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#canon typical violence
catsharky · 2 months
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Create cool summer treats for your vampire with this one neat trick
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sp0o0kylights · 3 months
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Steve’s mother was the black sheep of her family.
Stella hated the snow, and the isolation of the small town she grew up in. Hated the bright colors, and sheer friendliness of the neighbors. How everyone was always involved in each other’s business, at all times--and how getting involved meant sharing.
Giving up your time for the greater good.
‘We’re one big family!’ Her father had told her, and hadn’t understood why she found the concept utterly revolting.
Just like she couldn’t understand why they never agreed with her ideas. Things would run so much more smoothly with more rules, better regulations. They didn’t need to rely on magic when they had spreadsheets.
Who cared if some people were upset? If some of the workers where put out of jobs, or “hurt” by her changes?
That was how evolution worked.
The strongest survived, and the business world demanded only the strongest of leaders.
She didn’t regret leaving.
Didn’t look behind her for a second, all too happy to go to college and find herself a rich man to make miserable.
Even had a child, though they were never her favorite things. Her Steven of course, would be so much different from the children she’d grown up among or the ones she helped oversee for her father's work.
He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t shriek or scream or make demands of busy adults. Steven would know his place, and he would stay in it until he had grown into a reasonable adult.
No unrealistic expectations, not from her son.
And absolutely, 100%, no magic.
(Unfortunately for Stella Harrington and her relationship with her son, magic does not obey the whims of one person.
Particularly not that kind of magic, one far older than Stella could comprehend.)
See: Steve knew where he came from. Would never say it of course, outright refused to put a name to it.
Knew better, even when he was young, than to speak it aloud.
Though his mother had long abandoned any powers given to her, Steve was still born with his. When lonely, he often found he could wander into a different kind of woods. 
One absolutely covered in snow.
Steve should have been cold in those woods, but he never was, not even the first time he stumbled into them at the tender age of seven.
These trees never scared him. Not like the ones in his backyard sometimes did.
The whole place felt rather welcoming in a way his own house had never been, and as Steve had stumbled along following the faint glow of lights, he found himself feeling more relaxed.
Happy.
Even at seven, Steve was smart enough to know he needed to turn back, after a while. That his mother would be furious with him if he caused her to miss the meeting she needed to go to.
That he had a responsibility to be where she put him.
He hadn’t crested the hill yet. Hadn’t quite figured out where the glow was coming from, when he realized he needed to go home--but his trip wasn’t wasted.
A baby reindeer distracted him.
It peeked around a tree, and upon seeing him, came dashing his way.
Steve should be scared, would have been scared, but something in him told him this creature was his friend. He held out his hands and greeted it as such.
He was right.
A few more little reindeer came up over the hill, running around him, and together he played what felt like a game as he walked back in the direction he thought his house lay.
Said his goodbyes when the snow started to wane and made promises to return.
Found, sadly, that he wouldn’t get another chance too for almost a full year. He was too busy, signed up for multiple sports, handed over to tutors and taught life skills by a parade of nannies, none of whom ever stayed for long.
He dreamed of the snow.
The gentle way the woods felt.
It was what made him tell the lie that let him go back.
Steve was eight by then, and smart to how his parents and nannies worked. That some of them overlapped their stays when his parents went away.
So it was easy to tell Mary that she could go.
That it was okay, really. Carla had just called, she was on her way.
Just like it was easy to tell Carla that his parents' plans had changed. Let her know she wasn’t needed after all.
What harm would it do if he was alone for a night? His father kept telling him he was a big boy. Soon he’d be on his own anyway.
The snow found him faster this time, when he went for his walk in the woods.
Delighted, Steve kept an eye out for the reindeer, fingers skittering across tree bark as he looked around, once again tracking the soft glow that came up over the hill.
It was a long walk to that light, but Steve didn’t mind.
Not until he heard the crying.
“Hello?” Steve called, voice prim and proper as always. It was a little high--Tommy teased him endlessly about it, but he had been assured it would deepen.
The crying didn’t stop, but things got quiet for a moment, in the way that happens when someone was trying hard not to be found.
(Steve knew exactly how that felt, not wanting to be found. Wanting to cry for a moment, without someone telling you to toughen up, be a man, ‘God Steven you’re too old for all this--’)
“It’s okay!” Steve rushed out, trying to locate where the muffled sounds were coming from before they ran away. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise!”
