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givemea-dam-break · 4 months

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daughters of the evening

⭒⭒⭒⭒ in which luke’s descent from good may be found.

pairing: luke castellan x (fem) reader

a/n: hey guys!! first fic in a while and i know, i know, pjo book readers are disappointed in me… but i’m just a girl! i’m literally just a girl! please enjoy my brain baby i love her :) i love writing quests so much, so this was really nice to write for my first fic back on tumblr. i hope you guys enjoy! if anybody wants to be added to my pjo taglist, let me know!

warnings: canon typical violence, book spoilers, blood/injury description, rusty writing

words: 5.8K ⭒⭒⭒⭒

(y/n) couldn’t remember when the change in Luke became permanent.

She could remember the hints of something at the corners of his eyes, something that bit at the happiness that filled them, eating away at it like rot on wood. She could remember the slow decline in his respect for his father, respect that had barely been there for years, though was now bridging on outright disrespect.

She could remember the crux of it all, the very moment in which all of the little things began to coalesce into something ugly. A flash of claws, the deep scarlet of mortal blood followed by shimmering gold ichor. The horrible sound of screaming. Gleaming fruits of gold. Gorgeous, blooming green trees towering above them that concealed the violence below.

It was after the quest that Luke, her Luke, was never the same.

⭒⭒

“I don’t remember San Francisco looking like this.”

Luke’s lips curled into a smile. “You’ve never been to San Francisco.”

(y/n) rolled her eyes. “I’ve seen it in movies through which I have lived vicariously. It’s in one of the Indiana Jones’s, right? Looks different.”

“Those movies are from the eighties,” Luke said. “So, yeah, it’s going to look different.”

Charles Beckendorf, their questmate, heaved a sigh. “Do you guys ever stop?”

“Stop what?” (y/n) asked.

“Being annoying? Flirting? Whatever you want to call it.”

Her face felt awfully hot and she found herself unable to even look in Luke’s general direction. It was a comment that had been made many times in the past, one she was sure Luke was sick to death of, but she found herself yearning for comments like it. They meant that maybe she wasn’t dreaming up something between them.

Either way, she didn’t acknowledge it, rather stuffing her hand into her unzipped backpack and scrounging around until finally she found what she wanted. With a dramatic flair, she revealed three paper maps, each embellished with their names written in colourful pen at the top.

A moment of silence, then Luke said, “Why do we need a map each? Can’t we just share? And where did you even get those?”

“I got them back in Salt Lake City, before we happened upon that massive crab, you remember the one? All blue and slimy.” She pressed the maps into their hands. “There are multiple because knowing you both, you’ll lose them and I’m not buying any more. But, look! They’re colour-coded. Green for me because, duh, Demeter. Orange for Beckendorf, red for you. We can at least make this quest for some stupid apples interesting.”

Beckendorf raised a brow, giving her a strange look. “With glittery gel pen?”

“Glittery gel pen makes everything better,” she insisted. “I’m glad you acknowledge that. Now, come on. With all this talking you two have been doing, we don’t have much time to spare. You’re like a pair of gossiping grannies.”

The two shared a look over her head, one they thought she didn’t see, but it only made her hold back a laugh. They were a relatively upbeat group as it was, but she prided herself on keeping the mood light, especially when danger was looming. With the might of glittery gel pens, a travel-size game of Monopoly, and a cheesy puns book they had picked up off the side of the road, they would be unstoppable should their enemies need a good laugh.

It wasn’t that they weren’t capable of what was ahead of them that she felt the need to joke around, it was just her regular nerves. The three of them were experienced and powerful demigods, skilled fighters and strategists, the best of the best. Luke had his immense skill with a sword and the mind of a trickster; Beckendorf had the brains and strength of a blacksmith, and could sense a trap a mile away and disarm it in moments; (y/n) herself was a powerful daughter of Demeter and, though not to the standard of Luke, was also skilled with a sword.

They hadn’t faced much trouble before. They were a tried-and-tested trio, having been on multiple quests together in the past and finding themselves working well together.

This time, it seemed like a match made by the Fates. A quest ordained by Hermes, Luke’s father, to retrieve the Apples of Immortality from the Garden of the Hesperides - gardens and plants being the domain of Demeter and, by extension, (y/n). And, no doubt, there would be many traps or the need for a strong mind, hence Beckendorf. He was a year or two younger than she and Luke, but had proved himself upon countless occasions. She trusted him with her life.

Almost a week now they’d been on this quest, and still she felt like a giddy child. Almost seventeen and, at her big age, she was holding back smiles and giggles befitting of a schoolgirl with a crush. Part of it was gratefulness that a demigod such as Luke had chosen her to join him on this quest, even after being friends for years and having gone on numerous quests together already. Part of it was simply that she was madly in love with the boy.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, then, watching the way the afternoon sun gleamed on his face, setting his dark eyes alight with flame. There was a curious smile on his lips, one that concealed mischief and intelligence; one she had loved for as long as she could remember. His hair was messy after days of travelling and not bothering to fuss with it - she dreaded to think of what her own looked like, the only mirror she had being her sword - but there was something so extremely endearing about it. Wild curls that gave his lightly-freckled face even more life.

Their maps didn’t help their hunt for the Garden an awful lot. For what had to have been at least two hours, they stumbled around the city, turning this way and that, earning odd looks from strangers.

“For being the son of the god of travellers,” (y/n) said, “you are horrendous at reading a map.”

Luke gave her a nudge with his elbow as he scanned the map. He was grinning. Her stomach was doing cartwheels. “Maps make sense enough, but I think these ones are out of date.”

“Maps don’t go out of date, stupid.”

Beckendorf was holding back a smile. “I think he’s right. I think our maps are too old.”

(y/n) glowered at them, plucking their maps from their hands. Fine. They didn’t deserve to hold maps graced with her glittery gel pens anyways.

“Well,” she said. “Unless either of you have any ideas, we’re going to be stuck wandering for hours. Come on, Luke. Use your magicky journey powers. They got us this far.”

His eyes shone, and her knees felt a little weak. She loved it when he looked at her like that, when she had said something funny. It was as though the heavens themselves had descended and flooded his face with light and beauty. She couldn’t look away.

“It’s a big garden,” he retorted. “Find the big garden, daughter of the mighty Demeter!”

She knew he meant it as a joke - the sarcasm was practically dripping from his voice - but there was something in his tone that she couldn’t identify. Something deeper than a simple sarcastic comment. This had been a pity quest, of sorts, she knew. Luke had been getting restless and his father had wanted to satiate him, but it wasn’t enough. He was displeased with the gods, to say the least.

But he kept a good lock on his expressions, on his words. She wouldn’t have suspected a thing had she not known him as well as she knew the feeling of grass beneath her feet.

Eventually, combining their powers and the single brain cell that seemed to be taken by Beckendorf, they found their way to the Mount Tamalpais State Park, which was not open to visitors now that the sun was setting.

They stared up at the distant mountain, the sloping greenland and towering trees that led towards it, and heaved a synonymous groan. Quests could never be even slightly easy, it seemed. Why would the gods let them head to a random park in the city when they could have them trespassing in a state park at night, lives in the hands of the monsters and animals alike that roamed the woods? The gods would rather have them arrested than have something be easy.

“You’re kidding, right?” Beckendorf said. “We don’t have to walk all that way?”

(y/n) frowned. She wished more than anything that they could just turn around and leave, a feeling she did not often get on quests. But something didn’t feel right. There was a twist in her gut, a deep intuition that told her something was going to go wrong.

But her gut was also pulling her towards the mountain. There was a power there, unlike any she had felt before, and she wanted to know what it was.

“We’ll be fine,” she insisted, though she didn’t feel entirely sure herself.

She was the first to make the step towards their darkening fates. If she had known the outcome, she would have turned and fled immediately.

The three of them trudged up the path, flicking on torches when the sky grew darker and the ground in front of them too hard to see. It gave them an eerie glow, entirely unlike the warm glow of their weapons. All of their features were in stark contrast to the dark surroundings; Luke’s cheekbones, Beckendorf’s eyes, her brownbone. It was disconcerting, and it felt all too much like they were the lead characters in a ghost story.

She was considering turning back about halfway there. The tug in her gut was becoming stronger, almost unbearable, and her head was pounding, filled with the worry of the possible incidents that had not happened yet.

The only thing that kept her going was Luke’s pinky finger wrapped around hers.

Maybe he felt her nerves, so acute that she feared her sinews and tendons and bones could snap at any moment. But Luke knew her. He had known her since they were barely teenagers. He knew her better than she knew herself: every habit she had; every face she made; every hint of a feeling before she knew it was coming. He had some deep understanding of her, one that would have made her feel vulnerable in any other situation with any other person. Luke was not any other person.

His pinky was wrapped around hers tightly, warmer than the rest of her body put together. It curled around hers just so, acknowledging her worry. His jacket sleeve brushed hers.

It wasn’t until they reached the Garden at the foot of the mountain that his hand wrapped around hers fully, encasing it entirely in warmth and comfort. His palms were calloused, fingers ribbed with light scars, but she could not imagine it any other way.

The Garden of the Hesperides was easily the most beautiful place she had ever seen and was likely the most beautiful place she would ever see. Stars hung above them in the night sky, glittering so brightly it was as though they could reach out and touch them with their outstretched fingers. Lush green grass coated the ground beneath their feet and beyond, speckled with flowers so bright they almost glowed in the dark. It was bristling with life, so full of it that (y/n) could feel it all deep in her bones.

But the source of the power lay further afield.

A tree, much taller than the rest, stood at the centre of the garden, boasting more golden apples than (y/n) could count. Its branches swayed in the faint breeze in mesmerising swoops, and the scent of fresh fruit laced with something that could only be described as addictive brushed over them. A faint mist swirled around the trunk of the tree, glittering slightly in the moonlight.

“Holy Hephaestus,” Beckendorf murmured, slack-jawed.

“That’s one big tree,” Luke said.

“You certainly have a way with words,” (y/n) said.

His hand only squeezed hers in response. She could feel his heartbeat in his wrist. How was it so steady?

There was a shift in the wind, then, and a soft bite came into the air. Goosebumps prickled the skin of their arms, raising the hair there. She wasn’t sure if she was imagining it, but she swore she could hear the faintest lull of singing voices and could feel the weight of some large presence in the air. Nothing could be seen but the beautiful garden and the decadent tree in the centre.

“Luke Castellan,” said a soft voice. Luke visibly tensed, eyes narrowing at the usage of his surname. “(y/n) (l/n). Charles Beckendorf. We have been expecting you in our Garden for quite some time now.”

The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. But, finally, after a few moments, the speaker emerged from the fine mist.

She didn’t look like much, appearing to be barely older than (y/n), but there was something about her surrounding aura that suggested she was much, much older. Dark, inky hair tumbled over narrow tawny shoulders, framing even darker eyes that shone with unknown magic. The woman seemed to blink slowly, as if bored or tired, and it looked as though she were merely floating over the ground rather than walking. It was hard to tell. Her Greek chiton covered her feet.

“We are the Hesperides,” she said, voice ever gentle, as four more women appeared, each almost identical in appearance. “Daughters of the Evening. Nymphs of the Sunset. Protectors of this Garden. What is your business here?”

There was a cockiness to Luke’s smile then, one that had (y/n) on edge. “If you’ve been expecting us, then surely you know our business.”

The lead Hesperide drew nearer, stopping a few feet away from their trio. Her sisters gathered at her sides, dark eyes sparkling with stars and cold curiosity and something overtly bitter. The demigods were clearly unwelcome here, but they intended to make a game of their quest.

(y/n)’s hand squeezed Luke’s in warning. He spared her a glance, her heart drawing still when his warm eyes met hers. His chin dipped slightly in a nod, and he gave her hand a squeeze before turning his attention back to the Hesperides.

“We’ve been sent here on a quest by my father Hermes,” Luke announced. His voice held more confidence than she felt. “We’re here to retrieve a golden apple.”

It was strange watching the Hesperides’ heads tilt in unison as if they were each an extension of the other. Voices lulled around them, soft and gentle, and the worry seeped from her very bones. Her hand fell from Luke’s. Something felt strangely at ease in her stomach despite their circumstances.

“You may try,” said the lead Hesperide. Her skin glimmered like marble in the moonlight. “Our dearest Ladon protects this tree with his life. He does not sleep. Every second of every day, he guards our gift from Gaea, the goddess Hera’s wedding gift. Do not think it will be easy to pass him.”

The Hesperides seemed to fade into the mist, then, their bodies becoming light and transparent as they slowly backed away until nothing was left but the faint singing swirling around them. The voices gave (y/n) a strange feeling, as though pulling her towards the tree.

“Who’s Ladon?” Beckendorf asked.

The three of them stood for a moment, watching the swirling mist.

“A dragon,” (y/n) said. “A big dragon.”

She could feel his presence, she realised. The heavy weight that had settled over them upon entering the Garden, it couldn’t be anything else. Even still, she could feel him through the ground, like an impending sense of death and doom. She’d had similar feelings before, an innate knowledge that the strawberry fields were close to wilting one year. Campers had called her crazy, but she knew. The earth knew.

And it knew now. She was horribly aware of the heaviness in her gut that surrounded the bright power of the apple tree. It could be nothing but Ladon.

“Any ideas, Luke?” she asked. “You’re our idea guy.”

He scoffed. “Since when? You’ve been dragging us around by our ears this entire quest.”

But he could see the nerves that she felt. He knew how strange this was for her, to feel so deeply worried about a quest. He knew something was wrong.

“I’ll get the apple,” he said, and his shoulders rose with confidence. His hand, the one that had held (y/n)’s moments ago, twitched just so. “I’m the fastest out of the three of us. You two, keep our friend distracted.”

There was a deep grumble at that moment, as if Ladon were making himself known. It shook the ground and the boughs of the tree trembled. Sweet-smelling apples tumbled into the mist.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense for me to get the apples?” (y/n) asked. “You brought along a daughter of Demeter for a reason.”

He smiled softly at her. “That’s not the reason I brought you along.”

And, before either she or Beckendorf could protest his stupidity or question his statement, Luke’s glowing sword materialised in his hand and he was running into the mist.

The mist spread apart as his feet made contact, and (y/n)’s heart dropped. Beckendorf, one of the bravest demigods she had ever met despite his age, had a tremor in his hands as he pulled free his sword.

Within the mist was the largest monster (y/n) had ever seen. It was wrapped around the tree in a serpentine-like way, scales glimmering in the moonlight like molten copper and bronze. Massive claws sunk into the dirt surrounding the tree, at least the length of her forearm and as wide as Beckendorf’s. Every breath it released shook the branches of the tree as though caught in a gale.

The most horrifying part: the dragon had a hundred heads.

She had read about Ladon, had familiarised herself with the myths surrounding the Hesperides. Days before the quest, she and Luke had sat down at the canoe lake, poring over old history books that told the tale of Heracles and his Twelve Labours, one of which was the very quest they were being made to repeat. Luke had made a joke of it back then, unhappy with the quest he had been given and disbelieving that what they faced would be much of a threat.

But Ladon was no joke. It was an entirely different thing seeing drawings of the dragon and seeing him in real life. His hundred heads slithered through the air like snakes on the water, luminous yellow eyes watching the demigods with piqued interest.

Even Luke faltered.

A deep breath came from all two hundred of the dragon’s nostrils, washing over them in a hot, acidic wave. The smell alone was horrendous, like an old, decrepit sewer filled with rotting rats, and it had the hairs on her arms standing and her eyes burning.

She was worried that she may never be able to move again, frozen in place by the sheer might of Ladon, but when Luke turned to look at her, blood flooded into her veins again. He was counting on her. She wouldn’t let him down.

Ladon expected a frontal assault. He was waiting for Luke to attack, watching like a predator on prey, but he did not expect the very tree he protected to act against him.

With a heave of energy, (y/n) stretched out her arm and watched as the tree’s trunk began to swell as if filling with liquid. Ladon’s serpentine body writhed around it, twisting as he moved to accommodate the growing tree. The branches above him shook, dipping towards the ground slowly. Too slowly.

The dragon seemed to realise what, or who, was causing the change, and snarled ferociously. It was at that moment that Beckendorf grabbed a ball of Celestial bronze from his belt and, with a strong arm and remarkably good aim, threw it at the beast.

An explosion of green ignited before them as the ball slammed into Ladon’s thick hide. The dragon roared, whether in pain or fury, and set its bright gaze on (y/n) and Beckendorf.

Fear coursed through her body. She could hardly breathe. The branches wavered, pausing the pursuit to the ground. Beckendorf launched another one of his Celestial bronze bombs.

A pity quest, that’s what this had been. But, maybe, it was more than that. Maybe this was Hermes’ punishment for Luke wanting more from his life. Maybe this was (y/n)’s consequence for falling so irrevocably in love with Luke - for feeling the way she did, she would have to follow him to impossible circumstances.

But none of them deserved it.

It was at that moment that Luke took his leap.

With speed befitting a child of Hermes, he leapt onto Ladon’s mighty body, feet finding purchase on his rough scales, and launched himself upwards towards the descending branches.

For a moment, there was hope. Even Heracles had not retrieved the apples by facing Ladon, but maybe Luke would. Perhaps Luke would succeed where Heracles had not. Pride swelled in her heart, coated her tongue like warm honey, and she almost smiled.

Copper-coloured claws flashed in the moonlight. A chorus of soft, harmonising voices swirled around them like mist.

Mistake, they sang. The boy has made a mistake.

There was a cry of pain so guttural that (y/n) felt it in her soul. Her feet were moving before she could truly comprehend what was happening. The grass tried to reach for her ankles, tried to stop her in her mission, but nothing could. Had a god stood before her, she would have found her way past them. Nothing could stop her, not even this dragon that caused such fear in her bones.

