiences before your time was up.

You didn’t respond, you simply began to undo the buckle of his belt. You couldn’t get the thing off of him, so it just rested open on his thighs. “Oh, you’re filthy,” he chuckled, spreading his legs even further apart while leaning back against the couch. “Go on, sweetheart. Let’s see what that mouth’s good for.”

This also wasn’t your first time in a situation like this. You’d only ever done it once, but you apparently weren't too terrible at it, as he frequently requested for a second time, but you always turned him down. You kinda wish you hadn’t now, wishing you had more experience now, but a part of you knew that this was about to be incredibly different from anything you would’ve experienced in the Vault.

With hands that you prayed weren’t incredibly shaky, you pulled down the zipper of his pants. He kept his eyes locked onto you the entire time, darkening even more as the unzipping noise hit his ears. You couldn’t bring yourself to look away from him, no matter how hard you wanted to. Something about his expression had you locked in, and you shifted again.

“Don’t let me stop ya,” he rested his arms along the backside of the couch, and you realized you’d just been sitting there. Steadying yourself, you slipped your hand into the confines of his pants, underneath the waistband of his briefs. You heard him let out a small hiss when your fingers brushed over his cock, and you desperately wanted to hear him make more noises like that.

It took a bit of maneuvering before he was free, head brushing against his navel. The skin was pocked like the rest of his body, which you were expecting. What you weren’t expecting was how long he was, much longer than your previous encounter.

Before you could let nerves disarm you, you moved closer to him. Bracing your hands back on his thighs, you kissed his tip, and you heard his hiss again. Sneaking your tongue out, you ran it up his length, pressing another kiss when you reached the top. “Don’t tease,” he growled, tangling his gloved fingers back into your hair.

When you took him into your mouth, he let out a noise that sounded like a laugh and a sigh, the grip on your hair growing painful. It didn’t deter you, rather it drove you wild, and you took as much of him as you could. When he hit the back of your throat, you had to stifle the urge to gag. Taking the rest of him in one of your hands, you began to bob your head, hollowing your cheeks.

You couldn’t see the way his eyes locked onto his cock leaving and entering your mouth, but you could hear the small grunts he made in tandem with the movement of your head. He kept his hips surprisingly still, but his fingers were somehow getting even tighter, as if all of his restraint was being poured into his grip, and it was on the verge of snapping. “You can take more.” It wasn’t a question, and you felt his press down on the back of your head when you had him fully in you.

Startled, you tried to make a noise, but the vibrations just went straight to his cock. He groaned, louder this time, and he didn't let up. “Relax,” he bit out, and you tried. You really did. Taking as deep a breath you could, you forced your muscles to relax, your hands going back to his thighs. Tears sprung to your eyes as you really tried not to gag, but a garbled sound still left you as he pushed himself further down your throat.

“Fuck,” he drawled out, “just like that.” It felt like five years had passed before your nose was finally pressed into his skin, his cock fully sheathed down your throat. Tears dripped onto his skin, but he didn’t seem to feel them. Your scalp stung as he lifted your head up, and you took in a shuddering breath, your lungs screaming for air.

You didn’t have a long reprieve before he was shoving you back down again, and even though the intrusion wasn’t new it still caused you to make an awful noise. It took him pulling you off again for you to realize what he was doing; he was fucking your mouth, using it for his own pleasure like you were just a toy. The realization had you moaning, the discomforts becoming an afterthought as he chased his pleasure, your own growing.

Your Vault-Tec suit was becoming unbearable arousal tightening in your core, and you snuck a hand down between your legs, trying to touch yourself through the thick material. It didn’t help, but you still tried anyway, desperate for any sort of relief. The Ghoul laughed, not letting up the way he moved your head. “Oh, sugar, is suckin’ my cock gettin’ you bothered?”

Your head spun, the new nickname and the crude words making you dizzy, and you let out what you hoped was a confirmatory sound. He only huffed in response, and you could tell that he was starting to get close to his release. His hips had started to buck, albeit slightly, and his groans had turned to unintelligible moans.

He cursed again, and you were barely able to glimpse his head roll back, hat hitting the ground. He didn’t care, continuing to fuck your face, and you desperately ground against your hand. “So good, fuck,” he panted, and you let your eyes flutter shut.

They shot open when you heard him moan your name, but you had little time to appreciate the way he said it. He pressed down hard on the back of your head, holding you there, your nose pressed flat against his body. A plethora of curses fell from his lips as he came, his cum spurting deep down your throat.

He let go, hands falling to his sides, and you removed yourself, coughing and gasping for air. Your cheeks were wet with tears, your jaw aching, but it was the best pain you’d ever felt. He stared at you with lustful eyes, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

Holy shit. You were tired, but you wanted more. But you weren’t expecting him to do anything else tonight. This wasn’t a partnership; he’d gotten his release. You’d need to deal with it on your own.

So caught up in what you were expecting, you gasped when you felt his lips graze the corner of your mouth. His hand cradled your cheek, leather growing damp, and you felt his lips brush the tears that had fallen on the other cheek. You realized he was licking your tears away, and when he registered that you noticed he chuckled, muttering something about not wanting to waste water. You let out an airy chuckle in return, still not fully wrapping your head about what had and what is transpiring.

“Guess one good thing came from that mouth,” he teased, referencing his earlier threat. He tugged you up, and you stood with knees shaking like a fawn. You’re certain you looked like a mess but he either didn’t care or really enjoyed it.

You really had no idea what was going to happen next. You observed him with wide eyes, and you couldn’t help the bewildered look when you saw him stroking himself, still rock hard like he hadn’t just come. He chuckled when he saw what had caused you to react. “One good thing ‘bout bein’ a ghoul,” he rasped. “Stamina.”

His own raked down your body, honing in on the way your thighs pressed together, and they flicked back up to your own. “Take it off.”

You didn’t have to be told twice, the zipper on your suit quickly becoming undone. Even though the air was hot, it still felt nice against your hot skin. He didn’t blink as you undressed, eyes clocking in every new inch of exposed skin. Tugging it down your shoulders and off your arms, you let it fall to the ground, the material pooling at your ankles.

Left in only your bra and underwear, you kicked the Vault-Tec suit off your feet, and you stood there, unsure. “All of it,” he continued, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

As you reached for the clasp of your bra, you watched him lean forward slightly, eyes watching you like you were the most delicious meal he was about to devour. Tossing the garment beside you, you reached for the waistband of your underwear. He raised a hand, making your halt, your fingers barely looped under the band.

With two fingers, he gestured you forward, grinning when you complied easily. His hands batted away your own, and you felt he begin to peel it away himself. He was almost eye level with your navel, and you felt his breath caress your stomach. It was like he was unwrapping a present, the way he ripped it down your legs, and it fell around your ankles like the suit.

You were hardly able to kick it away before he pulled you onto his lap, your hands bracing against his still clothed chest. The couch made a very audible noise, on the virgo of collapsing, but neither of you seemed to hear it. One of your legs straddled his thigh, your bare center pressed against his pants, no doubt soaking the material.

“You’re wearing too much,” you found yourself commenting, and you felt him chuckle. He took his hands off your waist, holding them in front of you so you could clearly see him take off his gloves, tossing them by his gun. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, realizing that that was all you were getting from him.

You weren’t complaining, though, when his bare hands touched you for the first time. Along with the marred skin, his fingers were calloused, years and years of harsh life, fighting, and shooting making them so, but they were the best things you’d ever felt touch your soft skin.

He seemed to be having similar thoughts, humming appreciated as he felt your body, fingers dancing up your sides. Goosebumps erupted across your skin, and you sighed as he continued his exploration upwards. Worn hands cupped your breasts, fingers toying with your perked nipples, and you unconsciously pressed your chest forward. “Look at ya,” it felt like he was mostly talking to himself, “you ain’t gotta mark on your body.” You felt his mouth graze your breasts, lips ticking you as he spoke.

You jumped when his teeth made contact with the delicate skin of the top of your breasts, and he chuckled. Moving lower, he took one of your nipples between his lips, his hand making sure the other one was receiving the same attention. His tongue flicked, sucked, and the occasional nip had you crying out, jolts of pleasure shooting through your body. One of your hands settled on the back of his head, the other sneaking back between your legs.

With that surprising speed, he caught your wrist, not even tearing his mouth away from you. You let out a noise of complaint, and you could feel him grin. His hands left your breasts, settling back on your waist, and you felt him begin to rock you back and forth on his thigh. With every rock, your clit ground against the tensed muscle, and you let out small moans, small waves of pleasure crashed through your body.

When he felt you begin to move on your own, he let go, returning his touch to your breasts, playing and massaging them as you got off on his thigh. His mouth trailed up your body, leaving a trail of small kisses and ginger bites, your once smooth skin now slightly indented. Having been worked up for a while, you felt that you were growing close to release, his ministrations bringing you closer.

He was at your neck now, and he bit particularly hard at the thick tendon there. He laughed when he felt your hips begin to rock harder, and you felt his tongue smooth over the bitten skin. “I-” you tried to speak, but an airy whine from your throat cut you off. Your thighs were trembling, and you could feel the damp patch that had formed on his pants, but you couldn’t be bothered to feel embarrassed right now.

“You close, sugar?” Not trusting your voice, you nodded instead. “Fuck, yeah you are. C’mon, let me feel ya,” he groaned, mouthing at your neck.

It only took a few more rolls of your hips before you came, his name tumbling from your lips as a loud cry, pleasure igniting all your nerves. Your stubbed nails dug into the back of his head, and he growled. Your whole body was trembling as you rode out your high, only ceasing the movement of your hips when it became too overstimulating.

A shocked laugh left you, and you slumped forward. That seemed to be the last straw for the couch, the furniture collapsing beneath the two of you. It nearly caused to tumble off his lap, but you felt his hands secure under your thighs. He stood, holding you like you weighed nothing, and your legs instinctively wrapped around his body.

He eased you to the ground, the sand digging uncomfortably into your skin, causing your back to arch off the ground to avoid feeling it. You couldn’t help the gasp you let out when you watched him shrug off his jacket, tucking behind you wordlessly. These small glimpses of humanity you’d seen from the Ghoul, like when he saw the crib, or when he gave you a way lead you to believe that maybe he wasn’t as bad as you originally believed him to be.

Well, you still hated him, and you were still his captive, but you realized that he wasn’t a complete monster. It was moments like this, where those high walls he’d built to survive in the Wasteland began to crumble, and you could see glimpses of the man you assumed he once was.

He didn’t give you much time to reflect, though, because his lips were crashing against yours, and all thoughts disappeared. Your legs were still wrapped around his waist, and you could feel his cock pressed against your folds. He didn’t press in though, and you whined against his lips, moving your hips as best you could to try and get him to move. “Whatdya want, sweetheart?” He murmured, nestling his head in the crook of your neck.

“You,” you gasped out.

“I’m right here,” he chuckled a bit, and he still didn’t move.

Groaning, you ground against him again, trying to get him to just push himself into you. He groaned, yet he still didn’t move, his resolve stronger than you anticipated. “Fuck me, please,” you choked out, and you could see him smirk in satisfaction.

He didn’t respond, and you felt him press into you, sheathing into you with a single thrust. Similar noises of pleasure escaped both your mouths, and your fingers wove into the fabric of his shirt, desperately trying to find something to grip onto. He stretched you out so well, and you gasped when you felt his hips press against you. He was so deep inside of you, father than any other person you’d taken to bed, and it overwhelmed you in all the best ways.

“Sugar, you feel incredible.” You babbled something in response, and you hated how proud he looked. He didn’t give you time to adjust before he was setting a brutal pace, hips snapping against yours. The sound of skin on skin and your cries of his name filled the room, and you swore if you gripped any tighter on his shirt that it would rip.

Small puffs of air tickled your neck with every thrust, whispers of your name hidden in the gasps. Fingers dug into your waist, most likely going to leave marks in the morning, your once smooth skin littered with marks of him. You couldn't see what your body looked like right now, but you had a pretty damn good idea, and the picture you visualized in your mind had you clenching around him, causing him to falter, albeit it only for a second.

Despite the slight overstimulation you were feeling, you could feel another orgasm begin to form, slowly but surely. Letting go of his shirt, you grasped at his face, pulling back up for another breath-stealing kiss. You were so caught up in the way he continued to thrust into you and the way his mouth slotted against yours that you failed to notice the way one of his hands left your waist.

You broke the kiss with a startled yet pleased nosed when you felt his fingers begin to work at your clit, rubbing fervent circles into the sensitive nerves in time with the thrusts of his hips. “Cum on my cock, sweetheart. C’mon,” he groaned out, and your head hit the ground, barely softened by the jacket and the sand.

His name had turned into soft pants, unable to form a coherent thought as he relentlessly fucked you. The added stimulation brought you closer to the edge, and you tried to let him know you were getting close. “Go ‘head, lemme feel ya,” his accent had been cranked up to a hundred, and in any other situation you would’ve found that funny.

With a final cry of his name, you came again, your vision going white as you temporarily spaced out, the pleasure too overwhelming. When you came to, he had pulled out of you, leaving you empty and shivering. You watched as he stroked himself a few more times before he came all over your stomach.

It was only the sound of breathing in the room now, both of you just staring at each other as you calmed. Relaxing on his coat, you watched as he stood, tucking himself back into his pants as he did. Closing your eyes, you focused on your breathing, jumping when you felt a cloth on your stomach, wiping away his release from your skin.

He didn’t say anything, tossing the cloth to one of the corners of the room when he was done. He placed your clothing beside you, before sitting and resting against the collapsed remnants of the couch, head rolling back.

Groaning, you broke free from the post-orgasmic haze you were in, sitting upright. Both pleasure and pain still lingered in your muscles, making your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Slipping on your undergarments, the dampened fabric of your underwear was incredibly uncomfortable, but you gritted your teeth and ignored it. After putting on your bra, you debated putting on the Vault-Tec suit, but the idea of putting it back on made our overheated body cry.

The Ghoul watched you as you redressed, thinly veiled desire and interest flicking in those eyes. You were now sitting upright on his jacket, and you got up onto your knees, freeing the garment and holding it in your arms. Scooting towards him, you held it out to him with shaking arms, almost like a peace offering. His eyes didn’t leave you as he took it, setting it beside him.

Before you could decide that it was a bad idea, you sat down next to him, shoulders brushing. If he was surprised, he did a good job of hiding. Exhaustion returned, and you felt your eyes begin to flutter close, head bobbing as you struggled to stay awake.

It was your turn to be surprised when you felt him pull your shoulder down, resting your head in his lap. You were even more surprised when he draped his jacket over your shoulders, the material thin enough to not overheat you. You glanced up at him with wide eyes, but he avoided your gaze, staring at the half-standing wall in front of him.

“Rest. We’re leavin’ at sunrise.” His voice was hoarse, back to that commanding tone from earlier.

Getting as comfortable as you could, you let your eyes shut, sleep beckoning you. You had no idea what was going to happen tomorrow, but as you felt his fingers comb delicately through your hair, you knew that he was no longer going to be following his original plan for you.

#fallout #the ghoul #cooper howard #cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader

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assassinsblade · 5 months

Text

Forget Me Not | 2

Back home and healing, you try to come to terms with what happened.

WC: 4.6k

Warnings: TW: SA!!! Please do not read if this is triggering for you. This part does go into heavy detail of the assault. The recollection is in italics if you wish to skip it. There is also heavy reference to blood, injury, death, angst, feelings, and unrequited love. The reader and Azriel are in pain in these next few parts lol sorry.

Part 1 Part 3

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“Hey, sweet girl.”

You whimpered, trying to blink your eyes open to the light pouring into your bedroom. Your entire body ached and your mouth felt insanely dry. Confusion flooded your mind as you attempted to remember how you got there, tucked in your bed with Cassian at your side.

You turned your head to the side, peaking your eyes open. A gauze bandage scraped against the skin of your neck with the movement.

“Cass?” You croaked.

His hazel eyes gleamed, his lips quirking up in a terrible excuse for a smile. “I’m right here. How are you feeling?”

A swallow felt like sandpaper.

“I hurt.”

He gave you a sympathetic look before standing from his seat and crossing the room to your desk where a water pitcher and glasses lay. Pouring you a glass, he glanced back over his shoulder.

“You gave us all quite a scare. Everyone’s been checking in on you.”

He helped you sit up in the bed, brushing your hair out of your face gently before tilting the glass into your mouth. When you were satisfied with the few sips, you helped pull the glass down.

“How long have I been in here?”

“Just two days. Your body needed time to rest.”

At your silence, Cassian seemed to shift uncomfortably in his chair. He cleared his throat. “Do you remember what happened?”

You tensed, your body remembering before your brain forced you to confront the memories.

“Yes.” It came out weak but short.

His caring eyes met your own, reassuring and gentle as he leaned his forearms on his knees. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” you said immediately. You felt this irrational amount of shame at what had happened to you, a vulnerable embarrassment, a sort of crippling anxiety deep in your chest. It brought tears to your eyes. “No, thank you.”

Cassian nodded, looking down briefly at his hands. “Madja healed you. You might be sore for a few days, and that bandage should be good to be removed, but you should still take it easy.”

“Okay.” You tried to give him a small smile, but it felt impossible.

“I should also tell Rhys that you’re awake. He should he stopping by soon. Are you okay with seeing him?”

You hesitated. Yes, you were comfortable around Rhys, but the unwelcome attention this would all bring to you… You didn’t want to discuss this assault with others, have them scrutinize you and make assumptions.

But Rhys was also High Lord of the Night Court. And he had helped you since Mor brought you to Velaris. He was kind, and he would not be invasive in his questioning.

“Uh, yeah. I think that’s okay.”

Cassian nodded again, seeming to look you over carefully. He was biting his tongue, you observed, wanting to say something but not knowing if he should.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” he finally spoke.

He stood from the chair he had pulled up to the side of your bed, moving it softly back up against the wall. “Get some rest. Rhys or I will check on you in a bit.”

As he walked to the door, you couldn’t stop yourself from calling out to him. “Thank you,” you blurted, causing him to pause and look at you, his hand still on the doorknob. “If it wasn’t for the small amount of training you gave me…”

Cassian looked like he wanted to object, averting his gaze before settling back on you with a look that made you want to sob. “I’m really proud of you.”

And with that, he left the room, quietly clicking the door shut behind him.

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

It was so cold, your sweater doing little to protect your skin from the snow slowly making its way onto your skin. The freezing air seeming to burn your cheeks as you meandered through the streets of Velaris.

“Hey doll, you seem to be stumbling a bit. Why don’t you let me walk you home?”

You ignored the forward male walking toward you, a sly grin on his face. Home. You just needed to keep walking in the general direction of the House of Wind, and you would be okay. Before you know it, you’ll be curled up in your bed, in comfy clothes, crying over a stupid shadowsinger with bright eyes and a gentle touch. You just needed to keep walking.

“I’m talking to you.”

He was closer now, but you didn’t meet his gaze. You kept your head down, angling your body slightly to keep your distance.

Suddenly, though, your upper arm was grabbed harshly, pulling your entire body to the side and into the stranger. You stumbled over your feet, both the alcohol and adrenaline altering your precision.

“Don’t touch me,” you got out, trying to wrench your arm free from his grip. Your words were less intimidating than you were going for, and the man let out an amused laugh.

“Oh, doll, I’ve got a lot of touching in mind.”

Fear steadily grew in your veins, your chest tightening at the cruel gleam in his eyes.

“Please- please just let me go home."

The male only began dragging you across the pavement, into a dark, damp corner opening up into an alleyway. It was almost small enough to be a passageway, a sort of path in between buildings to help residents of Velaris save time traveling and also be able to admire the gardens opening up farthing down the path.

"I have a mate," you blurted out as he pulled you into the darkness, the lie slipping easily from your tongue. "He'll find you, he'll kill you if you do anything to me."

His grip remained just as tight on your arm as before, his pointed ears sharp enough to look like weapons themselves. Your body was thrumming with fear and panic, and you could feel the tears beginning to make their way onto your cheeks.

"Somehow I doubt that, doll. No male would let their mate walk through the streets at 2am intoxicated and alone..."

You tried to pull your throbbing arm out of his grip, knowing you needed to get away, to run, but he only threw you into the alleyway, pinning your back to the stone wall. You felt your head knock back against it and the breath leave your chest in a punch of wind.

"Do you wanna know why?" He continued, leaning close to your ear.

You let out a sob when his tongue licked up your neck before his hot breath hit your cheek.

"Because there are males like me out there. Even in somewhere as guarded as Velaris."

And then his hands were gripping your sweater, tearing the soft fabric into stray ribbons. You bucked against him, pushing and thrashing, screaming, nails attempting to get under skin, knees attempting to find his crotch, and his hands were retaliating, throwing you, pushing you, punching you. Before you knew it, your ears were ringing and your head had been snapped to the side in the harshest blow you'd ever received.

Your cheek throbbed, its pulse matching the bruises forming on your arm and stomach, and your eye watered from the assault underneath it.

A strong arm was across your collarbones before your mind could come back into focus, a dagger glinting in the moonlight and pointed directly at your throat.

"You don't want me to have to use this, do you doll?"

You could only stare at him with wide eyes, your chest rising and falling in panicked breaths, only causing the knife to touch your throat with each movement.

His blue eyes were sharp and cold, near empty save for the sadistic lust being trained on your body.

You wished he was ugly. You wished his teeth were rotted, his face sunken, but he was fae and all fae had a beauty to them. He wasn't something out of your nightmares or the face of someone you would have expected to harm you. Instead, he was a monster in disguise. Someone who would forever haunt you despite his eyes being a diamond-like blue and his blonde hair shining under the stars.

His free hand slowly made its way into your torn sweater, his rough fingertips grabbing at the raw skin tender from his manhandling. And then he was grabbing at your chest, and you let out a loud cry at the harsh touches and violation.

"I'm begging you to stop, I won't tell anyone-"

The knife knicked your throat, and you could feel a slight wetness coating the skin where you felt a prick.

He shushed you as if you had barely muttered a word, and then his tongue was on you again. Tasting your skin, staking a claim, and you choked on your cries.

"Fuck," he groaned out. "What a lucky male I was to run into you."

You couldn't believe this was happening. Tonight was supposed to be good and happy. You were supposed to spend time with Azriel, he was supposed to see you dressed up and drinking and having fun and want to spend time with you. How could you have been so wrong to place your affections there? To place your trust there?

Your mind urged you to run, to fight despite the dagger against your throat when you felt his hand start to make its way downward, his fingers leaving a trail of shame on your skin before meeting the button of your pants. You would rather chance getting your throat slit than have this taken from you.

But you were frozen. Because you really didn't want to die, and for some reason, you still hoped that someone would remember you. That maybe Azriel would realize he had left you behind and would come looking. Maybe he was already on his way and would save you. He was always good at saving people, at being the hero who exacted justice onto those who harmed his loved ones and innocents.

He would come for you, right? This wasn't going to happen. You weren't going to be raped and you weren't going to die. You would be-

The male's hand traveled past the waistband of your pants, and all you could focus on was the nausea-inducing feel of his fingers on your core.

"You know, this would be a lot more enjoyable for you if you stopped fighting it. It will only hurt more the less turned on you are."

The male spoke as if he were trying to help you. As if he could possibly make this anything other than a horrific, traumatizing, perverted experience.

But no one was helping you. And as one of his fingers swiped through your sex, you thrashed, uncaring of the press of sharp steel into your throat. His hands needed to get off of you, get away from you, please, please, please-

Your hands worked before you could think of these possibly being your last moments, of the muscle he surely had on you, the strength he could exact. You gripped his wrist as strongly as you could, trying to move the dagger away from your throat and toward his own. Teeth gritted, you felt the harsh jerk of his arm swipe the weapon across your skin, but the pain barely registered as you continued to wrestle. His one hand was still in your pants, and you only had seconds before it joined in the battle and overpowered your two hands.

Your leg quickly came up with all its strength, but the male dodged your assault and his hand finally made its way out of your pants to grab at your kicking leg. It didn't matter, though, because as his focus diverted to your leg, you shoved all your strength forward into the hilt of the dagger. Your fingers brushed the sharp edge briefly in your frantic movements, and the blood leaking from your fingers made it difficult to keep your grip on the weapon.

You pushed harder, willing your slick fingers not to slip, because this was your only chance.

And then you felt it as the male's arm faltered, and the sharp tip of the dagger slid into the skin at his neck. The resistance of muscle and tendons on the dagger would forever be ingrained in your mind, but you pushed harder as blood began to spray from his neck wound, from the artery you just ruptured.

The male sputtered and choked, reaching with both of his hands to the dagger piercing into him, but you refused to let go, refused to let off any pressure.

Not until his breathing was stuttering, his knees collapsing from beneath him, and his body fell to the ground in front of you.

Your hand remained grasped on the hilt of the dagger, pulling it from his neck as he fell. And despite the male never reaching his goal, never making it inside of you, you knew something had buried its way deep into your body for the rest of your existence.

Something broke inside of you as you looked at the dead male at your feet, at the blood coating both him and yourself. Something broke as you uncurled your fingers from the sticky weapon, letting it clatter onto the pavement.

It seemed that two people died in that alleyway that night.

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

You gasped, throwing yourself up in your bed, thrashing against the sheets restricting your limbs. Get off, get off, get off-

"Darling..." a calm voice soothed you. "You're alright. It was a nightmare."

Your eyes met warm violet ones, and you immediately felt a rush of relief flow through your body.

"Rhys," you choked out, throat feeling tight.

His hand stroked back some hair out of your face, and you leaned into his comforting touch.

"You're safe. No one can get to you here."

You nodded, breathing deeply as your eyes fell to the duvet that had been pushed to your legs.

"Do you want some water?" He asked.

You knew he was trying to be helpful in whatever way he could, testing the waters with you. But you shook your head. And with the movement, you noticed the gauze was no longer scratching at your skin.

Fingers skimmed your neck, hesitantly searching for the deep cut that had been sliced into your flesh. Instead, your fingertips found a slightly raised scar, spanning about four inches on the center-right side of your throat. You wondered how deep the gash had been to cause a scar even after Madja's healing.