Which is right about when he almost tripped over the other kid.
He was hunched against a tree, knees drawn into his chest with brown hair hanging into his eyes. His clothes were a odd--a little like how his teacher had made Steve dress when they’d done a play about the middle ages.
“Who’re you?” The boy asked defensively, wiping his nose with his sleeve.
“I’m Steve.” He said, before kneeling down himself. “Did you get hurt?”
“No.” The boy sniffled. After a moment he added; “M’ Eddie.”
His eyes were large, and reminded Steve of a puppy he once saw. All cute and round and shiny.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.” The boy said and it wasn’t an accusation, but it wasn’t friendly.
“I’m not from around here.” Steve told him. “At least, I don’t think I am.”
It was kind of hard to know, given Steve wasn’t sure where here was, exactly--and absolutely knew better than to ask his parents.
“Well then you should go home.” The boy sniffled again.
Steve wasn't put off by it. Tommy had been a lot meaner than this after all, when they'd first met. 
Given their parents made them play together anyways, Steve felt he he could get this kid to like him too. 
"I'm gonna, later. I'm looking for something right now though--you wanna come?" 
Which he felt was a pretty nice offer. Might distract Eddie from whatever was bothering him.
(Steve liked distractions, when he was upset. It made it a lot easier to swallow down the bad feelings.) 
“You shouldn’t hang around me.” Eddie said suddenly. His nose was as red as his eyes, and he refused to look Steve in the eye as he hunched further into himself. “I’m bad.”
“You’re not bad.” Steve told him. 
He got a glare for it.
“How would you know?”
“I dunno.” Steve stopped, brows furrowing in thought. “I just--kinda do. I always have.”
Which was true. Steve was awfully good at identifying who was good and who was bad, from adults to his fellow classmates. It had gotten him in trouble before his mother had sat him down, and told him he just had a good business sense.
That he needed to keep to himself who was good and who was bad, especially the adults, because it wasn’t his place to say such things.
(‘But it’ll serve you well in the future.’ His mother told him, tucking an errant strand of hair back behind his ear. ‘Particularly for business deals.’)
“Well you’re wrong then, because I was born bad.” Eddie scoffed, arms crossing over his chest. “Everyone says so!”
It was dramatic as hell, and Steve couldn’t help the giggle that escaped him.
“I’m sorry!” He said immediately, when Eddie’s face flushed angrily. “I’m sorry it’s just--you look kinda silly.”
He mimed Eddie’s stance for a moment, including a dramatic little huff of breath. It unbalanced him, and Steve ended up dropping on his butt, which made him to laugh even louder.
“No one who does that can be bad.” He said finally, through the giggles. 
“That’s--stupid. You’re stupid.” Eddie said, except he was clearly trying to hide his own laugh at Steve’s antics.
“I’m not stupid--and you’re not bad. I promise.” Steve said, before reaching out a hand, one pinkie extended. “I’ll swear on it.”
“What’re you doing?” Eddie asked him, but he didn’t sound sad now. More curious. 
Curious Steve knew, was a lot better than sad. 
“You wrap your pinkie finger with mine. Then it’s a pinkie swear, which is like--unbreakable!”
That’s what Carol had told him at least, and so far it had held true. Steve figured it must work doubly so, in a place like this.
Cautiously, Eddie reached out, entwining his pinkie with Steve’s. Like any minute Steve would snatch his hand back, and tell him it was all a joke.
Instead, Steve bobbed their hands up and down once, before letting go and asking; “Do you wanna go find that light with me? I wanna see what it is.”
He pointed up the hill, toward the glow that had haunted his dreams.”
“Oh that’s boring.“ Eddie told him, but he had a grin on his face that felt infectious. “It’s just the town. I’ll show you something way better!”
“Yeah?” Steve asked, and let Eddie snatch his wrist, launching to his feet and bringing Steve with him.
In doing so his hair blew, revealing that he had pointed ears.
Steve stared at them in awe as Eddie tugged him further into the trees, until they burst into a clearing filled with gingerbread houses. They ranged from teeny tiny, to large enough that Steve and Eddie could walk in them, and it wasn’t long before the two started a game of tag, broken only by laughter. 
In retrospect, this was his downfall.
Because the little gingerbread houses were really cool, and Eddie was a lot of fun. It was easy to play with him--like the two of them had been made for each other.
Steve had never connected like this with a person before. Never had so much fun with someone before.