She reached Luke as Ladon wound around the tree tightly, snarling protectively. Something in the beast’s demeanour hinted at pain beneath the danger, and when she saw the gold blood pooling just a few feet away, she knew why.

A claw, one of Ladon’s, severed from the knuckle down lay strewn in the grass. The dragon hissed as Beckendorf snatched it up, hefting his sword as (y/n) pulled Luke away.

He was bleeding badly. A deep gash ran from the tip of his brow down to the corner of his mouth, somehow missing his eye but cutting just above and below. His skin was already becoming dangerously pale. Her hands were covered in blood. His blood. She was going to be sick.

“Hey,” she murmured, gently laying his head on her lap. Her hands trembled as she reached into her bag. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Luke shuddered, eyes half-lidded and struggling to find something to focus on. “Are you -?”

“I’m fine,” she said. After a terrible moment, one that took far too long, she pulled free a small vial of nectar, wrapped tightly in old face-cloths to keep it from smashing in her bag. Her hands couldn’t stop shaking as she tried to unwrap it.

Beckendorf knelt beside her, claw at his side, and took the vial from her hands. She didn’t know how his hands could be so steady. She could hardly breathe. Not with Luke so injured, not with Ladon eyeing them hungrily.

He handed the vial back, and she propped Luke’s head up slightly. With a hiss of pain, she managed to open his mouth just enough to pour the small amount of nectar in. He swallowed with a struggle.

There was no telling how long it would take the nectar to work, but they couldn’t stay there under the watchful glare of Ladon, who looked ready to attack again. (y/n) took a trembling breath.

“Beckendorf,” she said, “are you able to carry him? At least until we can get out of this place. I can try - I can clean the wound when we’re safe.”

He nodded and hoisted Luke up into his arms, careful not to jostle his head too much.

She didn’t realise she had been crying until they stopped.

Beckendorf set Luke down on a soft patch of grass beyond the Garden, and (y/n) tucked her jacket underneath his head. The nectar seemed to be working, albeit slowly. Some colour was returning to his skin, but it was hard to see under all of the blood.

“You’re okay,” she murmured again, but she wasn’t sure who she was telling. She wiped her tears with the back of her hands.

She grabbed one of the face-cloths the vial of nectar had been wrapped in, soaking it in water from her water bottle, and slowly brought it to Luke’s face.

His eyes seemed to have some ability to focus now, watching her beneath a glaze of pain. It tore her soul in half to see him in pain, wincing as she gently dabbed the blood from his cheek. Her fingers were stained. His cheek was, too.

“I’m going to keep watch,” said Beckendorf. “Those Hesperides gave me a bad feeling.”

(y/n) nodded, watching for a moment as he trudged a few feet away, just out of earshot, but her focus soon returned to Luke. She tried not to think too much about how his hand was gripping her knee as she cleaned the rest of the blood.

“Is the nectar working?” she asked when she saw his eyes drooping. “What does it taste like?”

His gaze found hers, warm and cloudy. A pained smile fought its way onto his lips despite the slowly-healing scar on his cheek. She could see the skin trying to sew itself back together with the aid of the nectar.

“That smoothie you made a few months back with the - with the camp’s strawberries,” he uttered. “And whatever those green leaves were.”

She found herself smiling despite the red coating her hands. “Mint. And it was that good, huh? Last I checked, nectar for you tasted like that weird concoction of Coke and Sprite you liked so much.”

For a moment, his eyes grew distant before refocusing on her face. They flickered over her features as if seeing them for the first time. His hand felt awfully warm on her knee.

“Anything you make is better,” he said.

“Is that so?” She brushed his hair back from his face softly, cleaning the last bits of blood.

His skin was still stitching itself back together, but the nectar seemed to have stopped the bleeding. Second by second, blood flooded back into his face, giving him the colour that seemed to have been leached from his skin.

He nodded, his smile seeming as though it pained him less. His hand slipped from her knee, coming up to wrap itself around hers. The cloth fell from her fingers and onto the grass. Her fingers were still wet, though in the dim light she couldn’t tell if it was from water or lingering blood. She didn’t have the stomach to find out.

“You said you didn’t bring me on this quest because of my mother,” she said cautiously. Her heart was pounding in her chest. “So why did you?”

A soft squeeze of her hand. “This wasn’t a quest I wanted to do without you,” he said. “I like having you by my side. You give me strength.”

She was sure he could feel her pulse beating rapidly in her fingers, but he didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t need to. It was entirely likely that he was able to read her mind, he knew her so well. And she was okay with that.

“You’re stupid, you know,” she said, but her voice wavered.

“Stupidly brave?” he suggested. “Stupidly handsome? Stupidly charming?”

“I’m supposed to be supporting you right now,” she grumbled. “Not the other way around.”

His cocky grin was back and her heart fluttered. “Which one is it?”

“Which what?”

“Stupidly brave, handsome, or charming?”

All three, she thought. All three and so much more.

“Stupidly stupid,” she decided.

Her thumb grazed his cheekbone, the one without the scar, and a shiver ran through his body. His hand tightened on hers and his smile softened into something more personal. It was the kind of smile she would have leapt into Tartarus to ensure its permanence on his lips. Soft and kind and reserved just for her. If she'd been standing, her knees would have buckled.

“You give me strength, too,” she murmured.

A sliver of hair slipped in front of her eyes, and moments later, Luke’s free hand was there, gently brushing it away. His eyes sparkled. They seemed clearer now, less agonised.

The events of the last hour - gods, it had felt like much longer - came crashing back onto her at his touch, asphyxiating and terrifying. Overwhelming guilt filled her veins and arteries with terrible speed, sapping all the strength from her bones. Her fingers trembled once more.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her throat felt suddenly raw. “If I’d done a better job distracting Ladon, maybe you wouldn’t be hurt.”

Luke’s eyes were dark for a moment, swirling with something she couldn’t identify, but they softened seconds later. His hand rested on her cheek, warm and comforting, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at his eyes now.

“This is not your fault,” he said, and his voice was remarkably strong. “This is the gods’ fault. It’s my father’s fault. But it is not your fault.”

She tried to believe him, truly she did, but looking at the fresh scar on his face, even having been almost entirely healed with nectar, had her heart heavy in her chest.

He knew this. Gods, he knew her every thought. His hand slipped from hers, cupping her other cheek and tilting her head so that she would look at him properly. There was a flush to his cheeks now - good, it meant he was getting better.

“My father did this,” he insisted. “You hear me? This was not you. And, gods, believe me when I say that I’m glad it was me that went for the apples and not you. I couldn’t live with myself if you got injured.”

But you did, she wanted to say - no, scream. How do I live with that?

“I’m okay,” he said softly, cautiously, as if talking to a child who had just woken from a nightmare. “I’m okay.”

His hand fell from her face, taking hers in its grip once more, and placed her fingers on the newly formed scar.

She jerked back, terrified that the sensation would cause him more pain, but he just gave her that smile again, the one that made her knees feel like jelly, and pressed her fingers to it once more. Already, the skin was raised and slightly twisted, accommodating for the injury. She could faintly feel his pulse beneath his skin, slow and infuriatingly steady.

“It doesn't hurt,” he promised. His voice was so reassuring that she could feel it in her bones, and she was half-convinced he was secretly a child of Aphrodite, blessed with charmspeak. “I’m okay because of you.”

Her throat was achy. “And Beckendorf.”

He gave a small laugh. “And Beckendorf. But mainly you. You’ve given me strength.”

It was then that the world itself seemed to stop. He was leaning upwards, bringing her face close to his, and his lips brushed hers so softly that she feared she may have been dreaming the entire encounter.

She could taste the faint remnants of metallic blood, though it was easily brushed aside. Luke’s lips were slightly wind-chapped but she found herself uncaring when they slotted perfectly against hers.

This kiss was something she had been waiting years for, and it was better than she could have ever dreamed. The feeling of his hands on her, his lips against hers, it was something that could not be replicated in a dream, like flying for the first time and feeling the clouds beneath your fingers.

It was addictive, more so than the stupid apples that had caused Luke such pain, and she found herself wanting more. It was an effort to pull away from him, but eventually, she did. Beckendorf was only a few feet away and she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. It would make for an awkward journey home.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do that,” Luke murmured.

Finally, there was a smile tugging on her lips again. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting.”

It took another hour or so before Luke was well enough to get moving. The dark trails gave all of them a bad feeling, and (y/n) wasn’t able to shake the almost hypnotic choral voices of the Hesperides until they were out of the State Park. Luke was shaky on his feet for a little while but his strength was returning.

And with it came anger.

Not anger at (y/n) or Beckendorf, no. He still smiled at them as usual, fingers entwined with (y/n)’s so tightly it was as though he was afraid she would slip away. Jokes still slipped past his lips despite the events of the evening.

But he was filled with fiery rage. It was hidden, but (y/n) could read him like a book. She had seen the inklings of it throughout the previous days of their quest, had seen it more clearly while she was cleaning the blood from his face - this anger, though, was pure. Harder to mask.

He had already been furious with his quest, a detail he had tried to keep hidden from her. He hated the idea of repeating history and the fact that this quest was simply made to satiate him, to prevent him from growing restless at camp and questioning the authority of the gods.

This was a breaking point.

It became clearer the more time passed. As the days and weeks went by, he would hold her hand like a lifeline and kiss her so softly it felt as though she was dreaming, but the anger never left. It ate away at him, dimming his smiles and reducing any respect he had left for the gods until there was nothing left but a shadow of what had once been there.

The scar never faded. It became a reminder of what he believed to be the gods’ failure. His failure.

He was still her Luke. The Luke she had known and loved since she was thirteen. She was just terrified of what he might become.

#givemea-dam-break #luke castellan x reader #pjo luke x reader #pjo luke castellan x reader #pjo x reader #percy jackson and the olympians x reader #luke castellan #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #x reader #fanfiction #luke castellan fanfiction #pjo fanfiction

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prk-gunwook · 1 year

Text

BOYS PLANET — how they love you

INCLUDES || sung hanbin | zhang hao | kim jiwoong | park gunwook | seok matthew | kim taerae | kum junhyeon | ricky

GENRE || tooth-rotting fluff

WORD COUNT || 2.1k

NOTES || this is my first post on tumblr ! had to create an account just for these boys i adore. requests are open, and please leave me feedback ! <3

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, SUNG HANBIN 𖥻 ❛ touch ❜

SUNG HANBIN touches you like you are his lifeline; like golden ichor flows through your veins and bubbly springs overflow in your mouth, as if your skin is made of fibers woven by Athena herself. His touches are feather-soft, lingering sweetly on your flesh and body, leaving fingerprints of moon dust. He wraps his hands around your torso under the cover of the sun, pressing sugary kisses to your temples early in the morning through silk curtains, whispered promises of love and devotion leaving his lips to caress your ears.

Hanbin laces your fingers together more often than not; soft hands tracing the lines of your palm as if he could read the future you two will build together there. Whether it’s a hand on your thigh, a finger wrapping around your pinky, or a head on your shoulder, he craves your touch like a starved man.

As you lay in bed, head resting softly on his chest, you peer up at him.

“Can you breathe fine like this?” You ask, eyebrows furrowing inward slightly in concern. Hanbin laughs— a short, sweet thing that rings like wedding bells in your mind— and nods.

He gazes down at you, eyes staring at you as if you hold the world in the palms of your hands, and you feel the cold touch of his fingers brushing circles against your hip.

“There is no other way I could wish to breathe,” He replies, words soft and laced with the admiration he feels for you.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, ZHANG HAO 𖥻 ❛ fruits ❜

ZHANG HAO loves you dearly— his love runs deeper than the ocean, glittering water that shimmers and shines with every action and word you perform. You know it, he knows it, and there is nothing else either of you need. He loves you like the sun loves the moon, like the waves love the shore, like Prometheus loves his creations. He loves you like there is no other option; and for him, there isn’t.

Often, you find yourself staying up late to finish the schoolwork you neglect until the last minute, pencil in your mouth and eyes narrowed in thought. Problems and their solutions swim in your mind, crossing over into the other and leaving you more and more confused.

“You need to sleep,” Hao’s stern voice comes from the doorway, arms crossed in discontent as he watches you study.

“I need to finish this,” You argue, even as your eyes beg for sleep and your knees ache from sitting down for hours. You can hear Hao move across the room, floorboards creaking softly underfoot as he makes his way toward you.

“At least eat something,” He says, placing a bowl of crisp apple slices in front of you. You pick one up, noticing how the skin has been cut in a specific way to resemble a bunny. Before you can thank him he’s gone, out the doorway— probably to sleep.

The next day, as you sit down to study, you notice a bowl of freshly-cut bunny apples waiting for you, and a small sticky-note with the words “try and sleep early tonight”.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, KIM JIWOONG 𖥻 ❛ long drives ❜

KIM JIWOONG was always extremely stubborn when it came to road safety— not that it was a bad thing, you could appreciate it, really. Eyes on the road, two hands on the steering wheel, music never too loud, and seatbelts are buckled before the car moves even a millimeter. But ever since meeting you, he’s taken to driving one-handed, always leaving one hand open for you to hold.

Inside his car, there is only you and him. There is only Jiwoong’s devotion to you. There is only starlight and sublime tears, moonlit kisses and beating hearts that mold into one, only his hand in yours.

No words need to be exchanged as wheels turn steadily on pavement roads, soft chirps of grasshoppers and croaks of frogs filling the empty spaces. There are no words that need to be exchanged when they’ve all already been said; “I love you” loses its meaning after a while, and now your love is found in the feeling of his hands on yours, of your eyes interlocking gazes in the rearview mirror, of hidden smiles and inside jokes. Now, your love is found in the lack of words needed when Jiwoong grabs his keys from the wall and only has to look at you to ask if you want to go on a drive with him.

No words are needed when you love as strongly as you do.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, PARK GUNWOOK 𖥻 ❛ this reminded me of you ❜

PARK GUNWOOK thinks that, if there are a million universes, he loves you in every single one. He has bared his heart for you to take like a oyster with its pearl— he would rip apart his heart and sew it back together in the shape of you, for you are in the only thing in it. He sees his entire world in you, and in the world he sees you.

He sees you in the lipstick mark of an abandoned coffee cup, he sees you in the sketchy lines of a street mural, he sees you in blossoming bouquets of spring and bicycles parked on the beach. When Gunwook enters a shop, every item relates back to you; how would you like this shirt on him? Would this look cute on you? Is this your style of decor?

He doesn’t mean to buy you so many things, really, it just happens. As you dance in your living room with him, choked laughter ringing in the air, a collection of miscellaneous items decorate your walls and shelves.

A penguin sculpture for the way you purse your lips in thought. A magazine cut-out of an ad for the same picnic blanket you had your first date on. A collection of pink stickers scattered along the walls for the color of your shirt the day he asked you out.

This room is a log of your m emories; of the love you share, of the tears and the smiles, of all the good and the bad and the in-between. It’s a dictionary of every moment the two of you have shared, fluent in the language of love. And yet there are so many empty spaces, empty pages, for the next moments to come, and you doubt this book will ever close.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, SEOK MATTHEW 𖥻 ❛ admiration in his eyes ❜

SEOK MATTHEW is like the sun. Bright, happy, a shining, glimmering light that can cast even the most gloomy of days away. His smile is like the medicine to a sickness you never knew you had, his eyes crescent rainbows that reflect every good feeling you can have, his laugh like the ripples of a fresh river swirling around your legs in summer. Seok Matthew is the sun in every meaning of the word.

And you are his moon. He would chase you to the ends of the Earth for eternity just for a glimpse of your smile, just a word from your lips, just a small glance at your eyes, and he would do it for longer than the term “forever” can communicate. He will follow wherever you go, no matter if it’s down to a fiery pit of justice or up to a symphony of angels chorusing for you.

When you speak, Matthew’s eyes are fully on you. Never will it stray (and he has suffered being the butt of many, many jokes because of this), but he can’t help it. Why would he ever want to look away from you, if you are all he ever wants to look at? Stars in his eyes, but you are his one moon.

He hardly ever dreams when he sleeps, for every moment with you is enough to last him through his years without a wink of slumber. He would never have to rest his head if only he can hear you laugh everyday— when you smile, he smiles, and it lights up the world.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, KIM TAERAE 𖥻 ❛ love songs ❜

KIM TAERAE wonders how anybody enjoyed listening to him sing before he met you, for he never knew true love before. Never has he been able to sing fully with the implication of knowing, never has he embarked on the journey of admiration the songs describe, and never has he known this warm, bubbly feeling called love. Now, every word is charged with the meaning of you; the love he holds for you, the smiles he hides for you, the guitar strings he strums for you, the songs he sings just for you.

His Spotify playlists have become perhaps seven times longer than before, filled to the brim with soft songs that he dedicates entirely to your being.

“Your lips, my lips,” Taerae sang, voice sweet but gravelly, the melody tuned to the sound of beating hearts and hushed kisses. You sit next to him, watching his lips move in a fixed fascination as his deft fingers strum the strings of his guitar like an expert. He plays the strings of your heart the same way; with a practiced ease, like it was what he was born to do.

“Go and sneak us through rivers,” He continues, eyes focused not on his guitar but on you. Taerae thanks every soul that has ever lived on Earth before this, and every soul after, that you were born in such a time and place that he could meet you and fall in love. “Flood is rising up on your knees.”

“Oh please, come out and haunt me.”

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, KUM JUNHYEON 𖥻 ❛ bad movies ❜

KUM JUNHYEON has always been a warm person; he is made of fiery spirits and nipping branches, of autumn leaves tumbling to the ground in piles, ready to be jumped in. He’s made of loud words and screaming laughs, of bad aeygo and joking whispers, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. He is entirely odd, and he’s entirely yours.