Rhys watched you patiently as you explored the new scar, his breathing even and calm. He seemed to always know how to keep his cool, how to wear a mask when needed, and it reminded you briefly of a certain shadowsinger.

Had he even been to see you? Did he even realize what his actions resulted in? You shut your eyes tightly at the thought, willing the hurt from your mind and chest.

"There are a few things I wanted to talk with you about, if that's okay," Rhys started. His voice was not demanding, and he leaned forward to meet your eyes so that he could read your expression better. He always made sure others were comfortable, and you wondered if this was because of his own past.

You met his eyes and waited.

"First, I want you to know that I am always here to listen to you. I know it might sound overwhelming or unappealing to do so, but I would never forgive myself if you thought you had no one to confide in about this particular situation."

When you only swallowed, not knowing what to say, he continued. "I know what it's like to feel violated, to feel ashamed of your own body, like it's not yours anymore. If you don't want me to talk, I won't. But, I will always be here to listen and offer support should you need it.

"I'm not sure exactly what happened. I would never go into your mind without your permission," he reassured. "But, I also know how cruel this world can be to females. We have resources in the library from the priestesses if you are interested in those as well."

You nodded to the man across from you, and you were grateful he was behaving as your friend, as a protective, supportive presence rather than as the High Lord of the Night Court attempting to sort out a crime in his lands. You gave him a small grateful smile, all that you could muster at the moment.

"Lastly," he took a deep breath, cracking a small smile in return. "I was hoping you would accompany me to the kitchen. You've been resting for a few days now, and Madja thinks it would do your body good to stretch and move around a bit. Your wounds have healed, and the aching should subside as you stretch your limbs and muscles."

You nodded absentmindedly. You weren't terribly hungry, but you did feel the need to stretch your legs.

As you twisted in your spot, Rhys reached out to offer his hand in assistance. It remained outstretched, not touching you without your permission, but there should you need it.

You instead met his eyes and remained in your spot, your feet touching the floor as you sat on the edge of the bed, body facing his own.

"Is everyone down there?"

You couldn't face everyone. Not today and definitely not all at once.

"No," he shook his head, hand slowly lowering back to his side. "Cassian is out training the Valkyries, and I think Azriel is assisting with that too. Feyre and Elain are at the River House - they wanted to give you space. And I basically had to restrain Mor from barging in here and bombarding you."

Good, you thought. This was your business. You appreciated the support, but you wouldn't be able to withstand the pitying looks, not when everyone had an idea of what happened in their head.

"And-" you cleared your throat. "Am I in trouble?"

"Trouble?" Rhys' voice rose a bit, confusion and dismay altering his tone.

"I killed someone."

You could barely get the words out. You were a killer. You had shoved a knife into someone's neck, listened to them choke on their own blood, watched as their life left their eyes-

Rhys was stern as he interrupted your thoughts. "You were attacked. You defended yourself."

You did, but did that matter in the end? Did it clean the blood off your hands? Cassian had found you with a dead body feet away from you and a dagger sitting idly by. If you wouldn't have put your trust in Azriel when he had made it so obvious he wasn't interested in you, would never see you how you wished (if at all), then maybe this wouldn't have happened. If you had taken more lessons from Cassian sooner, maybe you would have known how to approach the situation before it escalated so far, maybe no one would have died.

"Stop." Rhys was bordering the line of High Lord as he looked at you, but his eyes were soft. "Don't do this to yourself. You're going through enough. You were a victim, but you are strong and you made it out."

You didn't know what to say, so you merely nodded and hoped to appease him. His violet eyes didn't look convinced, and you averted your own gaze to the corner of your room to avoid his disappointment.

Your brows quickly furrowed in confusion, though, because something moved. In the dark corner of your bedroom, a wisp of darkness slithered around, and you could feel it watching you.

Azriel.

Rhys followed your eyesight and sighed, his shoulders dropping a bit with exhaustion. "He's had at least one shadow in here at all times since you got home."

You just coughed awkwardly, not wanting to talk about Azriel. "I'm hungry," you lied.

It had the effect you wanted. Rhys watched as you stood, making sure your legs weren't too shaky and that you were strong enough to stand on your own before escorting you out of the room.

As you walked, you noticed someone must have changed you into a pair of your own pajamas and a robe. Your skin and hair felt clean, but not clean. As if Rhys had used his magic to remove the dirt and blood, but your body still demanded a soothing soak with oils and soap.

A brush of something silky brushed up against your ankle, and you nearly jumped before realizing it was the lone shadow from your bedroom following you down the hall. You swallowed down the lump in your throat at the reminder of the shadowsinger. You wanted to kick the shadow from your skin, remove the attention he now cared enough to give you, but you couldn't find it in yourself to be mean to the thing.

It was a relief when it shot from your side and slithered quickly through the tiny crevice of the front door once you reached the main landing.

"The house is yours to command," Rhys said extravagantly, no doubt trying to put a smile on your face. "Whatever you'd like. You want some lobster? A cut of Velaris' finest beast? The eclairs from in town I have to wrestle Feyre away from at times? You name it."

Sitting yourself at the table, you watched as Rhys moved into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water.

"What are you thinking?"

"Oh, uh-"

But before you could respond, shadows swirled near the front door, and a body was materializing out of the darkness. You would have been grateful for the interruption, because you truly didn't want to eat when you felt so nauseous and disconcerted, but any relief you felt at the distraction immediately dissipated upon seeing the male who had appeared in the House of Wind.

"Azriel," Rhys greeted stiffly. "I thought you were training the Valkyries with Cassian."

Azriel's eyes were slightly wide as he stared at you, his chest rising and falling as if he had run and not winnowed here. "I was. I had…something I had to return to here."

The shadow that had slipped out the door, letting Azriel know you were out of your room. That traitor.

Rhys only gripped the edge of the counter, sending Azriel a warning look. "Well get to it, then. We were just about to eat something."

Azriel ignored him, ignored his high lord, and instead continued to stare at you. You shifted in your seat, unable to stop the pang of hurt that shredded into your chest when you looked into his hazel eyes.

"How are you feeling?" His voice was gentle but hoarse, as if he were talking to a hurt child or small animal. And he was fidgeting. Azriel, the most composed person you had ever met, seemed nervous.

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t even know if you wanted to talk to him. You felt so hurt, so embarrassed, and it was devastating knowing that the kindness and care you had always hoped to be directed toward you was only now displayed in his eyes because of guilt.

Looking like a fool, hesitating to say anything, you had to tear your gaze from his. He looked distraught, eyes underlined with dark shadows of exhaustion and tinged red from either crying or lack of sleep. Your chest hurt at the sight, and you couldn’t take it anymore. Instead, you turned your neck to look toward Rhys.

“Could I just have some tea, please?”

Rhys didn’t answer you though, because his attention was trained on Azriel. And the high lord’s facial expression slowly crumpled from frustration and anger at his friend to something more sympathetic. Watching the movement made you glance back at Azriel, and the look on his face had you shifting in your seat.

His eyes were glistening with tears, his jaw tense and hands clenched into fists at his sides. He was trying to hold onto his composure, but it seemed like he was a second from breaking as his soft hazel eyes stared at the scar on your neck, made apparent when you turned to face Rhys.

“Azriel,” Rhys broke the silence, gentler this time when addressing his friend. “Why don’t you get some tea started for us?”

You all knew that the house could do it. There was no need to heat up a kettle and prepare the tea leaves. But it seemed like the house agreed the shadowsinger needed to do this, because no magical mug of steaming liquid appeared in front of you.

“Sure,” Azriel nodded, licking his lips and swallowing down the obvious lump in his throat. “Of course.”

Then he was moving toward the kitchen where Rhys stood. His back was turned toward you, but even underneath his training leathers, you could see how tense his muscles were.

You subconsciously gripped the sides of your robe tightly, pulling it against you as if the plush fabric offered any protection at all.

You could tell from their stiffness and the silence filling the room that the two brothers were conversing in their minds, and it felt like an eternity before Rhys turned to you.

“I’m going to go let the others know how you’re doing. Maybe try to keep Mor away for one more day to give you some peace.” He chuckled, but you no longer had even the tiniest amount of energy to fake it.

A feeling of anxiety began to simmer beneath your skin, in your fingertips, your chest, the pit of your stomach, and you could only hear your heartbeat in your chest as Rhys came closer.

You had awoken to Cassian in the house with you yesterday, and today you found yourself under the care of the most powerful high lord to ever exist. While the soul of your being felt like it had been shredded to pieces, you had at least felt safe. Alone with Azriel, the male who had cared so little about your safety, he had left you to the crowds the second he could leave with a pretty girl, you didn’t feel as secure.

Please don’t leave me alone, you wanted to tell Rhys. But you also didn’t want to lower your mental shields. The waves of shame and despair that would uncontrollably wash over his mind if you let him in would be too much.

So you stayed still, internally panicking.

Your friend leaned down to lay a gentle kiss on the crown of your head. He was slow in his movements, careful and considerate, and he only pulled away slightly to speak in a low voice.

“If you need anything, there are pens and paper in your room that you can contact me with.”

The words held an underlying message, letting you know that you were not forced to spend your time with anyone. But whatever the two brothers had discussed in the privacy of the kitchen area swayed Rhys enough to let Azriel take care of you for the time being.

He gave you one last soft look before turning to his friend, whose back still faced them as he focused on the kettle. When he realized Azriel wasn’t going to address him again, he nodded slightly before winnowing away, leaving only you, Azriel, and the ruins of your friendship to be sorted out over a cup of tea.

#azriel x reader #azriel/reader #acotar fic #acotar x reader #azriel angst #azriel shadowsinger #azriel imagine #acotar imagine

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riverwalsh · 4 months

Note

nicole my love !

where do you stand on brat tamer!frank …… would he be quick to react? grabbing your jaw after you give him attitude, raising his eyebrows at you with a warning “watch the mouth, yeah?” in that thick raspy voice? or is he rubbing a warm hand in circles on your lower back, quietly muttering a “don’t gotta act out for attention, baby.” i need 2 knooooow 🤗

— princessbrunette ♡

an; thank u for the request princess, sorry it took so long but i love u dearly 🤍 i always seem to take your requests in a little crazy direction so just bear with me (also note to everyone please ignore the verb tense changing like halfway through it turned into something of a drabble and i don’t feel like fixing it. so enjoy.)

cw; female!reader, mentions of blood/violence, cockwarming. that’s about it.

18+ only mdni

i think frank would be pretty good at reading you. he knows what makes you itch; like when he leaves his boots, carelessly splattered with the blood of a lowlife (or three) that will surely be named in tomorrow morning’s newspaper, strewn haphazardly on the living room floor for you to trip over when you get home. or, when you ask him about said lowlife(s) and he brushes you off, mumbling something about how it doesn’t matter anyways, and they got what was coming to them, before disappearing for the third night that week. it makes you feel so goddamn lonely.

it was these things, among others of course. sometimes frank castle was just so goddamn stubborn it made your skin crawl.

buuuut, frank also knows what makes you feel better. knows how to handle you when you start letting your irritation show. he’d just accept your little quips and snide remarks for a while. let you take out just a little bit your pent up frustration out on him—i mean, he kinda deserves it sometimes, right? he knows this, you know this. and yet, he knew exactly when to make it right.

“fuck you, frank,” you muttered as you frantically pulled your shoes on, already late for work. everything had already gone wrong for you that morning—your first alarm didn’t go off, your shower was lukewarm at best, and you burnt your last bagel. and now, as you were ready to leave, frank suddenly decided he wanted to talk.

“whoa, whoa, whoa, hey.” his tone was firm, a hand coming out as if in warning. as annoyed as you got, you hardly ever swore at frank. “what’s wrong with you?”

there he is.

“what’s wrong with me?” you asked incredulously, grabbing your keys off the hook. “wha- what’s wrong with you?! you’re fucking gone almost every night this week, i’m getting calls from karen practically every five minutes-”

“she’s just-“

“don’t you fucking dare play dumb like you didn’t ask her to check in on me,” you cut him off quickly, pointing an accusing finger at him. you knew how you were being but you couldn’t help it at this point. “i can handle myself, frank. maybe if you just told me what the fuck was going on i could just-”

“you could just what? hm?” his voice was quiet, but commanding. his arms crossed in front of him as he postured intimidatingly toward you, eyebrows raised in a silent challenge to keep talking. your mouth snapped shut immediately, heart jumping as you lowered your hand that was still hovering mid-air.

you swallowed thickly, putting your keys into your bag with less of a rush, suddenly more careful of your movements. he watched you thoughtfully for a moment, before slowly making his way toward you, boots heavy as they met the hardwood below. you could do nothing but stare at him as he came closer, irritation suddenly the furthest thing from your mind.

“you, uh…” he paused, not for lack of words but simply dramatics. “you think you’re pretty tough, that right?”

“i never said that,” you replied quickly, shaking your head and averting your gaze. his hand was quick to grab your chin, forcing your head up to look him in the eye.

“‘i can handle myself.’ ain’t that what you just said?” his voice was low and rough, like he’d just swallowed sandpaper. your breath came out trembling, and when you didn’t answer fast enough for his liking, his grip grew tighter, rattling you a bit. “you answer me when i’m talkin’ to you, girl.”

“y-yes, that’s what i said,” you answered, voice wavering slightly. his gaze was piercing, eyes searching yours for a moment before releasing his grip, leaving you stumbling backwards into the front door.

“everything i do is for you,” he starts, adam's apple bobbing as he reaches out to place a more gentle hand on your arm, thumb rubbing your skin in soft circles. his eyes are still ablaze, and the dissonance makes you shiver. “everything, everything i fuckin’ do out there is to make sure none of my shit makes it back home to you, you got that? i’m not gonna let anyone lay a finger on you.” you find yourself nodding, mindlessly, letting his words soothe the irritation that had built up inside you. his calloused fingers find their way back to your face and he rubs his thumb across the plush of your lower lip, gauging the intensifying rise and fall of your chest.

he knows you. he knows what you need.

he nods almost curtly in understanding, letting his touch linger a bit longer just to feel the warmth of your shaking breath. “now you watch your goddamn language when you’re speakin’ to me, sweetheart. go on.” he jerked his head toward the door before turning around and heading for the kitchen without so much as another glance in your direction. “you’re gonna be late.”

you were in fact a few minutes late to work, but you were exactly on time getting home, that’s for sure. maybe even a few minutes earlier than usual.

and frank was waiting for you, of course he was. it was barely five minutes from walking through the door before he had you completely stripped, sitting obediently still in his lap as you wept into his shoulder.

“easy,” he cooed, squeezing your hips to keep you from rocking too much. “you quit all that cryin’ and start talking.”

your tears darkened his shirt as you clung to him helplessly, stuffed full of his thick cock and intoxicated by his voice.

“i-i just wan’you to talk to me, frank,” you cried, grasping weakly for purchase on his shoulders. “you get so distant and push me away…but i just wanna be helpful to you.” your voice was quiet and almost conspiratorial where you whispered into his neck, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses into his warm skin. “i just-

“hey, hey, hey,” he cut you off, grabbing your neck to pull you back and look into his darkened eyes. his voice was rough with restraint—it was nothing short of a miracle he was holding it together, what with you clenching around him desperately with every breath. “none of that. you wanna know how you can help me?”

you nodded fervently.

“by stayin’ your ass right fuckin’ here,” he grit, eliciting a pathetic moan from you as he drew you in impossibly closer. “by wakin’ up in the mornin’ and goin’ to work like you have been. by doin’ what i say, when i say it. by trustin’ that everything i do out there is for you, it’s for you.” he punctuated his words with a press to your lower back, guiding you to roll your hips against him slowly. “that’s how you can help me. you got that?”

“yes, frank, yes, yes,” you whined, letting his words placate you as you began to move against him with more eagerness. “i’m sorry, i’m so so sorry-”

“shh, shh, shh, you don’t apologize,” he soothed, his voice strained, blunt nails digging crescents into your plush skin. “you don’t apologize to me, girl, you just take what you need baby, you take it from me, yeah? you take it and then we can talk, baby, just fuckin’- oh, fuck- you just take it-”

so yeah, frank knows how to handle you and your bratty attitude just fine.

#princessbrunette #frank castle #frank castle smut #the punisher #frank castle x reader #frank x reader #frank castle x you #frank x you #the punisher smut #frank castle x f!reader

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velvetures · 10 months

Text

Doesn't Crease

A/N: Thanks to everyone supporting this new blog I've started working on. I'm really happy to see so many new people and get the chance to write some more. <3 Summary: You're just trying to keep Ghost from losing his eyesight from being purposefully ignorant. T/W: none :)

Looking out for the guys of the 141 typically meant doing things for them that most regular people wouldn’t even think twice about doing on a normal day. They often took care of weapons and missions far better than themselves, and it often resulted in you finding out that they appropriated objects or products for uses that had not a damn thing to do with what they used them for. And the most frustrating of all of them came from how you came to learn about Ghost’s eye paint, and how it stayed on so well for days on end.

You’d been in the Middle East for nearing five days and after being holed up in a cave just on the outskirts of a little town, a safe house was cleared for your use until the end of the mission. It was so damn good to have a shower and put on some clean clothes that you couldn’t have been in better spirits as you walked out of the bathroom into the living area and noticed Ghost sitting in a change of clothes and a much less dirty mask with his face half-painted in that unidentified stuff he used. You watched with an admitted interest as he dipped a couple fingers into a small plastic container that held the substance before smearing more over the bridge of his nose towards the uncovered left side of his face.

“Quit starin’.” he muttered lowly, still very focused on the task at hand and getting the stuff smeared over his eyelid and up to the waterline of his eye.

You didn’t particularly care to listen and just sat down across from him and pulled your bare feet up into the chair and watched just as raptly. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him do this for sure, yet every time filled you with a sense of… excitement. Like you were watching the man under the mask slowly transform himself into The Ghost right in front of you. Certainly a childish kind of thrill, yet you never missed the chance to watch Ghost do anything, really. Curiosity always got the better of you when it came to the mysterious Lieutenant, and that black stuff he smeared on his face wasn’t exempt from your silent questioning.

“Will you leave me the fuck alone?” He growled, steely eyes darting right to you with a harsh edge to his posture.

Ghost always had a prickly attitude about everything, good or bad. Fuck, you could tell him that he’d won a million dollars and he’s just grumble about how paying taxes on it would be a bitch. Never seeing any bright side of a situation. But that also didn’t come as much of a shock. The Lieutenant always put you in mind of this black shadow just floating around wherever he pleased or was needed for the time being.

You’d made jokes to Gaz and Soap about his sandpaper-like disposition and shitty attitude before, oftentimes enjoying a short moment before sleeping -without Ghost present of course- where you mimicked him for entertainment. It always got you a bunch of laughs considering the stark contrast between your own character and the Lieutenant’s. You didn’t mean anything negative by it, Ghost just made it too easy to poke quiet fun at him every so often.

“If you answer a question, I’ll leave.” You bargain quickly, already knowing exactly what you wanted to ask about. Ghost just growled in frustration, leaning his forearms on his massive thighs and looked pointedly at you, silently demanding you got on with your foolishness so that you could go off somewhere else and be a pain in the ass for someone else.

“What is that?” You nod to the small container holding his eye paint.

“I mean… the stuff you put on your face?” Unconsciously the question comes out of your mouth a tad bit nervously and hesitant. Not that you had the slightest fear of Ghost being upset with you in a dangerous way, but more so that you were prying into something that he felt was too personal to discuss. That kind of assumption wouldn’t have typically been far off with how private he liked to keep things.

Contrary to his typical behavior Ghost gave a small huff of something close to laughter. Apparently amused and puts the lid on the small jar to toss it across the room for you to get a better look at it. Unscrewing the lid of the small plastic travel-jar, you were met with a very familiar smell. And it wasn’t the kind of cosmetic fragrance you were expecting it come from it.

“Gun grease,” Ghost answered quite offhandedly, acting as if that wasn’t a totally ridiculous idea. Speechless and naively shocked, you look up at the Lieutenant with wide eyes and your mouth a little agape. The look on your face only amuses Ghost that much more and a little flash of it shows in his dark eyes.

“You put slide action lubricant on your face!?” You almost hiss the words out, disbelieving and in total awe of how Ghost hadn’t lost his eyesight, got chemical burns, or some other type of injury from doing something so unheard of.

Ghost shrugs noncommittally. “I prefer Hoppes. Theirs lasts the longest.” He said standing up and stretching his neck side to side.

“You have a fucking brand preference?” Your mouth really does drop open now.

“Brand and color.” He replies smugly, striding over towards you and grabbing the small container and opening it back up to dab more over his eyebrow which hadn’t been fully covered earlier.

“Hoppes…” You repeat the word, thinking for a moment. “You mean that kind that comes in the syringe?” The image of the component and how it hangs in a little package in the gun care and cleaning aisle at every store. you’ve ever been to.

“One and the same.”

Your eyes roll skyward and you can’t help but groan out. “Good god…”

For weeks after that conversation, your mind revisits the thought of Ghost using a ten-dollar tube of gun grease not only as weapon maintenance but also as a skincare product. Surely he’s not stupid enough to think that it’s not harmful to his skin right? He’s got to know that when it gets into his eyes it can cause damage? It comes to a breaking point when you go into a local drugstore for a prescription painkiller for a recent on-mission injury and notice an End Cap display showing a new line of gel eyeliners that have come out boasting 48hr smudge resistance and an almost instant, comfortable dry-down.

You stop dead in your tracks, almost totally forgetting about needing to pick up the week-supply of pills for yourself as you gather up every single one of them in the color black and shove them at the woman working behind the register. The look she gives you is one of masked concern, but you just hand over the cash for it and your prescription before heading back out to your car with a sense of hopefulness that your Lieutenant won’t lose his eyesight prematurely if you can help it.

The following day you’re to report in to HQ for a meeting with the team for a pre-op report review, and have the chance to give Ghost your… gift of sorts. You’re walking out of the meeting, purposefully walking beside of him instead of talking to Soap or asking Price some lingering questions you have so your opportunity doesn’t slip by you.

“Hey, uh do you have a minute?” You nudge his arm with your elbow, looking up at him out of the corner of your eye. Ghost’s eyebrows raise, and he silently gives a stiff nod, not caring to elaborate any further.

Instead of peeling off towards his office down the corridor to your left, he keeps following you silently until you get out to your vehicle parked outside. Although he doesn’t say anything about it, you can feel his questioning look burning into your back as you unlock the doors and reach into your passenger seat for a small black bag that rattles with the sound of thick glass knocking up against each other inside. Even when handing it to him, he’s reluctant to uncross his arms and accept the bag from you because he’s much more comfortable just staring at you coldly. No doubt expecting you to do what you’re best at and waste his time for something inconsequential.

“Here… I really don’t want you going blind anytime soon.” You give him a half smile, dropping the gift bag in his hand. With that, you give a small goodbye and go around to the other side of your vehicle, and drive off before the Lieutenant can open the bag or question you about what the fuck you’d just given him thirty small jars of.

Once home you go about getting some clothes washed for the upcoming mission and take some time to make a call to your neighbor to ask if she can look in on your home and plants while you’re away and pay the water and electric bill since you’ll be out of town when the bills will be mailed. You’re halfway through telling the older woman that you’ll go ahead and write a couple of checks that she can take to the bank with her own bills when you feel your phone vibrate against your ear.

Your elderly neighbor gives her happy acceptance of helping out and gets off the phone so she doesn’t miss her nightly show while you check the notification you’ve received. It’s from a number not saved, but it’s not spam text or one of those random kinds of messages you get when someone uses the wrong number. It’s short, sweet, and to the point. The verbiage and almost awkward tone give you all the information you need to know that the Lieutenant had not only opened his gift but asked someone for your private cell so that he could give his… thoughts.

-Dries down a lot quicker. I like that it doesn’t crease.-

Reblogs & Comments are Appreciated <3

#simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #cod #cod mwii #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #velvetures writes #velvetures

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h0nkch0c0late · 8 months

Note

ahhh stop ur gen v fics are too good. Maybe could you write abt reader having some sort of like super scream powers and they’re dating Jordan

You're too nice, anon 😭😭🫶🫶 also when you said super scream powers I immediately thought of the girl from Danger Force so that's kinda funny.

Scream Queen

Jordan Lee x Reader

SUMMARY: you've always hated your powers. Sonic screaming to you wasn't as cool as being able to teleport or moving things with your mind. To Jordan, your powers were amazing.

WARNINGS: swearing, a very supportive gushy Jordan.

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

You felt like out of everyone, your powers were the most boring.

Now, to the normal human eye, your powers were awesome as fuck. With just a scream you could knock someone against a wall or paralyze people by making their eardrums bleed.

Jordan, although not a normal human being, absolutely adored your powers. It was one of the many things that made you unique. Not to mention it was fun watching you throw Rufus around when duelling for one of your classes.

The only problem was that your powers absolutely fucked with your throat afterwards and you would go hours without talking just to make yourself feel better, that or Jordan would stick you in their bed and make you lay there so they could take care of you.

And today was one of those days.

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

"Jordan, babe, really I'm fine." You tell her, voice scratchy, trying to lift yourself from her bed.

She gave you a knowing look before pushing you back down, "you are definitely not fine, I can hear it. Now just lay there and wait." They demanded.

You sighed before clearing your throat, flinching at the pain that shot through your body at the action.

"Where the fuck are you gonna get the tea anyway?" You ask, regretting your choice of speaking as your throat felt like sandpaper.

Jordan smirks, "I have my ways. Now just lay there, do not move or speak while I go grab it." They retorted before rushing out of their dorm door.

You huffed, crossing your arms as you waited.

And while you waited, you thought about the events that had lead you to that moment.

Rufus had been his usual, creepy dickish self, and had chosen you as the main target that day.

Unfortunately for you, Jordan wasn't at your side to save you, so you had to save yourself.

So, as Rufus continually tried to get into your pants (more so you into his), saying things such as "I'm much better than Jordan" and comments about how his dick was bigger and better, you had just about enough.