Not even with Tommy and Carol, his very best friends.
Eddie seemed to feel the same way, and not even an hour into meeting him, Steve knew he would remember this for the rest of his life.
Remember Eddie.
Steve ended up losing track of time. Stayed so long that his lie was discovered.
The person who came looking for him wasn’t his parents, but looked weirdly like his mom--if his mom were a boy.
He introduced himself as Steve’s Uncle Nick after he called the two boys to him, hands on his hips in a way Steve kind of wanted to mimic.
Steve knew it to be true, in the same way he knew how to find the forest, and if someone was good or bad. A feeling inside him he could tap into, warm and fuzzy in a way that, should he ever be pressed, he might admit to feeling like magic.
“Now how did you get here?” Uncle Nick asked him, like Steve's presence was a surprising little puzzle.
Knowing better than to lie, sensing that his Uncle would be able to tell if he did anyways, Steve told him the truth.
It got him exactly what he expected, which was an upset adult.
Unlike his mom or dad however, his Uncle didn’t yell at him, or grab Steve’s hand in a punishing grip. No nails dug into his skin, no harsh words were hissed. Uncle Nick simply pinched the tip of his nose, before giving a sigh that shook his massive frame.
“Your mom is going to be very upset.” He said finally.
Like Steve didn't know. 
“I just wanted to see the lights.”
“The lights--oh.” Uncle Nick glanced over his shoulder. “Could you see them from your house?”
Steve shook his head.
“No but I could feel them.”
Like a pulse in his chest. A compass, or--a guide.
“He says he can tell who's naughty or nice.” Eddie chimed in, oddly quiet for how loud he had been. “He says I’m good.”
This was said as a challenge, and Steve eyed his new friend out of the corner of his eye. He’d never dared speak to an adult like that, and was both a little in awe of Eddie doing it, and afraid for him.
Something his Uncle seemed to sense.
“Edward, go home.” He said, firm but kind.  Not like how Steve's mom was when she was mad, or his dad when he had a bad day at work.“I’ll come talk to you later. Come on Steve, let me walk you back. I best explain this in person.”
Then he took Steve’s hand in his, while Steve called out a goodbye to Eddie over his shoulder.
“You’ll come back and visit, right!?” Eddie yelled back. 
Steve shouted an affirmative, even knowing it wasn’t likely he’d be allowed.
(Wished with all his heart, that he'd be allowed.) 
“Eddie is really good, you know.” Steve said once he no longer could see his new friend, because it felt important to tell his Uncle that. Necessary, for some reason.
“I know.” Uncle Nick replied gently. “But let’s not worry about him right now, okay?”
“Okay.”
Then they were back in Steve’s woods, the ones that were sometimes unfriendly. In his backyard, and up to the door, and even from here Steve could hear his mother and father screaming at each other, in a tone that made his stomach curl.
“Come on kiddo. Time to face the music.” Uncle Nick told him, and Steve found he really didn’t want to let go of his Uncle’s hand.
He did though.
He was a big boy, and well trained. He didn’t flinch from his parents. Didn’t disobey when his mother demanded he tell her exactly how he got to the fun place, with all the snow--and listened further still when she demanded Uncle Nick take it out of him.
Take what Steve didn’t know--not until his Uncle lost the argument.
Reached into Steve’s chest and did something to him, something that killed that warm and fuzzy thing that had always lived inside Steve.
He cried harder than he ever had before that night. Cried and begged for Uncle Nick to put it back, that he was sorry and he wouldn’t ever use it again if they just let him keep it.
(He promised, he promised, he promised-!)
Sank to his knees and told his parents that it hurt.
They didn't listen, and they didn't put it back.
His father told him to get up off the floor, and then pulled him up when Steve found he couldn’t.
Hauled him to his room, even as his Uncle warned his mother that he couldn’t get rid of it. That he could only suppress it, the same way she suppressed hers, but those words didn’t really matter to Steve just then.
Not when he was hurting, and tired, and found himself wishing for his new friend.
(His mother told him he’d feel better in time.
Steve never did.)
xXx
The hole in Steve’s chest had never filled.
It kept him up at night. The yearning for something just out of reach, tormenting him with a feeling of being hollow.
He didn’t know how his mother could stand it.
Steve stopped fussing about it though--or rather, he stopped the first time his father had slapped him over his complaining.