So it makes sense he shows his love for you through bad movies. You have never laughed as much as you have when you sit with him on a worn-down couch, bowls of popcorn in your hands, tall cups of soda ready to be drunk on your table. Never have you laughed so hard you snorted except for when Junhyeon made you watch The Emoji Movie with him and interrupted every other sentence to make a joke— and even after that, Junhyeon couldn’t get a joke out because he was laughing too hard at the fact you snorted.

Laughter is uncontrollable when you’re around Junhyeon— when you cuddle up next to him, and even when your eyes are begging for sleep, you can’t stop laughing. When you’re sure you’ve got abs from the hours of jokes, when you’re certain you’ll have laugh lines deeper than the grand canyon after how many years you’ve spent with Junhyeon.

It’s odd, yes, but it’s so entirely Junhyeon.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, RICKY 𖥻 ❛ gifts ❜

RICKY is young, rich, tall, and handsome, there is no denying that. One thing they never revealed is the fact he’s perceptive— frighteningly so. If you even mention liking something in passing, rest assured there will be a basket of it in your kitchen the next day. If you spend even a fraction of a second too long looking at a piece of jewelry, best believe it’s draped around your neck the next day.

It’s not that he enjoys flaunting his wealth. It’s just… what else should he use it for, if not the one he loves the most? He would buy a thousand gems of the rarest ore just for a single second of your happiness. He would sell his fortune for the feel of his hand in yours— he’d even give up hairspray just to kiss your lips once.

Ricky thinks and feels so much all the time, his heart is bruised and bleeding, but you have become a doctor just to repair him. He loves you in the way nobody can understand; and he does not need understanding when he has admiration. He thinks there is a chapel within his heart entirely dedicated to you; that if he is reincarnated, it will be as a passing breeze that thinks only of you.

“I love you,” He says more often than he thought he ever would.

“I love you, too.” He hears back more often than he thought possible.

—

#boys planet #boys planet x reader #kim jiwoong #sung hanbin #hanbin #seok matthew #kim taerae #shen ricky #park gunwook #boys planet fics #boys planet drabbles #zhang hao #kum junhyeon #boys planet scenarios

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curiositydooropened · 6 months

Text

Wildfire • Combustion

You're in trouble. When Vecna sinks he's claws into you, your friends rally around you to help exorcise your demons.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Chapter Wordcount: 10,887

Warnings: This chapter contains smut. Minor DNI. • enemies/rivals to lovers, second chance romance, slowburn, unrequited love, so much pining, blood, gore, character death, best friend!disabled!Eddie Munson, character injuries, trauma, PTSD, hallucinations, drowning, concussion, hurt/comfort, fire, panic attacks, insomnia

Fic Masterlist • Navigation • Masterlist

Chapter Five: Searing • Chapter Seven: Inferno

---

The sun hit the front window and bounced off bright orange, drowning your front yard in an amber glow. It was hot, and your shirt stuck to your skin with summer sweat. The yard was littered in toys, a tractor sprinkler, double bicycles with baskets and tassels on the handlebars. Chalk was strewn across the sidewalk, hopscotch traced in stark whites. Gravel crunched in the drive beneath your feet.

Your mom called your name from the front door, asked if Vickie was staying for dinner. The girl beside you confirmed with a thumbs up and a wave, limbs longer than she was tall. She grinned at you, two front teeth missing, red hair pulled back into braids. She elbowed at your waist. “Can I stay with you forever?”

You smiled, excited at the prospect of your best friend moving in, hauling her little rubber suitcase full of dolls and horsies down the road to your house and unloading on your bedroom floor. You would share peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day for the rest of your lives.

“Till death do you part, right?” A deep voice came from behind you, a chill of breath to the back of your neck.

You spun and found no one, just a chill on the breeze, the landscape faded to harsh blues and burgundies, everything covered in black ichor and vines.

Vickie called your name, and when you turned again to face her, she was writhing in agony, skin melting from the bones of her cheeks, collarbone exposed. She reached out, mouth agape, flames that engulfed her the same color as her shock of red hair. Her eyes were pale blue, clouded.

You slammed your eyes closed, and the heat of her was wiped away in an instant. Instead, you were pushed and prodded toward a closed window. A crowd of strangers filed outside around you, staring up at a cloud-filled sky. Particles of grey and white snowed down on the parking lot of the high school gym.

“Is that snow?”

“I think it’s ash.”

“Like Mount Vesuvius?”

“I didn’t even know Hawkins was on a fault line.”

You looked around for a familiar face, panic crawling up your chest.

Vickie stood an arm’s length away, and you rushed to her side, tugging on her sleeve. “We need to get out of here.”

“Steve!” A kid with curly hair limped over to the couple posted up beside your best friend. You noticed Vickie was watching a freckled blonde girl exchange concerned looks with the handsome brunette beside her.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” the handsome man copycatted you, tugging on the arm of the blonde girl beside him.

“Robin, where are you guys going?” Vickie asked, taking the girl’s other hand in her own. A bloom of jealousy radiated through you, of interest, while the panic rose higher behind your sternum.

Robin made eyes with the two boys beside her, an unspoken conversation between them.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Vickie prodded, stepping into their little circle to face her friend.

Once again, the girl made eyes at the boy beside her, and you watched him roll his eyes before grabbing the younger boy and leading him out the door.

“Come on,” Robin gripped Vickie’s hand tighter and yanked her out across the lot after them.

“Wait, Vic!” You chased after your best friend, and this crew she’d acquired in the last hour or so since you left her at the sandwich counter. “Where are you going?”

You all halted at a burgundy BMW, and the driver held a hand up to stop you from joining. He was taller than you, broader, but couldn’t be any older, and something about his air of authority had you prickling.

“This is my best friend,” Vickie introduced, climbing into the car beside Robin.

The boy ran a hand down his face and opened the back door for you. “Get in.”

You did as instructed, but yanked the door from his grasp to slam it, satisfied at the look of frustration across his pretty boy features.

“I’m Robin,” the freckled girl reached across Vickie to introduce herself, and you shook her hand before eyeing your best friend. Vickie’s face had nearly turned violet in embarrassment. “This is Steve and Dustin.”

Steve didn’t have the capacity to greet you properly as he peeled out of his parking spot and sped away from the growing crowd.

You hung onto the headrest to stop from slamming into your friend beside you, and grit your teeth. “Great, can someone please tell me where we’re going?”

Dustin turned to face you, black ichor spilling from between braced teeth in a menacing grimace. His eyes were a pale, cloudy blue. “Didn’t you know? This is the road to Hell.”

The landscape around you flickered in greyscale. The crowd disappeared and was replaced by rotting buildings, fallen trees, a city on fire.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the flower-faced panic monster rearing its ugly head, clawed its way through your esophagus, breathing fire and sputtering blood, and you choked on your scream. “Vickie!”

You climbed the final hill in front of her childhood home. The pale yellow facade had peeling paint, fire having ripped through it months earlier. You were out of breath, had been chasing her for hours according to the watch on your wrist. Sweat clung to the base of your skull, and the straps of your flamethrower pinched at the skin of your shoulders. You cried out for your best friend again.

Something loud banged on the other side of the garage door, startling you, and you swung your weapon that direction. The door shook on its rails , hinges rattling violently. You sidestepped to see the side door, ready to fire when Vickie appeared in the side yard.

“Listen!” She called out, waving her arms over her head.

“To what?” You frowned. “Where the Hell have you been?”

“Bonnie Tyler,” she pointed upward. She seemed rushed, crossing the yard to peel part of the chain link from the fence to block the garage side door. She hummed the tune as she worked, and you took a few steps closer to her before you heard it.

It was a little distorted, tune a little wonky, a little muted. You looked around for a cassette player, wondered if the car was playing it in the garage.

“It’s Steve. He’s trying to pull you out of this, and it’s getting harder to fight Vecna off, so I’m going to need you to snap out of it and wake the Hell up.” Vickie stated, irritated as she grabbed a patio chair and dragged it to the door.

The garage shook again, a pound to the door that had the entire building trembling on its foundations. That spot behind your shoulder blade tickled, a chill down your spine, and the pieces all fell into place.

“Look,” Vickie pointed to the skyline above the woods, and when you turned, you saw a split in the clouds. Greyscale had poured pale yellow onto the canvas and you were watching yourself, catatonic and limp in the arms of Steve Harrington. Large hands were pressed to your cheeks, wrapped around your waist, his body pressed to yours, warm and hard, and there was panic in his eyes as he shouted words you couldn’t hear over the music. Hopper and Owens stood nearby. Several soldiers and Eddie were behind them.

“Now wake up, damnit,” Vickie shook your shoulder, shoved you their direction. You stumbled two steps.

“Wait,” you halted and grabbed her wrist, tiny, pulse warm in your hand. “Not without you.”

“Yes, without me!” Her body was against the door now, the building rattling at her back. “I’ve spent a year holding him back, I can handle him for a little bit longer.”

You shook your head, the music growing louder against your skull, somewhere just behind your ears. “I don’t understand.” You shouted over it.

“I told you I’d never leave you,” she bit down on her bottom lip, eyes fierce. “I’m sorry he piggybacked, but now you know he’s here, and you have to get him out. You have the help I never got. Take advantage of that.” The door banged harder, and she slipped before regaining her strength. “Go.”

“What am I supposed to do?” You screamed, the music all-encompassing, rhythm of the knocks on the garage against the beat of the track on loop.

“He’s weak, but he gains strength in your subconscious when you sleep.” She explained, eyes closed in her attempt to keep him out. “Destroy the Ether. I think he - oof -” A particularly large hit sent her flying, and you took her place, holding the handle closed tight as it turned in your hand.

She stood, knees bloodied, and took it from your hands. “Go! I can’t hold him much longer.” She shoved you back in the direction of the clouds.

You felt conflicted, rooted to the spot as you watched your best friend struggle.

She made eye contact with you, eyes blurred with tears, and she grit her teeth before she screamed, “GO!” Her visage flashed fiery red, a ghost of her former self, the screaming face of a loved one charred and burned.

You reached out for her before you felt yourself thrust off your feet, yanked backwards by your spine. The forces around you, the pulsating of music in your skull, the scream that ripped from your chest to mirror her own, caught you spiraling into blackness, falling, falling, falling through a never-ending abyss. Arms and legs flailed, and you gained speed as you neared the bottom, music so loud you could no longer make out the words, and then you hit bottom.

Warmth flooded your senses, a stuffy heat that clung the fabric of your clothes to your skin and stifled your lungs which fought to catch a breath. Your eyes flew open to find two big, brown eyes and a crumpled brow. The smell of sweat and steam and cigarette smoke filled your nostrils, and every square inch of you was hyper aware of the hand on your waist, your cheek, the abdomen pressed to your own.

“Are you here? Are you okay?” Steve’s sweet voice croaked, just under the volume of Bonnie Tyler on overhead speakers, and you crashed into him, burying your face in his throat as reality broke and you realized you were alive, and he was there to keep you safe.

You felt his arms snake around you while your body wracked with sobs, and lips to your temple as he comforted you with soft hums of reassurance. The sounds of soldiers filing in replaced the music and the ringing in your ears.

—

The coffee in your cup didn’t stay still long enough to see your reflection. Your hands trembled, or maybe they were jittery, and the glare from the fluorescents stung in your skull like a migraine. You sipped, lukewarm and a bit burnt, and wrapped the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

“So what? You stay awake forever? This isn’t sustainable,” Steve argued, arms crossed over his chest as he sat propped on the table across from your hospital bed.

You rolled your eyes and continued to drink.

“No, it isn’t,” Owens agreed, face stuck in the pitying frown you possibly had never seen him without.

“So we need a solution,” Hopper grumbled. Your nurse pulled his cigarette from between his lips and slipped it back into his pocket before scribbling stats onto her charts.

“I feel like it’s pretty obvious,” you said, trying to ignore the fear that rocketed through you. “We nuke it all. Ether goes to Hell with me inside.” Destroy the host, destroy the parasite.

“No.”

“Absolutely not.” Steve and Eddie snapped in unison. Eddie was seated at your bedside, knuckles gripping his walker so hard you thought it might snap.

You closed your eyes, steadied your breath. “I appreciate that you want to protect me, but let’s be realistic here. We don’t have any other plans, and if he latched onto Vickie and then onto me when she died, it seems like I need to take care of this.”

“You’re right,” Nancy said from her seat beside Steve. His jaw ticked, and you avoided his glare. “We don’t have any other plans, but we can’t just nuke the Upside Down.”

“The infrastructure doesn’t support that. We blow the place up, the entire Midwest could crumble into the Earth.” Hopper rubbed at tired eyes.

“We shouldn’t make our plans in front of you,” Eddie grit his teeth, his good leg bouncing. “He can hear and see everything you can. He’s in you, but he’s in all of them too.”

You could feel them: claws and teeth and bloodlust. A shiver wracked through you, that breath of cold air to the base of your skull.

“He’s right. We can’t risk an ambush walking in there.”

Something firm in Nancy’s voice had your heart pounding, that panic clawing its way up and out. Control was swiftly being removed from your reach, one way or the other. “We don’t know that.”

“That’s what he does,” Eddie’s voice matched Nancy’s. He ran a tired hand down his face. “He listens to you, knows your every thought. He listens to the people you care about the most, and then he hurts them. He makes you hurt them.”

You reached a hand to his, but he recoiled from your grasp. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and you saw fear in those big, brown eyes. Eddie was terrified. You swallowed back the emotion that rose in your chest and replaced your trembling hand to your coffee cup. “If you can’t discuss plans with me in the room, can I be dismissed to my quarters?”

Sighs were exchanged all around you. Owens looked over your vital chart, and you watched him make eyes at Hopper. Hopper scratched the mustache on his upper lip and nodded.

“No leaving the compound, and for now, no sleeping.”

“I’ll go with you,” Steve stood from his lean, arms out to help you off of the hospital bed as a nurse went about unplugging you from the beeping machines.

“Harrington, we’re going to need you and the full Scorch team. Munson, you too.”

“Absolutely not,” Steve gestured your direction. “She wants to nuke the Ether with herself inside it. We can’t trust her to be by herself.”

His words rang true, but you couldn’t help the sting of betrayal that settled somewhere within you.

“She won’t be alone.” Hopper said, flashing you a smile that filled your with an equal amount of unease.

—

The steady ba-dunk ba-dunk ba-dunk of a tennis ball against hard wood flooring echoed your heartbeat. Over-caffeinated, the tips of your fingers tingled, and your legs bounced in tandem as you sat cross-legged on the floor.

“Bob Marley, man. One Love.” Argyle slammed the tennis ball against the ground beside you, and it bounced and hit the concrete wall. You caught it on the rebound.

“Solid choice,” you nodded. Your mouth was dry, and the way adrenaline pumped through you felt the exact opposite of Argyle’s chill demeanor in a moment like this. He seemed entirely unbothered by the horrifying aberration attached to your psyche.

He caught your throw. “Yeah, dude. That’s what it’s all about. We stick together, and he can’t win.”

You glanced up at the man beside you, long hair tucked back beneath a camouflage hat. He’d been dragged from his home, his life, the calm of slinging pizzas, and how he’d maintained the positive look on life, you’d never understand.

“Did someone call a babysitter?” A voice called from behind you.

“Hey, Buckley, what’s your Vecna song?” Argyle called, tossing the tennis ball in the air a few times.

“Steve Miller Band, Joker, obviously,” Robin responded, shoes clacking against the hard wood upon her approach. You couldn’t face her immediately, catching that bit of flame in your periphery, but eventually she kicked at your knee with her toe, pulling your attention to the sad look in blue eyes.

“Right on,” Argyle approved of her response. You knew it was a lie.

“You hungry?” Robin asked, extending her hand to help you up.

With a sigh, you took her grasp and lifted yourself from the ground. Your stomach had growled at the mention of food, unable to keep anything down in the passing days in Quarantine.

“Wish I could go with you, space cowboys, but I have a Scorch meeting to attend,” Argyle tapped at the watch on his wrist and tossed you the tennis ball.

You caught the bright green fuzz and squeezed, offering him a wave. “Thanks for watching me.”

The man crossed to you, enveloping you in a surprise hug, tight and warm. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you, bud.” He muttered into your ear before giving Robin a quick kiss to the forehead and exiting the small court.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” you finally greeted Robin, adjusting the sweatshirt over your shoulders as you followed Argyle toward the hallway.

She elbowed your side. “I don’t think you really get a say anymore.”

You know she was teasing, but you’d been stewing for hours. Your jaw ached from being clenched, and your mind raced with your heartbeat of all the possibilities they could be discussing in their meetings a few floors up. You knew none of them would make the right call. “So I don’t have control over what’s going on in my subconscious, and I’m not allowed to make conscious decisions for myself either? How is that fair, Robin?”

“Sometimes life isn’t fair.” Her tone was ice-cold. The polar opposite of Argyle’s warmth, she stopped you dead in your tracks in the center of a dim hallway.

You half-expected her to grow a long claw, to be a part of this never-ending nightmare, but when you turned to face her, it was just Robin. It was just that beautiful woman that spent two years of her life loving your best friend for you to rip her away.

“Vickie died for his cause, whether she meant to or not, she didn’t leave us a choice.” She said, fists clenching around the satchel strap across her chest.

Your own hands shook at your sides.

“So, yes, we have to keep an eye on you, so you don’t run away and do the same thing.”

Light from the adjacent room cast in her soft yellows, the same, sickly pale that clung to the concrete walls of this cold building you’ve called your home for years now. Now it felt like a prison, and Robin a well-dressed guard.

“Robin…”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The hurt in her eyes struck you like wind on a crisp day, sucking the air from your lungs.

“What happens if you die like Vickie, huh? Then Steve gets flayed? Eddie? What was your plan?”