Turning to him, and screaming as loud as you could, sending waves at the boy so loud that it had began to make his eardrums bleed. He had fallen to the ground paralyzed, his eyes frozen wide.

You smirked at him being defenseless as you rubbed your now-sore throat, just in time for Jordan to find you, ans that's how you ended up in his room for the millionth time.

They were fine with taking care of you, after all it was part of the job description of being your partner, and all.

In fact they absolutely loved it, because it meant that they're attention was on you and only you. And she loved those moments where it was just the two of you.

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

Jordan came back shortly with a mug of tea in her hand, sweetened with mostly honey to the point where you couldn't tell what flavour the tea was.

Your favourite.

It also meant endless Jordan snuggles so you weren't much of a complainer when it came to that.

It was the fact that you constantly needed care. Yes, it was only a sore throat, but Jordan continuously refused to tell you what her sore throat remedy was BECAUSE she wanted to take care of you.

"Be careful, it's hot." They warned as they handed you the mug, then climbed into the bed with you.

"Yes, yes, I know. I'm careful." You reply hoarsly before taking a sip of the drink, enjoying the feeling of the tea going down.

Jordan turned their body towards you, wrapping one arm around your torso and the other to entangle their fingers in your hair, kissing your shoulder as they snuggled close to you.

"You're too nice to me." You tell them as you take another sip of your tea, one of your fingers circling the rim of the cup as an unconscious fidget.

"Please, im the perfect amount of nice. You're just not used to this much attention, which I get." She noted, resting her head on your shoulder.

You rested the mug against your legs as you leaned your head against their's.

Jordan was right, you weren't used to all the attention.

Your parents had always been distant with you, making your nanny or a made take care of you whenever you got sick or when you used your powers because they were too busy living their own lives to take care of you.

And even then, those who did take care of you were absolutely terrified of you and your powers.

So when you had met Jordan, and first got into the relationship, the immediate switch of having no one to having someone was a big step.

"I love you, Jordan." You said after a moment of comfortable silence, your cup of tea half finished as you put it on your bedside table.

"I love you too." They replied, pulling you closer to them as you wrapped your arms around their waist.

Even during the times you hated your powers, Jordan somehow managed to make you love them.

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

BOO another Jordan fic for you thirsty gentlebitches <3

#x reader #imagine #jordan li x reader #jordan li #gen v fanfiction #gen v

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elliesbelle · 10 months

Text

nobody compares to you

chapter 9

pairing: ellie x reader

synopsis: you're in your junior year of college and at a party, you run into the girl who broke your heart: ellie williams. despite the time it took to reset your life, will you risk a broken heart again for her?

content warnings: modern college au, cursing, angst, descriptions of and allusions to physical altercations and violence, descriptions of alcohol, dealer!ellie, more loser!ellie, mentions of smoking and marijuana, ellie's POV, minors do not interact

word count: 3.7k

chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen

series masterlist

my masterlist

i have a ko-if if you like my work so much that you feel compelled to tip me ♡︎

the "nobody compares to you" spotify playlist

featuring the song “it might be you” by stephen bishop:

Four Days Ago

“Ellie, what the fuck! Oh, shit!”

“The fuck! Th-the fuck…is your problem!”

“Shit! Ellie!”

“Chang, get…this–fuck!–cunt…off of me!”

“El–ow! Ellie!”

“I heard what you fucking said to my girl!”

“What are–shit…motherfucker!”

“Ellie, stop!”

“You..fucking…cunt!”

“Yo, bro, get the fuck off of her!”

“Is that…all…you…can do?!”

“Alright, fuck! Enough! Stop!”

Two Days Ago

Ellie had been walking around campus with her hood over her head and eyes to the ground all day. She’d been ignoring calls & texts from her friends and clients and, to her growing annoyance, Daniela. She’d attended all her classes, but she’d sit as far back as possible and avoid any interactions or eye contact. During her breaks, she’d find some remote spot behind a building or in a secluded stairwell to smoke in private.

It was late afternoon now and Ellie’d just dashed out of her last class of the day. She didn’t want to go home to her apartment where she’d get ambushed by Jesse and, most likely as well, Dina. But she had nowhere else to loiter where she’d be able to sulk and smoke in peace, and her phone was also dying.

The walk to her and Jesse’s apartment was barely ten minutes from campus, but Ellie made sure to stretch it out to almost twenty. She walked four flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator like she usually would. She couldn’t even hear the jingling of her keys over the deafening sounds of Kendrick Lamar blasting in her earphones as she unlocked the front door.

The previous evening felt completely surreal. Ellie would have assumed it was just some rage-induced nightmare if it weren’t for the throbbing pain in her black eye and bruised right hand. After Jesse was able to pry Frat Guy Adam off of her before he could do any real damage and hastily convince him that she was probably tripping off of this strong new strain she got, Ellie immediately shut herself in her bedroom for the rest of the night. The only thing Jesse could get out of her before she disappeared behind her door was, “I seriously can’t fucking believe she’s letting her fuck her again.”

As Ellie crossed the doorway of the apartment, the second verse of “HUMBLE.” was abruptly yanked out of her ears by Dina’s quick fingers.

“Jesus fuck—Dina!” Ellie fussed, irritated as she attempted to grab her earphones back.

Dina said nothing as she balled them up and shoved them into her back pocket.

“How the fuck did you even know I was coming?” Ellie grumbled, knowing full well that she, Dina, and Jesse all indefinitely shared their respective locations with each other on their phones.

“Let’s talk, El.” Dina merely sighed.

Ellie scoffed in response and held out her hand.

“Can I have my earphones back?” She asked.

“No.”

“Seriously?”

“Ellie, we need to talk!”

Ellie didn’t reply as she stomped off towards her bedroom. She was about to slam the door in Dina’s face when she was met with Jesse’s back turned to her with sandpaper in one hand and a paint scraper in the other.

“Uhh, what the fuck, dude?” Ellie asked, dropping her backpack on top of her desk.

“I knew you’d leave your knife in here for the next two months or so if I didn’t do anything about it.” Jesse replied, sanding down the area where the knife once was lodged into the wall.

Dina leaned against the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Told him that you were too attached to that thing to not yank it out yourself, but he insisted on doing it and cleaning up your mess. As per usual.” Dina said, motioning to the small bucket of white plaster by Jesse’s feet.

“Yeah, I’m not cleaning all that up, though.” Jesse said, gesturing to all the dust now covering a portion of the bedroom floor.

Ellie shrugged off her hoodie and hung it on the back of a chair. She spotted her now-unstuck switchblade on top of some books on her desk and quickly pocketed it.

“Okay, well, can you guys maybe get out of my room now?” Ellie huffed, collapsing lazily onto her bed before grabbing a comic book on her bedside table that she had previously been reading the night before.

“We can,” Dina replied. “But we’re not going to.”

Ellie rolled her eyes and flipped a page.

Jesse and Dina shared a collective look and a heavy sigh.

“Dude, we gotta talk about yesterday.” Jesse insisted. “You seriously can’t keep ignoring this.”

“What the fuck even happened, really?” Dina asked.

“What, this one didn’t tell you?” Ellie replied, nodding towards Jesse’s direction without looking up from her comic book.

“All he told me is that you got your shit rocked by some frat guy trying to buy from you.”

“Hey!” Ellie said, sitting up and throwing her hands up in the air in indignation. “I fucked him up!”

“Then why do you have a black eye?” Dina questioned.

Ellie grumbled something unintelligible and sat back down to return to reading. Dina rolled her eyes.

“All I did was introduce him to her and she just suddenly wailed on him.” Jesse explained to Dina.

“I already knew who the fuck he was.” Ellie said behind her comic book.

“Oh shit, yeah,” Jesse recalled. “She did say she remembered him, and then she went nuts.”

“Who was this again?” Dina asked, eyebrows furrowing.

“Adam Patterson from Sigma Eta.” Jesse replied.

“Yeah, I have no idea who that is.” Dina admitted.

“He came with our group to the diner the other night after the party,” Jesse said at the same time that Ellie said, “He was at Sterling’s with us.”

Dina’s knitted eyebrows straightened out in recognition.

“Oh, wait, was he that douchebag that sat next to—”

“Yes.” Ellie interrupted angrily.

Jesse and Dina immediately shared a look.

“Does this have anything to do with Abby Anderson?” Dina asked Ellie.

“Wait, what about Anderson?” Jesse questioned, eyebrows furrowing.

“You didn’t tell him?”

“Tell me wh—“ Jesse started but was cut off when his phone started buzzing furiously.

He took out his phone from his back pocket and frowned.

“Ah shit,” He muttered. “I gotta help Sidney set up with the open mic.”

“Now?” Dina asked.

“It’s every other Tuesday and I promised her.” Jesse shrugged.

He walked over to Dina to give her a quick peck on the lips before turning towards Ellie, pointing at her sharply.

“When I get back, I want to hear why the hell you’ve lost your goddamn mind.” He demanded of her before leaving the room. A few seconds passed before they heard the front door close behind him.

Dina sighed, uncrossed her arms, and strolled over to sit at the foot of Ellie’s bed. She unconcernedly shoved Ellie’s dirty Converse to the side, earning her a kick from Ellie which she easily dodged.

“Can you stop assaulting every single person you come across, Williams?” Dina said after slapping the foot that tried to punt her.

“Can you get out of my room?” Ellie asked, ignoring her question.

“Did you really try to beat the shit out of that Adam guy ‘cause of—“

“Why are we still talking about this?” Ellie immediately interjected.

“Because you’re out here attacking innocent people because of her!”

Ellie remained quiet as she sat up straight and placed her comic book back on her nightstand before replying.

“He called her a fucking queer, D.”

Dina blinked and stared at her.

“He did what?”

“When we were at Sterling’s the other night.”

“Oh, shit.” Dina whispered. “Okay, well, maybe not so innocent then.”

“No, he’s fucking not.” Ellie seethed, fists clenching.

“Okay, but it’s not really helping anyone if you get kicked out of school ‘cause you’re out here beating the shit out of some grade-A douchebag who most definitely deserved it,” Dina added, seeing that Ellie was about to interrupt. “Are you really that pissed off that she’s seeing Abby Anderson?”

“She can see whoever the fuck she wants. It’s really none of my business.” Ellie replied stubbornly.

“Ellie, c’mon, when are you going to face your fucking feelings for her for once?” Dina said. “You couldn’t man the fuck up when you were together, and now you don’t even speak to each other and you still won’t admit it.”

“Sorry that I’m too emotionally constipated for you.”

Dina rolled her eyes but then suddenly giggled.

“What?” Ellie asked.

“That’s probably the first time that you haven’t corrected me on the fact that you were together.”

Ellie kicked her softly.

“Oh, shut up.” Ellie retorted.

Yesterday

“You need to wrap that shit up better, El.” Dina said, gesturing to Ellie’s poorly bandaged right hand.

The sun was beginning to set, and Dina and Ellie’s shadows glided alongside each other on the brick pathway. Pink rays of light peeking from the sky hit Ellie’s freckles so beautifully that it almost distracted from her bruised eye.

“What? It’s fine.” Ellie shrugged.

“The wraps are already coming off, dumbass.” Dina noted.

“My bad, I’m not studying to be a doctor, unlike some people.” Ellie said, quickly murmuring the last part.

Dina merely rolled her eyes at this, refusing to engage further in Ellie’s growing vendetta against Abby Anderson.

They walked for about another ten minutes to reach the diner, chatting nonsensically about their classes and friends and some new asshole clients that Ellie had recently acquired.

Ellie had Dina laughing about her secretly charging some senior jock douchebags twice as much as usual for shamelessly hitting on her when they walked through the doors of Sterling’s. Ellie suddenly felt a strange ache in her stomach as they entered the restaurant. When she felt wary eyes on her, her discomfort was immediately explained.

Her gaze unintentionally met yours, her ocean green eyes widening in shock. The expression on your face mirrored her thoughts as her freckles turned bright pink. You both turned to your friends simultaneously in panic.

“Dina, what the fuck!” Ellie hissed.

“What?” Dina said, not realizing the situation they’d walked into.

“Did you do this shit on purpose?” Ellie demanded of her.

“What the hell are you going on about?” Dina asked, still clueless as she was busy looking around for the diner’s hostess.

“Can you please use your eyes for one second?”

“Wh—” Dina began but stopped suddenly when she saw what had caught Ellie’s rapt attention.

“Goddamn it,” Dina muttered. “Alright, hang on.”

Ellie watched as Dina marched over to the small table where you and Jesse were having dinner. Her eyes fell on you once more, remembering the last time she saw you with Abby Anderson. She suddenly felt a pang of guilt wash over her when she thought about the last conversation you’d had in the bathroom of this same diner, her eyes tearing away from your figure to stare at her old Converse.

God, I’m such a fucking dickhead.

She teetered back and forth on her feet as she felt shame seeping through her bones. She didn’t look back up until the diner’s hostess approached her.

“Hi, how many in your party?” She asked.

“Oh, uh, no. I’m here for pick-up?” Ellie replied.

“Oh gotcha, what’s the name?”

“It should be under Dina Woodward.”

“Okay! One second, ma’am.”

Ellie watched as the hostess headed to the back as Dina made her way back towards her.

“What the hell, D?” Ellie hissed.

“Seriously, I didn’t know!” Dina replied, throwing her hands up defensively.

“This isn’t funny!”

“El, I swear to god, I really had no idea they were gonna be meeting here.”

“You didn’t tell me that Jesse was hanging out with her tonight!”

“That didn’t seem like information relevant to you.” Dina said, crossing her arms.

“How is it not—”

“She’s not your fucking girlfriend, Ellie.” Dina pointed out.

Ellie looked taken aback as the hostess reappeared before them.

“Order for Dina Woodward?” She said, holding out a plastic bag.

“Yes?” Dina replied, but before she could reach for the food, Ellie had already grabbed it with her left hand and angrily shoved the entrance door open with her right.

She stomped away from the diner several feet away before Dina could catch up to her, far away enough for Dina not to catch the tears that she struggled to keep from falling.

Present Day

Ellie lays on her sheets, head at the foot of her bed and dinosaur sock-covered feet propped up on one of her pillows. She was senselessly and poorly strumming on her guitar. It was Friday evening and she was bored and all alone in the apartment, Jesse and Dina having gone out together on a movie date. She had contemplated going to the gym as she usually did whenever she was in a mood, but Dina had reprimanded her about her injured state enough that Ellie relented on spending a lonely night in. She strums lousily on the guitar with her injured hand, ignoring the throbbing of her wounded knuckles.

She’d finally texted Daniela back earlier that day, apologizing spiritlessly for not replying back sooner. She humoured Daniela’s flirty texts for a while until Ellie asked for Joel’s old jacket back, to which Daniela offered to come over to her apartment tonight to return. Feeling her intent, Ellie put her off by saying she had plans to meet up with several new clients all night and offered to meet up with her the next day instead. Ellie’d groaned when Daniela quickly responded with a text saying “it’s a date ;)” and immediately regretted the situation she’d pulled herself into.

Her fingers begin mindlessly plucking a succession of concordant chords, and it isn’t until a few moments later that she realizes she’d started to play an old love song that she remembers you’d liked so much.

It was an old 80s song called “It Might Be You” by Stephen Bishop. She’d often hear you thoughtlessly humming it to yourself or singing along to it when you’d put on your nearly ten-hour 80s playlist. She’d subsequently learned how to play it on the guitar to possibly serenade you with it eventually, only to never have the courage to do so when you were together.

Ellie exhales woefully, setting her guitar down next to her.

Why is she still everywhere?

She sits up to properly lay herself on her bed, flopping her head down onto her pillow before reaching for her phone that was charging on her nightstand.

Time to be a loser as usual again, Williams.

She sighs pathetically as she opens up Instagram once more, switching from her main account back over to br!ck_master2013. Even though Instagram already showed her recent searches (consisting only of you), she feels a pathetic sense of fulfillment typing out your entire username herself. Ellie taps on that same mirror selfie of yours which leads her to your profile.

You still have no new posts from the last time she checked, but she sees that you’d added something to your story sometime within the past day. She ignores the uneasiness in her stomach as she taps on the orange and purple circle to view what you’d posted.

You’d shared a few mutual aid posts earlier this morning (to which Ellie promptly saves to later donate to after her slight stalking), a picture that some of your old high school friends had posted of an up-and-coming band they were currently in, and a couple of new stories that causes Ellie to abruptly shoot up from her bed and promptly unplugging her phone from the wall.

“What the fuck?” She mutters out loud to herself, not in reference to the unceremonious way she stopped charging her phone, but to the Instagram stories that you were posting in real time.

Ellie taps furiously as she realizes that you were out tonight at the lesbian bar by campus, the Bow and Arrow. With Abby Anderson.

She makes a wild guess that you were likely drunk at the moment, judging by the silliness of your story captions. Your first bar-related story is a selfie you’d taken of yourself with the caption, “me going out to a bar to get smacked instead of being an old lady at home? quick, someone call the pope.” Despite the low lights of your environment, Ellie recognizes the shade of dark red lipstick you’re wearing.

That’s the lipstick she was wearing when—

Her thoughts are interrupted by her app automatically jumping to the next story, which was of you toasting your half-empty plastic cup with others that were being held up by faceless hands with the caption, “liquor, i hardly know her.” Ellie couldn’t help but chuckle out loud at your stupid joke. She would have bet her Jeep, her whole stash of weed, her beloved switchblade, and her entire precious comic book collection that the drink you had in your hand was a vodka cranberry.

Your next Instagram story drops a cast steel anvil down Ellie’s stomach.

It was a shaky picture of Abby Anderson making a mockingly pouty face towards the camera, holding out a credit card in one of her hands. It looked as if she and you were sitting at the bar, waiting to be served by a bartender. Your caption read, “hey siri, how do you beat up a buff, jacked lesbian who lives at the gym and won’t stop paying for your drinks all night.”

Ellie notices that you’d tagged Abby’s Instagram handle on the side and she promptly taps on it with trembling fingers. She huffs at her phone when she’s brought to Abby’s profile and sees that it’s set to private. She falls back onto her pillow and sighs.

“Ellie!!” You yelled after her as she stomped out of the Bow and Arrow.

She said nothing as she exited the bar and veered left into an empty backstreet lit only by the moonlight and a dim streetlamp.

Ellie walked further into the alleyway until she was a safe distance from any passersby. She took out a metal tin from one of her jacket’s front pockets and pulled out a tightly-wrapped joint. She tucked it between her teeth as she reached into a front pocket in her jeans for a lighter, promptly lighting the tip of the joint. She inhaled for a few seconds, letting the drug seep throughout her enraged body, then released an exhale towards the starry night sky.

She heard the agitated clicking of high heels and glanced down towards the main street to inspect whoever was approaching her. You were rubbing your hands up and down your arms, your favourite black boots nearly skipping down the alleyway to desperately generate heat in the frigid, unforgiving December air. You followed the familiar scent of lavender-laced marijuana into the dark street, spotting Ellie smoking alone.

Ellie watched as your shivering figure walked towards her, your despondent eyes eventually reaching her furious green ones.

“Smoking one of my js without me?” You teased.

“Your js?” Ellie asked, chuckling despite herself.

“Well, it’s my recipe.” You said, yanking the joint from her fingertips to place it between your lips which were painted with a dark shade of red.

“Oh, please, all you do is add buds of crushed lavender into them.” Ellie scoffed as the tip of the joint lit up once more from you taking a hit of it.

“Lavender buds are a key ingredient to creating these primo joints. It’s an intricate part of the process; ergo it is a recipe.” You insisted after blowing the residual smoke to the side.

“Besides,” You added. “You talk a whole lot of smack for someone who seems to copy my recipe all the time now, both for her clients and for herself.”

Ellie would have usually bantered with a witty retort, but she instead settled for an indignant huff.

After a few more hits, you handed the joint back to her.

“You done?” She asked you.

“Mhmm.”

She nodded, putting out the joint on the wall she was leaning against and placing what was left of it back in her metal tin. You stared at her as she did this, noticing that she was purposely refusing to make eye contact with you.

“Els.” You said.

“Mm?”

“Show me your hand.” You sigh.

“No.”

“El, babe, come on.” You insisted.

She exhaled and relented when her cheeks blushed at the term of endearment, holding out her right hand to you.

You took it in between both of yours, attempting to examine it under the dull yellowish light of the streetlamp. Your fingertips softly brush against her knuckles.

“Okay, not so bruised thankfully.” You murmured. “Does it hurt?”

Ellie merely shrugged in response.

“Els…” You whined at her stubbornness.

“I’m fine.”

You stared at her serious expression, still unable to get her to look at you.

“You dummy.” You chuckled lightly.

Ellie huffed.

You stroked her hand a couple more times before lightly placing a kiss on her slightly injured knuckles.

Despite the frigid winter air, Ellie immediately felt every part of her go up in flames. The only chilly part of her body was her hand which you’d brushed your cold lips against just moments before.

“Here,” She said, pulling her hand away from you so she could shrug off Joel’s old motorcycle jacket from her shoulders and place it on yours. “Baby, you’re fucking freezing.”

“El—”

“You’re freezing.” She repeated.

You smiled slightly before caving in to say, “Maybe a little bit.” Ellie chuckled.

“Elliie…” You began. “You didn’t have to do all that—”

“I know.”

“But—”

“I know.”

You tried to decipher her unreadable expression, your heart ready to burst as it beat rapidly in your chest.

“Why, Ellie? Why’d you have to take it to that extreme?”

Ellie’s ocean-green eyes were fierce and resolved. She brings her mildly bruised hand up to your face to intimately caress your cheek.

“You know why.” She whispers, finally meeting your gaze.

“I—”

The memory of staring into your eyes causes Ellie’s own to shoot open.

She’s still in her room, laying on her bed all alone with her phone on her chest and guitar on her side. The images of you in the alleyway of the Bow and Arrow replay alongside those of you and Abby so boldly displayed on your Instagram story tonight.

Ellie remains so engrossed in her own thoughts that she doesn’t notice all the hot tears rapidly streaming down her face. She grips her sheets and sighs.

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” She whispers to no one.

Maybe she’ll forgive me one day.

author’s notes:

so sorry for taking so long to write this! life has been hectic and messy lately, plus y’all know i’m a bit insecure about writing ellie.

thank me by liking and reblogging this because tumblr is acting tf up on my laptop and i had to do the majority of this on my phone

adam's name originally was a reference to a background character in tlou2, but his last name is loosely inspired by some asshole dude i dated once back in college named adam (who i kind of also home-wrecked but i really don't regret doing so lol)

anyway, while you’re here, go check out the new smau series i’m working on called “almost like we knew” ♡︎

taglist: @lonelyfooryouonly, @elliesinterlude, @sawaagyapong, @peppesgirl, @iconsoft, @maybeidohaveadhd, @ellieswifee, @valiantllamapersonpony-blog, @nil-eena, @echostinn

@uraesthete, @softbunlvr, @cherriesxinthespring, @amitycat, @thefishymissy, @yevheniiaaaa, @machetegirl109, @bertandfearnie, @ximtiredx, @efam

@elliesnumber1gf, @digit4lslut, @tayyyystan, @emothurman, @livvy-2000, @abigaillovestoread, @gold-dustwomxn, @liabadoobee, @yuckyfucky, @qtefolleunpez

@libr4sonsa, @17luv, @robinismywifee, @villainousbear, @ashlynnnnnnnn15, @scarlettadore, @vianna99, @g0n3girls, @totheblood, @embermdk

@awyunh, @kenz-ee, @marvelwomen-simp, @eleactric, @simpforellie, @omgidksblog, @anxiouso, @nyrastar, @lillysbigwilly, @hopeless-y

@elliesbabygirl, @alexpritch, @thestarsanctuary, @aethelwyneleigh27, @cass00x, @liabadoobee, @mulan-but-gay, @carmellie, @destielcore, @tfuuka

@elliewilliamsmissingfingerss, @sagestuffing, @ewwitsbella, @igoferalforelliewilliams, @miaelliesgfxoxo, @saturnvalentine, @elysiagyaru, @asteroidzzzn, @gay4jinx, @97cityy

@joliettes, @p1llowthoughtss, @ellieslegalwife

#nobody compares to you series #ellie williams #dealer!ellie #ellie x reader #ellie x you #ellie x y/n #the last of us #tlou #the last of us part 2 #tlou2 #ellie fanfiction #Spotify #audio #belle speaks #belle writes

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yestrday · 4 months

Note

do u have ayato or heizou crumbs 🐦

you might like: genshin hybrids au

let's do some hybrid crumbs because i miss my animal harem:

ayato 🦈

while ayato's lounging around the house, ayato has a bluish-grey tint to his skin with scales covering some parts, often at the end of his limbs, his temples, and his neck. he's got rows of small yet sharp teeth and a long scaly tail coming out from just the end of his spine.

ayato has been living at the mansion even before the mansion was built. minding his business... chilling in the lake, till some construction workers ruined it for him. he would've honestly ripped them all to shreds if it weren't for the fact that he saw cute lil you peeking out from behind your father's back

he shares the lake with most of the water-based animals, although he has a territorial feud with neuvillette. he knows it's a losing battle for him though, so ever since the water dragon moved in he's been hanging out at the mansion more often

if there's the unofficial security team (glorified stalkers) then there's the sortaaa official education team. your dad commissioned zhongli to take care of your homeschooling and prepare you for your debut in society. zhongli has appointed ayato to brush youu up on etiquette

as with all the other tail-having animals in the mansion, he also likes to wrap his tail around your legs. but while their furry tails evoke a sense of comfort and warmth within you, his sandpaper-like tail makes chills run up your spine.

to make matters worse, he likes scaring you with his spiky teeth. they might be small, but they're numerous, and the teasing glint in his eyes make you second guessing what he might do. he often likes to nip playful little bites along your skin while you're cuddled on his lap. if you squirm too much and distract him from his work, he bites you as a warning. he often gets scolded by thoma as the dog hybrid patches up your wound.

kinda has a bad rep in your house. he doesn't show his face often, and when he does he likes to pull small pranks that he doesn't even bother owing up to.

heizou 🦉

around your house, heizou's hybrid form has two puffy reddish-brown wings protruding from his back and feathery talon-legs. in the dark, you can often spot him thanks to his round, glowing eyes.

there's a village on the foot of the hill where your mansion resides, and heizou is pretty famous around there. there's no thrilling mystery there, but he likes to help out people find their missing pets and whatnot.

when your managerial team (neuvi, zhongli, ayato) needs to sleuth something out (get dirt on your rivals <- usually ayato, try to protect you from possible danger <- neuvi & zhongli, get the upperhand <- ayato again), they often go to heizou. he often takes the commission with glee (moreso if ayato commissions it)

enjoys his position on your shoulder, though he has to fight most of the avian hybrids for it. he makes these pleasant hoot noises whenever you scratch his head juuust right. when he's feeling a bit mischievous, he will suddenly pop into his human form so he can squish you under his weight

makes these hoot noises in between his words, has a slightly higher pitch when pronouncing 'oo' sounds. he doesn't quite care much about this habit when he's in the mansion, but in more human company he finds himself slipping a bit and gets embarrassed about it.

doesn't really care much for preening his feathers, but the other avians pester him about it so it still gets preened. he thinks he can do more useful stuff than just sitting in a circle with the other avians and preening each other's feathers.

a bit flirty with almost everyone and anyone under the sun. he doesn't fail to throw flirty remarks towards the other hybrids just to mess with them, but he gets a bolder when it's with you. no matter your personality, you've still got a bit of naivete thanks to your sheltered upbringing, and he likes to take advantage of it.