You grit your teeth at the accusations, clenched your fists. “You know I’d never hurt them.”

“I know,” she snapped, like you’d been the insinuator, “but you have to consider the consequences of hiding this from the world until you burst and Vecna himself comes slithering out in the form of a giant flesh monster.”

Another chill wracked through you, familiar, a buzz at the base of your skull.

Robin took a few uneasy steps toward you. “Can he hear us?”

You swallowed, shrugged, though a tickle above your earlobe said yes, said absolutely, said speak.

Your friend crossed to you, and for a moment you thought she might avoid you, like Eddie had, but instead, she pressed a warm palm to your cheek. Her other hand reached for your fist at your side. Her blue eyes were fierce, steadfast, terrifying. “We are going to burn him out of you, and he’ll have to watch in agony as his world burns around him.”

Fear hung in her chest at your promise, settled right above the rapid beating of your heart, more fear than you’d ever felt in the Ether, staring down the barrel of a flamethrower at a monster, even in your nightmares.

Robin blinked, laughed back the emotion that threatened to spill. “Sorry, I just really love you, and I don’t want to imagine a world without you in it.”

This time, the emotion bubbled up your esophagus because you weren’t sure if she was talking to you or to Vickie.

She waved it off with another laugh, wiping tears from the corner of her eyes. “Let’s go get lunch in the caf exactly like we used to, in a safe space where I don’t have to be the only one to keep my eyes on you. Sound good?”

You wanted to talk, to tell her Vickie loved her, to apologize again for all that you’d done. The feigned smile on her face told you she was done. You nodded.

“Good.” She linked your arms at the elbows and tugged you in the direction of the caf.

—

Scalding water cascaded over the aches in your shoulders and back. You’d turned the faucet too high, steam enveloping the ladies’ locker room, but you needed it to hurt. You scrubbed yourself raw, wanting to rid yourself of the sweat and grime that had clung to your flesh in quarantine. You needed to wash it all off of you.

You kept your eyes trained on the cold, white tile ahead of you, on the in-laid shiny chrome knobs. If you closed your eyes, you’d see ice cold landscapes full of vines, you’d see the slam of garage door on its hinges, you’d see the terror and fury in Vickie’s eyes.

You grit your teeth and tipped your head back, allowing the water to pummel your brow, your cheeks, that surge ripping through your stomach, begging for air, but you lingered just a second longer, pushing through the guilt and pain and the need to scream.

A door slammed, followed by the sound of heavy footfall, and you sputtered, stepping out of the spray to catch your breath.

“Where the Hell have you been!?” Harrington’s voice echoed against tile, his head and shoulders visible above the row of tiled stalls.

Instinctively, you covered yourself and glanced throughout the room to find yourself alone. “Where does it look like I’ve been, Harrington?” You snapped, turning your back to him to rinse your front.

“Robin said you’d be in your dorm. I’ve been looking for you for an hour.”

“I was taking some gym time. That okay with you, Warden?” You shot over your shoulder.

His shoulders rose and fell, and he ran both hands through his hair. It stuck up at odd angles like he’d been doing that all day. His eyes were bloodshot, face already shiny from the steam that enveloped the room. “We were worried you ran off and did something stupid.”

You scoffed. “Good to know I have your confidence.”

The sound of frustration that escaped him roiled in your stomach, unearthed something deep, something familiar. “That’s not…”

You glanced over your shoulder again to watch him chew on his words. You couldn’t decide if he was searching for another retort or finding a way to hold it back, and it felt good. You delighted in the competition, in catching his tongue. Your friendship used to be this, a playful back-and-forth.

“No, I get it, Harrington,” you turned under the water again, feeling the pressure weaken from prolonged use. You gargled water and spit it into the drain at your feet. “I can’t be trusted.”

“I didn’t say that.” He huffed.

“No, really,” you bit back the smirk that was beginning to tug at the corners of your mouth. “You never know when I could do something incredibly…” You slapped off the faucet and stepped out of the stall into the aisle to face him. “Foolish.”

The end of your word fell from your mouth with a whisper when you caught the look on his face.

Harrington’s jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened, though they stay trained on your face. He stood ten, maybe twenty feet from you, hands to his hips, stance wide, shoulders square.

Your entire body caught ablaze, cooler air pebbling every inch of you, but you couldn’t cower now, couldn’t shield yourself, exposed and raw in front of him.

After a prolonged silence, the drip of the faucet against tile floors, he moved. With slow, measured strides, the squeak of rubber soles against wet tile, he closed the distance.

You sucked in a breath and held it, the warmth of him flooding your senses all at once.

Maintaining eye contact, he reached beside you for your government grade towel, and it wasn’t until he held it out for you to take, did you notice the quick sweep of his eyes along your frame.

Your hands shook receiving the towel and covering your front, hoping to hide the burn in your cheeks with dry terry cloth as you dabbed at droplets on your nose.

Harrington turned his back to you then, and you watched the red that crawled up his neck and to his ears from the collar of his shirt. “When I couldn’t find you,” he cleared his throat, brought his hands up to scratch at that little row of stitches starting to heal, “I panicked.”

You warmed at his confession, the tidal of an adrenaline rush crashing into something softer, waves along a shoreline. You dried your body and reached for the pile of clean clothes, slowly stepping into them. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, pulling the drawstring on your pants.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re in prison,” again, the soft tone to his voice sent a chill through you.

You pulled a sweatshirt over your head and reached for him, pausing to stare at the back of him for a moment, broad shoulders and shaved neck, hair a mess on top. He seemed taller than you remembered, maybe it was the boots on his feet. Your fingers came into contact with the dip of his tricep, warm under pruned fingertips.

He turned, and you felt yourself heat again at the quick one-over flick of his eyes before he met your gaze again. The honeyed brown was still dark, that crease in his brow remained, but you perceived the smallest uptick of the corners of his pink lips when he asked, “You hungry?”

—

Loneliness sunk in like a hot blade through butter. You ate dinner surrounded by friends, and you still felt sequestered, miles away. Maybe it was the exchanged looks on their faces, the pitying glances when they thought you weren’t looking or wouldn’t notice. Maybe it was the way they spoke of their shared future when this was all over, the one you weren’t sure you’d be there for. Something sliced right through you and cauterized the wound.

Even as you climbed the spiral staircase, trailing two steps behind Harrington, the vacuous concrete loomed in ways you’d never experienced until now. The compound felt vast, a labyrinth of memories you’d rather not dwell on lest they be used against you in your subconscious.

The prospect of stepping into your room and the door closing behind you had your heart racing. So when Steve held his own door open and nodded for you to join him, you didn’t argue.

His room was warm and tidy and smelled of his aftershave. His sink was void of dishes, the little countertop holding various tubs and tubes of toothpaste and hair product. His bed was unmade, in a way that looked enticing, cozy, a clump of blankets bunched near the foot to expose the indentation of his frame. A few books were stacked on the bedside table near that secret pair of glasses he kept folded beneath a lamp.

He crossed the room and turned on a little clock radio, shifting through the static until an unfamiliar pop crooner’s voice filled the little space. You wondered if this was a habit he’d always had, or if he thought it’d keep your parasite at bay.

Then, he opened his wardrobe to retrieve a matching sweatshirt to your own, pulling it over his head. He popped from the collar mussy haired and yawning. He caught his yawn in his hand before rubbing at tired eyes. He reached across the bed for his glasses and pushed them up the bridge of his nose, bleary eyed.

You shifted on the balls of your feet, lingering just inside the threshold.

He filled up a couple red plastic cups of water, checking the temperature on his hand first. He set them both on the rickety tabletop, gesturing for you to come join him, before he pulled a deck of cards from a nearby drawer full of pens and paper.

“Any - “ He stifled another yawn, shaking it off with a frown. “Sorry. Any good at Slap Jack?”

The circles under his eyes looked darker in this light, accentuating the yellowed bruise on his cheekbone you’d given him nearly a week earlier. His shoulders slumped, and his hair stood on end. He looked ragged, run through.

You rolled your eyes. “Harrington, go to bed.”

“What? No. I’m fine,” he shrugged you off, pulling out his seat to dump the deck into one hand. He began to shuffle, and you watched him with crossed arms. “Will you come sit down?”

“When’s the last time you slept?” You asked, toeing out of your sneakers and leaving them at the door.

You didn’t like the look he gave you. The last time you’d run into his room in the middle of the night, he was up and reading. That was nearly a month ago. Hairs prickled at the base of your skull.

Caught, he shrugged it off, kept shuffling. “Last night, whenever.” You knew he’d spent last night sneaking in to see you.

You leaned forward and peeled the cards from his hands, straightening the deck before sliding it back into its box.

He shot you an irritated look, crossing his arms over his chest.

You challenged his with a look of your own, tossing the cards back to the tabletop.

Finally, he spoke, voice soft. “I can’t.”

You swallowed. “Why not?”

He didn’t answer, only traced your frame with big brown eyes.

Self-conscious, you adjusted your sweatshirt as it fell over your shoulders. The ribbed hems of your sleeves were frayed from use. A big yellow stain splotched the left side of your chest, source unknown and impossible to wash out. Now clean and dry, you were sure you looked only slightly less haggard than the man in front of you.

“I’ll stay up with you,” he offered, a polite way of saying he was terrified of letting you fall asleep.

You shook your head. “I won’t fall asleep.” It was a polite way of saying you were terrified too. “Besides, I don’t feel very safe knowing you’re running on fumes.”

You avoided his gaze by looking back around the space, finding some escape, some trick. You spotted the stack of books near his bedside, and crossed the tight space to pull The Shining from the middle of the stack.

Steve grumbled your name, rubbed at tired eyes from beneath the rims of his glasses.

You lifted his pillow, floppier than your own, and propped it against the radiator he used as a headboard. Holding your breath, you climbed into his space on the bed, folding your legs in front of you and patting your lap. “C’mere.”

He blinked back at you and didn’t move, sideways in his chair, rooted to the spot.

You held your book aloft, flipping to a random page. “This book is terrifying. I’ll be too scared to sleep, but if I do…” You feigned sleep, a bit melodramatic, like you were acting a skit to convince a child, and you dropped the book into your lap. “It’ll wake you up.”

You blinked one eye open to catch the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. He scratched at the back of his neck. “You want me uh…” He pointed at your lap.

You warmed, wondered what the hell you were thinking, and licked your lips before you nodded. “Sure.” The word came out with a tight breath.

Again, he didn’t move. He stared at his feet for a moment, as if willing them to pick themselves up, and then with a sigh, he reached to untie the laces of his boots before he stepped out of them.

Your heart began to race, the steady drum behind your sternum that heated your chest, your throat, your cheeks.

He stood, and took slow strides toward you, stopping at the foot of the bed. He scratched at his jaw again before mumbling, “Are you sure?”

You nodded and shifted again, a vain attempt to become more comfortable, more accommodating.

With a series of loud sighs, he fell to the mattress, the whole thing bouncing under his weight until he managed to crawl and roll his head into your lap. He hesitated to rest the full weight of his head on your thigh, so you placed a stiff hand to his shoulder to encourage him to relax. He was warm and heavy, but not uncomfortably so.

“Want me to put your glasses up?” You asked, suddenly self-conscious about everything at this angle.

“Hm? Oh.” He pulled the frames from his nose and folded them, placing them in your outstretched hand.

You replaced them onto the beside table and adjusted your hips with a mumbled apology.

Steve was too long for the bed, socked ankles and feet dangling off the far end. He still wore his tactical pants, all straps and pockets and buckles, and the collar of his sweatshirt scrunched up around his jaw. He sat up a little to pull his sweatshirt down and tried to settle to a softer part of your leg.

“Do you need a blanket?” You asked, tugging at the army green fleece. You hated how breathy you sounded, how your voice betrayed you every time.

He shook his head, crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m okay. Are you sure?”

You snorted, lifted the book high enough to hide your face, and said, “Harrington, go to sleep.”

“Okay,” his skull rumbled against your thigh. “But if anything happens.”

“I will happily smack you with this book,” you lifted it higher to glance back down at him.

His eyes were closed, but the corner of his lips quirked upward. His eye lashes were so long, casting shadows on freckled cheeks, pinched rosy in the heat or embarrassment of your positions.

You swallowed and flipped the book to the front page, lest he open his eyes again and catch you staring. You pretended to read until his head grew heavy, and the steady rise and fall of his chest came out in near imperceptible snores.

Despite the warmth emanating from him, something deep in the recesses of your mind reminded you how alone you now were.

The radio remained on beside you, pop songs you’d let fade into the background. The clock told you it was late into the night, and the lack of sounds from the hall exemplified that. You wondered if anyone could hear you call for help.

You closed the book and added it to its stack, glancing around the room for signs it was real, that you were there and you weren’t alone.

Harrington rolled, cheek to your thigh, breath fanned hot and wet against the soft cloth of your sweatpants. His fists unclenched from beneath his biceps, and he stretched one large hand under your calf. He was real, and he was there.

He always had been, just as he promised. Late nights nose-to-nose, exchanging secrets and promises and breath had all come to this. He’d kept you as safe as he could, and you did the same. Every time you needed him, he’d appeared with strong arms wrapped around you, brow crumpled in concern.

In the past two years, you were sure you’d only seen him this relaxed, this content, once before. Careful not to wake him, you tucked his hair up and out of his face.

—

Eddie frowned over his white ceramic mug while he slurped.

The morning crowd had since dispersed, leaving the caf in silence, but at your over-caffeinated state, your mind was lost in a cacophony of sounds: the squeak of sneakers against the linoleum, the brush of a flat broom into a pile in the corner, the clang of dishes being washed somewhere in the back, the rattle of screws in the table leg as your leg bounced with reckless abandon.

Eddie set his mug to the tabletop, the silver rings around his finger tinkling the bottom of the cup.

You wrapped your knuckles against the table, unable to stop moving, too overstimulated, too anxious, too much kinetic energy.

Eddie stared at your knuckles for a moment. You watched his jaw tick.

You shuddered and reached for your lukewarm cup of coffee.

Eddie snatched it out of your fingers, and it tumbled to the table with a surprising bounce, casting brown liquid across orange tabletop. “Shit, sorry,” he grumbled, and stood to grab a wet rag from a nearby table to clean up the mess.

“Munson, what the hell, dude?” Harrington stood and swiped coffee from the crotch of his pants. His chair groaned against chipped flooring, snagged on a lifted tile.

You reached out to grab the back before it went teetering to the floor.

“She’s tweaking out!” Eddie gestured to you, juices from the wet rag spattering your cheek. “Reminds me of my old man.”

“Is that why you won’t even look at me?” You snapped, mopping your face with the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

“No,” he pointed at you. “I won’t look at you because you’ve got a fucking monster living inside of you, and I’m sorry I can’t coddle you like Harrington does.”

“Hey!” Harrington argued. You noticed his shoulders started to square in defense, stepping between you.

“No, dude, fuck off. I don’t want to hear it. She doesn’t need you to be her knight and shining armor. It’s not that deep.” Eddie waved him off with the shake of his head, curls falling over slumped shoulders. He gripped his walker and looked directly at you.

“You can’t seem to understand that your shit affects the people around you too. We can talk once you’ve figured that out.” He pushed off from the table, and you heard the squeak of rubber pads against flooring as he left.

Steve opened his mouth to say something, but you tugged on the elbow of his sweatshirt until he stepped aside. He frowned down at you, obstinate, but you placed a hand to his chest, and he seemed to soften.

“He’s right,” you said.

“Doesn’t mean he has to be an asshole about it.”

You shrugged, catching a snap of anger at unsuspecting recruits in the hallway. “We’re all on edge.”

After another long moment, the crash of tin cans sounded, followed by a series of shouted curse words. A trash lid rolled by the caf double doors. You took a deep breath.

“You’re the only one who understands what he’s gone through,” Steve muttered.

You hoped he felt the animosity in your expression. You hoped he couldn’t sense how your shoulders relaxed when he tugged at the elbow of your own sweatshirt.

He nodded toward the hallway. “Go talk to Munson. He’s been really shit in the War Room, and I think it’s because he’s worried about you.”

You groaned, stamped your feet, but slowly let them carry out away from the smell of stale coffee and cleaning chemicals.

You found him a few floors up. He’d taken the elevator to the offices, and had settled into a rolling chair behind an oversized desk that would have been reception at a busier time. He looked up as you entered, rolled his eyes, and leaned back with arms crossed over his slender chest.

“Hey,” you crossed your arms over your own chest, a challenge. You stopped a few feet from the desk. You could hear Hopper’s mumble just beyond a dented steel door down the hall.

“Hello,” Eddie countered. “What do you want?”

“Apparently my shit affects the people around me.”

He didn’t smile at that. Instead, he sighed and adjusted himself on the chair. The gears squeaked under his weight.

You grit your teeth through any need to keep pushing his buttons and rubbed at exhausted eyes before you took a few steps forward to the front panel of the desk. You leaned over it, two fists to the tabletop, and muttered. “His plan is to keep reminding me that I’ve murdered everyone who ever loved me. Why perpetuate that by letting me think you hate me too?”

“Shit,” he grumbled and pawed at his own face, scrubbing at the stubble that had grown on his chin. He looked about as rough as you all had, and you knew he hadn’t slept the night before either. “I don’t hate you,” he hissed, though he did back the chair up a few more feet until he hit the wall.

“I know,” you stood back up. “I just wanted to make you feel shitty for ignoring me for the past two days. You know, I’d feel a lot less hopeless about my fate if the one person who knew what I was going through wasn’t, I don’t know, terrified of me?”

His gaze softened, big brown eyes turned downward as he gnawed on the cuticle of a nail that you’re sure had been shredded. “It’s not you,” he said through his teeth. “It’s the other dickhead.” He gestured toward your head, but his eyes went somewhere far-off, somewhere full of beasts and burned woods and horror.

“He can’t get you, Eds,” you shrugged off the sharp pain in your shoulder, the gnawing at your spinal cord.

“You don’t know that,” he whispered.

Another sting strung through you, like fingers plucking your strings, and you closed your eyes through the pain, pushed through. “How did you get out of it before? This… mindfuck, how did you escape it?”

Eddie shrugged, shook out his curls. “I don’t know.”

Panic at the familiarity of having questions unanswered began to claw at your insides, and you snapped, slamming your hands back down onto the table. “Don’t bullshit me, Munson. You guys are plotting how to get this parasite out of me. You won’t let me sleep. I need to be babysat at all times by people who are afraid of me. I’m not a child! Teach me how to defend myself against this.”

“What in the Hell is going on out here?” A gruff shout preceded the creak of a door on its hinges, the stomping of boots from down the hall. When Hopper caught sight of you both, his shoulders relaxed in a sigh.

“We’re just screaming about our impending doom,” Eddie explained, that sardonic grin spreading across his features.

Hopper made eye contact with you and cocked a brow, frown-unmoved by Munson’s sarcasm. “You okay?”

You shrugged, shoved your hands in your pants pockets. “You guys figure out how to get this asshole out of me yet?”

Hop made eyes at your best friend, and the two of them exchanged cryptic glances before he said, “Working on it. Is there a reason you’re fighting outside my office?”

Eddie looked at you, and you thought he was expecting an answer until his smile fell, and you watched the sadness pierce his brown eyes. “No, sir,” he said, “I was just coming to ask how soon we could get back into the War Room.”

The old man looked between you two again. “Twenty minutes sound good?”

Eddie sighed, rubbing at tired eyes. “Better make it thirty.”

With a salute, Hopper turned and walked back to his office, floor squeaking beneath his feet.

Eddie pulled himself off his chair and started making his way back toward the elevators. You gave him a wide berth, until he gestured for you to catch up, and you did so tentatively.

The doors buzzed open when the lift arrived, and you both stepped inside. It quaked a little under your combined weight, but managed to start its ascent the moment the doors closed again. The mechanics whirred a little, and the little box smelled of hot metal.

“Dustin sang to me.” Munson broke the silence. His hand was trembling, rings clanging against the metal hand-hold of his walker. “I beat the ever-loving shit out of him. He almost died at my hands, and he was laying there, bloodied, face-swollen, and he started singing.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You remembered seeing Henderson afterward. You remember visiting him in the Med Bay, of seeing the pain everyone had suffered at the hands of this monster. “What did he sing?”

Eddie snorted, rolled his eyes. “The Never-Ending Story theme.”

The halt of the elevator stifled the chuckle you emitted at the image, and you reached a hand to hold the door open for your friend while he exited into a dark hallway.

“Yeah, it was so stupid, but all those little shits were there, and they were telling me stories about Hellfire,” he continued, pushing forward toward mid-morning light cast across pale yellow walls. “They remembered shit I’d forgotten about, and they talked about these characters like we were all there living it. Like we’d destroyed Lord Vecna with swords and axes and a slingshot.”

The mention of his name brought ice-cold to the warmth of your chest.

“So I think it was all of those memories. That’s what snapped me out of it: those weird ass kids and the stupid tabletop game we played after school.”

The idea itself was heartwarming, wholesome, and you ought to be inspired, happy even, that these kids managed to rescue your best friend from the brink. Somehow, the only thing that came to mind was a shock of red hair, black smoke, ash and char and agonizing screams.

“Stop,” Eddie stopped and reached out to grab your hand. “I know you’re thinking about Vickie right now, and you couldn’t have saved her. You didn’t know, and she didn’t know.”

His hand was warm, and a bit damp, and his eyes were fierce.

“Think about all of the good times you had with her. Think about all the times I knocked on your door to find you two whispering and cackling. Think about all the fights we’ve gotten into about music. Think about Robin’s horrible taste in ice cream. Think about how good it feels to kiss Harrington. Think about how stupid Hopper looks without a mustache.”

You laughed, a barked thing that stung at emotional-filled vocal chords, and batted at the grin that formed on his stupid face.

“Ow,” he chuckled, shoving you back, hard enough to have you stumbling backwards slightly, and he zoomed around a corner before you scrambled to catch-up, still chuckling.

Light poured in from adjacent windows, across the common area. The soft curls atop his head glowed in sunlight and warmth, and before you could stop yourself, you swung your arms tight around his slender waist and buried your face into the sweet sting of marijuana that lingered in his t-shirt.

He stumbled a little, tensed, but quickly relaxed into the embrace, folding his arms around you too. “We’re not going to let him win, damnit. Fucking promise me.”

You grit your teeth and nodded, that uneasy pull settling into your shoulders like wings. “Promise.”

—

Day slipped to night, and you watched pale yellow hallways burn orange and peach with the setting sun. Teams took turns chauffeuring you around the compound, keeping you company and keeping you caffeinated. You tried to keep Eddie’s words at heart, lingering on the smiles and laughter, and you were bid goodnight with hugs and high-fives in the common room just as Scorch was making their way to their respective dorms for the night.

You heard the whispers first, pulling yourself off a barstool to greet everyone with a smile that fell the moment you caught their gazes, their judgment, their disdain.

Panic dug its claws into your chest. Each of your teammates passed with terror in their eyes until the last two squeezed themselves through the stairwell doorway. Harrington held the heavy steel door open to let Wheeler through.

She spotted you as the others had, jaw clenched, blue eyes fierce. Unlike the others, she crossed right to you. “We’re getting it figured out. You’ll be out of the dark soon, I promise. How’re you feeling?”

“F-fine,” you swallowed, glanced over her shoulder at Harrington. He was staring at his feet, scratching that scar at the back of his skull. “Tired.”

Nancy nodded, and glanced over her shoulder before dipping her own gaze to the ground. “Listen, I know I’ve never told you this, but I really admire you.”

Her words stirred something within you, that panic kicking back up again, all claws and teeth and gaping mouth. “What?” Your mouth felt dry.

She looked up at you then, shrugged, the softest smile quirking at the corner of her bow lips. “You were an amazing team lead, and you had to make some horrific decisions, I can’t imagine…” She cut herself off, cleared her throat. “I just think you’re really brave.”

You managed to thank her, somehow, though you were stunned, and she bid you both a goodnight.

You stared at her back as she retreated, curly hair cascading over her petite shoulders. Even now, in the glow of an Exit sign, she stood tall, proud.

“C’,mon,” Harrington gestured for you to follow him, hands shoved into his pockets. He still hadn’t made eye contact with you, and the panic crawled on all-fours up your esophagus.

“Harrington,” you hissed, pulling your keys and lanyard from your pocket as he stopped beside you dorm room door.

“Can I come in?”

Your hands trembled unlocking your door. You room was stale, cold. You kicked off your shoes near the door and hung your key on its hook by the door. Harrington crossed to your radio to flick it on, static breaking through tracks until he found a station he was satisfied with.

“Harrington,” you hated the way your voice wavered, fear chattering your teeth. “You have to tell me if I’m going to die.”

He looked up at you then, brow crumpled. “You know I won’t let that happen.”

“You might not have a choice!”

“Stop saying that!” His volume matched yours, and his own fists shook at his sides, and his tone warmed you.

That same excitement, the familiarity of a fight kicked up in your chest. You rolled your eyes. “Harrington…”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’m sick of you saying you’re going to give up on me. I’ve put everything into keeping you alive, and you go and say shit like that and make it all feel meaningless?”

The excitement fluttered, wavered, burned out, a flame doused with water to drown it with reality. You swallowed, frowned, ground your molars until something ached in your jaw.

“I promised - ”

“Cut the bullshit,” you snapped. “We all made promises to her, but she’s dead now, okay?”

“I’m not talking about Vickie.” He cut you off again.

Your ears rang in the silence of the room, the steady thump of your heartbeat, the in-and-out of your breath.

“I promised you,” his jaw tightened, “that night, in my room, when we fell asleep, you told me you were scared of all this, and that you couldn’t tell Vickie how scared you were because you had to be brave for her. Do you remember that?”

Secrets were exchanged nose-to-nose, mixing breath warm, gentle circles drawn with thumbs on bare thighs, promises made.

“I told you I’d be brave for you. I promised I’d keep you safe.”

He had muttered the words to your forehead, soft lips to your brow as you dozed off, dreaming only of fire and ash.

“I’m trying so hard to be brave here,” he stepped toward you painfully slow, the creak of boots against linoleum. “But it’s hard when I don’t know if I can keep you safe, and that scares me because I love you, and I’m not letting you go that easily.”

The table separated you, a rickety excuse for a boundary that teetered under your touch. This was entirely new territory, an attack you hadn’t expected, were unsure how to navigate. You resorted to comfort.

“I didn’t ask you to be brave for me,” you scoffed, hand trembling against the back of a chair.

Harrington’s eyes remained on you, brow crumpled, less in anger now than something more fragile. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I said I’m in love with you.”

Your stomach swooped, heart clawing to get out with rapid beats, screaming in your ears. “I-I know.” You stammered.

“Do you…” He cleared his throat, fingertips tracing the tabletop dangerously close to your own. He licked his lips and watched you carefully, eyes hopeful. “How do you… I mean?” He gestured wildly, mouth quirking upward in panic.

You chewed back a laugh, something warm and familiar kicking back up. You managed to roll your eyes. “Yeah, Harrington, yes. You can calm down. I’ve been in love with you since I got into your stupid car.”

“It’s not a competition,” he grumbled, stepping around the table to approach you. He was warm, brown eyes and upturned pink lips.

“I’m not competing with you, I’m just telling you how I feel. I’m starting to think you’re the one obsessed with competition.” You were rambling, a nervous habit you must’ve picked up from your best friend, tongue running while your heart raced.

“Will you shut up and let me kiss you?” He mumbled, lashes long and eyes dark. He cupped your face with one strong hand, tracing the curves of your face with his thumb.

“Okay,” you breathed. Your eyes sunk closed at the pull of his nose against your own, the dip of his cupid’s bow to your own, and when his lips met yours, you could have melted into the floor.

His kiss was sweet, soft, the gentle press of his lips to your own while he cradled your face. When you separated, eyes fluttering open to see him hovering over you, that smile across his features, you found yourself hungry for more.

Gripping the shoulder seams of his t-shirt, you pulled him in for another go, took his gasp for air as an invitation to deepen the kiss. You tasted him, all tongues and teeth as you vied for dominance, and his free hand gripped the elastic waistband at your hip until the material was taut.

He kissed better than you remembered, a wash of warm and safety and heat and passion, but memory still begged for the feeling of your hands in his hair and his large, warm hands on you.

He sucked in a breath when you scratched at his scalp, gently passing by the healing scar on your way to bury your fingers in the thick of his hair. He hummed into your lips, dropping his hand from your cheek to grip the other side of your sweatpants.

You groaned, tilting your head sideways to allow him to place damp kisses along the column of your throat. “Harrington, put your hands on me.”

He groaned, a rumble deep in his chest that coursed another wave of need through you. “You can use my first name, you know.” He nosed at your earlobe, smile evident in his voice.

“You have to earn it,” you bit back a smile, and yelped when his hands found your ribcage and pushed you up against your cabinets and countertop. The linoleum was cold against the small of your back, and your arms raised above your head for him to pull your sweatshirt up and over.

He cupped your face again, crowding you with his oversized frame as he pressed himself into you. His lips were soft against yours, soft enough to make you feel vulnerable, taken off-guard. He kissed your cheek where it met your lips and the tip of your chin. He trailed warm, breathy kisses along the curve of your jaw, moving his hands to your shoulders until his lips met them there.

You watched him, breathless, as his fingers pushed one strap of your tank top down, and you bit back a whimper as his lips replaced the strap at the juncture of your clavicle.

His hands clutched at your waist band again, and he rocked his hips into yours, and you gasped at the friction of yourself against his hard length.

He pulled back, eyes dark, chest rising and falling rapidly, to gauge your reaction, and it was enough to have you clawing at his t-shirt again. He reached to pull it from the back of its collar, and you shrugged yourself out of your sweatpants, allowing the comfortable fabric to pool at the floor.

You lifted yourself onto the countertop and embraced the heat of his bare abdomen against you as he dove in for another passionate kiss. You clutched at the meat between his shoulder blades, delighting in the rumble of a groan as you dug your nails in and dragged to the base of his skull.

His hands were on you, finally, warm and strong and dexterous, worshiping your waist, your ribcage, your breasts.

You arched into his touch, gasping into his mouth, and he gripped your hips with one hand to pull you to the counter’s edge to grind himself into you again. Your body responded in kind to his touch, pliable.

You leaned your head against the upper cabinets, what few possessions that lived inside rattled.

He kissed your neck and chest, thumb pebbling your nipple, while his other hand massaged from your hip crease to your knee.

You clawed at the expanse of his chest, desperate for him to get closer, but delighting in the feel of his tongue against you until he stopped.

He pulled back, pulling his hand from beneath your shirt to rest on your hip while his other continued slow ministrations along your thigh. You watched as his fingertips ghosted the thick scarring there, five distinct claw marks from ribcage to knee, a part of you now you’d nearly forgotten, invisible under your own gaze.

You swallowed, suddenly too warm, exposed. You ducked your head, eyeing the curves of him instead, the breadth of his chest, smattering of hair that covered his sternum and trailed down past his navel to disappear beneath his waistband. On either side of his ribs were scars that matched yours, purple and puckered and violent.

“You are brave,” he said, recapturing your focus, voice syrupy sweet, gaze dangerous. “You are beautiful.”

You sucked in a breath as his fingertips ghosted your inner thigh, a trickle of ticklish touches against the softest bits of you until you felt the sweet press of fingertips to your center.

“Can I touch you?” He muttered. He licked his lips, eyes cast downward.

“Yes,” you whined, gripping the countertop’s edge, “please.”

His forearm flexed as he moved your underwear to the side, and his thick fingers gathered the slick at your core to coat your folds. “Please who?” He asked.

You almost didn’t catch it, lost in the ecstasy of his touch, but you blinked to the forefront of your consciousness to see the cocky smirk stretched across his features. You bit back a smile and managed half an eye roll before he sunk two fingers into you, the perfect stretch. Your eyes slid closed, and you clung to his forearm, gasping his name. “Steve.”

“Uh uh,” he tutted, “don’t go away. Open your eyes, beautiful. Want to watch you.”

Your eyes snapped back open, and his cheeks flushed in a wide smile.

“Good girl,” he nodded, and proceeded to take you apart with nimble fingers, watching you ride the wave until you came crashing down, digging your nails into his arms and stars scattered in your eyesight.

He caught your lips in a sweet kiss, dropping your thigh from his hip with a squeeze. He chuckled as you caught your breath against his chest, spent, and nosed at your earlobe, planting a sweet kiss there too.

“I hate you,” you grumbled, nipping at his clavicle to hide the smile stretched across your features.

“Liar,” he countered, rumbling in a hearty laugh.

“You’re awfully cocky,” you countered, reaching your hand to palm at his hardened length through his pants.

He groaned and ground against your hand until your mouth watered.

You gestured behind him, shoving at his shoulders until he gave you enough space to hop off the counter. The linoleum tiles were freezing beneath the balls of your feet. “Get on the bed.”

He stumbled backwards, the grin across his face possibly the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.

You pulled your tank top from your head and tossed it to the growing clothes pile. “Take off your pants, boots too.” You stepped out of your underwear.

“Yes, ma’am,” he sat on the foot of your bed to unlace his boots, before standing to frantically paw at the buckle of his belts before he worked his pants down his thick thighs.

His movements were eager, and you couldn’t help but laugh as you met him where he stood. “Can I help?” You dipped your hand into the waistband of his underwear.

“Fuck,” he breathed, arms stretched over his head before he pulled you in tight. “Full disclosure?”

You hummed, wrapping your fingers around him.

He squeezed his eyes shut and grabbed your arm to stop your movements. When he looked at you again, he seemed scared. “It’s been like two years…”

You smiled, pulling your hand from his boxers before tugging them all the way down, cock springing free. With his pants around his ankles, you shoved your partner to the mattress, springs groaning under his weight, and you carefully climbed on top.

“C’mere,” he grumbled, pulling you down to meet his lips in a warm kiss. He snaked his arms around you, large hands running over the curves of your back. “You’re perfect,” he said, squeezing the dips of your hips, rolling you into him.

You shared lazy kisses and appreciated one another’s bodies with wandering hands and lips. You sat up, hands extended to his shoulders, his pecs, the ripple of abs that twitched with laughter under your fingertips. “Steve,” you whispered, an unfamiliar emotion sticking to your vocal cords.

He hummed, tilting his head to catch your gaze. His brow crumpled in concern. You felt so blessed to see him relaxed, comfortable, safe.

“I love you.” The tears threatened to spill, and you held them back, holding his hands against your hip creases. “I love you, and I’m…” Scared, guilty, sad, grateful, heartbroken, fulfilled, home.

“Hey,” he reached a hand to catch your cheek. “I love you, and I promise I’m going to keep you safe.”

You nodded, kissed the palm of his hand. You maintained his gaze, kissing his wrist, the tips of his fingers, before you centered yourself over him.

He tangled his fingers in your own and nodded, biting down on his lower lip as you sunk down onto him.

If you were fire, Steve was water, the sweet swell of calm emotions and tranquility. For every push, he offered soft kisses, for every pull, he hummed praises. You rode the wave through peaks and valleys, and he worshipped your peaks and valleys. He rolled you over, pressing you into the warm woolen fabric of your blanket, and washed over your in warmth and love and devotion. He was all hands and protection and licked kisses, the snap of hips and sweet confessions of love.