#yandere ayato #yandere heizou #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #yester.au — hybrids 🐾#yester.shorts

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scenesniper · 1 year

Text

☆ genos ; nsfw headcanons

pairing / genos x afab gn! reader

disclaimer / penetration & a bit angsty

word count / 879 words

draft from october that i never finished oops

⭒ genos is a virgin (obviously) and was certainly confused why you're even sexually attracted to a cyborg at the first place but nonetheless, he still loves you. 😔 he's never had the luxury of expressing himself as a hormonal teenager since his attention was set on getting revenge on the cyborg that took his family away from him.

⭒ but god, when he met you, everything changed. skipping the details but to say the least, he can finally explore that hormonal teenager experience he missed on.

⭒ sex with genos is very limited because again, he's part cyborg. man got nothing packing down there, i'm sorry to break the news. that doesn't mean he can't penetrate you with his metal fingers and give you oral with his tongue! in fact, he's EXTREMELY skilled despite having no prior experience.

⭒ in fact, he can't feel anything he touches. whenever he has his eyes on you, he has to watch your mannerisms closely. what part do you squirm in the most, what is the cause of your whimpers? because of this, he basically knows your entire body language. although he doesn't feel anything, it doesn't matter to him because he's a giver more than anything. he loves to please you.

⭒ his entire body is cold. his finger is bulky and thick, which can easily penetrate you. it happened between you two once, but i promise he's trying his best to be gentle with you! 😭

⭒ his finger movements are rhymtic, he's just absolutely fucking you senseless repeatedly. clutch onto his chest or hold onto his face while his finger is deep in you, he'll feel so embarrassed but yet proud of himself.

⭒ he loves it when you're taking charge. please treat him gently, not just because of the possible future repairs from you putting him out of service but also just because he wants to be taken care of for once.

⭒ completely malfunctions whenever he sees you strip in front of him. he absolutely heats up like a goddamn heater and you have to be like "where is that heat coming from?" (surprise, surprise, it's from your horny boyfriend).

⭒ one time however, one of his parts were to malfunction from overheating while having sex with you. he distracts you by this (EXTREMELY CONCERNING safey hazard) by flipping you over as he eats your face out, only to break the kiss when he's certain that specific part will be able to last a little longer.

⭒ very good with his mouth and when i say good, i mean GAHDAMN. it's just pure bliss, how else could you describe it. he's very gentle when it comes with you but just knows the right amount of force to have you wanting for him more.

⭒ for the sake of this scenario though, i will give him a tongue for all of you nasty bitches (i am nasty bitches) 🤝.

⭒ his tongue is very.. scratchy. its' texture is similar to that of sandpaper and a sponge meshed together. he's a natural kisser but whenever he includes his tongue.. his way of going is very.. interesting to say the least..! 😁

⭒ he literally just shoves his tongue down your throat and not like in a hot and heavy, sexy way but in a lord i feel my dinner coming up. the first time he tried to include his tongue, it's a literal "pause, nah nah we can't do this" moment. 😭

⭒ with oral though, he's heavenly when it comes with sucking your cunt and lapping your juices like a starved man. his tongue, as said before, is scratchy so your pussy will legit be so itchy but it's okay because it's genos.

⭒ he does loves it whenever you sit on his face. maybe you're hesitant at first but when he finally convinces you to do so, he's instantly on cloud 9 and holding you down while he laps away at your juices.

⭒ sex drive is unlimited because well, he's a cyborg. he's very attentive of you so when you're near your limit, he immediately stops whatever he is doing. he doesn't want you to push yourself and end up passing out, but is he okay with having you scream and writhing the entire time? why, yes.

⭒ aftercare will be genos running a cold bath for you. while you're soaking up, he'll begin cleaning up the remnants of the mess the two of you made.

⭒ nights like these are his favorite. he can watch your beautiful sleeping face with the shining moonlight upon your form. he learns that his anxiety disappears completely with just you by his side in these quiet nights. if it was any other day that he wasn't laying beside you, his mind will torment him with guilt just like every waking hour that he is aware.

⭒ and moments like these are his favorite, it is something that grounds genos down. something makes him feel a little bit human. he wonders what kind of feeling the satisfication gives you but genos doesn't have that luxury to ponder at that. the only pleasure he is given is your ecstasy. after all, he is only a cyborg and you are a human.

#genos #genos x reader #opm #opm x reader #one punch man #one punch man x reader #genos x reader smut #genos smut #genos smut hcs #genos smut headcanons #angst #genos x reader smut headcanons #genos x reader smut hcs #opm smut #one punch man smut

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edwardspoonhands · 2 years

Text

You're just going to have to keep buying socks for your entire life. And it will not be a chore that you enjoy, and while it will provide you with a service (I don't know about you but for me putting my feet into my shoes without socks is like licking sandpaper) it's probably not going to be a particularly lovely part of your life.

What if, instead, you got a pair of socks delivered to your door every month. What if each pair was designed by a different independent artist. What if shipping was free to anywhere in the world. What if a small group of people had been working for years to make sure they're just really good socks?

And what if 100% of the profit was donated to decrease maternal and child mortality in Sierra Leone?

So yeah, that's what the Awesome Socks Club is.

The idea is just to make a thing that people like but, instead of the profit going to some stranger somewhere, it goes to make the world a better place?

Like, why not? It just seemed very 1980 to still be doing socks in a way where some already rich person gets richer because people want their feet to be not gross. So we work really hard to help artists bring their designs to life on wonderful socks (you can subscribe to either ankle socks or mid-calf crews) and then we send them around the world. And then, after we pay our taxes we send whatever's left over to make life better in an area of the world where one in twenty women currently die in childbirth.

It's one of the highest rates of maternal mortality in the world, and it just seems a lot more interesting to sell socks for that than for money.

I like the idea a lot, and it seems like other people agree, since there are now forty thousand members of the club. And maybe you are one of them! Or maybe you are not and you will be soon!

We also have a weird way of minimizing waste. We don't want to make more socks than we have members. So, most of the time, the club isn't open to new members, but every year, we open the club up to new members for two weeks. Those people will then get their first pair of socks in January. And, of course, you can cancel any time. (Seriously I've made sure that it's super easy to cancel because I ALSO HATE THAT SO MUCH).

If you want to join, here's a link. I think it'll give you five dollars off your first month if you click it.

#i know y'all have a lot of fun in the tags #but i think i already said everything i wanted to say

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ugotnojamzzz · 20 days

Text

Rulers of Ruin Pt.I

Chapter 1

Alright so I’ve been toying with this complex mafia!au fic idea for a very long while and I guess it’s time to give it a whirl. I already have about ten chapters written out (I’m expecting it to be at least 20 chapters), but I want to test out the waters first. I’ll start posting more if some of you are interested in knowing what the hell is going on.

Genre: Mafia!au , Slowburn, Angst, Hurt, eventual smut, TW (it is a mafia!AU, after all)

Pairing: Mafia!Jungkook x reader

Synopsis: um, tf is going on??? Stay tuned for more chapters to come, because you are clearly about to be confused.

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language. Also, don’t come for me over the theme, people. It’s an Alternate Universe, which means the bangtan boys are essentially what I like to call meat puppets to serve the storyline. This is obviously not a projection of their actual real-life personas.

Wordcount: 1.9k

Her pulse echoed in her ears, a rhythmic drumming that seemed to sync with the slow return of her consciousness. A sharp pain throbbed at her temple, and a dull ache spread across her cheek when a voice sliced through the lingering fog in her mind.

“Rise and shine,” it sang.

Bound and blindfolded, she sensed the cold, hard back of a wooden chair against her spine. Panic clawed at her chest, and she made an instinctive, futile attempt to move her arms, only to find them securely tied. The room’s air was charged, heavy with an unspoken menace that made the small hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

As the blindfold was abruptly removed, a harsh light assaulted her eyes, forcing her to squint and struggle to orient herself in the unknown space.

Her gaze landed on a pair of unfamiliar eyes, their owner concealed in the shadows. "You're not gonna cause any more trouble, are you?" the stranger asked, his words heavy with an unspoken threat.

Her throat felt like sandpaper. “W-where am I?” The words scraped out of her, barely above a whisper.

Rather than answering, the stranger stepped closer, his features gradually unmasking from the shadows. He was young, platinum blonde hair framing a face that presented the kind of sharp angles that both captivated and cut. His eyes were fixed on her with a depth that tightened her stomach.

He leaned in, his hand lifting to trace a cold line down her jaw, prompting a reflexive flinch from the girl. “You're in a place where questions get answered if you cooperate,” he murmured, his eyes gleaming momentarily. "You’ve caused quite a stir around here. »

The girl’s mind raced, trying to piece together what could have led her to this place. "Please," she whispered, her voice quivering, "I don't know what you're talking about. You must have me confused with someone else."

The corner of the man’s mouth quirked up in a knowing half-smile, amusement flickering in his eyes. He tightened his grip, fingers pressing uncomfortably into her jaw. "You may not remember my face," he said, the familiarity of his tone unsettling, "but I certainly haven't forgotten yours, little bird."

The nickname seemed to send a jolt of nervousness through the poor girl.

She continued to plead, her eyes welling up with tears, the very picture of fragility. “I-I don’t know who you are, there’s been a mistak-” she insisted, though her voice faltered.

The man’s expression hardened. "You should save your tears, » he said curtly, using his thumb to wipe the single bead rolling down her cheek, « I’m not the one you’ll need to convince.”

As her gaze dropped, she caught sight of a tattoo peeking out from under the man’s collar—an unmistakable symbol. The realization hit her like a wave.

She was not merely in danger - she was deep in enemy territory.

She’d been taken by the Kim clan.

A sudden banging on the door cut through the tense atmosphere, causing both to turn their heads sharply toward the sound. The door swung open, and four men entered the room. The air thickened with the palpable sense of impending action, and the girl braced herself silently.

“Guess it’s time to meet the boss,” the man said, looking back at her, “Go ahead, guys.”

Without a word, two of the men grabbed her firmly by the arms, hoisting her to her feet with practiced ease. They escorted her out of the room, their grips unyielding as they navigated her up a narrow, creaking staircase.

Every step heightened the girl’s alertness. As they reached the top of the stairs, she found herself in the expansive hall of what could only be described as a mansion. The opulence was almost disorienting, but her eyes, quickly adjusted to the surroundings. Golden light pierced through the curtains; it must’ve been the early evening. She noted the strategic placement of security cameras in every corner, barely concealed by the luxurious decor. The presence of armed men stationed discreetly at every doorway did not escape her eye either.

She was led into an elegantly furnished living room, where her eyes instantly landed on a tall man standing by the fireplace, his back facing her. Broad-shouldered and dressed in a finely tailored suit, he casually dangled a glass filled with amber liquid in one hand.

His voice, resonant and commanding, broke the silence without him needing to turn around. "Has she calmed down yet?"

One of the men still gripping her arm replied, "She hasn’t said a thing, but—" His words were abruptly cut off as the man by the fireplace raised his hand in a dismissive gesture without so much as a glance.

Then, with a smooth motion, he finally turned around.With a tight jaw, the girl scrutinized his features as he drew nearer. His eyes, deep and penetrating held a feline intensity.

Stopping in front of her shaking figure, he reached out and cradled her face with surprising gentleness. His fingers delicately grazed her bruised cheekbone, his touch careful yet firm, as if he were appraising something precious that had been marred.

The girl remained silent, her jaw clenched tightly, refusing to show any sign of weakness. Observing her reaction, or lack thereof, he turned his attention back to his men, his voice taking on a sharp edge, "Who did that?” he asked, his eyes sweeping over the faces of his subordinates, searching for the culprit. The room held its breath. “I said no touching her face."

The tall, broad-shouldered man sighed in frustration as the room remained quiet. Without another word, he walked slowly towards the blonde man who had been part of her escort. “Go get Seokjin,” he muttered. The shorter man nodded sharply and quickly exited the room.

Within a minute, the door opened again. This time, the tall man who entered wore a white coat that brushed against his calves. He approached the captive directly, his expression focused and professional, ignoring the others as if they were merely part of the room's elaborate decor.

As he neared, the guard holding her arm tightened his grip reflexively, a habitual show of dominance. She winced slightly—a brief, almost imperceptible reaction—but it did not escape the doctor's notice. His eyes shot towards the guard, piercing and stern. The intensity of his gaze was enough. Without a word needing to be spoken, the guard hastily released his grip on her.

The doctor then turned his attention back to his patient. He examined her face gently yet thoroughly, his fingers skilled and efficient as they traced the contours of her injury.

“We’ll make sure it heals nicely,” he finally spoke, his voice calm yet carrying an undercurrent of firm command, “there shouldn’t be a hint of a scar.”

Meanwhile, the man who appeared to be the leader paced before his men, his frustration evident in each measured step. He paused, turning to face them with an expression of controlled ire. "When will you understand the meaning of orders?" He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in, his gaze piercing each of his subordinates in turn.

The men shuffled uneasily, their heads bowing slightly in a mixture of respect and fear. No one dared to meet his eyes.

The leader's hands clasped behind his back as he continued his slow, deliberate pacing. "We operate on precision and discipline," he lectured, his tone growing colder with each word. "Lapses like these—" he gestured dismissively towards the girl "—not only undermine our efforts but jeopardize our entire operation. » She shut her eyes as she took in his every word.

He stopped abruptly, standing straight "What do you think her brother is going to do when he sees that?” His voice rose slightly, as his eyes locked onto the platinum blonde, who seemed particularly uneasy, “huh, Jimin?"

The room had fallen into stunned silence when suddenly, a light giggle pierced the quiet. The leader spun around to locate the source of the sound. Everyone stood frozen in shock, realizing the unexpected laughter had come from the girl.

Realizing all eyes were now on her, the girl sighed nonchalantly. Perhaps it was time to drop the act. "He won't," she stated with a shake of her head. Her sudden firmness caught everyone off guard.

The leader paused, his expression shifting to one of intrigue. "So, she does speak," he remarked with a biting tone, his steps deliberate as he closed the distance between them. His tall figure loomed over her. "Care to repeat?" he pressed, his voice low and commanding.

Her demeanor shifted; the façade of vulnerability dropped away, replaced by an air of cool indifference. Now that she knew where she was and who she was dealing with, there seemed to be no point in maintaining her mask of ignorance.

“I said he won’t see this,” she replied, her posture relaxed, an almost dismissive roll of her eyes accompanying her words. The room's atmosphere shifted palpably, her casual dismissal of the threat to her person surprising everyone present.

The leader gave a slight gesture of his hand, and with that, his men quietly exited the room, leaving only him, the girl, and the doctor.

"You know… you may want to look at your enemies' track record before you go on holding their family hostage," the girl continued, her tone breezy but edged with a sharpness that belied her relaxed posture. "But you do know of my brother already, so tell me-” she paused, her doe eyes locking with his, “what’s the plan, Namjoon-ah?"

The casual address was a clear breach of decorum, nothing short of a middle finger, really. It made the doctor pause in his ministrations, his hands freezing momentarily in shock at her audacity.

Namjoon’s reaction, however, was one of amusement rather than offense. His smirk deepened, a spark of respect—or perhaps appreciation—for her daring flitting across his features.

“I’m surprised you remember my face,” he remarked.

“A raven remembers both friends and foes,” she retorted.

"You’re quite bold, aren't you?" he mused aloud, his gaze appraising her anew. "For someone in your position, I mean."

The girl met his gaze, her own eyes unflinching. "I’m afraid boldness might be all I have left," she replied steadily.

"Alright,” the tension was momentarily pierced by the doctor's exasperated interjection, “are you finally going to tell me what the hell this all is about?"

Namjoon turned slightly, as smile playing on his lips, before addressing the doctor with a controlled calm. "Seokjin," he began, his voice smooth, "let me introduce you to our guest, Park Y/N."

Seokjin lifted his eyes to rest on the leader, his face etched with disbelief as he muttered a soft curse under his breath. Jesus fucking Christ.

Namjoon's eyes, however, never wavered from Y/N's, his gaze intense as he continued, “our very own Raven Gongju.”

___

*cue suspenseful music*

___

Hope you liked it. If some of you are intrigued or interested in finding out more, don't hesitate to interact and I'll start posting some more chapters!

Chapter 2

Masterlist

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cowgurrrl · 1 year

Text

Sweet Creature

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader (plus platonic Ellie Williams x fem!reader)

Author’s note: holy shit thank you for your ideas this is my favorite. also i put it in the tags of darlin’ i’d wait for you BUT there is a beautiful easter egg in the baby’s first and middle name and the first person to tell me what it is gets a kiss on the mouth

Summary: “Helping one another is part of the religion of our sisterhood.” - Jo March, Little Women aka Ellie rescues you and Joel [1.3k]

Warnings: newborn DRAMA, post-partum anxiety if you squint, Joel being a softie for his daughters

"C'mon, Charlie girl, you've gotta help us out." You mumble as you bounce your crying baby around the room. It's been an hour of her crying nonstop, and you've tried everything. Nursing, changing her diaper, changing her clothes, burping, changing the room's temperature, and playing music. You even went as far as to check her for any injuries that you may have missed. You're not sure what kind of trouble your one-week-old could've gotten into to warrant an injury, but you're exhausted, and it seemed to make sense.

Joel woke up with her first, as he has done every night since you gave birth, so you had the chance to get some rest. Recovery has been rough for you, and he's already doing so much for you. He and Ellie barely let you get out of bed most days because they want to ensure you take the time to heal. Even though the thought is nice, you wake up and listen when Joel gets up with her every time. It's not that you don't trust him. It's that you're already the world's lightest sleeper, and Joel is deaf in one ear and is rarely aware of just how loud he is. You also don't mind secretly watching as he lays her on his bare chest in the low light of your room, singing to her or explaining what he's doing for her to engage her little brain. He's caught you staring at least twice since she's come home.

But tonight was different. She woke up crying and was pretty much inconsolable until Joel brought her over to you. She nursed for a minute or two before wrenching away from you and screaming. Since then, you and Joel have been taking turns trying to get her to go back to sleep. It's hard having a newborn with two capable parents. You have no idea how you had a baby as a single mom.

"D'you wanna try to feed her again?" Joel asks as he stands next to you, disheveled and overwhelmed but trying his best to comfort the both of you.

"I don't know," you shake your head, your throat starting to feel like sandpaper. You were always the more emotional person in your relationship, but postpartum emotions are nothing compared to your regular ones. "I don't know what's wrong." You cry. Joel touches your back and makes a sympathetic noise as tears fall down your face.

"Let me take her for a little bit so you can sit down, okay?" He suggests as he carefully takes Charlie from you. She chuffs at the transition before going right back to screaming her head off. You sit on the edge of the bed and watch as he holds her like a football and hums what sounds like Hank Williams to her. You'd be surprised if she could even hear him over her own crying, and you take a deep breath, racking your brain for what could be wrong.

"What are you doing to her?" Ellie asks as she walks into the room, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She's wearing one of Joel's shirts and hand-me-down shorts from Maria, and her hair is as messy as Joel's. If you weren't still crying, you think you'd probably laugh.

"She's just a little fussy. You can go back to bed." Joel says, but she shakes her head and walks over to where he's standing with Charlie.

"What's going on, bug? Huh?" She asks, crouching to look at Charlie's tired, sad eyes. She may have your eye shape, but she got those heartbreaking brown eyes from Joel. When she cries like this, they look like the saddest puppy dog eyes in the world. "D'you want me to try?" Ellie asks, and Joel shoots you a look.

You've been very intentional about not putting too much pressure on Ellie to help with the baby. She's sixteen, and she shouldn't have to be burdened with that if she doesn't have to be. You told her she could help as much or as little as she wanted, but she took it upon herself to help more often than not. You just didn't want her to wake up for midnight cry sessions or feel like she had to be put in a parenting position. She's still a kid.

"It's worth a shot," Joel says, and you shrug, way too tired to argue with him. He carefully passes Charlie to Ellie, who cradles her close and pushes her hair out of her face. Joel stays nearby in case she decides to hand the baby off, but he doesn't intrude on their moment.

"Hey, it's alright. You let it all out," Ellie says as she sways. Her fingers muss Charlie's hair, and she's quieting down. Not a lot, but enough to see it as crying instead of blood-curdling screaming. "I've got you, sweet girl." Ellie's hand moves to her chest, gently scratching and rubbing little circles into Charlie's onesie, and like magic, she stops crying. She turns her little head toward Ellie and yawns big and long like we kept her up. You sigh in relief and tip your head up to the ceiling as silence fills the room. Your ears are still ringing, and your body hurts, but it's quiet.

It would be easy to claim that Charlie calmed down because Ellie's wearing one of Joel's worn shirts or that she just finally hit a wall and fell asleep, but you like to think she was just missing her sister. Joel looks between Ellie and Charlie in disbelief, mumbling "shit" under his breath. "What can I say? She loves me." She shrugs, and you quietly laugh as she walks over to the rocking chair in the corner and curls up with Charlie. She snags the yellow blanket one of the older women in town knitted for you off the back of the chair and drapes it around them. You would think they've known each other for centuries.

Joel is still standing in the middle of the room, his curls a mess on top of his head, as his sleep-deprived brain tries to piece together what happened. He scratches at his stubbly jaw and shakes his head as he thinks. "You don't have to stay up with her. I can put her back in the crib." Joel offers, and you watch her hold on Charlie get a little tighter.

"It's gonna take me a long time to fall asleep. You guys should get some rest. I've got her," Ellie says, a smile pulling at her lips. "Besides, I like hanging out with her." You would cry again if you had the energy, but you don't. Instead, you crawl back into bed and get comfortable. Joel looks to you for confirmation, always looking for your approval as the mother of his child before making any decisions, but you're already half-asleep again.

"If she's volunteering, I'm not gonna stop her," you mumble into your pillow. "Just don't fall asleep."

"Sir, yes, sir," Ellie says. They may have stayed up talking. You're not sure, but when you wake up, Ellie is between you and Joel in bed, and Charlie is in her crib. She's tucked under the arm Joel is using to hold your waist as he sleeps, and her hand is on his chest. He's snoring lightly as he holds you both, perfectly content to cuddle with his girls in bed. You smile and kiss each of their heads before falling asleep again.

You vaguely remember fearing how the new baby would affect Joel and Ellie's relationship and worrying if Ellie and the baby would get along. You don't know exactly why Charlie was crying last night or why she calmed down so fast once Ellie had her, and you don't need to.

Sometimes a girl just needs her sister.

Sometimes a father just needs to baby his sixteen-year-old a little longer.

🍓

taglist: @evyiione @nyotamalfoy @abbyhaslongshorts

#look for the light #the last of us #joel and ellie #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #the last of us x reader #joel tlou #ellie williams #joel miller the last of us #joel miller fluff #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #ellie williams fluff #dad!joel miller #he’s so girldad your honor

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luveline · 2 years

Note

Maybe a Steve zombie au where there’s a really close call and reader almost doesn’t make it. Steve is just so shaken up he refuses to let go of them. Also congrats on 30k!!!!

thank you so much!! I hope this is okay ty for ur request!! ♡ fem!reader

You wake up to a hand in your hand.

"Oh, fuck," you croak. You're not sure what you're cursing about, because every bone in you body is hurting. Which one to choose?

It's an all encompassing kind of pain, pervasive as a tooth ache. The only thing that doesn't hurt is your palm against Steve's, or your chest where his head rests. Both of those points feel okay.

"Steve," you say, throat dry as sandpaper. It barely sounds like his name. "Steve. Wake up. Please."

You shake your joined hands.

He moves remarkably quickly. One second his hands a limp weight and the next it's squeezing you tightly, his head turning on your chest so you can see his face. He looks pretty bad, all sallow skinned and dirty, but it's not too far from the norm.

"Steve?"

His eyelashes pull apart like they've been glued together.

"Can I have painkillers? Please?" You're in enough pain that it makes your teeth chatter.

"Shit," he says, sitting up. "Shit. Shit." He stares at you, relief and surprise breaking through the heaviness of his fatigue.

"Do we have any?"

He shakes himself. "Yeah, of course we do."

Steve reaches under the bed you're on. You peer down at his one hand, the other still clutching your own. He searches through his rucksack for a pill bottle and uses the side of his hand rather than let go of you to open it, pouring two and then a third pill out.

Steve helps you up enough to drink with his hand behind your shoulders, murmuring a sorry, "I know," when you hiss in pain. Your head feels like somebody dropped a bowling ball on it.