Your body buzzed with overstimulation, aching muscles stretched taut and plied soft again, and you stared up at water-stained ceilings, your surroundings coming quickly back into focus.

Steve kissed you, mouth sweet with you, and eyes heavy with exhaustion, both satisfied and well-spent. He moved the hair from his eyes, pushing it up and back until it stood on end, and he leaned on one arm to trace circle into your chest, pulling the covers up higher to cover his waist. “Hey,” he whispered, cupping your cheek in his face. “Where’d you go?”

You blinked back at him, feigning a smile to quell the worry on his face. “You should get some sleep.”

His face fell, and he glanced over your shoulder at the clock radio. The late night advertisements buzzed back into your periphery.

He rolled onto his back beside you, pulling you into his chest with an arm around you. He squeezed you in tight, pressing his lips to your hairline again and again and again. He felt stiff, the easiness of the last few hours wiped away with one question.

Anxiety bloomed in your chest, flower-faced with rows and rows of razor sharp teeth, claws at the flesh that hid your sternum.

Harrington cleared his throat, kissing you one last time before he muttered, “We should get dressed.”

---

[A/N: They're in love!? Who knew!? This chapter was really a labor of love for me, and I'm getting very emotional knowing the next chapter is the last one. This story has honestly meant so much to me. Thank you so much for reading xo]

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Chapter Five: Searing • Chapter Seven: Inferno

#wildfire fic #stranger things fic #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fluff #eddie munson #robin buckley #steve harrington angst #rovickie #stranger things #steve harrington

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roadtoichor · 11 months

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Test Kitchen: 'Ottolenghi Flavor: The Cookbook' by Yotam Ottolenghi

Review of Ottolenghi's third cookbook: Ottolenghi Flavor

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#Cookbook #Cookbook review #Food #Ottolenghi Flavor #Road to Ichor #Yotam Ottolenghi

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thesharktanksdriver · 1 year

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any way the wind blows (Platonic)

So I kinda watch records of ragnarok and became obsessed

This is platonic but later on I might make some romantic scenarios for a few characters

Y/n is based off of scaramouche fron genshin if he didn’t have mommy issues and was a decent person. Also left it gender neutral

Gods and humans had always been divide since the dawn of their creation

Molded from clay in their likeness yet considered inferior for their mortality

Despite the fact their creators were just as flawed (if not more) than they are

This was a reality that few knew or acknowledged, but one that Hephaestus had come to as he pondered one day in his lab

It was no secret he was hated by the others

For he is everything a god isn’t supposed to be

Their supposed to be beautiful and angelic yet he is ugly and deformed

Thrown from Olympus and experienced humans first hand before clawing his way back to his spot in the heavens

Given the most beautiful wife of them all who hates and despises his despite how hard he tries

He is scorned for simply existing just as humans are

Perhaps that’s why he finds better company in them than he does with his fellow gods

Though they are flawed beings they know that are not perfect

They embrace their flaws, and persevere despite how hard they are thrown down

They invent, create, destroy and rebuild again and again

Something in which the god of blacksmithing respects, for even the strongest blade can be melted down to create something even better

In his loneliness in his lab, deep within the smouldering smoke and bubbling magma of his volcanic home

Hephaestus longs to learn, to see, to hear but knows he cannot go to the surface world

So instead he decides to do what he does best

He decided to create his own human, one that would be imbued with the blessing of true immortality

For only something with a soul can be reaped, even gods face that fate if they are wounded enough

But if something doesn’t it will last forever

Hephaestus creates his magnum opus

His human

His child

“From finest clay your are molded, but within your veins lay no blood nor Ichor, but instead pure energy shall power you.”

You are created by his scarred and broken hands that are steady and firm

He makes you an epitome of beauty, something that he wishes he could be

For only something that is considered ugly can know what true beauty looks like

When your body is complete he imbues you with life through the lightning of Zeus

And then he lets the breath of zephyrs wind wake you

Through pure eyes you awaken and he helps you walk

Your like a newborn deer, shaking and buckling legs as you lean to him for help

You look at him with such kindness and innocence

And love

That one thing he had only wanted in his life from anyone

For the next couple of months he’s raises you, teaches you his craft and how to adapt

He is gentle but stern in his teachings, guiding yours hands and teaching you what he knows

Luckily your blessed by him to understand all languages and speak them as well

But despite spending months raising you he had not given you a name

Only calling you “my child”

When you ask of him why he hadn’t bestowed upon you a title he says he want you to decide

For you are worthy of picking it yourself when the time is right

For a long time you ponder

What shall that be

But it isn’t until he tells you to travel, to learn, to live and love like all humans that you decide your name

“And so you become a wanderer. Just know my child that if you ever need help I am at your call. My only advice is that humanity can be fickle but the gods are worse”

And so you begin your travels, through marshes and hills, or mountains to deserts

Through the valleys and into land that is lush in greenery of various kinds

From dusk to dawn you travel, stopping sporadically to stay in places that interest you, with people whom teach you before you leave for the road

It is a cycle

One that teaches you of humanity’s greed, pride, jealousy, rage, hate and despair

But one that also teaches you of their compassion, love, kindness, strength and their passion for surviving despite how the gods strike them down over and over again

They rebuild, they overcome and engineer a solution

For they only have themselves to rely on as the gods turned their backs to them

They adapt just as you do

But you are fundamentally different from them

An immortal being without a soul, one that looks and acts just as they do but retains thousands of years of knowledge you’d collected through experience

You aren’t a god but you aren’t quite human, yet you retain qualities from both

You are in between them but also something entirely different from either

You are you

And perhaps that is enough

“You and I have crossed paths, but our journeys will eventually diverge. Who knows what will happen next? Let's just wait and see.”

You end up meeting many humans (and some gods) in your journey’s but many stand out in your mind

One being the human who later would go onto become a demigod

Heracles who you knew as Alcides is someone you had met by complete accident when he was young

He was being bullied, pushed around and punched by children yet he still tried to put up a fight

He kept pushing on and standing up no matter how many times he was thrown down

You stepped in, sending the children running back scared whilst he gave you a toothy smile

Despite losing and being beaten down he was still optimistic

As you patched up the young boy he explained that those boys had been bullying him and his friends castor

That he never won against them but wouldn’t let them keep hurting his friend

It wasn’t righteous and he couldn’t stand for it

You can’t help but smile as he explains this, he was someone you’d only meet once in a blue moon

So you decide to offer him help

For the next couple of months you help the young boy train just as your father taught you

At first he fails

And fails some more

But he always returns to training no matter how beat down and tired he is

In his training your stern but encouraging

Teaching him to hone his strength and use it properly

It is then he begins to make progress

You show him how to stand up for the weak and to never waver in his righteousness

When you aren’t training him you spend time with him and Castor in Thebes

You buy them proper food and give some extra drachma to take home

They always feel a bit guilty about it but you assure them it’s no worry

You had plenty more (no, literally you had more money than you could spend from being a damn good blacksmith)

Figs are eaten as the three of you watch the sunset along with some honey drizzled fruit

They look up to you like a older sibling and it’s safe to say you view them as little brothers

But eventually as always you must eventually leave

Both are upset (especially Alcides) but on the night before you leave you take them to watch the sunset and stars once again

Eating ripe pomegranates as you explain each constellation that lights up the skies

“There is no need to be sad you two, perhaps we will meet again one day. Even if we don’t I will always be with you in memory and in what I taught. Just look to the stars and remember my stories”

That morning you leave but not before telling Alcides to keep up his training and to keep doing what he believes is right

You leave on horseback throwing to him a bag of coin with a sly smile

It’s many years later that you learn he became a god

A bit of pride swelling up in you along with worry

You can only hope he retained a bit of his love for humanity when he ascended to the heavens

another interesting human you meet is Qin Shi Huang

The first emperor of China with you as his personal Historian

The supposed cursed prince who was able to unite a shattered land under his power

Unlike others who still looked at hims with some semblance of hate or fear you always kept a small smile

Offering the knowledge he seeked with a certain something in your voice as you recounted tales of old

After a certain time he begins coming to you more, wanting to learn more

(Also using it as a way to get to know you. A mysterious traveler that somehow was so knowledgeable that despite being a foreigner ended up in court life)

You are outcasted much like he was when he was a child yet like him you bear it with a smile

When you talk with him the conversations start our formal

But in time he opens up as do you

Not about everything of course but about some of your travels and the sights you’d seen

From far spanning mountains that scraped the clouds to the green fields filled with wheat that made them look like fields of gold

He ends up wrapped up in those stories

At some point he’d come to call you friend

The only person after Chun Yan whom he’d let close to his heart

To see how he actually felt when he hadn’t locked it all behind a smile

As you get close to him rumours spread and it leads to you being harassed by several jealous court members

You don’t say anything, it’s not like it actually affects you anyways but when he learns

He is furious

It hurts him to know you were harmed because of him

That you were hated

Just like he was for actions that were not his own

But you brush it off simply telling him to give them a small punishment but nothing extreme

That in the end your alright and that you can’t really be mad at them

In their eyes your a foreigner who was in a position they could only dream about

It’s expected they’d get mad, maybe trying to drop a vase on your head was a bit much but in the end it didn’t hurt you

He reluctantly follows what you say but remains hesitant to let their actions go

Not long after this he tells you of his childhood, all the pain and loss

But how in the end he killed a god and united the land

There’s something in you that sparks at the “killing a god” part but he doesn’t ponder on it long

Instead the two of you talk

And for the first time you feel close enough to open up about not being human nor god

His ego probably gets a bit bigger when you causally mention that he’d likely go down in history

For your time as his historian he shows you in a lot of luxurious befit for royalty and high class nobles

Even years later you keep them, gifts you’d treasure for the rest of eternity and make sure to keep safe

He was born and bred in brutality so his rather violent ways aren’t much of a surprise but you try to help him find ways to temper it

To see that there are peaceful ways to end a fight

Around 4 years of staying there you know it’s about time to leave and Qin Shi isn’t very happy about it

He tells you as emperor that you couldn’t just leave

That as his historian you couldn’t up and go

As his only true friend

But those orders soon become pleads

And the authority in his voice drained as tears replaced it

During the month before you go he is at your side

Making new memories and silently dreading as hours and days fly by

He listens to more of your stories, to your personal accounts and how they differ to what’s told

And on that last day when the moon is full and you await a horse to take you on your next endeavour he stands by your side

And when the times comes for you to go he gifts you a bracelet commissioned just for you

He gently fastens it to your wrist

“A gift from me, a silent sign that you are forever the friend of the emperor”

“May our paths cross in the future my friend”

“Yes, let’s hope they do”

When he dies on a tour of his land at age 49 you somehow appear before his side as if sensing he was dying

His advisors are confused as he orders them to let you in but they do so in fear of the consequences

You might not agree with many of his actions you’d heard he committed but he was your friend

He passes holding your hand

The bracelet he once gave you is still worn to this day

He only wished he achieved immortality so you never had to deal with loosing yet another friend

But he is human and nothing can change that despite how you and he wish so

If you had a nickel for every time you ran into a human turned god you’d have two nickels

Weird it happened twice but your not complaining

You met Gautama Siddhartha the former prince of Kapilavastu as you took shelter beneath a tree when night fell

There you found him beneath the Bodhi tree that you took shelter beneath in a deep state of meditation

Until you politely asked if he was ok and he answered you

Compared to most you met Gautama is relaxed

He is in-tune with both himself and the world around him in more ways than he knows

You could already tell he was a legends in the making and decided to stick around for a bit to see where his journey would take him

Eventually as he reached enlightenment you grew curious as to why he remained on earth despite being able to go to the heavens above

But he tells you that his word isn’t done, that he wanted to spread what he had learned

To make people happy and to ease their suffering

It makes you happy

Never had you thought a god would do so but you assumed that because he was human before

That’s possibly why he still cared

Even years later when he does eventually go to the heavens you have a small Buddha statue in your possession of many items

As a way to honour him

You wouldn’t exactly call him friend (you didn’t know him long enough to do so though he’d disagree) but he is someone you’d certainly never forget

Raiden Tameemon is another you met curiosity enough at one of his Sumo matches

At the time you heard talk of a seemingly legendary fighter who had yet to lose a match and you wanted to check it out

You weren’t disappointed and began going to show up in the crowds who watched him

His strength was certainly admirable but so was his kindness in donating money back to his home town

So after a match you approached him and went with him for celebratory Sake

You kinda after that became drinking buds with him since other sumo wrestles didn’t seem keen on being around him

He is a lovely fellow one who you swear can eat a mountains worth of food and drink an oceans worth a anything

You on the overhand are technically the same m, you don’t need food or drink to survive you just have it to experience it’s taste and experience

He flirts with you quite a bit but you laugh it off

Taking them as compliments as you comment on his strength

His laugh is loud and boisterous as you both guzzle down more booze

You don’t really get drunk?, so your always the sober one who makes sure to get him home

To a normal person he’d be quite heavy but your able to carry him with no problem

Which gets quite a log of amazed onlookers as you carry him without so much as sweating

At his wrestling matches you’d always at the front of the crowd cheering for him

You know he won’t be defeated but you encourage him anyways

At some point he definitely uses your hat as a makeshift Frisbee despite you yelling at him

Sometimes during his drunken ramblings he talks of how he feels like a monster

You always assure him though that he is not

That he’s a man like everyone else

One who deserves love just like everyone does

It’s a rare moment but hearing that from you makes him cry a little

Perhaps he had waited a long time to hear that

He knows beforehand that you’d have to leave one day but when you do he says goodbye with a smile

He gives you a hug and pats your back with a blinding grin

You promise to catch another of his fights one day and you do

The last one before his retirement is spent with him drinking with you like for old times sake

Slurred singing and messy dancing as you and him walk side by side of the busy street as the moon is risen in the sky

He teaches you to laugh and enjoy a drink when times are rough

Every year though on the date of his death you honour him by having a sip of sake whilst watching the moon

For the moon had is the only remaining witness to those nights filled with laughter

Mr. Anonymous otherwise know as Jack (though your not sure that’s even his real name) finds you on his own

At the time you were briefly stopping off in Britain to check out the Industrial Revolution

So far it’s been disappointing to you and slightly disturbing as you’d seen young children be put on the workforce

Having to deal with hazardous materials and operate machinery that could rip them apart

Oh plus the buzz around the serial killer called “jack the ripper”

Now that in itself didn’t really interest you

But what did was how the media seemingly just ate it up

They speculated and theorized of who done it

Seemingly sickly enamoured by the mane who butchered innocent women who just were trying to get by

Those same victims seen as nothing more than side notes to the man himself

Their murderer

The ripper

At this point your not sure what’s worse, the idolizations of the killer or how the victims themselves are seemingly shamed for their profession

Anyways

Unbeknownst to you Jack had the uncanny ability to see people’s souls as colours along with their emotions

But for you there was nothing

Absolutely nothing except for sparks of electricity? Of sorts that buzzed around you

Ever the gentleman he offers you a spot at his table and even buys you a cup of tea

He insists and you allow him with a smile

You can never pass on a good drink and someone who wanted to talk

Eventually as day turns to night he offers to walk you to your hotel

Saying that London streets aren’t exactly friendly to those alone at night and you agree

It’s on that walk he reveals more of his true intentions

Still cordial and polite but you can tell he’s holding back getting violent if you did not respond

So you respond with the truth since if he attacked he’d figure out you weren’t human anyways

Safe to say he’s very fascinated

For the rest of your stay in England you stick around with him

By your choice as well

He is an interesting man but one that you nether the less find yourself enjoying the company of

He is upfront with you about how he is a killer

And how he goes by the Jack the Ripper moniker after killing the original

He knows he’s not a good person but despite that you see that maybe he’s selling himself short

There’s apparently a secret organization in London that tracks down and kills far worse scum of society

Killing the original Jack the Ripper is also a sign that to you be at least has some moral code of sorts

He brushes your comments off, though you can see that it seems to somewhat resonate with him

You and him often discuss Shakespeare especially since you had met the playwright and even acted in a few of his productions

Though you don’t have a colour he associates your soul with that of a rich Violet

A beautiful colour for someone as beautiful as you are in both body and metaphorical spirit

When your time in Britain is just about up you and him go to see Hamlet

It would be a night he’d never forget since it filled him with joy that he had not seen since the early days of his childhood

He felt at peace for once

Even when you leave you continue to mail to him

Telling him of your travels around the world and even sending a few small souvenirs

When he dies he’s at least glad to have had 1 true friend

“ Aphrodite?, heh. A wolf in sheep's clothing. To exert a higher level of control over people, she puts on a graceful and beautiful front. Most of those who have seen her true colours know of her cruelty”

Through your journeys unlike your many human friends you’ve meet a handful of gods in your time

You don’t go out of your way to meet them

But sometimes fate has different plans

And though those encounters are rare they remain in your mind

For a few examples

You meet Thor when Odin’s Raven Huginn was injured

He was sent to earth to deliver some sort of message and inadvertently got injured

And that’s when you found him, a bleeding mass of feathers in the snow

Yelling swears that would make even Loki blush

The bird is at first hesitant to accept your help

For he saw you as just as human but he reluctantly accepted once realizing he could get nowhere

So you brought the immortal pet of Odin back to your cabin to heal him

Whilst the raven is boastful and full of pride

He eventually begins to like your company as you engage in long conversation with him

Most gods brush him off as annoying so it feels nice being appreciated

He won’t admit it but he might’ve began to get attached

He might not like humanity but maybe your an exception

Once he is healed enough to fly it’s when he is able to alert Odin to his location

And a meeting place is made

You bring him out into the freezing cold

He’s talking and your making hums of acknowledgment as he talks about the gods

It’s somewhat interesting getting his view of them since yours is relatively negative (except for your father and Buddha)

And then he pauses

the talkative raven suddenly leaps from your shoulder and into the air

Flying high as you spot a man…no a god

Long red hair, markings covering his skin, piercing eyes and a large hammer resting upon his shoulder

When you get within a couple feet of him and Huginn the god stares you down

The Raven perched on his shoulder talking his ear off about how you had brought him back to health

It is then you learn the person in front of you is Thor, the strongest of the Norse pantheon

One whom you heard was battle hungry

Though other than that you don’t know much of him

You stand before the god of thunder unfazed

Huginn seems rather surprised at that fact but doesn’t make a comment on it

Perhaps even somewhat amazed at that fact

Thor offers you a reward though he doesn’t seem enthusiastic as he says this

Likely just following the orders from Odin

You quirk an eyebrow

“I don’t want a reward in money, I just have a question for you oh mighty Thor”

His eyes widen ever so slightly but he nods

“What is that?”