As soon as you've taken the pills Steve sets you right back down, both hands now clasped to your wrist. It's the longest he's ever touched you, at least while you're both awake. He hugs you in his sleep sometimes.

"Do you remember what happened?" he asks.

You shake your head. The movement sends a pain like an electric shock up the length of your neck and Steve quickly shushes you, a reassuring, pitying bump of sound. "Sh, it's okay. Try not to move your neck, yeah?"

You swallow and blink back tears. It's alarming to find yourself so injured. Steve's touching you so much, it's like you almost died.

His grave expression tells you you might be closer to the truth than you realised.

"I knew we shouldn't have gone in there... I'm sorry. The water damage was worse than I thought and you- The floor gave way. You landed funny. I'm sorry."

"I fell through the floor?" you ask.

Steve nods slowly, one hand secured around your wrist and the other moving up your arm. "I couldn't work out what was wrong but you wouldn't wake up."

You focus on his touch. Your head, neck, and lower back hurt like crazy. When Steve had helped you sit up it had made your stomach burn, as if you'd done a hundred crunches without warming up. The only distraction is his light touch, his fingertips soothing up and down the length of your forearm. How many times have you hoped he'd touch you like this? And now he is you can hardly feel it through the aching.

You wouldn't wake up.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"You woke up this morning," he says, "I didn't think you would remember that. But before that, it was a long time. Sixteen hours."

You look over him again. It's obvious he's barely slept, and that he likely hasn't gone very far.

It's a single bed, but he can fit if he's willing to lie on his side. You shuffle away from him and pull at his arm.

Steve stares.

"Come up here."

He only listens when you try to pull your arm out of his hands, climbing in beside you carefully. You're not sure if he's noticed how he's clinging to you.

"You really need to stay still. I don't know what you've done. You definitely have a concussion," he says quietly.

"Did I throw up?"

"No."

You raise your eyebrows and then immediately stop. "Oh. Lucky you. Or lucky me. That would be embarrassing, right? Survive the zombie apocalypse to die choking on my own vomit?"

He hums. "Imagine how I felt. Kept you alive all the this time for you to die because we wanted new jeans."

"Bet I need new jeans now."

He nods regretfully. "Don't worry about it. I'll find you something."

You push a tired arm over your chest to cling him right back, fingers braceleting the muscle of his bicep hungrily. He's okay, and you're okay though you feel a thousand percent awful. As long as you get better, everything's gonna be fine.

"Thanks for taking care of me," you say, turning your face as much as you before your neck twinges in protest.

He presses down on each of your fingers in turn, distracted. "Don't worry about it."

"Are you okay?"

"I didn't fall ten feet."

"Are you okay?" you ask again, because he needs to be okay.

Strands of hair fall into his eyes, obscuring his expression. "I'm fine."

"Have you been eating?"

He laughs, a stark contrast to your hushed back and forth.

"What's funny?" you ask.

He needles his arms around your arm and hugs it to his chest, entirely unabashed. "I missed you. I'm glad you're awake."

You glare at him. "You missed my stupid questions."

"Yeah, I did."

Steve goes back to stroking your arm. You drop back into your pillow properly, gaze naturally landing on the yellowed ceiling above. He touches you almost unthinkingly, hands all over.

If you'd known almost dying would make him this clingy you might've tried it a long time ago.

more steve zombie!au

#steve zombie!au #zombie!au #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things 4 #stranger things fanfic

1K notes · View notes

captain-mj · 8 months

Note

You know the alien au? Do you have something like that for Korangi?

Hell yeah!! Koenig is the same species as Ghost because I'm lazy but Horangi is different. No need to read the other one

Koenig felt very ashamed of himself. But his needs were... growing. He had started to get more and more irritability. He wanted a mate. Or at least someone to fuck.

It was shameful, to need to pay like this. But he had gotten desperate.

A friend had given him the suggestion after he had bared his teeth at some innocent deer people. They had been chewing and exposing their chests and their stupid little tails kept twitching around and it got the parts of his brain that were horny and hungry all confused.

The matron showed him different pictures of pretty creatures. He saw one and felt his mouth start to water. "That one."

"Horangi. He's a bit pricey."

"Whatever he wants. I'll pay it." Koenig nodded. "I need him for three nights."

"We charge hourly."

Koenig groaned. "Fine. One night. Eight hours. Then if I want more I can just buy?"

"Yes. As many hours as you want. Though, I'm sure he could wear you out. I always suggest hourly."

"No, I need longer."

The matron paused and nodded. "Alright. I'll get the bill for you."

It was steep, but Koenig made more than enough money and didn't find many things to waste it on. This was more than worth every penny. "Can I bring him to my place? Or does it have to be here?"

"He has to stay here. He owes money and he can't leave until he's done."

Koenig felt unsettled by that, but he nodded. "Fine. I'll make do."

He let the matron know about his... requirements. She took them all down and nodded. "You'll have him tomorrow."

All of this led Koenig to this moment right here. Where Horangi was in a bed, blindfolded so Koenig could slip off his hood, and "very well" prepped. His legs were slightly spread and his hands were next to his head. Giant cat like ears with tufts on the end listened intently to Koenig walking around. His cock sat on his tummy, half hard and twitching as Koenig stared at him.

Koenig wondered if he had not been informed of their size difference. He put a hand on his hip, watching his long fingers wrap around him. Horangi was roughly six feet two inches and toned, but Koenig was large. He was on the larger size of an already large species.

One of his thick fingers, claws filed to be smooth and not sharp, slid into him. Definitely slick enough, but not good enough. He could finger him, of course, but the problem with that was his claws. Even filed, he doubted they'd be very comfortable.

So Koenig picked Horangi up like a doll and started to lick at him.

Horangi jerked and hit his shoulders. "Not even a hello first??" He stopped struggling and moaned loudly the moment Koenig's tongue breached him. He started to lap slowly, letting the sandpaper texture of his tongue tug at his sensitive body.

Koenig closed his eyes. Horangi's top half hit the pillows as the rest of him stayed in the air, legs over his shoulders. He had a sweet taste to him. Perfect for what Koenig needed him for.

Koenig continued until he dripped and seemed loose enough. Horangi had started to squeeze his thighs around his head which drove him fucking wild. His tongue pushed deeper and deeper with every squeeze before abruptly pulling away.

Horangi's legs shivered and his cock was now at full attention.

Koenig didn't want to talk. It was bothersome and unnatural. Still, he swallowed thickly. "Hello. Where is your lube?"

Horangi shivered at the way he spoke and pointed to the drawer.

Koenig retrieved it and grabbed Horangi's ankles, forcing him up and exposing his hole again.

"What are you do- Cold!!" Horangi squirmed when Koenig put a generous glob directly on to him. "A little warning."

Koenig grunted, worried if he spoke too much now he'd ruin everything. All of his blood was also rushing to his cock and he was sure if he didn't get some relief soon, he'd go insane. He poured more on his own cock and put one of his hands around Horangi's throat.

Horangi tilted his head back. "getting your money's worth huh?"

Koenig pushed in, feeling Horangi tense when the head popped in. He groaned a little, hands flying to Koenig's shoulders. His fingers searched over his shoulders, over his face, down his chest.

"Wait what ar-"

Koenig shoved more into him, whimpering at the tightness. The pressure was so intense and it was so slick. He rolled his hips to try to work his way deeper.

Horangi gasped and dug his nails in, almost immediately drawing blood. "Fuck, fuck, so big."

Koenig paused, burying his face in his neck. He pressed in tight and after a moment, resumed his rocking.

Deeper. More. His body begged for Horangi to just let him in. It was his fault, maybe he should've ignored his attraction and picked a species more compatible.

Oh dear. Horangi would probably be terrified knowing he was being bedded by such a horrid creature. Koenig would make sure he stayed blindfolded and hopefully too pleasured to think too much about it.

The subject of his thoughts chose that time to sob, back arching a little. "Sorry, haven't had this big in a while. Take what you need."

Koenig snarled loudly, making him jump in his arms. Bigger? Take anyway? He rocked faster, trying desperately to fit all of himself. He took his time, making sure Horangi wasn't in pain with each inch.

Horangi's mouth opened. Sharp teeth meant for eating fish and a nice soft pink tongue. Koenig licked into his mouth, tasting him again.

Sweet.

Finally, after so much pushing and pulling, it fit. Horangi had a small dent in his tummy and seemed half awake, though if Koenig went too still for too long, he started to rock back on him, trying to get him to move.

Koenig gripped his hips hard and swallowed hard. "I am going to pull out now. Might feel weird."

"Why?"

He answered by just starting to pull out.

Horangi groaned and whined at the feeling. There was a texture that dragged along his sensitive walls, meant for making sure there was nothing in his mate but him. That he'd be bred by Koenig and only Koenig.

Another slow push in, another slow pull out. Horangi came all over himself, sobbing. His species was so expressive.

Koenig sped up and started to seek his own pleasure. He tried to get as deep as he could, breaking Horangi down.

All his thoughts were consumed by the idea of making Horangi drunk off pleasure. Only able to sit there and take and take and take.

Horangi clawed at his back and moaned loudly. "Fuck, not so fast. Not so deep."

"Please, please." Koenig pressed his face in his neck and rutted into him. "Inside, yes? Can I come inside?"

Horangi hit his shoulders. "Fine, fine, yes. Come on." He felt Koenig shudder and finish deep inside him.

Koenig wasn't even close to done, as Horangi would be unfortunate enough to learn.

He sobbed hard into the pillows, face now pressed against it as Koenig took him from behind. He had lost count of both how many times they finished and the time. There was no possible way it had just been eight hours. It felt like months.

Torture of the sweetest kind.

“Please, keep talking to me, please.” Horangi was pretty sure he was going insane. It felt good, so good and there was nothing to ground him. Just unrelenting, uncaring pounding right into his sweet spot. There was nothing to look at, nothing to listen to other than the sound of skin against his own and the embarrassingly wet sounds of his own body. All there was, was the sensation of touch. Even his taste and sense of smell were full of this evil, awful man who had done what many had tried but none had succeeded to do. Make Horangi beg.

As yet another orgasm was wrung out of him, he felt Koenig cum again without a word. It had started dripping down his legs, but Koenig just pushed it back into him when ever he took breaks between rounds. Koenig took breaks. He usually teased Horangi’s body with bites, nibbles and little licks over his sensitive tummy until he felt ready to continue his war path against Horangi’s body.

"Thirsty." Horangi whined out and Koenig sprung to action, quickly rearranging them so Horangi was in his lap. He brought a cup of water to his lips and helped him drink it down. "Thank you."

Koenig hummed. He seemed to lose more and more of his vocabulary as they went on. It was difficult to form words.

A knock on the door.

His eight hours were up.

He shoved Horangi down and took a good look at what he had done to him. He grunted in satisfaction and then slapped his ass lightly.

"Paying for two more days."

Horangi groaned but neither of them missed the way his ass shifted up slightly to give Koenig a better view. It was a stupid amount of money to blow on a whore. He didn’t think it was possible for him to survive the next two days, but… it was a lot of money and he doubted Koenig could keep this pace up for 48 more hours.

Right?

#Call Of Duty: Modern Warfare II #Konig #König #Horangi #Körangi #König x Horangi #Horangi x König

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mollymauk-teafleak · 3 months

Text

now we're partners in crime

Some more Huskerdust! I just wanted to write something fluffy and happy for them, huge thanks to @minky-for-short for being a wonderful beta!

Please reblog and leave a comment over on Ao3! <3

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Angel Dust is no stranger to the morning after. In fact, he's pretty much a professional.

And he has to admit, he's had worse in his life when he wakes up with a bitch of a hangover, in a random hotel and next to his boyfriend, Husker.

Though when he puts together the pieces of the night before, he realises they did something very, very stupid.

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With all the things to dislike about living in actual fucking hell, the decor probably shouldn’t have been as high up on Angel Dust’s list as it was. But he’d argue there wasn’t a sin invented that deserved the punishment of opening aching eyes to a hotel room with a white and gold color scheme.

Starting from his now burning eyes, Angel’s body parts checked in one by one, each one with its own minor disaster to report. His throat felt like sandpaper, his head throbbed like someone was playing the drums on the inside of his skull, his stomach turned over at the mere thought of moving. In short, he had a bitch of a hangover.

“Fuck…” Angel groaned, screwing up his face and sinking below the surface of the blankets.

His brain was a fog, making every thought a lurking, malformed danger. He was going to be late to the studio. He’d look a mess, the cameras would pick it up. He couldn’t remember any lines. Valentino would be furious, he’d smell the debauchery on his skin and know he hadn’t caused it, he’d try to drown it out with worse just to prove to Angel that he was the only person allowed to ruin him. He was in so much fucking trouble…

Something brushed his leg under the covers. Angel’s first impulse was to pull away from whatever loser his spiral of self destruction had landed him with, get dressed and get out before he even saw his face, like having it in his memory would be just another reason for Val to hurt him.

But then that something wound its way around his leg and suddenly Angel remembered. The two years collapsed and he saw the panic rising for what it was, a bad memory. Like the two dimensional backdrop on a soundstage, as soon as he knew where to step he was past it and back in the real world.

Angel ignored his churning stomach and rolled over, so he could see him. Really the snoring should have been his first clue, no one else Angel had ever shared a bed with snored like that, rattling and rumbling like a clapped out Chevy whose exhaust was barely hanging on. He looked as hungover as Angel felt, whiskers crushed against the pillow, smudges of lipstick in a very familiar color streaked across his face, somehow still wearing his suspenders even though he definitely wasn’t wearing trousers. His tail still looped around Angel’s leg, reaching out for him even while the rest of him slept.

Husker. Still the loser Angel’s spiral of self destruction landed him with but also the one who’d pulled him out.

He had a fantasy of leaning in close, smoothing down that wild bedhead and waking him with a kiss. Reality kicked in, however, before he’d gotten more than two seconds in, reminding him about his apocalyptic hangover.

He took a screeching turn towards the bathroom instead, hoping his legs would get their shit together quick enough to get him there without falling on his face. Despite being clean for two years now, Angel hadn’t lost his touch, he made it in time to vomit what felt like the whole bottom shelf of a bar into the toilet. At least that meant his eyes were shut so he didn’t have to look at the equally tacky bathroom.

“Fucking hell…” Angel groaned, once his organs had stopped trying to eject themselves from his body, slumping so his forehead rested on the seat.

“Okay, you remember where you are, that’s a good sign.”

Angel opened one eye, scoffing at Husk as he leaned in the doorway, somehow already holding a glass of water for him, “Funny…how the fuck are you able to stand up, I seem to remember you drinking as much as I did?”

“Vegas born and raised, baby,” Husk chuckled roughly, passing him the glass, “I promise, I feel like a corpse, I just know how to keep a poker face..”

Angel washed his mouth out, trying to follow that memory like a thread, figure out what most of last night had involved. It had been a while since he got this drunk, since he’d had a morning after not tinged with the clawing, hollowed out feeling of a come down or a heavy dose of shame. He found it was actually pretty pleasant when the hazy, disjointed memories you sifted through were full of good times with people you cared about.

If you could ignore the whole feeling like death warmed up thing.

“I remember drinking a lot,” he rasped, draining the rest of the glass and gaining a little ground on his hangover as he reward, “I remember dancing on tables. I remember karaoke…and not a lot else.”

Husk perched on the edge of the tub, wincing as he did, “Same here. So it sounds like we did exactly what Charlie told us to do, we enjoyed our weekend off. Right up until we woke up, anyway.”

Angel massaged his temples with a couple of hands, “Where even are we? I mean, I know we’re in a hotel but this place ain’t our Charlie’s particular brand of tacky. There’s no banners for a start.”

“We’re on Sinners Strip,” Husk answered without missing a beat, looking around like a detective surveying a crime scene, “Somewhere on the west end by the looks of it…The Fanged Flamingo, I think. You’d have to be fucking blackout drunk to wind up here.”

It was hard not to be impressed. Sinners weren’t allowed to hop from ring to ring, of course, but they brought their vices down to Hell with them, clinging to them like life rafts. The Pride ring they called home had ended up divided into neighborhoods, each an oversized shrine to whatever sin had bought their residents a ticket down below. Sinner’s Strip was the Greed ring in miniature and Las Vegas on crack so of course Husker knew every building along its length in intimate detail, enough to recognise what casino they were in through a blinding hangover.

In fact, his territory had probably been here, back when he was an Overlord.

Angel winced, feeling like an idiot as he realized too late that they’d woken up in Husk’s equivalent of Valentino’s studio, “Do you wanna go home? I can get my shit together real fast?”

Husk’s expression softened just at the asking, tapping his claws on the tub’s edge as he thought, “You know…I think I’m okay. Don’t get me wrong, I know there’s tables down there, I can hear them. I’d be lying if I said no part of me wants to go do something real stupid…but then the rest of me says well, if I did, I wouldn’t be here with my man, would I?”

“So instead you’re gonna do stupid things with me?” Angel tried to joke lightly, like that would hide how misty his eyes suddenly were.

“That’s the plan,” Husk leaned in and kissed his forehead, grinning, “Sap.”

Once Angel Dust would have pulled him down, turned that soft gesture into something heated, something open mouthed and involving teeth. He would have been panicked by the adoring ache in his chest, he would have felt foolish that he couldn’t form it into words and instead turned it into the only language he knew how to speak back then, pushing himself at Husk and begging him to take his body as payment.

But now he knew better. This wasn’t lust, it was love. And love could be something small and not mean any less. It would fit in any box, gentle gestures and few words.

“I just love you,” Angel Dust grinned, “That’s all.”

“And I love you too,” Husk smiled, “So take as long as you want. Then we’ll go scrape the girls up, wherever they are, and hit this diner I remember a couple blocks from here. About a thirty percent chance of getting food poisoning but their breakfast sandwiches will have your hangover begging for mercy.”

“I like those odds,” Angel let himself be pulled up, just about managing not to barf again.

For a moment, with his hands- all four- in Husk’s, standing there in the bathroom with his head spinning, Angel had a flash of a memory. He remembered spinning, lights blurring around them, Husk dipping him and kissing him in that way that drove him wild. He remembered joy bursting in his chest, that kind that was so strong it actually hurt, like his body was struggling to find room for it all.

Whatever they’d been doing last night, it had been really fucking good. Angel had to smile, his mouth tasted faintly of vomit, his hair was a mess, his head still contained an amateur percussion band that needed a hell of a lot more practice but this morning after still cracked the top ten.

The room might have been tacky but the bed was soft enough, especially when Angel Dust rolled to pillow his head on Husk’s chest, grinning when he felt him purr and a paw come up to stroke idly down his spine. A hand went searching for his phone, finally snagging it amongst the blankets, along with his panties from the night before, a lipstick that wasn’t even the shade he was wearing and a crumpled piece of paper he ignored. If it was a receipt, he didn’t want to know how much money he’d blown on the food he’d just hurled up.

Angel flicked the screen to life, reassured by a recent text from Charlie that looked like it was trying to say goodnight and that they were in a room on the floor below, once he read around the drunken spelling mistakes and emojis, “Come on then, detective, let’s investigate. What the fuck happened last night…”

Husk made a vague noise, already one foot back in sleep, his purrs starting to blur into snores. Angel rolled his eyes fondly, starting to thumb through the fuckton of unfamiliar photos that had appeared on his phone since yesterday.

Things started how he remembered, how they usually did. Charlie gave them nights off pretty regularly but it was rare for her and Vaggie to join in. Angel had been wheedling and wearing Charlie down for months, insisting that it wasn’t a real bonding experience until everyone tagged along, that she worked as hard as anyone and deserved a break too. At first he’d been doing it because he’d suspected- and been proven correct- that she’d make a hilarious drunk. But eventually he had to admit it to himself, he just wanted to see her relax once in a while. He saw her literally taking the weight of other people’s souls on her shoulders, putting every sinner in hell ahead of herself. Angel knew he’d never be able to fix everything for her but a margarita and some karaoke every so often could at least take the edge off.

So for the first time, Charlie and Vaggie were there in his photos. They’d started at the Broken Halo, one of the safer nightclubs not too deep into the Debauchery District. Angel smiled as he saw their night in stages, watched him and his friends dissolve into sloppy grins and flushed cheeks. There was Cherri laughing at Charlie’s expression of post-shot disgust and panic, a photo of himself taking full advantage of the pole the bar had, nailing it even though Husk’s thumb was taking up a corner of the screen, a photo of Nifty crawling on the ceiling and somehow not spilling her drink.

As he kept going, the photos lined up with his hazy patchwork of memories, gaps getting filled as pieces of the puzzle slotted into place. Angel could remember the walks in between clubs, cold night air but a pleasant buzz to keep him warm, laughing so hard his ribs ached. And always, Husk’s claws curled around his fingers or his wings stretching out to cover him when he noticed him shivering, grinning when Angel caught him tapping his foot to the music. He could remember sinking gratefully into a blissful, loose limbed oblivion, not because it was his temporary escape but because he felt completely and wholly safe. Husk was his anchor, Husk would look after him. Husk was his way home, a home he actually wanted to go to.

One thing wasn’t adding up though, a tangle as he strung thread between these memories. With the clubs these photos seemed to be taken in- and Angel prided himself on intimate knowledge of every place in the Pride ring that would serve him a drink- they’d stuck to the fringes of the district, in spitting distance of the hotel. The garish hotel they were currently coming back to life in wasn’t even in the same district, they’d gone out of their way to come here and wince at tacky gold accent pieces. Angel just couldn’t figure out why, he didn’t see what had brought them over to the Fanged Flamingo.

Until he flicked to the next photo.

Angel sat bolt upright, eyes wide. His stomach would have protested if it was still there, it seemed to have dropped a few rings down. Husk did though, giving a grumpy trill as the spider demon jerked out of his embrace.

“You gonna barf again?” he mumbled, eyes still closed, “Just stick your head over the side.”

“No,” Angel Dust groaned, though he couldn’t be a hundred percent certain on that, “Husk, we did something really, really stupid last night.”

“What else is new?” he did drag himself upright and force his eyes open, hearing something in Angel’s voice that spoke of more than just a mile long bar tab or joyriding.

It took him a moment of wincing and groaning to be able to look at the bright phone screen suddenly pressed into his hand, though once Husk realized what he was looking at, his eyes widened, “Oh…oh shit…”

The photo was clear and properly lined up, so it must have been taken by Vaggie who’d stayed relatively sober the whole night. Angel and Husk certainly weren’t, their eyes were glazed, their smiles bright and faces creased with an unrestrained delight that only came when alcohol had dissolved the walls you were used to putting up. Angel was being carried the cat demon’s arms, in serious danger of being dropped but he clearly couldn’t give less of a shit, two of his arms wrapped loosely around Husk’s neck. And the other two holding a handful of limp flowers, probably purchased from a gas station they’d stumbled across, and a piece of paper. Fuck knew where he’d gotten the length of lace he was wearing as a veil (or the one knotted around his thigh), Cherri had probably swiped it from someone’s washing line. Husk was already dressed pretty appropriately, with his hat and bow tie, his smile so wide he looked like he belonged in Wonderland.

Between that, the shower of ripped paper frozen in the air and the blaring neon sign that said ‘chapel’ behind them, it didn’t take someone who wasn’t hungover to work out what happened.

Angel found it again, the piece of paper he’d tossed aside and thought nothing of. He smoothed out the folds and creases, unsurprised to find a certificate apparently from the Fanged Flamingo 24-7 Wedding Chapel, registered trademark. It didn’t look legally binding, Angel wasn’t sure legal documents used bright pink font or had a crude logo featuring two flamingos going at it. But the rubber stamp across the top said otherwise, proclaiming the two signatures across the bottom legally married.

His heart gave a reflexive ache at the sight of his signature, making him think of the last time he’d scrawled Anthony on the dotted line, all the misery it had brought him since. This should have felt the same, a reckless decision he’d made when he wasn’t in his right mind, he should feel that familiar acrid burn of regret.

But he didn’t. Angel looked at his name, at Husks, his own handwriting swooping and flamboyant, Husk’s scrawling and hurried, he looked at this silly, kitschy souvenir certificate and the promise it meant. And all he felt was that memory of joy, except this time he saw where it was supposed to fit and it joined him in the present. He remembered the kiss, how they’d had their first dance on the chapel steps to music that only they could hear, how Husk had swept him up into his arms just as Cherri had thrown a handful of torn up flashpaper as makeshift confetti, that moment now frozen on his phone.

Angel Dust just felt like he’d come home.

But a low, guttural moan from Husk poured cold water on his awed smile, “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Angel bit his lip, realizing the cat demon had his face in his hands and shoulders hunched. Where he’d been delighted, Husk looked absolutely devastated.

Trying not to sound like a black hole was opening up in his chest, Angel tried an airy laugh, “Hey, baby, it’s okay…”

“No,” Husk pinched the bridge of his nose, ears lying flat, “It isn’t, shit…fucking cheap whiskey, always turns me into a goddamn fool.”

Angel swept a hand over his hair, using his years of experience in painting over his emotions and acting like he didn’t care, “Don’t get your tail in a twist, Whiskers, I’m sure we can walk it back. Pretty much everyone who gets hitched there has got to be blotto, they’ll have an impaired judgment clause or some shit. I ain’t gonna slap a ball and chain on you…I mean it’s ridiculous. The idea of me being someone’s missus, what a joke, right? I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Wait…” Husk’s head snapped towards him, bloodshot eyes wide, “You think I don’t wanna be married to you?”

“Well…you haven’t seemed so ecstatic since you found out…” Angel said warily, pulling his knees to his chest, “It’s fine, I get it. I’m not marriage material.”

One of the good things about having a boyfriend with ears and a tail was how Husk’s emotions were impossible to hide. Angel was good at reading people, it was part of his job and part of how he’d stayed alive in Hell, people’s faces were like books to him. And Husk was a picture book with those thick cardboard pages and twenty point font, as his ears shot up and his tail dropped in dismay.

“I am the biggest idiot in the fucking seven rings,” Husk rasped, realisation stark on his face, the expression of someone who’d just realised they were about to drive off a cliff.