“What do you desire out of everything in the world, what is the one thing you want despite being an all powerful god?”

Now that makes him pause

Of all questions be certainly didn’t expect that nor did the Raven that begrudgingly found itself enjoying your company

He answers and your not surprised

“An equal. Someone i could fight full strength and be at match with. That’s what I desire”

You chuckle a bit at this

“I’m not surprised, but that did fulfill my suspicions. I wish the best to you, that you’ll find that one day. Maybe we’ll cross paths again”

And with that he nods and turns around

What surprises him though is when he feels something hit is back

He turns, there’s snow sticking to his hair

But then that-

Your gone, completely and utterly gone when he turns around

The furious wind carrying snow that covers up any footprints

He realizes that by throwing that snowball you were in some way teasing him

Something he’d normally be able to detect before you even threw it hit him like he was nothing

He searches for you for the next couple of years, always searching through crowds whenever he’d have to go to earth for whatever reason

It gave him a sense of something

He wasn’t sure what it was but he knew he wanted to challenge you

He needed to conclude that fight you begun but left for him to finish

But for him he would get to fight you again at a raid Vikings were doing against a village you were staying at

You couldn’t just there and do nothing so you geared up and ran into battle

And that’s when you noticed a familiar red haired god watching nearby

And he seemed to spot you as well since the next moment your engaging in battle with him

The battlefield around the two of you in an icy wasteland is accentuated by crashing thunder and biting lightning as you exchange blows

That the normal apathetic face filled with giddiness at someone finally living up to expectations

The raid is long forgotten as everyone evades the area and you do your best to lead the fight into a nearby wooded area

Trees are flattened by his infamous hammer that now pulsates and cracks at the seams

Flesh spilling out of it as it beats like a heart

You use the trees to bounce off and lead him deeper into the secluded area

Eventually you wear him out just enough to get a hit that sends him staggering back

You could go full power but you decide not to since you’d rather have some cards up your sleeve

And as he’s on the shattered ground, kneeling as a hand is placed over his bleeding chest he asks for your name

You just reply your a wanderer before disappearing into the brush

He’s found by Loki not long after who is confused and somewhat scared at the fact Thor of all people has an almost fatal wound

When he asks the red head simply replies he was training and nothing more

Content on keeping your existence a secret for his own sake of having an equal

Loki doesn’t need to be the god of lies and deception to tell he’s lying but says nothing

Another god you meet is Ares during wartime

You were on the battlefield not fighting but just doing your best to help those who were injured

You’d had a good amount of fighting in your life and had decided to do you best to help instead

And there on the battlefield, bloodied and victorious is the god of war

You locked eyes with him yet didn’t waver

Instead focusing on picking up a solider who had sustained a leg wound

He looks over the human who relies on you and at his uniform

One of the men on his side

Unbeknownst to him someone was foolish enough to try and sneak up on him

But you mouthed the words “behind you” to the god

Within an instant the man is dead and your taking the soldier back to his camp

A small interaction but one nether the less

Sometimes in war you see him but you avoid being seen

Disappearing within the blink of an eye

You’d rather not have your immortal status be known to the gods

There’s a bit of resentment you hold towards him for your fathers sake

Being a lover of your dad’s wife, the goddess of beauty herself

Whilst your father is resigned to the fact that his wife will never love him and goes behind his back constantly

You can’t help but feel angry for him because at this point he’s used to it

Speaking of which

Your father visits you every 5 years on the eve of your creation

Though as he said when you set out on your adventures you can call to him whenever you need him

As usual he is kind and caring

You recount to him your travels

Your friends and all of the advancements in technology the humans had made

He listens with a smile, eyes twinkling with joy at your happiness

On these occasions he almost always gifts you something he’s made

All of which you use on your journey like the satchel that no one but yourself can open

Or your now iconic kasa hat with a veil trailing behind it which was inspired from your times in Japan

And your clothes built to be able to be able to withstand your power when you use them

Hephaestus isn’t used to affection from being scorned by everyone

So he melts when you hug him or hold his hand

You never hesitate to do so and the first time you initiate the platonic action of love he cries

The god of smithing usually talks of his latest invention or what’s happening with the gods

The usual petty squabbles over any inconvenience

being invited to their council meeting every 1000 years yet again but not being told until last minute

He worries for not only you but also humanity

He sees the resentment and disgust the others hold for humans, despite the entire race being moulded after them

They don’t seem to acknowledge that humans are just as flawed as they are

He knows he can’t do anything though

So he just focuses on his worries for you

About how it must be to loose all your human friends

For they age and you don’t

A small part of him expects you to resent him for making you immortal

Yet you don’t

Though yes, it is hard to befriend people knowing you’d always outlive them

And while there were times in your life you had craved death

You came to realize how You enjoy the fact you’ve lived long enough to meet them in the first place

To be able to see how far humanity has come and how far it needs to continue

To watch empires crumble but new ones be rebuilt in their ashes

To meet people like Hypatia or Nicola Tesla, minds ahead of their time only to be recognized for their accomplishments later

Sometimes when he feels more alone than usual he looks at the little gifts you gave him

And it reminds him of how he’ll always have you

The one person who would ever give him love

Something that even his parents had denied him for something that isn’t even his fault

And unlike his uncaring mother and father he’d always give you his love

His care and support

For he knows that someone deprived of that can end up becoming cruel and angry

Just like he had for so many years until realizing there was nothing he could ever do to get that love

But now he realizes that’s ok

they deserve him nor his care

Only his child does

“You want me to introduce myself? I've gone by many names and titles during my journeys. they're all just water under the bridge to me now and you can Call me whatever you like…but y/n is what I originally gave to myself”

When the gods gather for yet another 1000 year meeting Hephaestus feels little need to go yet attends anyways

Perhaps to spite those who wanted him not to go

He sits in his seat of sculpted metal

Normally he barely listens but when the fate of mankind is brought up he becomes deathly aware

X’s are thrown up by almost every god

And he’s left confounded on what to do

He doesn’t put up a sign yet no one notices

And the normally stoic and calm god is left silently panicking

Until a certain Valkyrie makes her appearance

He knew of her well enough

Valkyrie’s were some of the few who treated him fairly since they respected him for his craft of weapons

She offers an opportunity for humanity to prove itself

Ragnarok

An event in which 13 humans and 13 gods would fight to the death

At first not many are intrigued until she does something to ensure they would accept the challenge

She called them chicken, scared to face the humans they had created

Once the meeting is over the god finds Brunhilde and her younger sister Göll

The youngest scared to a T whilst her older sister remains dead calm

It’s there that he tells her that he’s an ally

And that there is someone that she might wish to contact for a fighter

And so she takes his advice and finds you having tea in your home

when she asks you to fight for humanity against the gods you agree

And so Ragnarok begins

#platonic #shuumatsu no Valkyrie x reader #records of ragnarok x reader #travler y/n #ror Hercules x reader #Hercules x reader #ror #ror qin shi huang x reader #raiden Tameemon x reader #ror raiden Tameemon x reader #ror Buddha x reader #ror Jack the Ripper x reader #ror thor x reader #ror ares x reader #ror Brunhilde x reader #ror x reader #holy shit this is long

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arclundarchivist · 19 days

Text

Spoilers for C3E93

Lonesome Roads

Morrighan finally stopped running when she realized her only companion was a literal shadow, clinging to her like a chilled coat.

“Will they be okay?” Cyrus asks, his voice distant and near in equal measure like a whisper from an opposing cliff.

“I- I don’t know,” she murmurs, slumping to the ground, her sword clattering to the ground beside her.

The last remnant of Opal is hot in her other hand, yet she refuses to release it. Holding it all the tighter.

“I love you.”

Her ears fall as the tears begin to fall yet again.

“Morrighan?” Cyrus prompts again.

“I said I don’t know!” she exclaims and falters, staring into the blank eyes of her friend’s spirit, and sees his face fall.

Why does she cling to him so?

‘I did not make you mine just for you to die here.”

But a part of her has.

And she needs direction.

Where can she go?

Where is she needed?

What will be demanded of her next?

How much more will she lose?

“Fate is a funny thing, deary, but one can always find a way to tug the threads in the right direction.”

The voice of the woman who cast her on this path, the one that took her first name.

She could have answers.

But what would the cost be this time?

What more could she give… no, what more would she give?

“What would you have me do?” she asks, speaking to the empty air.

There is no response, no urging, she misses when the guidance was a constant, an ever-present ringing in the back of her mind that showed her where to go.

But now there is silence, a comfort akin to the grave.

Fitting, perhaps, when she considers her position once more.

“Where will we go?” Cyrus demands, shifting closer to her, and she part of her wants to push him away, the other wants to pull him into an embrace, but she is not sure if she can accomplish either.

“I wish I knew,” she mutters.

There is a flash of black, winging through sun-set tinged sky.

She looks up, and there is a raven winging towards the horizon.

A sign.

She stands, taking up her blade, and glances back the way she came.

The road is being set before her.

“Cyrus… how does it feel?” she asks.

“Hollow, yet comforting, for I am not alone.” he murmurs, shifting closer to her once more, “Do you know where we are going?”

“No… but I hope it leads us back to the others in time,” she states, and she starts walking.

Unspoken is a worry she fights to bury.

She has seen Opal.

What the Spider Queen demanded and stole from her?

Morrighan gave away her name.

She lost her friends.

Her only companion is a literal shade of himself.

She’s going to walk the path and go where she is needed.

Yet, she can’t help but wonder: “What will be left of me at the end of the road?”

----

Fy’ra stands, her fists drenched in blood as she confronts yet another band of this “Vanguard.”

Flowers and mushrooms of verdant shades are already beginning to bloom from their corpse.

It was true what she said all those weeks ago, “The Wildmother is not kind.”, but to see her vengeance, her rage enacted by her own hands, was… both haunting and exhilarating.

Her flames now carried a green tinge to their breadth, granting life as readily as they consumed it. She was a font of regrowth and healing the likes of which she had never been before.

And that had been helpful, for more than the Vanguard had become Opal’s target.

Mad Arcanists, cultists, supposed traitors, aberrations born of the Red Moon, and a horrid spider that dogged their every step.

One the Queen refused to call off as if she was elated by the constant challenge.

The constant growth of her champion.

Fy’ra was still herself but growing stronger every day. The Wildmothe had been truthful in her promise. Theirs was a conversation, a growing bond that she wasn’t truly certain the conclusion would bring.

Opal, though… was twisting all the more.

She continued to stretch in height, her six arms casting aside the blades at most times to wield lengthy and ichorous claws.

But what truly hurt Fy’ra in her soul was the young woman’s eyes.

Jet-black, with but a glimmer of the old opalescent sheen. And she swears when she watches her as the night overtakes the day, she sees others open in the corners and panes of her face.

She looks to Opal now, pulling her claws from the belly of the woman who led this band. A towering goliath woman, now so much meat scattered about the ground.

Fy’ra’s heart seizes as for but a moment, Opal brings her fingers towards her mouth as if tempted to taste the blood soaking them, but then her hands drop.

A sign that despite it all, her little sisters are still in there.

She approaches as Opal stands, looking down at Fy’ra with a flat expression.

“Are we done here?” Fy’ra asks.

Opal speaks, her voice now tinged with an insectile trill harsh to the ears, “She says yes. If we succeed, those not fool enough to kill will get to be as they were before… or they will seek to martyr themselves as well. I don’t know, and she doesn’t care.”

“Of course, she doesn’t.” Fy’ra remarks bitterly, “But we can rest?”

Opal is silent, staring at the red moon resting on the far horizon to the south.

“Yes. For now, her son is attacking her somewhere else, so we have time.” Opal remarks, and she turns stiltedly and begins walking toward the dark woods from which the pair had come.

Fy’ra jogs to keep up, “Opal, is she still listening?”

Opal glances at her, “Not fully.”

“I suppose that is the best I can hope for,” Fy’ra mutters, and she reaches out, gently taking the hand she knows to have originally been Opals.

“How are you?” Fy’ra asks, and Opal squeezes her hand just a tad.

“I’m surviving,” she returns, and then in Fy’ras mind, so rare now, her true voice speaks, “And it’s so hard, Fy’ra.”

“I know, I know, but this will not be forever.” Fy’ra comforts.

“She doesn’t like that,” Opal warns aloud.

“I do not care,” Fy’ra replies defiantly, and the wind around them flares with heat as if in agreement: “We walk this path together until the threat of the Ill Omen is finished, then…”

She lets the implication hang, and Opal smiles, but she can’t tell which part of her it is.

“How is Ted?” Fy’ra asks, and the look on Opal’s face is stark confusion.

The words that follow turn Fy’ra’s flaming blood to ice.

“Who?” Opal asks.

“Y-your sister.” Fy’ra chokes, a dawning realization punching into her core.

Opal pulls her hand from hers, and looks into the dark shadows between the trees and there, the flaring of additional eyes.

After several moments of silence, she looks down at Fy’ra, and it is not an illusion, for four pairs of inky-black eyes burrow into her as Opal says, “You’re the only sister I have in this world, Fy’ra.”

Fy’ra is stunned into silence as Opal keeps walking, her true voice trickling into her mind: “And I will always remember that. Thank you for being here with me.”

“I- you’re welcome.” Fy’ra returns, the realization that Ted had once again paid the lion’s share of her sister’s actions drilling a cold nail of resentment ever deeper into her heart.

“This is only until this plight is over, swear it to me.” Fy’ra growls, feeling a point to her teeth that was not there a moment before.

The wind caresses her in warmth, which she takes to be an agreement.

So she will wait, and she will work and she will protect Opal from all that comes at them in the days to come.

But not forever.

Nature is not kind, and it appreciates an ambush.

----

Dariax wanders Zephrah for days until he finally accepts that Dorian is truly gone.

“Why’d he leave me?” he asked himself and pretty much everyone around, but they couldn’t find the answer any better than he could.

He was alone. Again.

Had he upset Dorian? Did he blame him for Cyrus dying? He-he had the healing mojo. He could have got to him, done something, paid close attention but-

But he’d wanted to save Opal.

To hug her and tell her everything would be okay to rip that crown off and chuck it in a hole.

But he failed at that, too, huh?

Maybe that’s why they had all left him.

They were better at this than him, saving the world. He’d always been just along for the ride, trying and not really managing to keep up.

Dorian was a hero, Morrighan was a Champion, Fy’ra had all the answers ever, and Opal… Opal was strong. She’d held onto that burden without complaint for so, so long.

And he… had just run along behind them, trying to prop them up when they needed it.

But it wasn’t like the first three ever actually needed him. They had their shit together in ways he couldn’t even dream of!

But Opal, he could have- he should have-

“I should never have let her take that crown,” he mutters, bitter with himself as he downs another drink in that little post Dorian had left him in. He glances at the lute, and more self-loathing burbles up.

“I should have put it on, or let Poska take it, or left it with the Wildmother.” he continues rambling, “I should have done something.”

“You trusted her.” a soft voice remarks beside him, but he doesn’t look up.

“I did! I do, I- she was- she is- I should have done more to help her!” he yells, and heads turn to look at her.

“You did,” the voice comforts him. Suddenly, his head feels lighter, and a memory comes unbidden.

She hadn’t asked them to leave her.

She’d fallen into his arms, curling in and sobbing softly for a moment before falling into a peaceful sleep. The first in a while.

“You did what you could, how could you have known a god could feel desperation?” the voice offers, and he glances up, a beautiful Kitari woman smiling down at him, one he recognizes.

“It-it’s you.” Dariax breathes as the Observer smiles and gently moves some of his unkempt hair out of his eyes.

“It’s me,” she states.

“Do you need me in the fight, the big moon fight that folks have been telling me about, cause I’ll go, I just…” he falters, uncertainty eating at him, “I don’t know how much good I can do.”

“You do good in everything you attempt, Dariax,” she comforts, “But I require nothing of you, for I am simply content at the moment to watch how this all transpires.”

“You-you’re not afraid?” Dariax asks.

“The fear of the unknown is never far away,” she offers, “But unlike others, I will not let myself be ruled by it.”

“Then… what should I do?” Dariax murmurs.

“Be true to who you are, aid where you can, I am not looking for a Champion Dariax, but there are many out there that simply need a friend.” she offers.

His face falls, “I was a friend to Opal. To Dorian and the others, look how well that turned out.”

“Their roads have diverged from yours for now, but I do not think that will be forever.” the Observer states.

“Really?” Dariax remarks, hope returning ever so slightly.

“Their road will be trying, the paths winding, for you and for them each, but nothing in the stars states that the end that awaits you all is a tragic one. Keep hope.” she offers.

“Well…” Dariax mutters, swirling his drink and glancing up at her. “I guess I have something to fight for after all, yeah?”

“I’d say so,” she states with a smile.

He grins back, somber and reserved, and then glances around, catching that same look in the dozens of faces around him.

“Hey folks!” he calls out, drawing their gazes to him, “Next rounds on me!”