Angel couldn’t help a giggle, lifting an eyebrow, “Okay…I mean, I love you anyway…”

“I love you too,” Husk took a deep breath, like he was preparing for that plunge, finding as many of Angel’s hands as he could gather up in his own, “And, fuck, if we were human, if we were back up on the surface, I’d have been down on one knee the second I realised you’d actually have an old hag like me. I’m only…I’m only mad at myself because I didn’t want it to happen like this…”

Angel felt suddenly breathless, “You mean you’d thought about this before? About marrying me?”

It was hard to see under the dark fur but Angel was sure Husk’s cheeks were burning red, squeezing his hands, “Fuck, baby, of course I have. And you deserve a hell of a lot better than a goddamn Vegas wedding where I probably didn’t even propose right or say half the shit I’d wanna say. It just…it just ain’t gentlemanly.”

Angel felt laughter bubble in his chest, swallowing it down hard. It was all just so damn cute, he forgot sometimes that while he was from an earlier time, Husk had spent longer in the past, that he was more of an old fashioned romantic than he’d ever admit.

“You don’t get treated right by so many assholes, Angel, and I can’t do a damn thing about it, I just…I always dreamed about doing this differently for you.”

Angel Dust swallowed hard, feeling that ache again, trying to find a place to put the love he didn’t know he’d been built for. He drew Husk gently down, until they were lying nose to nose, limbs tangled comfortably together, finding a way to fit.

“Well then,” Angel murmured, burying his fingers in soft fur, setting them to stroke delicate feathers, “Ask me.”

Husk finally met his eyes, uncharacteristically shy, “What?”

“Ask me the way you wanted to, say all the things you wanted to say. I’ll give you my answer here and now, Husker, and you’ll know I mean it,” Angel could feel how hard the cat demon’s heart began to beat, his own picking up to match.

Husk opened and closed his mouth, the words struggling to come at first. Angel Dust understood how he felt, the fear that came with getting something you never even thought to want because it always seemed so out of reach.

But his Husker was braver than even he knew, his voice coming soft and raspy, “Anthony. After I died, I thought I’d finally found a way to be more than the loser nobody I was when I was alive, everything that made me a shitty human suddenly gave me the power and success I thought I’d always wanted. When I lost it all and had to sell my soul, the only way to keep my sanity was to tell myself I didn’t give a fuck anymore and just drink until I believed it. When I met you…I was fucking terrified. Because I wanted you. I wanted you bad, you were bright and brave and so damn strong. I never expected you to let me in but you did and I fell so hard for you, baby. You’re the first thing in hell, fuck, the first thing ever that made me want to be better. After the shit you’ve been through, I have no clue how you trust me when I say I love you and I’ll do right by you but I’ll never break that trust. And to prove it to you…will you marry me, Anthony?”

“Shit…well how the fuck am I supposed to follow that act?” Angel Dust managed to croak out after a long pause, all of his eyes streaming tears, “Feel like my teeth are gonna melt from all that sugar…”

“Shut up,” Husk’s smile was sudden and warm and brilliant, like the sun Angel remembered from up on the surface, tears making silvery tracks on his cheeks, “Just answer me.”

Feeling like words might not be enough, Angel cupped Husk’s face and kissed him deeply, left with barely any breath to whisper, “Yes. Fuck yes. I’m so glad we did it last night cos I wouldn’t want to wait another goddamn second to be your husband.”

“God, I love you…” Husk kissed him again, pressing him close like he couldn’t bear a spare inch of space between them, purring like a chainsaw.

“I love you too,” Angel sighed contentedly, “Can’t believe I had to die to find the man of my dreams.”

“Even though our wedding was kinda trashy?”

“Oh, sorry, did you not know we were trashy? Hi, my name is Angel Dust, nice to meet you, can I suck your dick?”

He would have been happy to let the words fall away then, to say the rest with their shared laughter, with his tongue and his hands and whatever other parts they had time for. The way Husk was stirring under the blankets, he seemed to agree but there was one thing he wanted to do first.

Angel found his phone again, flicking through the photos again, unable to resist another look. There were more past the first one too, shots of them dancing, of Husk dipping him in a deep kiss, of Angel throwing his gas station bouquet directly at Vaggie’s head in one of his less subtle moves. Photos of them, of their family, of one of the best nights of their lives. And, as he kept scrolling, ones showing how their hotel room had gotten so wrecked.

“Woah,” Angel Dust grinned, “You’re definitely stuck with me, baby, annulments off the table for sure. We consummated the fuck out of this marriage.”

“Damn,” Husk purred, kissing his shoulder, “Didn’t know I could still bend that way…”

“And you will again,” Angel smirked, finally opening the camera, “In a minute…”

He held out the phone, pulling Husk into frame, smiling for the camera and smiling even wider when Husk kiss his cheek as he took the photo. As soon as he dropped it into the hotel group chat, along with the message good morning from the happy couple <3 he received a buzz of delighted messages from their friends, all thankfully alive. He’d save them all alongside the photos to look at again and again, over the breakfast they’d all share once they’d dragged themselves out of bed, the next time he had to go back to work and needed to lift his mood, whenever his addictions reared their ugly head. Whenever he needed to remember the best day of his his afterlife.

There was a lot to dislike about living in literal fucking hell, tacky hotel rooms being one of them. But there was nowhere else Angel Dust would rather be.

#hazbin hotel #huskerdust #angel dust #husk #husker #hazbin angel dust #hazbin husk #please reblog and comment!

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ghosttotheparty · 1 year

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change of fate

also on ao3 cw: death, wounds, blood, grief, depression spoiling this for you already eddies not actually dead bc i cant do that

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to happen at all.

The bat falls from Steve’s hand when he sees them on the ground. He told them to get out. His breath leaves his lungs, and he barely hears Robin’s voice quietly say, “Oh, fuck.”

Nancy says something too, but Steve doesn’t hear it, his legs carrying him to where Dustin is holding Eddie.

Dustin’s face is stained with dirt and blood and streaked with tears, his eyes glistening and shining in the dim light of the red sky. He’s sobbing, his whole body trembling as he holds Eddie in his arms.

Steve touches his face, panic making his chest so tight he can barely breathe, wiping a tear away from his cheek, quickly looking over him before his eyes fall.

And Eddie.

He’s covered in blood, his hair tangled and matted with dirt, lips parted for each ragged breath that scrapes at Steve’s skin like sandpaper. He looks at Steve and smiles. There’s blood in his teeth and on his lips.

“What the fuck did I tell you?” Steve snaps, ripping the bandana off Eddie’s head and pressing it to his face, where blood is seeping from a wound on his cheek.

“I know,” Eddie says weakly, his voice rough. “They were— They were gonna follow us through, I’m sorry, Stevie.”

“Dustin,” Nancy says. Her voice is thick, wavering. “Come… Come help up,” she says, pulling at Robin’s hand. Eddie’s eyes wander up to her, and he says so softly he’s almost just exhaling the words, “Thank you.”

“But…” Dustin looks down at Eddie, whose eyes flutter shut for a moment.

“Come on,” Nancy insists.

Dustin’s lip quivers, and he looks down at Eddie, who nods and whispers.

“‘S alright, man.”

Dustin stifles a sob and carefully shifts so Steve can take Eddie in his arms. Steve watches them go, trembling as Eddie takes a breath.

“‘S okay,” he says quietly when they’re gone from view, looking down at Eddie. “It’s gonna be fine.”

“Steve.”

“It— It’s just the same as mine, right?” he says frantically, looking at Eddie’s blood-stained shirt and jacket, at the mangled flesh he can see through the rips and tears in the fabric.

“Steve.”

“We’ll have, like, matching scars, they can— they can be like fucked up friendship bracelets—“

“Steve, please,” Eddie breathes.

Steve shuts up. Eddie is shivering, his limbs trembling, and one of his hands finds Steve’s sleeve, holding the fabric weakly.

“I’m not gonna make it,” Eddie whispers. “‘S okay.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve says sharply. “You’re gonna be fine, they— they’re going to get help, it’s gonna be okay—“

“Steve,” Eddie murmurs. His eyes are half-lidded, glazed over like he’s high. “They just wanted Dustin away from me. He doesn’t… He doesn’t deserve to see this.”

Steve’s throat tightens, and his eyes burn, and he realises what Eddie’s quiet thank you was for, and his whole body hurts. He squeezes his eyes shut and leans over Eddie’s body, suppressing a sob. Eddie’s hand slides up Steve’s arm.

“‘S okay, Steve.”

“No, it’s not,” Steve insists, his voice breaking. His throat feels dry with the dust of the Upside Down. “It’s not okay, and it— it’s not fucking fair, Eddie, you don’t…”

“I know,” Eddie exhales.

He blinks at the sky, and a tear falls across his temple. Steve wipes it away as gently as he can. He’s never been very soft, always a little too rough around the edges, but he doesn’t want to hurt Eddie.

“Steve?” Eddie asks weakly.

“Yeah, Eds?”

“Can you…” He exhales, breathless as he shivers. “Can you tell my uncle Wayne… that it was quick? Just to… ease his mind.”

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, his chest aching.

“I can do that,” he says as firmly as possible.

“And… Tell Dustin that I’m— I’m sorry.” Eddie’s voice squeaks and breaks as he lets out a weak sob that tears through Steve’s skin. “And Nancy and Rob— Robin that I… thank them.”

“Okay,” Steve says gently, running a hand up and down Eddie’s arm.

Eddie exhales shakily, nodding, relaxing. His eyes trace the dark clouds above them, and Steve shifts so Eddie is laying in his lap, watching as Eddie winces.

“Does it hurt?” Steve asks stupidly. Eddie nods.

“You make it better,” he says quietly.

Steve swallows thickly, the words stirring something inside him even though he can’t tell what exactly it is. His stomach flutters, and he feels like he might be sick.

“It’s okay, Steve,” Eddie says softly. “I’m… I’m really tired.”

Steve nods, touching Eddie’s face, brushing over an unwounded spot on his cheek.

“You can rest,” he whispers. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore.”

Eddie’s eyes skim over to Steve's face. His eyelashes are clumped with tears, and there are tracks in the dirt and blood on his skin, and Steve briefly thinks that he’s beautiful.

“You… You think God’ll let me in?” Eddie asks softly, a smile teasing his lips.

“If he doesn’t, you better come right the fuck back, you understand me?”

Eddie laughs softly, coughing as he nods.

“Okay.”

He’s quiet again for a moment, his breathing ragged.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks quietly. “If you… promise not to get mad at me?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, brushing his thumb over his cheek. “Of course, tell me.”

Eddie stares up at him for a moment before he slides his hand to Steve’s, holding it to himself weakly. His hand is freezing, trembling and covered in dark, tacky blood. Steve doesn’t mind. As long as he’s touching him.

“I gotta crush on you,” Eddie says after a moment, his voice slurred. Steve blinks, his stomach fluttering again.

“…Really?” he chokes.

Eddie nods weakly.

“Since… high school,” he murmurs. “Always thought you were this… pretty mystery boy. Wanted to… to know all your secrets.”

Steve smiled weakly, his eyes flicking across Eddie’a face, over his glistening eyes and blood stained lips, and his stomach twists, and his heart fucking hurts and

Oh.

“You…” He swallows, blinking tears back. “You wanna know a secret now?”

Eddie’s lips twitch into a smile.

“Yeah.”

Steve’s hand falls from Eddie’s face, and their fingers lace. Steve wants to keep him warm.

“I like you too,” he whispers after a moment of hesitation. Eddie blinks at him.

“Don’t do that,” he breathes.

“I’m serious,” Steve says, his voice thin as he tries to hold his tears back. “I… I really like you, I just…” A sob rips itself from his chest, and he gasps, squeezing Eddie’s hand tightly. “If we just— If we just had more time, I—“

“I know,” Eddie whispers. His eyes close as he exhales, and Steve’s stomach lurches, but his eyes open a moment later, cloudy and unfocussed as he tries to find Steve above him.

“I’d take you on a date,” Steve says, forcing a soft smile, ignoring the distant rumble of thunder.

“Really?”

Steve loves the lines in Eddie’s skin that deepen when he smiles. He’s beautiful. Even like this.

“Yeah,” he says. “To the movies. I’d pull all the moves on you, I’d— I’d yawn and stretch and put my arm around you, and I’d pay for everything, and I’d—“ He takes a breath. “I’d tell you how beautiful you are every fucking chance I get.”

Eddie’s smile widens. He exhales roughly.

“Next time,” he whispers.

“Next time?”

“Mm.” Eddie nods weakly. “In our next… next life.”

Steve laughs tearfully, nodding.

“I’ll find you,” he says, his voice too high. “Will you wait for me?”

Eddie sighs.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Steve closes his eyes, biting his quivering lip.

Eddie turns his head and pulls at Steve’s hand, pressing a bloody kiss to his knuckles. He’s quiet for a moment, his breathing shaky as he shivers. Steve pulls him closer, wraps his arms around him, desperate to keep him warm, to keep him safe.

“My uncle…” Eddie starts quietly. “My uncle says people… aren’t really gone until they’re forgotten.”

Steve smiles fondly, running his thumb over Eddie’s fingers.

“I’m not gonna forget you,” he murmurs.

“No?” Eddie teases. “You gonna keep me in that golden heart of yours, Harrington?”

“Yeah,” Steve chokes, smiling. Eddie’s eyes drift away, and he looks at the sky again. The red glow of it reflects in his eyes, gleaming blankly. “Eddie?”

“Wayne never knew my Ma,” Eddie says weakly. Steve blinks, catching up, his heart pounding from the fear of seeing Eddie’s eyes like that.

“Your Ma?”

“She…” Eddie’s eyes flutter, and he’s crying again, a tear falling down his temple. “She died when I was little. And Wayne… Wayne never met her. He took me in when Dad took to drinkin’ and…” He chokes, his chest seizing as he coughs. More blood appears on his lips, and Steve wipes it away, his hands trembling. “She’s gonna be gone when I’m gone,” he cries, squeezing his eyes shut.

“No, tell me— tell me about her,” Steve says quickly, holding his hand tightly. “Tell me, baby, I’ll— I’ll keep her alive for you.”

Eddie blinks tears out of his eyes, looking at him.

“She…” He takes a shaky breath. “She had hair like… like mine. But she was always braiding it and she always had it… tied up. Out of the way. She was always… working. Painting and cooking and fixing shit. She had calluses…” He pulls at Steve’s hand, tracing a light line across his palm, just under his fingers. “All along here.”

Steve smiles, listening intently.

“She loved sweet tea,” Eddie murmurs. “And strawberries.”

He’s quiet again, his eyes closing, his breath slowing, but his fingers keep moving on Steve’s, fidgeting weakly.

“She used to sing to me,” he breathes.

“What’d she sing to you, baby?” Steve asks quietly whispering.

Eddie sighs, melting into Steve’s lap, letting his head rest again his torso. And then he starts to sing. His voice is weak, and uneven, and off-key, but Steve never wants it to end.

“I was dancing, with my darling… to the Tennessee waltz…” His eyes find Steve’s face, shining and wide and unfocussed as he sings, as Steve touches his cheek again, brushing a tear away. “When an old friend I happened to see… I Introduced her to my loved one and while they were dancing…”

His voice cracks when it gets higher, weak and fading.

“My friend stole my sweetheart from me. I remember the night…” He pauses, taking a breath that catches in his throat, that strains on its way out. “And… the Tennessee Waltz. Now I know just how much I have lost.”

He whispers the words, eyes blinking slowly at Steve, and Steve listens, touching his face. The world around them disappears as he listens, the quiet thunder distant screeches of dying creatures fading into nothing, because nothing matters except this.

“Yes, I lost my little darling on the night they were playing, the beautiful…”

And then it’s silent. Except a soft exhale, a final puff of breath from Eddie’s mouth, and Steve watches as his eyes drift and glaze over, his expression fading.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, clenching his teeth and gasping for breath as his body seizes, leaning over Eddie’s body.

“Eddie?” he chokes.

Eddie doesn’t answer.

“Eddie,” he tries again, his voice weak, barely there. His vision blurs as he looks at Eddie’s face, and he can barely see him even as he leans close enough that their noses touch. “Eddie, please.”

He falls forward, and Eddie’s head rolls lifelessly, turning away from Steve.

Steve’s arms tighten, and his eyes squeeze shut as he sobs.

He’s never cried like this before. Not when he was a child, not when he’s been injured or scared after nightmares that have made him wake up in cold sweat and tears and sore muscles. It’s never been this violent, sobs and screams ripping their way out of his chest, out of his throat, rough and raw.

He cries until he runs out of tears. Until his voice is almost gone.

He begs him. Pleads with him.

He wants Eddie to finish the song. He wants Eddie to sing forever, until the sun gives out, and he wants Eddie to kiss him.

His throat hurts when he leans down to Eddie’s face, and he gets his own tears on Eddie’s skin as he presses kisses across his cheeks, his forehead and nose and chin and lips. He’s whimpering as he does, each gasp for breath hiccuping and choking as he whispers to Eddie.

My boy, my baby. I’m sorry, Eddie. I shoulda come back sooner, I shoulda… Wait for me, Eddie baby, please. I’ll come find you, I promise.

He makes sure Eddie is comfortable. Folds his hands over his stomach, cleans the blood off his face as best he can. He closes his eyes before pressing soft kisses to his eyelids. He’s so cold. Steve takes off his jacket and drapes it over him, caressing his face, murmuring that he’s okay.

You can rest now, baby, it’s okay. I’ll see you again.

He fluffs his hair out, lays it around his head like a halo, thinking about Eddie’s mother, wondering if she’s holding him in her arms. He sets aside the bandana, the skulls now blood-stained, and carefully takes the guitar pick from Eddie’s neck, holding it in his palm close to his chest as he leans over to kiss his forehead.

“I’m gonna take good care of the little shits,” Steve promises quietly, his voice rough. He sits next to Eddie, holds his hands. He’s so cold. But he’s not shivering anymore. “And I’ll tell Wayne you love him. ‘S gonna be okay, baby.”

He runs his fingers over Eddie’s, over his bloody rings.

He takes one. The one from Eddie’s right ring finger. He rubs the stone on his own jeans, cleaning it before he slides it onto his own finger. It fits.

“Next time,” he whispers, brushing his nose against Eddie’s. “Okay? I’ll take you out, and I’ll treat you real good. We won’t have to worry about… about monsters. Or anything like that. We can just be boys like we’re supposed to.” He’s quiet for a few moments, tracing Eddie’s fingers, gazing at the wound on his face. It doesn’t hurt anymore. “I love you, baby.”

He presses kisses to Eddie’s hands. His fingertips and knuckles and palms. And then he leaves.

He feels heavy. Like every limb is filled with dread, with dirt and broken glass, and every step that carries him away from Eddie’s body makes his throat tighten and muscles ache.

Robin, Nancy, and Dustin are in Eddie’s trailer when he find them. Nancy has Dustin in her arms, his face hidden in her neck, his shoulders shaking as he sobs. Nancy’s face is streaked with tears as she runs her hand over his head. They don’t notice him come in until Robin speaks.

“Steve?”

Her voice cracks, weak and unused, and his eyes find her sitting on the floor across from Nancy and Dustin, who both look up at him.

He can’t speak.

Robin’s eyes are filled with tears as they look at each other, but his are dry now. He shakes his head.

Dustin wails, muffled by Nancy’s shoulder, and she gasps, sobbing weakly.

Steve sits heavily on the floor, clutching Eddie’s bandana and guitar pick to his chest. His eyes unfocus as he stares at the floor. There’s a stain in front of him, dark and oddly shaped. He can’t tell what it is. How long it’s been there. If it’s from a childhood accident or a recent spill.

Dustin’s sobbing fades into white noise, blending with the rush of the blood in Steve’s ears. He’s shaking. Even though he can’t feel it.

Steve?

Robin’s voice is muffled, like Steve is underwater. Her hand touches his shoulder lightly, and he shrinks away from it, shaking his head. He doesn’t want to be touched.

She sits next to him. She doesn’t touch him. This has happened before. Some nights after particularly bad nightmares he can’t stand the feeling of anything on him. She waits for him. Always.

“Dustin,” he says after a while, when the room has fallen silent except some weak sniffles and coughs. His voice is rough like he’s sick. His throat is raw. “Come here.”

Dustin comes here. Nancy helps him.

He sits in front of Steve, one of his legs outstretched because his ankle is broken. Steve forces himself to look at him, at his cracked lips and bloody skin, at his glistening eyes and tear-clumped lashes. He looks so… young. He’s just a kid.

He’s just a fucking kid.

Steve swallows his anger down, taking a breath.

“He said…” He pauses, clearing his throat. “He said he’s sorry.”

Dustin’s lip quivers.

Steve’s fingers tighten on the bandana, and then he separates it from the guitar pick before holding it out to Dustin.

Dustin looks at it, reaching for it with a tentative, trembling hand. The fabric shakes. He starts to cry again, bringing the bandana for his face as his shoulders shake, and he falls forward, into Steve’s arms.

“It’s okay,” Steve lies, hugging him tightly, kissing his head.

He closes his eyes, listening to Dustin cry into his chest, running his hands over his head and his back, only stopping when Nancy’s hand rests on his his. It takes her a moment before she notices the ring around his finger.

Their eyes meet over Dustin head, and he knows she can tell. That she knows everything.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs.

He closes his eyes.

Nancy kisses Dustin’s head, whispering something to him that Steve can’t hear, rubbing his back, and after a moment Steve holds his arm out in Robin’s direction, his fingers still tight around the guitar pick. There’s a brief moment before she’s hugging his arm tightly, and he pulls her closer, feeling her press her face into his neck. She’s crying.

The chain of the guitar pick digs into his skin, and Dustin is leaning on his side, over his haphazardly bandaged wounds. (Eddie’s wounds should be bandaged. This isn’t fair.) But he barely feels any of it.

He feels so fucking empty.

—————————

They go to the hospital.

Dustin gets a cast on his leg, and Steve gets fresh, pristine white bandages and antibiotics and painkillers.

Max gets casts on both arms and legs, and her eyes are covered, and she’s silent but breathing. Lucas won’t leave her side. When he tries to, just to get some water, he has a panic attack. Robin holds his hands and talks to him until he can breathe again.

Steve goes home the next day after staying overnight for observation. He doesn’t sleep at all.

He leaves in the morning, after stopping say bye to Lucas and Erica and Max.

His house is empty. There’s plenty of furniture in every room, but it still feels like it echoes, like it’s bare and desolate. He leaves the guitar pick on the counter in the kitchen. Dry blood turns to dust around it when it clatters.

There’s a grandfather clock in the living room. It’s been there his whole life, ticking and ticking and ticking, standing tall in a corner. He never cared about it. Never bothered to notice it.

He stares at it now. There’s still blood in his nails, and his clothes are filthy, stained with dirt and grime and blood and ash, and his throat still hurts.

This clock.

It’s staring at him.

Taunting him.

Ticking in the aching silence of the house.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, glaring at the clock, listening to it tick, the living room dim because the windows aren’t facing the sun. And then, before his brain can catch up with his body, he’s moving to pry it away from where it stands against the wall, shoving it until it tips over and falls onto its face. The glass shatters, and it dings loudly, and Steve’s heart is pounding as he goes back to the kitchen and snatches his baseball bat from where it’s resting by the door. (Nancy had grabbed it when he dropped it in the Upside Down. He’d wanted to be angry that she had, wanted to forget about it completely, but he likes having it here now.)

The first smash of the bat into the clock is loud, but Steve barely hears it. His vision is blurring suddenly, his eyes hot and stinging as he hits the clock again, and again, and again. The wood splinters and cracks, sending chips flying into the air, just missing his face.

Tears land on the wood. He doesn’t notice. He’s screaming. He doesn’t notice that either.

—————————

“Steven?”

Steve’s eyes flutter open. His room is dark, the curtain drawn to keep the sun out, and his blanket is tight in his hands, drawn to his chin.

“Steven?”

His mother’s voice makes him ache. He stares at the wall as his bed shifts under her weight as she sits beside his body. Her hand is gentle on his side.

“Was there a break-in?”

He shakes his head minutely, just enough for her to notice.

“Are you alright?”

He shakes his head again.

“What happened, dear, talk to me,” she says softly, rubbing his arm, and he sighs heavily.

It’s been too long for him to be feeling like this. The Byers and Mike are back. Max is awake. She can’t see, and she can’t use her legs, but when Steve spoke she smiled, and he could swear it was the like the sun rose again.

Robin’s clothes are still on the floor from the last time she slept over a few days ago. She left wearing Steve’s sweatpants and t-shirt, and Steve hasn’t bothered to clean up.

Steve sits up slowly, tiredly. He hasn’t gotten out of bed in at least a day, but he’s barely slept. Eddie’s vest is by his pillow. It still smells like him, like weed and cigarettes and something masculine and warm.

His father is standing at the end of his bed, watching him with the same shining concern his mother is eyeing him with. He hasn’t seen them in months, but it’s not the longest they’ve gone without seeing each other.

His mom takes his hand. Her hands are always a little cold, soft and smelling like floral lotion. They’re covered in wrinkles. They’ve always looked older than they should, but he’s never minded. He’s always found them lovely. Her ring sparkles even though the sunlight is dim in his room.

“My friend died,” he whispers.

They both exhale.

“The earthquakes?” his mom asks, and he nods, looking down at their hands. She squeezes when his lip quivers.

“Not Robin,” his father says carefully, tentatively, and he shakes his head, taking a hiccuping breath.

“Robin’s fine, it was…”

“You took it out on the clock?”

Steve nods.

“Sorry.”

He isn’t sorry. He can’t bring himself to care.

His mom just rubs his hand gently, squeezing, but he pulls his hand away after a moment, wrapping his arms around himself and curling into a ball.

“I just wanna be alone,” he says weakly.

“Do you?”

He squeezes his eyes shut as they sting, and he’s so fucking sick of crying. The skin of his cheeks is dry from the salt, and he just wants to feel fine again, but it feels like he’ll never feel fine again.

“I don’t know,” he chokes, his arms tightening. “I just want him.”

“Come here, Stevie.”