The mood around him goes on an upswing, and he turns back to the Observer as she looks around her with gleaming eyes.

“So… wanna stay for a drink?” he offers, “Or a song, maybe?”

She laughs, “You amaze me, Dariax Zaveon.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his head bashfully, “Th-thank you.’

And he sits with her, talking about times long past and hopes yet unachieved, his heart soaring at the prospect that when all this is over, he can see his friends once again.

Not considering how changed they all might be.

But as the saying goes: Ignorance is bliss.

Goodbye, Crownkeepers, for now… or forever.

#critical role #critical role spoilers #exu #cr dorian #cr opal #fy’ra rai #cr dariax #morrighan ferus #the crownkeepers

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picturesofthegoneworlds · 7 months

Text

Restless

Imogen can't concentrate.

(standard procedure for up to a couple weeks ago, now it wears a different guise.)

She fidgets, sits with her legs crossed on her bedroll, backpack in her lap, removes, itemises, arranges its contents, huffs stray hairs out of her face, hands still twitchy, mind still scrambled, organises it all again. Repeats.

It's early, the fact given away by the low-lying sun and crisp smell on the air that has not yet been burned away by its sustained and blistering presence.

The blisters on her ankles, the friction of leather that is still not fully broken in. Imogen delays in pulling on and lacing up her boots, calves restless but exhausted, thrumming if they remain still too long (too long being only a moment).

She falls back heavily onto the bedroll.

Overhead, in the weave of vines and branches, birds sing. They're mocking her, surely, the awkward and bound to the ground sack of flesh and fat and bones that she is, hair frizzed and sticky from the humidity, her inner thigh chaffed and perspiring where the contact of her dagger's harness coils around it like a constricting snake.

She loosens it a few notches

The pathetic and inconsistent touch of it frustrates her more, so she buckles it tight like a tourniquet.

She exhales, deflates, heavy as she is, runs the back of her forearm over her brow, spreading the salt and sweat, breathes in, feels the connective tissue holding together all of her joints, exhales, arm to ground, along with every other limb, the back of her knees, her spine, her shoulders (there's a rock digging into one through the mat, did she sleep on that last night?), her neck, her ass, wishes they were all gelatin, that she could become one with the floor and not collide with every edge and corner and texture of it, stop being so reactive.

She inhales, skin pulling away, wishing it would continue, peel, lift, blanket, canopy (closer than the trees), shade, but it would drip with blood, hot and sizzling as it rained back onto her exposed bones.

Shadow, the dark tatters, the veil. Molasses of ichor. Dull, hazy, sharp, thorns. Don't touch, don't approach. Space. Wail, scream, chorus, silence. That would chase the birds away, feathers dislodged from sudden movement re-lodged into black tar, carried off, away, down sluggish stream, no contact. Barbed like a briar.

The thread of the bed roll is itchy, the weave of it too thick and open, rough spun from fibrous burlap, it splinters bare skin where it makes contact, nape of her neck, backs of her forearms, thighs, knees, and calves.

Delicate, cool, billowing lace that accommodated to the pads of Imogen's fingers, to her palm, fractured by magic, calloused and freshly wounded, it dulled even the rows of needle teeth beneath. Imogen imagines it her bedsheets, the ground would not matter - could be rivers of lava jutted by shattered glass, it would not matter, sure, cool billowing lace, Imogen would sleep well.

Easier to tell now, how restless her hands are. They pluck at the gauzy linen that makes her dress, the more rigid weave of her waistcoat, following stitching as if it were pathways, movement, roads to get her somewhere, them, skin to skin contact barriered like the rock digging into her shoulder. Her touch meanders to her chest, unintentional, she swears, in promise and obscenity, a winding path with sides towered by hedges and trees that block the horizon, a shock carried from the point of touch to manifest as an ache between her legs and a weightless haze in her head, body rolling, shoulders leaving the mat, leaving the rock that digs, a breath to a sigh to a gravelly moan, sends a bird or two scattering away, a leaf or two falling behind them.

Fuckin' birds. Relax. More touch. Touch is good? Barbed. Thorns. Restraint. Maybe she should grow her nails, maybe then the touch won't feel her own. Laudna - fuck, the name gets a reaction from her again, the jolt in her core as she feels the heat pool at the surface of her face, her neck, her chest, crimson damming, damning, acid rising to her throat carried by the guilt of it.

She kicks and squirms, side of a fist like hammer to nail on the bedroll beside her, other covering her face from the shame of it, it being the burn, the rolling simmer, the violent boil of want and guilt and acid and sting and she is so restless, boiling over, she can't concentrate, the contact of the ground and the fabrics and the atmosphere all feels wrong, scalding, now she knows what to compare it to, how it could feel, what she could be touching.

Could be death calling, alluring, maybe, how long she flirted with it. Cold with head empty, sounded nice, still does, though the delivery and means maybe different now. A face to an end, ends her, finishes, acid in her throat again, hand bunching the rough fabric under her hips.

It moves of its own accord to her thigh, takes a fistful of cuff and flesh and she sobs, eyes scrunching shut so tightly that she starts to see colours in the dark, blotches of crimson in a grey dream, her body in the butcher's cart.

Dreamlike, hazy, drunk (this must be how it feels), she moves without thought, groping herself through the crotch of her shorts, writhing, the floor is too hot against her back, sweat gathering at her hairline and salt beading down into her eyes, again, breath short, short, when did it get so shallow, dizzy. How long could she hold it (hold herself), heat, radiating into the cup of her hand, squirming, a worm under boot, squashed before it gets to dine on the corpse. She pushes firmer against herself, shudders, the feel of the floor leaving, rolls her hips onto the press of her fingers, barriered, dulled, not enough, as they fumble, clutch at the shorts and wrangle the inseam of them in frantic pulls against uncomfortably undulating heat, heat, damp forced through from the close contact onto the pads of her fingers and Gods she's gonna have to prestidigitate that, what the hells is she doing, Laudna could return from her morning forage or whatever it is any moment and

fuck the thought doesn't quell the need at all, her hips spasming and knees shaking as she holds them suspended and trembling, working herself up, frantic, frantic and desperate. How did she get here? she followed the woman at the market, the woman followed the yellow bird, the birdsong silenced for pathetic needy moans, her hips raised so high her shoulders are pushed further into the cut of the offensive rock, princesses and mattresses and beans or whatever that fairytale was Laudna had mentioned about ladies and their proper behaviour.

Proper, right, she should stop, get it over with, fumbles with the fastening of her shorts, hand making its way beneath fabric before it's fully undone, now registering coarse curls, then slicked, heat, heat, heat, hot, wet, eager, soaked, soft, the glide of her intensity, betrayal, soaking. fuck. Touch is not enough, hers, fuck. Not right, the feel of callouses and scars and heat and a barely registrable thrum shit what happens if she gets away from herself, gets too excited. magic fried uncontrollable she is out of control fuck the heat of the bedroll on her back and the push of the rock imbedding imbedded scars wrapping tangled suffocating sinew silvered skin nightmares burden and guilt guilt guilt storming-

Imogen rolls over onto her front, the rock through the bedroll pushing into her chest, against her sternum, aiding to evacuate the bile that has been suspended in her oesophagus but the guilt won't leave her thighs slicked and hot and tacky and uncomfortable and the chaffe of the itchy fabric of the mat burning them, restless, as she removes her fingers from between her legs, wipes the evidence of a pathetic and failed and just and just wrong attempt onto her shorts, prestidigitates it all clean as if she can wash herself of her impurities and intentions, dares to think of the occasions the purple glow has evaporated the rain from Laudna's clothes and skin, now a selfish act, was then too, maybe, always selfish.

#Imodna #Imogen Temult #Laudna #Critical Role #Fanfic #Emma writes #My first foray of writing in my notes app #Rainy morning thing #Imogen is managing just fine.#Seeing Laudna's form of dread for the first time didn't awaken anything in her not at all #M rated fic that links to an E rated collection

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indouloureux · 2 years

Text

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

where you goin'? i'm too fast you say 'what you doin?' don't do that never been a liar, baby, i'm a lilac and you are my sun and every season i need you to keep glowing

summary: bloody and bruised, you watch the thick crimson ichor blend into the thin waters that seeps through the faucet of steve's pristine bathtub. grime and black tar stain the marble of his bathroom floor from the wounds on your feet, and his tears stain your tired thumbs. he trembles in your touch, and he melts into your sacrilegious kiss, and revels in your promising words

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, hurt steve, mentions of blood, events before the two days later time skip of volume two, no one dies but max gets hurt and so does eddie

a/n: ik i said i had a 20k fluff fic with eddie but i wanna give steve some love and comfort bc poor baby :((( (images are not reader in steve its just hard to find a pic like that lol)

there's nothing but the lone owl hooting behind the cluster of trees beside steve's house. the lights are off, there's fog hovering over his cerulean pool that he refuses to dive into since 1983. you watch as nancy's car scurries away into the road until her lights are nothing but a speck of dust, and switch your attention to him.

him, steve. who has a lenient hand on your back as he stares off into the abyss of the empty street in front of him. from afar you hear chaos, the confused screams of the clueless townspeople at the sight of a gnarly opening that splits hawkins into four. you can still hear houses falling into that red pit, but most of all you can hear steve's breathing.

a breathing that's hanging by a thread. a tired breathing. one that breaks your heart and probably his, too.

he's covered in grime and blood. not his, anyway. eddie's, who he had to carry with the help of his limping friend who'd cried the entire time. you had watched the way steve's eyes were wide with panic when he practically hurls eddie to you and nancy with all his strength before he'd helped dustin up.

eddie's blood had spread across his face when he wipes the tears away. he doesn't want to show vulnerability yet. not when his friend was on the verge of death. not now. don't be selfish.

"hey," your voice brings him back to earth, from wherever reminiscing daze he'd been on. and his head whips at you in worry.

"hey, baby. you alright?" his hands, although covered in the dried tar and grease of vecna's black veins, comes up to touch your face. it reeks, but there's that congenial scent that holds on to bring you both some comfort as you lean into his touch.

"yeah," tingling fingers come up to brush his hair out of his forehead, coming down to grasp the red ring around his neck that makes your bottom lip wobble. "let's go inside, yeah?"

wordless, he nods, wrapping his arm around your waist to keep you close to him. like he's afraid one of the vines would come up from the gates and hurl you back into that blue hell.

the door to his house opens with ease. he doesn't even care if someone had decided to break in inside his unlocked home. because it doesn't feel like home anyway. not when his parents are gone still, not when you're not in it. it's not a home. it's just a house. an empty, boring, lifeless house.

steve switches the lights open. the dim flaxen color illuminating the entire living room, coated in dust. he scans it, finds everything still in the same place before he continues your journey up to the stairs that lead to his bedroom—the only thing used other than the kitchen, his bathroom, and the television in the living room that he barely even opens now that he mostly spends his time at your place watching movies from the tapes he "borrows" from work.

the door to his room creaks eerily, the same lights from downstairs adding a too much optimistic glow on his bedroom. steve sighs, uncurling his arm from you to unsheathe his jacket and throws it into whatever corner.

"here, let me help," he walks over to you when you struggle to remove the clasp of the vest he'd practically forced you to wear. his hands gently remove yours from your vest, pressing down onto the sides until you feel yourself breathe properly; lax in from the freedom of the tight protection. "'m gonna take a shower, okay? wanna join me?"

he's already got his shirt off when he asks if you want to join, where you can see his bandages wrapped tightly around his torso. there's barely any blood there but you can see the light brown taint on his sides, the once wheaten bandaging now darkly brindle.

"yeah sure. just let me grab some towels,"

"there's some inside, baby," steve takes your hand, kisses the open cuts on your knuckles that had faded into this heavy numbness. "lets get you cleaned up, yeah?"

when he holds your hand and leads you to his bathroom where he sits you on the closed toilet, he closes the drain and opens his faucet to fill his alabaster tub. and once it starts flowing, he starts undressing you first with delicacy as if you'd been the one brutally hurt.

with gentle kisses to your shoulder, you let him rip your soiled shirt into two. steve's kisses are healing, antiseptic to your open wounds, honey to your sore throat and sage for your withering health.

then he lets you remove your jeans as he removes his own, where he takes yours into his hands and throws the both of them into the bin beside the sink. just in time for the tub to be full enough to wash the both of you.

with a hand to your back and a hand that clutches yours for safety, you dip your feet onto the tub.

once you've settled, steve follows next. he dips his body into the water, blood shattering the clear mosaic as you both feel the water wash off the ichor of a dead monster. but it feels wrong - rather it felt like steve had dipped his body, clad in open wounds, into an ocean, the salt stinging his bleeding scars. with his bandages long gone and discarded onto the charred floor, he feels the waves stab onto his bites like they want to hurt him more.

he lets his pain show with the way his face grimaces and he hisses. steve gasps quietly, watching his blood and dirt amalgamate with yours into the water you bless yourselves upon, watching everything turn pink with the specks of soot.

"christ, that feels good," he takes your hand into his once more, dipping your knuckles beneath the water and lets his thumbs wash the dirt off your knuckles to prevent any risk of an infection. "we showered yesterday before we went in but it feels like i haven't showered in years,"

"seems like that, to be honest," your shoulder raises, resting your cheek onto it. "you reek, stevie. like...dead meat."

"yeah, well, god knows what those veins have touched," he shivers. your hands arose from the pink water, the grime washed off meticulously by his soapless, gentle scrubbing. but you reach for the small bar of soap from the handle beside you and dip it lightly onto the water before you start scrubbing it along his hairy arms. "you don't have to do that."

"no, let me," you want to take care of him. you pity the dread that circles around his irises, the lethargy visible in his hunched body, the fear that exudes with his blood, the muscles that continue to fight; if not for himself then for the people he loves. the people he'll continue to love and give love in the way he wants to be given with. steve dilutes in your touch, watching the white foam turn gray.

and you see it. right when you've been expecting it do you see the crystal glass that gloss over his eyes that had been threatening to spill out since yesterday. steve's shallow breathing, the hair on his chest rising with the waters making it cling onto him, and his hands shaking against you.

"god, i can't fucking keep it anymore," he barely washes the soap off his skin when he curls his hands into fists and presses it against his eyes. "i can't hold it in, baby."

you scoot closer to take steve's broken soul into your arms. he sobs, breaks down and lets his cries break. your hands tangle themselves onto his damp locks, keeping him close to your shoulder and let him cry onto you. you do nothing but rub his back, bite your own tears in and listen to his lugubrious wails.

"i feel so weak. i feel like i don't deserve to cry because i don't have it harder. they've seen worse things but i felt...i felt a lot of pain," he whimpers into you. "there's this ringing in my ears that never leave, (y/n). i feel like i'm going deaf in one ear and my head just—" he pulls away from you, wiping his own tears. "my head just hurts and i don't know what's wrong with me."

"baby, come on," you cup his face, large in juxtaposition to your small hands, his tears staining your tired thumbs. "nothing's wrong with you. you're allowed to cry, honey. what makes you feel this way?"

"i don't wanna seem weak to you," he sniffles. "don't wanna look like a coward to dustin. to anyone but i've been trying so hard to put on a brave face. ah, fuck,"

everything inside you breaks when you see his eyes; striving to let it live with love but drowns in melancholy grief and heedless torpor. they gloss and they shine in the dim light of his bathroom, begging for remedy as they search yours for any aid. steve's own hand touches yours, his face crumbles and lets himself quietly sob.

"you're a hero," you whisper to him, leaning closer that your nose brushes with his. "people may not say it but you're a hero. you fought off the demogorgon in the byers house, you helped dustin and the kids with the whole demogorgon thing too and saving them from billy and helping will. and you helped dustin discover those russians and if you hadn't, maybe they would have invaded us by now," steve chuckles against you. "you did all those things without any hesitance, stevie. you're amazing,"

in your hands was a boy who craved love and appreciation. a boy who's changed for the greater good and yearns for felicitations. a boy who's kept his nightmares to himself in fear of seeming weak and too vulnerable; and steve lets himself be that boy to you.

"i have these dreams," steve's eyes are wide with fear. "that everyone died and it was all my fault. you'd been killed by a demogorgon, dustin and the kids they—they burned inside that lab. same one every night baby—"

"well i'm here now," you shush him, dragging your hands across his shoulders and massage the tension away. "and the kids are safe. i'm here, honey. i'm alive and i'm okay,"

"everything hurts," he gasps. "my head and my ears and my fucking neck," he tilts his head up to kiss your forehead, digging his wet lips into the soiled skin. "i don't know when it'll stop and i want it to stop, baby."

you know he's not just talking about the physical pain.

you both know he's talking about the never ending guilt in his chest when he sees the pool, the faded scars on his face that yells stupidity at him, the circular scar on his neck from after he was drugged beneath the mall he worked for, and now the cruel bites of the inter dimensional monsters.

"i'm here baby," three reverential words, sacrilegious that's prosed into a promise of protection and endless devotion. steve sobs into your skin and expresses his gratitude with a hard, chaste kiss to your split lips. warm, home, loving.

"you'll be here forever, right?"

his words that come from the years spent wandering around the desolated walls of his home, his longing for parental guidance and genuine love. the words that come from a changed man who promises himself to remain good and forget his old asshole self. steve cries against you.

"forever, baby," you furrow your eyebrows, smiling at him. "till i'm all dust."

he's the wilting lilac in a dead field that blooms when your radiance glows from your sunny disposition. even know with your bare limbs tangled inside the confined tub of his sacred bathroom, arms entwined and lips locked together into an oath. steve vows to show himself to you no matter what—lets himself break down and cry.

for now, steve harrington will grieve and cry and break against your touch. and he'll bloom later once the sun has risen and he's gathered up all his courage to face whatever challenge their failure has brought upon them. with his hand in yours and his heart mended.

reblogs and feedback are appreciated <3

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