He falls into her arms, a sob wracking his body, and she holds him, pulling him closer like he’s a baby again. She doesn’t say anything about the vest, or about the ring on his finger, or about the way he cries I just got him, Mommy, it’s not fucking fair.

They never talk about the clock again. His father cleans it up and throws it all away. Steve finds his bat in the corner a few days later, but they don’t say anything about it either.

—————————

Steve goes back to the hospital for a required checkup. Mandatory. He hates it, that he doesn’t have a choice. He supposes he does have a choice, as a twenty-year-old man (that doesn’t really feel like a man at all) that drives himself. But Owens said if he doesn’t go, he’ll go to Steve’s house, and Steve doesn’t want that.

They test his vision and his hearing. Shockingly, miraculously, his vision is more or less okay. They still give him glasses to wear home. He leaves them on his bedside table.

But his hearing isn’t good. In his right ear, it’s okay. But his left ear is almost deaf, which he had noticed before, but he hasn’t really cared. He gets by with it. Steps around people so they’re to his right, watches their mouths form words that he can’t really hear.

They give him a hearing aid. Beige and white, already fitting fine when they give it to him that day. Owens shows him how to use it, how to adjust it, and kindly ignores the way Steve winces and cringes at the feeling of it. It’s uncomfortable. He knows he just has to get used to it.

He goes back to work. Keith let him take some time off after Robin talked to him.

He hates the vest he has to wear, and he hates how bright the store is with the glass doors, and he hates the customers even though he knows they just want distractions from all the bullshit that’s going on. He hates everything. He’s always angry now.

He’s shorter with customers than he wants to be, shorter with Robin than he wants to be. But she gets it. She lets him be angry.

He closes doors harder than he needs to, and on some day he takes his new hearing aid off with a huff because everything is just too much. Too loud, too bright, too close.

It’s slow today, luckily. He’s still angry. And tired.

Robin has some movie on the television above the counter. The volume is low. She’s doodling on a scrap of paper. Steve is staring at the ground. He does that a lot now.

The bell above the door dings happily when the door opens, and Steve blinks, his eyes refocusing before he looks up, finding a man at the front door, taking a flier go the glass carefully. A lot of people do that now, looking for missing pets or trying to sell cars and furniture before they leave town.

It takes Steve a moment to recognize him, and Robin seems to recognize him at the same time, letting out a quiet, “Oh,” as Steve straightens up, watching. He can see Eddie’s face as the sunlight shines through the paper.

“Mr Munson?” he says weakly as he comes out from behind the counter, approaching him slowly, tentatively, eyes trained on the flier.

“I’m not botherin’ anyone,” Mr Munson says gruffly, the sentence familiar and practiced, like he’s said it a million times. “Just a flier.”

“I was with him.”

Mr Munson turns slowly, tape still sticking to his callused fingertips. His eyes are shining, his brows furrowed, and he looks some awful place between scared and angry.

“What?” he asks, his voice low, breathy.

Robin says Steve’s name behind him.

“During the— the earthquake,” he adds carefully, telling Robin that he’s not violating the NDAs.

Mr Munson stares at him. His breathing is shaky.

“What happened to my boy?” he asks gruffly.

Steve’s throat tightens, and he twists the ring around his fingers, blinking his burning eyes hard.

“Can we talk?”

He takes him to the break room.

They sit at the circular table, across from each other, and Steve never realized how small the room was until now. Their knees are almost touching.

“Tell me.”

Steve takes a breath, his fingers twisting.

“He… He saved our friend.”

Mr Munson stares, but he seems to understand it. He seems to know.

“Who?” he asks quietly.

“Dustin… Dustin Henderson. From— From Hellfire.”

He nods, looking at the ground. His hands are shaking. Steve watches.

“He was…” He takes a breath, swallowing, trying to stop his eyes from burning and his heart from pounding. “He was brave. He was a— a hero.” His voice cracks.

“Did he suffer?” Mr Munson asks the floor.

“No,” Steve lies, the blood flashing in his mind, the sound of Eddie’s strained breathing, his furrowed brows and squeezed shut eyes. “It was quick.”

Mr Munson nods.

Steve hesitates, listening to the painful silence before he reaches to the chain around his neck, pulling the guitar pick out from under the collar of his shirt. Mr Munson watches, his expression shifting as he watches it appear. There’s blood on the chain.

Steve holds it out to him, his hand trembling, and he takes it. His eyes catch on the ring.

Mr Munson holds it, looks at the blood, at the way the red of the pick shines even in the mundane, fluorescent light of the break room.

“What about…” He swallows, blinking. “What about the girl? Chrissy? And— And the other boys, they—“

“It wasn’t Eddie,” Steve says sharply before he can stop himself. “Eddie was just… He was just an easy target, he didn’t do anything wrong. He was trying to help Chrissy.”

Wayne stares, eyes flooded with tears.

“They think it was him,” he says weakly. “They all think he hurt them.”

“They don’t know Eddie like we do,” Steve says softly. “Eddie wouldn’t do that.”

Wayne looks away, his lip quivering, nodding.

“He was scared,” Steve says weakly, his throat tight, voice thin. He wants to hide when Wayne looks at him, but he doesn’t. “He ran. It was…”

Wayne nods, wiping his face, smiling a little. He’s quiet for a few moments, gazing at the guitar pick. His hands are shaking, and he’s a little breathless when he speaks again.

“Were you…” He pauses, clearing his voice because his voice is too rough, too wobbly as a tear falls from his eyes. It feels wrong to see him cry, this man with his calluses and sunlight stained skin, with his work clothes and the cigarettes sticking out of his chest pocket. This man that’s gruff and intimidating, reduced to tears. “Were you in love?”

The question makes Steve’s blood run cold, and he doesn’t really know why. He doesn’t ask it rudely, or like he’s upset that Eddie’s ring is on Steve’s finger.

“I think—“ Steve’s voice cuts off. He exhales. “I think we could have been. If we had more time.”

He nods.

“Mr Munson—“

“Wayne. Please.”

“…Wayne,” Steve whispers. Wayne looks at him, eyes oddly soft. “Eddie… Eddie was good.”

Wayne nods, his lips twitching into a smile even though his eyes are glistening with tears.

“He was, wasn’t he?” he says fondly, looking at the guitar pick. “Didn’t deserve any of the shit he got.”

And then he’s crying. Squeezing his eyes shut and leaning over, bringing the pick to his forehead as he shakes silently. Steve wipes his own face, taking a shuddering breath.

“Thank you,” Wayne chokes after a while, eyes trained on the pick.

“I wish I could have…”

Helped him. Saved him. Found him sooner.

Wayne shakes his head.

“You did it all right, kid.”

Steve crumbles.

Wayne is there to pick him up.

He smells like Eddie did, Steve learns when Wayne holds him in his arms. Like cigarettes and leather and whatever lingers in their house. Wayne’s hands are rough but gentle on him, running over his head and back as he cries. Wayne is kind.

“He loved you more than anything, Wayne.”

Wayne just closes his eyes.

Robin looks like she’s been crying when they finally emerge from the break room, and Wayne gives her nod before he leaves, hand still clutching Eddie’s guitar pick.

The flier isn’t on the door when he leaves, and Steve finds it a moment later on the counter, next to Robin’s doodles.

“I thought… I thought maybe you’d like a picture of him.”

Steve stops at the counter, looking down at it. Robin is quiet as he touches the paper, brushes his thumb over the photo of Eddie the way he did when he wiped away his tears as he was dying. He skims the text under it, reads Eddie’s description.

Edward.

He was only 20.

He didn’t even get to graduate this year.

Heat rushes through Steve’s body and he briefly wants to grab the paper in his hand, to crumple it up into a ball or rip it to pieces, but he doesn’t. He knows he’d regret it if he did.

The description mentions the vest that’s in Steve’s room, resting on his pillow. His chest hurts.

Steve swallows, his throat tight, and he turns to Robin, arms open. She wraps her arms around his neck, and he hugs her waist so tightly he almost lifts her into the air.

“I love you, Robbie,” he whispers. He doesn’t know why he says it. But she seems to get it. She always does.

“I love you, too.”

—————————

It’s nice to get away from it all sometimes.

Steve sometimes takes his car out to the quarry, or to the lake, just to watch the water. Or the sky. Just to sit in the silence by himself, twisting Eddie’s ring around his finger. He stays there for hours, until the air is cold and the sky is dim.

He goes to the woods behind Forest Hills, sits on a dead tree and watches the dry leaves blow across the ground. He stares at the green grass and moss, at the mushrooms and flowers and twigs. He doesn’t look up when he hears branches break and leaves rustle. He can’t really be bothered to care.

He knows it’s all over. That Vecna is gone, as are the demodogs and the bats and the vines. It still lingers in his mind when he hears something in the woods around him, that there might be a demodog watching him, quiet, ready to pounce. But he still can’t bring himself to fight back.

Nothing ever attacks him. It’s always a squirrel, or a deer, and once a teenager looking for a place to get high. The world leaves him alone. It lets him rest.

He leaves Hawkins for a day. Just to get out. To see what it’s like.

He goes to Indianapolis. It’s a quiet drive up, the volume of the radio down low. It’s raining out, and the sound of it is nice on the windows and the roof of the car, tapping like it’s asking to come inside, to join him. The swiping of the windshield wipers is calm, consistent and steady, and as he drives, one hand on the wheel, the other lifting a cigarette to his lips, he feels calmer than he’s felt in a while.

He gets a coffee from a cafe and sits at the window, watching people pass in the rain, their umbrellas blurry in the misty window. He takes his hearing aid off. The mug is warm on his hands.

He didn’t bring an umbrella, but he doesn’t mind his hair getting wet.

He walks. And walks. And walks.

He only stops when his eyes find a record store. The sign is big, wood painted with black text and a spiderweb that extends over the building, matching a spiderweb that’s painted on the front door. There’s glowing open sign on the door.

He goes inside. It’s warm, and the music is quiet because he hasn’t put his hearing aid back on. (It’s in the inside pocket of his jacket.) There are more people here than he expected, all looking through stacks of records and tapes and posters.

He explores quietly, avoiding people’s eyes, eyes skimming the records. He sees some that he recognizes, Tears for Fears, Wham!, Duran Duran, and a lot that he doesn’t.

He stops when he finds the metal section. It was unintentional, coming across it, but a part of him wonders if he was looking for it.

He comes closer, stepping past a man with long, straight hair, looking at the row of band names. They’re alphabetical, and he doesn’t know any of them. Some of them sound kind of scary.

DIO

Steve stops, his eyes catching on the name, and he swallows, reaching for it with a shaking hand. He pulls the other records up, moving them out of the way so he can slide a record up, looking at the cover.

THE LAST IN LINE

He lets the other records fall, holding the record to his chest, suddenly protective of it.

He holds it as he looks through the rest of the records, looking for names he recognizes. He stops at Megadeth, recognizing it from a patch on Eddie’s vest, and then Ozzy Osbourne. He can practically hear Eddie’s voice in his head.

Ozzy Osbourne? Black Sabbath? He bit a bat’s head off on stage— No? Doesn’t matter.

Steve blinks at the ceiling, pulling a record out of the crate and adding it to the other two against his chest.

“Hi,” a voice says next to him, on his good side, and he startles, almost fumbling with the records as he turns to look. It’s an employee, smiling at him, friendly. His hair is tied back with a black bandana.

“Hi,” Steve says.

“Do you need help finding anything?” the man asks, speaking slowly like he notices right away that Steve is watching his lips move. Steve hesitates, looking down at the records in his arms.

“Uhm.” He almost says no. But a thought crosses his mind. “I don’t… know what it’s called,” he says, looking back at the man. He’s older than Steve, maybe around Hopper’s age, his eyes hooded and kind. “Something about, uhm— Tennessee waltz?” Steve finishes awkwardly.

“Oh, classic,” the man says, his face lighting up with a smile. “Patti Page, right?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.” Steve shrugs weakly, but the man tosses a hand.

“I’ll find the tape and you can give it a listen,” he says. “See if it’s the right one.”

“Okay,” Steve says softly, nervously. He follows the man across the store, hands shaking, and he sets the records down while he looks for the tape and brings back a Walkman and headphones. He sets the tape up while Steve puts his hearing aid back on.

He seems to notice how Steve is feeling. How anxious he is. How his eyes are burning a little bit. And he tells Steve he’s going to help some others while Steve listens.

Steve leans against the counter, taking a breath and sliding his thumb over Eddie’a ring before he presses play.

It doesn’t sound like anything Eddie would listen to. It’s almost funny.

It’s slow, and soft. The singer’s voice is lilting, shaking in a way that it’s supposed to, not because she’s breathless and bleeding. Steve presses his hands to the counter, steadying himself.

Now I know just how much I have lost…

He squeezes his eyes shut, the store falling silent as he listens, as he holds his breath.

Yes, I lost my little darling on the night they were playing

The beautiful Tennessee Waltz

It was only two more words.

Eddie missed two goddamn words.

Part of Steve wonders if it would have made a difference. If he’d have been less angry if Eddie had managed to get them out, but he knows that it wouldn’t have mattered. He’s still angry. He’s still heartbroken.

The song repeats it all over again, and Steve finally breathes, inhaling slowly, carefully, trying to release the tension in his shoulders.

When it ends, Steve opens his eyes and blearily stops the tape, pulling off the headphones. His vision is blurry with unshed tears, and he blinks them back, looking up at the ceiling. It’s covered with posters.

A hand touches his back gently, and he startles again, turning to find the man again, smiling at him.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” Steve says quickly, looking away and blinking hard, pinching his nose as he clears his throat. “Uh, can I— can I get this tape?”

“‘Course,” the man says, his hand lingering for a moment before it falls. “Those records too?”

“Yeah, please.”

The man is quiet while Steve pays, while he puts the records and the tape in a paper bag that’s stamped with the spiderweb from the sign outside.

“Thank you,” Steve says softly when he takes the bag. The man smiles.

“Take care.”

Steve goes back to his car. He sets the bag in the passenger seat. And he cries.

It pours as he drives home, the rain loud and shattering as he breathes. The road is slick, shining in the grey evening light, and his vision blurs as he cries again.

He pulls over.

His whole body hurts. It feels like he’s being burned, like every cell in his body is sizzling, drops of water on a hot pan. His tears sting on his cheeks, and his hands are shaking too much for him to wipe them away.

The rain drowns his screams out.

He brings the bag to his room when he gets home, setting them carefully on his bed after kicking aside the clothes on the floor, dropping his jacket to join them. And then he goes downstairs to where his mom is sitting on the sofa, sipping a glass of wine with a magazine in her lap. He wordlessly pushes the magazine aside and she lets him, lifting her arm as he lays on his side, curling up into a ball, making himself as small as possible, his head on her lap.

Her hand is gentle as she combs through his hair. It’s longer now, practically at his shoulders, always falling in his face. He barely ever has the energy to do anything with it.

“It’ll pass,” his mom murmurs softly, combing his hair gently, lovingly. He closes his eyes, shrinking into himself and exhaling. He falls asleep there, listening to her breathe.

—————————

I was dancing

With my darling

To the Tennessee Waltz…

Steve tightens his arms around himself, his eyes squeezing shut tighter. His hands are gripping his blanket, and his fingers are tired, but he doesn’t move. It’s dark in his room, but it can’t be past three in the afternoon. His curtains are drawn. Robin’s clothes are still on the floor.

His ears are sore from his headphones. He’s been replaying the song for hours, over and over and over, and it’s echoing in his head, but he doesn’t stop. He just wants to fall asleep.

He doesn’t move when he hears his door creak open except to open his eyes, watching as Robin navigates the room in the dim light, stepping over clothes and garbage. He’s embarrassed about it, if he’s honest, even though he knows he doesn’t really need to be. She doesn’t mind. She understands.

She climbs into bed in front of him, rolling onto her side and facing him. They stare at each other for a few moments.

Steve wants to cry. He can’t.

Robin reaches up and touches his face, brushing her thumb over his cheek, over his dry skin, soft and gentle. He closes his eyes, exhaling, and she keeps touching him, running her fingertips back and forth over his cheek and down his neck, avoiding the chord of the headphones. It tickles over the scar on his neck. He doesn’t mind.

He opens his eyes after a while. Her eyes are glistening. She nods at the headphones.

He reaches up to take them off, sighing, and she takes them, putting them on and listening. He can hear his own blood rush when they’re off. It’s too quiet without it. He can still hear it playing faintly as Robin listens.

I remember the night and the Tennessee Waltz

Now I know just how much I have lost

Robin takes them off after a moment, a silent question in her eyes, and Steve takes them as she hits pause on the Walkman.

“He was singing it,” he whispers, his voice broken from disuse. “When he died.”

She nods, her lips twisting as she touches his face again, and she leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before their foreheads touch. He closes his eyes again, reaching to pull her closer by her waist. Their legs tangle under the blanket, and she pushes her fingers into his hair, untangling it.

“Will you come downstairs?” she whispers after a while.

“I don’t want to,” he says weakly, almost whining. Childish.

“Your parents are worried about you, babe,” she says softly. “You gotta eat.”

“Robin…” he breathes, closing his eyes, his brows furrowing.

“Come on,” she says gently, sitting up, taking his hand even as he whines in protest. “Your mom made soup.”

He lets her drag him from the bed, sighing heavily as they make their way downstairs slowly, fingers linked. His mom is at the sink, washing some dishes, and his father is at the stove, stirring the pot slowly. They both turn to look when Robin and Steve come in, and Steve stops in the doorway, watching as his dad sets the spoon across the pot.

“You okay?” he asks gently, his hand touching Steve’s shoulder. Steve shakes his head tiredly. His dad pulls him into his arms, swaying gently as Steve melts against him.

They haven’t always seen eye to eye in things. On most things. But Steve lets him pull him close, closing his eyes and burying his face in his shoulder.

“You’ll feel better after you eat,” he says, gently pulling Steve to the island, where he sits in a seat heavily, sighing when a bowl of soup in placed in front of him.

He stares at it. At the pale broth, speckled with flakes of seasonings and herbs, at the noodles and pieces of chicken and carrots and celery, at the spoon shining at him. It’s hot, the steam wafting into his face. There’s lemon in it.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” he mumbles.

His father’s hand pauses as it runs over his back.

“Now?” he says. “Or if you eat?”

“If… If I eat.”

“Why don’t you try just some broth first?” him mom suggests gently. “And then try some more if it’s okay?”

“…Okay.”

She takes the bowl back. He waits as she pours it back in the pot, as she ladles broth into his bowl carefully. He’s vaguely aware that Robin leaves, that she goes upstairs, but he doesn’t really notice, too focussed on the bowl in front of him. On the way his hands shake as he brings the spoon to his lips slowly.

It tastes good. But it also feels muffled, like all of his senses are under water. Like everything has to go through something before it gets to him.

It takes a long time for him to finish the bowl. It’s almost cold by the time he gets to the bottom of it.

He sets his spoon down when he finishes, sliding his bowl away, and his dad pats his back gently.

“You wanna try some more?”

Steve just leans against him, exhaling, and he closes his eyes. He hears the bowl scrape across the counter as his mom takes it, and his dad wraps an arm around him, gently hugging him.

He manages to have a half a bowl of soup, including some of the chickens and some of the vegetables, before he feels sick. He pushes the bowl away wordlessly, grimacing, and his dad pats his back again, murmuring, “That’s alright.”

He sits there for a few more minutes, sipping a glass of water slowly, until Robin comes up behind him, wrapping her arms around his neck gently. He lifts his hands to her forearms, closing his eyes and resting his cheek against her arm. Her skin is cool.

“I miss him,” he breathes.

“I know. It’s gonna be okay.”

He distantly hears his mom’s voice say, “Thank you, Robin,” as Robin takes him back upstairs, their fingers linked again.

He stops short in his doorway, his tired eyes scanning across the room. The floor is clean, the drawers of his dresser shut neatly. His bed is made, Eddie’s vest folded and placed on his pillow, the Walkman and headphones on top of it. His hamper is gone.

“Your clothes are in the wash,” Robin says quietly, squeezing his hand.

He exhales, pulling at her hand, tugging her into a tight hug before he lifts her up, carries her over to the bed, and sets her down, laying on top of her. She hugs him back, shifting to move the Walkman out of the way, and then she gets the vest, carefully setting it over his back as he nuzzles into her chest, closing his eyes, sighing.

He finally falls asleep.

—————————

Nancy comes over after a while. She brings a casserole her mom made, and when Steve’s parents go out for the day, off to support some displaced families, Nancy drags Steve downstairs. For a change of scenery.

She looks nice. Her hair is curly, tied up in a ponytail in the summer heat. (She comments that the air conditioning is nice at Steve’s.) She crosses her legs when they sit on the sofa, looking over at Steve.

He feels like shit.

He hadn’t realized how long it’s been. Time passes differently when he doesn’t open his windows, and when he hasn’t even bothered to call Keith to let him know that he won’t be coming in.

“Steve.”

He blinks, realizing their eyes are locked.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“You’re not eating.”

“Sorry.”

He pokes at the food with his fork. There’s chicken in it. He doesn’t want to eat it.

He takes a small bite anyway, feeling Nancy’s eyes on him.

“You okay?” she asks after a quiet moment.

“…Not really.”

He can see the pain shine in her eyes, but he doesn’t want her to ask, so he interrupts with, “How’s, uhm. How’s Jonathan?”

She nods, taking a bite.

“He’s good. He and Argyle are going to California in a few weeks.”

“Are you still going to Boston?”

“Yeah, just… Term starts in October, so. I have some time.”

He nods. He can feel her pity. He’s pathetic, he knows. She and Jonathan and Argyle are going to college, moving on with their lives, and Steve is here, wearing the same sweater he’s worn for the past week, his hair greasy and flat. He barely cares anymore. But he still feels��

He doesn’t know what. Guilty, maybe.

“How are the kids?” he asks quietly.

“Everyone’s fine, Steve,” she says softly.

“Just… Tell me. Please.”

She’s quiet as he stares at his food. Mostly uneaten.

“Max started physical therapy,” she starts. Her voice is gentle. He thinks it would be a nice voice for story-telling. “She still can’t feel her legs, but she’s getting really good with her arms, she’s getting the hang of pushing the wheels of her wheelchair. El got her some sunglasses, per her request. They’re purple.”

Steve takes a small bite of his food, nodding.

“She misses skating,” Nancy continues. “Erica found some rollerblades and took down a long sidewalk. Jonathan monitored. Max said it was nice to feel the wind in her hair again.”

Steve’s chest hurts, imagining it. Max’s red hair flying in the wind behind her. Her smile. Erica cackling happily. Jonathan watching raptly, just in case.

“Will is good,” Nancy says. “It’s like he can finally rest now. He’s just being a kid again, and it’s… It’s really nice. He and the boys played D&D with Argyle. It was… Well. It was a lot.” He can hear her smile as he speaks, and he half-smiles, softening. Argyle seems like he would enjoy it. “Dustin has a cane. Will painted it for him. Red. Mike said he should get another and paint it like a giant candy cane for Christmas.”

“How’s Mike?”

“Mike is good. …He and El broke up.”

Steve looks up, wide-eyed, and she grins, nodding.

“It’s all fine,” she says. “They’re friends. It seems easier for them now, to be around each other as friends. El keeps making fun of his hair.”

Steve’s lips twitch into another smile.

“Oh.” He pokes at his food again. “Lucas?”

“Good. He convinced Mike to help him practice basketball. It’s funny.”

Steve scoffs in spite of himself, imagining Mike and his gangly arms bouncing around the Sinclairs’ driveway. Complaining, most likely.

“How’s, uhm, Max’s mom? The earthquakes…”

“She wasn’t home,” Nancy says, quickly easing his worry. “She was out, at the, uh, the liquor store. Owens got her a new apartment like he did with— with Wayne. It’s in town,” she says, quickly moving past the mention of Wayne. The mention that makes Steve’s stomach ache. He doesn’t want to eat. “It’s not really… very wheelchair accessible,” she continues. “Argyle helps Max in and out. He usually drives her around anyway, since her wheelchair fits in his van.”

Steve nods. He should be helping Max. He should be driving her around town, taking her and the kids to the arcade, to the roller rink, to the movies, to lunch, to school. Has school even started yet? Probably not, if Argyle and Jonathan are still here. What day is it?

Tears are falling from his eyes before he even notices them flooding, and he drops his head, looking down, covering his face with a hand. He hears Nancy exhale.

“I’m sorry,” he says weakly. “I feel like— like I fucking abandoned all of you, I—”

“You didn’t abandon us, Steve,” Nancy says gently, and Steve feels the sofa shift as she moves closer, her hand touching his arm. “We understand.”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s not fair. Dustin was close with Eddie, too. Closer than Steve was. And Wayne— He was practically Wayne’s son. But Steve is the only one like this: shut away from the rest of the world, wrapped in fabric despite it being July (August? He doesn’t even know anymore), ears hot from headphones, fingertips cold because he hasn’t been eating enough. It’s not fair.

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes, and Nancy sighs as she takes his plate. He lets her, hands falling to his lap.

“Steve,” she says firmly. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You’re depressed.”

His body aches. He falls against the back of the sofa, arms wrapping around himself, shivering.

Depressed.

The word feels so grey. Too pale. It’s not dark enough for this, for what Steve is feeling. But he can’t think of a better word for it, for the way he can’t stand the idea of stepping outside, for the way he can barely even remember what it’s like to have enough energy to step into the shower, to cook a meal like he used to. He can barely believe it, the fact that he used to cook and clean and work, like a grown-up. That he used to make meals for himself, pack leftovers for Robin, that he used to drive himself and the others around town, that he used to laugh and banter and tease. That he used to make phone calls when something wasn’t working in the house, that he used to fix his car up, change the oil. He’s so helpless now. He barely eats the food his parents bring him, barely moves enough to keep his muscles from aching every time he shifts. He doubts he’d even be able to carry Max or her wheelchair. The thought makes him cry harder.

“Can I hug you?” Nancy asks.

He nods.

She immediately climbs across the sofa, lifting her arms up to wrap around his neck, pulling him close and exhaling when he relaxes against her. Her hands are gentle, combing through his hair even though it’s unwashed, over his back and shoulders. He closes his eyes, taking stuttering breaths, and even though it’s nice, even though she’s soft and gentle and comforting, this feels wrong. Because he feels so small, so helpless and young, but they’re the same age. He might even be older. He doesn’t know.

And he remembers Barb. How everything changed when she disappeared, how the world turned upside down, and how he didn’t even notice that everything changed for Nancy in a different way. Steve feels guilty for being here, for being at home while Eddie is lying lifeless in hell, and Nancy must have felt the same way. Going home to her family, to her house, to her bed, while wondering where the hell Barb was, wondering if she was scared when she died.

“I’m so sorry,” Steve chokes, his voice broken and weak and whining, muffled by Nancy’s arm. “Nancy, I’m so— I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, Steve,” she says quietly.

“No, Barb, you— you were missing her, and I— I didn’t get it, but—”

She pulls him back sharply, holding his shoulders, and he thinks she’s angry, flinching, but she just looks into his eyes, eyebrows furrowed. Her eyes are gleaming now, shining with tears.

“Don’t do this to yourself.”

His chest clenches, and he blinks tears out of his eyes, focussing on the firm grip of her hands on his shoulders.

“Nance…”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” she says firmly. “You understand me?”

He closes his eyes, and she holds his face, pressing their foreheads together. He aches. He aches. He aches.

“You’re struggling,” Nancy says softly, and her voice is tense, tight and thin. The very though of her crying makes him sob weakly. “And I’m sorry I left you down there, Steve, that wasn’t— that wasn’t fair.”

He shakes his head, letting out a quiet no, reaching to hold her arms. She’s wearing a t-shirt, the sleeves cuffed cutely, and her skin is warm, soft. Like summertime. He misses the sun.

“You don’t— Don’t apologize, it’s— it’s okay, Nancy, I…”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers anyway. He pulls away, holding her arms, looking at her as best he can even though she’s blurry, swimming in tears.

“Don’t,” he says, chokes. “You— You got Dustin away, that’s what Eddie wanted.”

He hasn’t said his name in a while. It feels foreign in his mouth, but also… oddly familiar. The way it felt to wander the Wheelers’ house in the Upside Down, like he knows it, like he’s at home with it, but like he isn’t supposed to be there. It’s too dark. Lonely. Infested.

Nancy seems to feel it too, and Steve suddenly wonders if the others have talked about it.

About Eddie.

“It’s okay,” he says. Whimpers. She nods, her hands shifting to hold his jaw, cradling his face.

“It’s okay,” she repeats quietly.

They end up tangled together on the sofa, arms and legs wrapped around each other, and it feels somehow easy. Easy as she pets his hair, as he listens to her heartbeat.

“I was thinking,” she says softly after a while, after the tears have dried on their cheeks. “If you aren’t ready to go out yet, we can… we can invite them over here. Robin and Jon and Argyle. For a movie or something.”

He closes his eyes.

“I’d like that.”

“Yeah?”

“I miss them.”

She’s quiet for a moment, her hand pausing in his hair, her cheek pressing to the top of his head.

“We miss you too.”

Like she can tell that he’s not really there.

They come over the next week, while Steve’s parents are gone for dinner with some of their friends. Steve told them they’d be coming, and he felt a little better upon seeing the way their faces lit up, the way they smiled at each other. Like everything was finally getting better.

It might be. Just a little.

Steve finally showers. Puts some product in his hair to help it get back to normal. He changes into clean clothes, shorts that used to be sweatpants and a light sweater that hangs down past his hips, and when he drops his other clothes in his hamper, his dad stops outside his room, knocking lightly and asking if Steve wants him to take it downstairs, to put it in the washer. Like he knows how drained Steve already is.

Jonathan’s the first to show up, oddly enough. Even before Robin.

Steve squints in the sun when he opens the door, glancing past him to look for Argyle, but he isn’t there. It’s just Jonathan.

“Hey,” Jonathan says lightly, looking at Steve, who says the same back, holding the door open for him to come in. Jonathan pauses when he’s inside, after kicking his shoes off, and he doesn’t ask how Steve is like Steve expects. Instead he just turns to him and opens his arms, tilting his head, wordlessly asking permission. Steve just steps into them, hugging him tightly. Jonathan’s arms are firm around him, hands rubbing his back. Steve doesn’t know how long they stand there, just holding each other, swaying slightly, but he doesn’t even want to cry.

When they part, they don’t say anything. Steve just leads him to the living room to look at the selection of movies he has laid out on the coffee table.

Nancy and Robin show up together, and they hug Steve at the same time, his head between theirs, their scents mixing. (Nancy uses strawberry shampoo. Robin uses something vaguely masculine.) And then Robin hooks an arm around Steve’s shoulder, pulling him closer as Nancy moves past them to kiss Jonathan lightly.

Argyle shows up a little later, carrying some pizzas, commenting that they may not be Surfer Boy pizza, but any pizza is good pizza in his book. It’s about the spirit, man. The pizza spirit. He’d been taking Max and Lucas around, following from a respectable distance as Lucas took Max on a date before he took them to Max’s apartment.

“Third wheeling’s not so bad,” he says when he tells them all, arms wrapped around Steve, covering his face almost absentmindedly like he doesn’t even notice that he’s hugging him. Jonathan is watching, an amused grin on his face. “They’re so happy, man. I love love.” And he sighs heavily, laying his head on top of Steve’s.

Steve laughs.

He hasn’t laughed in a long time. Even the thought of laughing felt foreign to him. But he giggles, feeling the weight of Argyle’s head, the secure hold of his arms around his neck, the lingering scent of weed on his arms, mixing with some kind of cologne.

Steve ends up between Argyle and Robin during the movie, his legs tangled with Robin’s, head resting on the back of the sofa. He’s barely watching the movie, nibbling his pizza slowly, quietly. He gets through one and a half slices before it’s too much, and he gives the rest of his second slice to Robin.

When Argyle finishes eating, he wraps an arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him close, wordlessly asking if he’s okay. Steve sighs, nuzzling into his shoulder, closing his eyes. It occurs to him that he and Jonathan haven’t even mentioned weed all night, that they haven’t offered any up like they usually do, and he wonders if they all talked about this beforehand. If they discussed the fact that mind-altering substances aren’t a good idea for Steve right now.

Steve’s chest flushes with warmth at the thought. He presses closer to Argyle, reaching over to find Robin’s hand, pulling her closer and lacing their fingers. She squeezes three times. He squeezes back.

He tries to watch the movie. He doesn’t know what’s going on it, hasn’t been following the plot for a while. His chest tightens when he realizes that it feels like something is missing, and that something is Eddie. He pushes down the urge to go get Eddie’s vest, to curl back up against Argyle with the vest hugged to his chest, his face buried in it for the remaining traces of Eddie’s scent. He knows how weird that would be. Robin might be the only one that even knows he still has it.

He touches the ring around his finger, brushing over it with his thumb, pushing it to twist slowly. He hasn’t taken it off. He can’t even feel it anymore, like it’s just part of his finger, like the stone is just a small extension of him. But he knows that if he took it off, it would feel like the world is ending. He’s thought about it, about leaving the ring on his bedside during the day, to get used to Eddie’s absence, but the very thought made his chest tighten and breath shorten, and he wondered if this was how Lucas felt when he had to leave Max at the hospital. And then he was just mad at himself, because that wasn’t fair. To anyone.

Robin squeezes his hand again when she notices him touching the ring. He blinks his eyes, taking a deep breath, nodding.

—————————

It feels weird to drive again.

Weird, but now wrong. He supposes it’s like riding a bike. Everything comes naturally, and he barely thinks twice about anything as he pulls out of his driveway, as he scolds Robin for putting her feet on the dashboard. (He lets her put them on her seat, sitting all curled up as she looks out the window. She can never sit normally, both feet on the ground. So he allows it.)

She’s rocking back and forth as he drives, humming along to the radio.

The sun is shining brightly. It’s hot out, and the car is a little cool from sitting in the garage, but the seats are still warm, sticking to Robin’s thighs as her shorts ride up. There are people outside, loading boxes into cars, barbecuing on grills. Children jumping through sprinklers, laughing and smiling. It all feels surreal, seeing them all living their lives in spite of it all.

“You didn’t tell them I’m coming, did you?” he asks after a while. He glances at Robin to see her grinning.

“Nope.”

“Because why would you.”

“Mhmm.”

His heart is beating fast as he pulls into the Wheelers’ driveway, and he puts the car in park, he takes a deep breath, exhaling shakily, his hands falling to his lap as he leans back. Robin leans over and bumps her forehead against his shoulder fondly.

“They’re gonna be so excited to see you, Stevie,” she says softly. He nods, sighing, blinking his eyes. “You ready?”

“…Yeah.”

Karen opens the door for them. She’s beaming when it swings open, holding a doll that must be Holly’s, and before Steve can even say hello, she’s pulling him into a hug, rocking back and forth.

It’s a good hug. Warm, tight, comforting. She tells him softly how nice it is to see him again. He thanks her for the casserole. She says she’ll cook for him anytime, that if he and his parents ever need anything she’s available. He can feel the doll she’s holding pressing into his shoulder, but he doesn’t mind it.

“The kids are all downstairs,” she says when she finally releases him, reaching to touch Robin’s face lightly, motherly. “They’ll be glad to see you. I’ll keep an ear out for Dustin screaming.”

Steve laughs lightly, nodding. She touches his face, nodding as she looks into his eyes, like she knows. She doesn’t know much, but maybe that thing Steve’s mom’s always said about a mother’s intuition really has something to it. He feels better when he feels her hands on his face, soft and loving, when she looks into his eyes and smiles in a way that says it’s okay even though she doesn’t know the half of it.

Steve heads toward the basement stairs with a heavy sigh, feeling Robin’s hand rub his shoulder.

It’s a little dim downstairs, as usual, and the stairs creak as he descents, but the kids’ voices don’t quiet. Dustin and Will are bickering, Erica is laughing, Lucas is scolding her, Mike is groaning dramatically, El is giggling, Max is commenting dryly. It’s all the same. He makes it to the bottom of the stairs before they notice him, and he manages to take a moment to look at them all. Watching them. Kind of wishing he could just be a fly on the wall, watching them be kids and fuck around, fighting about something stupid and mundane and normal.

Mike notices him first.

“Steve!”

He practically tackles Steve in a hug, gangly arms tight around Steve’s middle, and Steve startles, a grin overtaking his face because Micheal Wheeler is hugging him, hugging him back with a light laugh before the others are joining, all yelling variations of his name. Max pushes herself to sit up straight on the sofa, beaming and turning in his direction, waiting patiently.

“Hi, hi, hi,” Steve says, hugging them all, touching the tops of their heads. Erica has purple beads in her hair now. Eleven’s hair is getting curly again. (Steve likes it like this.) Mike’s hair is even longer, wavy and too dry, hanging over his shoulders. “Hi.”

“God, I missed you,” Dustin says. He pushes Lucas out of the way, bear hugging Steve and tucking his face into his neck. Steve hugs him back, closing his eyes for a moment. It feels surreal, holding him again.

“I missed you, too, man,” he says weakly, tears sparking his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He snorts, squeezing his eyes shut before he opens them again, patting Dustin’s back. Dustin lets go, stepping back.

He has Eddie’s bandana tied around his arm. Steve’s gaze lingers on it for a moment before he tears his eyes away, reaching for El and tugging her close, putting his hand in her hair and ruffling her curls as she giggles.

“Look at you,” he says fondly. She swats his hand away, reaching for his hair and tugging the ends of it.

“You need a haircut.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She giggles again.

Lucas is next, his arms tight as he hugs Steve, swaying a little bit.

“You okay?” he asks quietly before they part, holding Steve’s arms. He’s too fucking tall. Man-sized. But still a kid. His eyes are shining vulnerably, childishly, and Steve wants to scream. He wants to take him back into his arms and hold him until they’re both elderly.

“I will be,” Steve says lightly.

He lifts Erica up when she hugs him, and he’s reminded that she’s even younger, just a little girl. She’s going to be a freshman this year. He thinks. She’s just a baby. He holds her tightly, laughing softly and she complains, “You asshole. I missed you.”

Will holds him for a while. He’s shaking. Steve holds him so tightly it kind of hurts, but neither of them says anything. (His hair is different now too, a little longer, messier. It looks nice on him. More careless.)

“Excuse me,” Max says after a while, her voice loud, sarcastic. “I missed you too, dick.”

“Language,” he scolds lightly, smiling as he sits on the sofa next to her. She faces him when his weight makes the sofa shift, face lit up, eyes wide even though she can’t see him.

“Gimme your face,” she says, holding her hands up. “Gotta make sure you’re still pretty.”

He snorts, taking her hands carefully and lifting them to his face. She grins, touching his face, feeling his cheeks and his jaw, his nose and chin and forehead. He has to close his eyes for a moment so she doesn’t poke them, but he gazes at her while she touches him. Her eyes are cloudy, pale, and unfocussed, but her eyebrows are set, focussed on navigating his face like she’s remembering it. Her freckles are bright, her nose and the tops of her ears red. She’s been out in the sun. Just knowing it makes Steve happy.

He snorts when she tries to stick her finger up his nose, and she gives an evil laugh, reaching to pull him into a hug. The others are all quiet as they embrace, as Steve leans over and pulls her close, closes his eyes and sighs heavily. Her hair smells like El’s.

“I missed you,” she says softly, her arms tightening around him. “Like, a lot.”

“I missed you like a lot, too,” he murmurs.

He sighs when they part, his exhale shaky because he’s containing himself, because he can’t let himself cry in front of them all. They’re all watching him, around the room like he’s about to pull out a picture book and read to them. He ruffles Max’s hair one last time before he looks back at them all.

“So, what’d I miss?”

“Mike and El broke up,” Dustin says loudly, and a laugh bursts from Steve’s chest as El giggles and Mike shoots Dustin a look.

“You are so fucking annoying, you know that?”

“You said he could know.”

“Yeah, but you said it like–”

“Mike and I broke up!” El interrupts excitedly, beaming when Mike rolls his eyes and falls onto his back where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. Will laughs, glancing at him.

“I did weed for the first time,” Will says brightly. Steve’s stomach plummets.

“No, you fucking didn’t—”

“No, I’m messing with you. Erica went on a date, though.”

“Wh—” Steve startles, relaxing for a split second before he tenses again. “You just gave me fucking whiplash, what?” He fixes a look on Erica, who’s reaching across a cackling Dustin to smack at Will’s arm. Will giggles, recoiling.

“It wasn’t a date,” she insists.

“You went to the movies and he paid,” Will says sassily.

“Yeah, and?”

“And that makes it…” Will gestures with his hands like he’s conducting a band. “A date.”

“Shut up. Max and Lucas made out.”

“Erica,” Lucas scolds, reaching over to swat at her, his eyes wide.

“Just the facts.”

“Did you walk in on it?” Mike asks, laughing, and Erica nods solemnly.

“Lucas threw a pillow at me.”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t a dictionary. Stay out of my room.”

She just sticks her tongue out at him.

“El got her ears pierced,” Max says brightly, and El sits up on her knees, lighting up, pushing her short curls out of the way so Steve can see. He leans closer, squinting a little bit. The studs are sparkling flowers, tiny blossoms on her earlobes, and she’s grinning widely, happy.

“How was it?” he asks.

“Very uncomfortable.”

“Fair enough.”

They all keep talking. Bickering and bantering and teasing each other, talking over each other’s voices, laughing and telling Steve everything. Catching him up. Reminding him that they’re all growing up. As they talk, Max reaches over and takes his hand, finding it by grabbing his arm and sliding her hand down to his before she squeezes.

They make him stay over for a movie. Robin curls up next to him on the sofa, and Erica lays between them, her head on Steve’s arm that’s around Robin’s shoulders. Max lays on his other side, her legs lifted to rest across Lucas’s lap. He rubs them gently, absentmindedly, as El sits next to him, leaning against his side and sighing.

Mike and Will sit on the floor, side by side. After a while they relax, and their shoulders press, and a part of Steve wonders. Dustin sits on the floor in front of El, who reaches down to play with his hair.

“Where were you?” Max asks quietly as the movie is playing. Steve looks down at her. Her eyes are open, facing the television, and he wonders if she can see the light from it. She’s close enough that no one else hears, and it’s like she just knows that Steve isn’t really watching the movie.

“Home,” he says softly. “In bed, mostly. Not doing much.”

“Did you miss us?” she asks after a moment. His chest tightens. He turns to kiss the top of her head.

“A lot. Yeah.”

She nods, laying on his shoulder.

“Do you feel better?”

“...I’m trying.”

She nods again.

—————————

Steve’s parents leave in August.

They had been meaning to leave in May, down to Floria so they could find a place for their retirement, but they stuck around longer than they planned to because of Steve. They don’t let him feel guilty about it. His dad very firmly reminds him, you’re our son, Steve. No matter what. Through thick and thin. Love and grief. And Steve cries.

They offer to take him with them. They can find him a job there, he can stay with them for as long as he needs to.

But he refuses. Tells them he needs to stay for the kids, for Robin. He can’t leave yet, not until they’re all gone too, until they’re all at college or wherever they decide to go next.

So they leave him the house. And money. They tell him they’ll be home for Christmas, that they’ll call when they arrive at their new house, and if he needs anything, they’ll provide. They both hug him tightly when they leave. They don’t usually have these long, drawn-out goodbyes when they travel, and it’s really no different now (they’ll only be gone a few months), but it feels somehow different now. Like something shifted over the summer, in every dish that he pushed away, every time he crawled onto the sofa and put his head on his mother’s lap, every time he fell against his father and let him catch him. Every time they came in just to sit on the edge of his bed and put a hand on his arm, just to whisper and ask if he feels any better, to pet his hair and kiss his forehead when he doesn’t respond.

The house feels empty when they’re gone. So he calls Robin to come over, and they fall asleep on the sofa after eating leftovers.

She moves in for a while. She’s supposed to stay in the guest room, but she spends most nights in Steve’s, cuddled up against him. She never says anything about the vest.

The kids come over. Max likes being at Steve’s. The hallways are big and empty (especially after he moves the decorative table out of the way), and she can roll her wheelchair down them as fast as she can, laughing and smiling as her hair flies behind her like flames.

Steve spends more time with them, even when he just wants to lay in bed and close his eyes. He leaves his curtains open, forces himself to let sunlight into the room even though it makes his head hurt early in the morning. He discovers that he can still lift Max and her wheelchair, and when Argyle leaves for college with Jonathan, Steve takes over helping Max get home. When the kids start school, he gets up early to take her. Max is in charge of the music.

Robin decides to take a gap year. Steve feels like it might be because of him, because sometimes she worries, on days that he can’t get out of bed, on days that he just sits on the floor with Eddie’s vest and cries, headphones on, on nights that he wakes her up by sobbing in his sleep. She helps him through it all, holding his hand or just being there until he can stand feeling anything again. She makes brownies and brings home cheesy movies to cheer him up, even though it doesn’t always work.

His parents call once a week. Every Thursday evening, before they go to bed, just to check in, see how he’s doing. He knows they worry about him now. He tries not to feel guilty about it.

—————————

They had sandwiches for lunch. Steve made them. Robin praised them, complete with the obnoxious chef’s kiss. She told Steve he makes a lovely housewife. It made him laugh a little.

She knocks her hips into his as she navigates the kitchen, putting away dishes as he washes them. She pauses to push his glasses up his nose when she notices them sliding down. It’s quiet. Sunny. Warm.

Wednesday. It’s hard for Steve to keep track of the days of the week. He’s always asking Robin what day it is, just in case, and she always tells him before commenting that there’s a calendar in the kitchen. (It’s a nice calendar, every day noted with what Steve has to do, drive Max to school, pick Lucas up after basketball practice, drive El over to the Sinclairs’, get groceries. Et cetera. Every day gets marked off with a black marker, and medical appointments are marked in red. They both hate medical appointments. They go together.)

He’s tired today. He’s tired a lot of the time. Even though all he’s done today is take Max to school and make lunch, he feels drained, fatigued. He wants to go lay in bed in the dark, but he won’t. Maybe he’ll fall asleep on the sofa for a while before he goes to pick Max up.

Robin is humming. He doesn’t recognize the song. It might be some new hit from the radio. He doesn’t really listen to the radio anymore.

He listens to the metal records he got in Indy, and to Tennessee Waltz, and that’s about it. He doesn’t listen to Tears for Fears anymore, or Toto. Instead it’s Metallica, and Judas Priest, and Ozzy Osbourne, all of which are truly weird to cry to, but he manages. It’s noisy, loud and heavy and comforting when the inside of his head feels louder than anything. The music shuts him up, and it’s nice. He plays it while he lays in the living room, staring at the ceiling and thinking, while he cleans and cooks and works out, and Robin lets him. She knows when to leave him alone.

He shuts off the water when he finishes with the dishes, sighing and reaching for the towel in Robin’s hands. He snatches it as she reaches for a cup to dry, and she stares at him, impatiently watching him dry his hands, and when he finishes, he tosses it to land on her head, covering her face. He sees her shoulders rise and fall as she sighs heavily.

Before she can say anything, they’re distracted by the sound of tires rolling over the gravel in the driveway. Steve stops short, and Robin pulls the towel off her head, turning a little toward the hallway. It’s unmistakable, the sound of cars pulling into the driveway. Several cars. Not just one, not Ms Henderson or Joyce, but something else.

Anxiety pits in Steve’s stomach, twisting and knotting, and they wordlessly move toward the hallway, slowly, tentatively, like they’re waiting for the door to burst open. The baseball bat is in the hall, and Steve leaves it, aware of where it is. Just in case.

Robin follows close behind, her footsteps quiet on the floor like they’re hiding.

The cars stop when they reach the door, and they both listen to the silence as Steve’s hand hovers over the doorknob before he pulls it open, shivering in the breeze that blows over him.

Black cars. Shiny black cars. Government cars. Bad cars.

Steve’s chest tightens as he steps out so Robin can see, and the door shuts behind them as they watch. He hates that all the windows are tinted.

It’s silent for a moment before a door opens, and Owens steps out. He gives Steve a tight smile, and Steve exhales sharply, already going through every possible thing that could be happening. A gate reopened. Hawkins lab spilled some kind of chemical or something. Steve’s bites are actually going to cause long-term side effects. He hasn’t gotten a code red today. Fuck, are the kids okay? Steve would know if something happened, right? He would notice something? It’s only been a few hours since he saw them outside the high school, since he waved at them all as they waited for Max. Nothing could have happened since then, right?

As he spirals, more cars open, and men in suits step out. They all have guns. Steve hates guns.

His eyes scan the men, watching them all stand up straight, and his eyes catch on Wayne.

Wayne.

Steve blinks, staring at him, looking at Owens, who takes an awkward breath, still smiling that way he’s always smiling, like he doesn’t quite know what to say.

Wayne’s been crying. His eyes are shining, which Steve can see even from this distance (maybe it’s the glasses), and Steve says his name weakly. Did they tell him? Does Steve not have to hide any of it anymore?

Wayne gives Steve an odd smile, like he knows something Steve doesn’t, and he glances away, still standing behind the car’s open door, an arm propped up on it. Steve stares at him, his eyes burning. He hasn’t seen him in months. He’s been too scared to see him, scared that seeing him will send him into a spiral, scared that Wayne would say or do something that would just break Steve. He feels very breakable.

Steve only looks away from Wayne when he hears Robin’s voice say what weakly, brokenly, and he hears the sound of footsteps on gravel.

He freezes.

Eddie.

EddieEddieEddieEddieEddieEddieEddieEddie—

He looks different. His hair is still long, overgrown and curly, and he’s wearing a dark sweater, grey, with black sweatpants, and white sneakers, but there’s something… off. His skin is pale, almost a little grey, but his cheeks and lips are red, like he’s wearing makeup. His hair blows in his face in the wind, and he pushes it back, reaching up. His fingers are… clawed. The ends are dark, like he’s dipped them in ink, like he’s been tattooed. But he’s still Eddie.

Steve can’t hear the car doors shut as Eddie comes closer. He can’t hear the way Robin is stifling gasps, her hand over her face, and he can’t hear the wind rustling the leaves around them. He can’t hear anything. His eyes don’t even hurt in the sunlight anymore. Nothing exists.

Except for Eddie, coming closer. His eyes are wide, still the same, still brown and sparkling and beautiful, looking up at Steve, who’s standing on the top step of the door. Steve looks down at him, hands shaking, breath stilled in his chest, caught in his throat, blood cold and hot at the same time. His vision blurs and unblurs and blurs again, and a tear falls down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.

He’s dreaming. Or hallucinating, or something. He’s been drugged.

There’s no other possibility that doesn’t include everything happening in Steve’s head. He can only hear the rush of his own blood, loud and pulsing, the steady flow of a violent river, and his lungs ache from holding his breath, and it’s not real. It’s taken this long for it to happen, for him to just imagine Eddie, during the waking day, in the sunlight and not in the dark of Steve’s bedroom late at night when he’s drowning in his own tears, but it’s happening. He’s imagining Eddie. And when he disappears, when it sets in that it’s not real, Steve will break.

But Eddie reaches up and wipes Steve’s tear away, because he’s close enough to, and Steve feels it. His thumb is cold, gentle and tender and soft in spite of the claw, and Steve feels the tear slide across his skin, cold in the wind, but it can’t be real, it can’t be real, this can’t really be happening, Eddie is gone, Steve knows it, Eddie died, he heard him stop breathing, and

Eddie’s voice is the same as it was when he died. Soft and quiet and almost nervous as he speaks.

“He didn’t let me in.”

#so anyway #dont know why i did this to myself but i cried several times writing this #i am incapable of writing actual permanant character deaths i assure you #eddies chillin #hes rly not bc hes traumatized beyond repair but he's alive #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington centric #steddie #steddie fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #robin buckley #robin buckley fanfic #nancy wheeler #nancy wheeler fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction

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