“Enough, Steven! You’re perfectly fine. Now start acting like it, for fucks sake!” He’d roared, and shocked as he was, Steve had still done what he’d been taught to do.
Toughed it out. Sucked it up. Got over it.
Dumped his entire life into basketball and swimming and other parent-approved activities, even if he felt empty.
He was eight, then ten, then fourteen and soon Steve wasn’t healed, but he'd adjusted. 
Got aloof to the pain as his popularity skyrocketed, and his parents left him on his own while they chased the almighty dollar.
(Secretly, Steve tried to fill the void in his heart with parties and people, alcohol and even the occasional drug, though most just left him feeling worse than before.
It was perhaps how he ended up acting as he did.
Turning from the sweet boy who was always helping others, to someone who was fast with their insults. Popularity was a sharks game, and though he refused to participate in the bullying his friends enjoyed, he made sure everyone knew who the biggest fish in the pond was.
Because the hole was always there, in the back of his mind. The thing inside him that was missing, that made him crave the snow, and the lights, and the boy with pointy ears. 
He might be able to force himself to forget about all of that, if only the hole in his heart would allow him.)
xXx
Five days before his fifteenth birthday, some random guy showed up in Steve’s yard.
This wasn’t unusual--Steve invited a lot of people over.
Tommy and Carol both had a standing invitation to use his pool and Steve often used it to curry favor with the upperclassmen--but even underwater, Steve didn’t recognize the teenager leaning over to watch him swim.
Plus it was a little weird for someone to pop up on a Sunday.
Refusing to be intimidated, Steve surfaced right under the guy, head whipping up to make sure he splashed him in the face.
Laughed as the other guy sputtered.
“Can I help you man?” Steve drawled, hooking his arms on the lip of the pool.
“I’m looking for someone. Steve Harrington?” The guy told him, glaring as he wiped water off his face.
His hair just touched his shoulders, in that awkward stage of growing out that made him look like a pageboy.
Steve tucked that little observation away for later, in case he needed it.
“Congratulations, you found me.” He said, eyeing him over.
Black jeans with holes in the knees, wallet chain and a black shirt with a faded logo of some band Steve had never heard of proudly displayed. A checkered plaid shirt topped the whole outfit, with a red guitar pick dangling around his neck from a chain.
Like the guy thought he was some kind of rockstar, and not in bumfuck Indiana.
Steve raised an eyebrow.
“Though I think you’re in the wrong place. The audition for the new town jester is being held at the high school.”
He got a frown, like the guy knew he was being insulted but didn’t quite want to believe it. “I’m not here for an audition.”
“You sure? Cause you’re definitely dressed the part.”
“Okay, you are definitely not Steve.” He said, arms crossing his chest. He had a ring on each hand, catching the light as he clutched at his arms. “Steve wasn’t this much of a dick.”
Which wasn’t the first time Steve had been called out for his behavior--but it had never been by the people he was supposed to care about.
Those people, the people his parents liked?
They loved it.
“Times change.” Steve told the stranger. Kept his tone light and playful, the way that always made girls giggle at him and guy’s listen.
Well the ones he wasn’t making fun of, anyways.
“People do too.”
He rearranged himself, planting both palms flat against the concrete, bouncing once to build energy before rocketing out of the water.
Stood, and watched with interest as the new guy’s eyes raked over his naked torso, before his whole face flushed red.
How he looked away, like he suddenly couldn’t bare to look at Steve.
“You shouldn't have changed that much.” He muttered, but Steve already had his number.
"Why were you looking for me anyway?” Steve asked as he went and grabbed a towel. Wrapped it around his waist, but kept his upper body shirtless.
Idly scratched at his hip and watched as the guy acted like Steve had practically stripped naked in front of him.
Weirdly enjoyed the little spark it gave him, to watch this guy appear so affected by his bare chest.
Defensive, the stranger bit out; “We were friends. I haven’t seen him in a long time, I was just checking up on him.”
That made Steve pause.
Really look over the guy standing before him.
The fidgeting, the blushing, the way he avoided Steve’s gaze.
He opened his mouth, an odd urge to draw this out guiding him when the hole in his chest pulsed.
Like a convulsion, a miniature seizure that took Steve entirely by surprise.
It had been a long time since it had done that, long enough to throw Steve off his game.
Make him feel unsafe, unmoored.
Abandoned.
“Yeah?” He wheezed, before covering himself and the flood of wrong/want/need with a harsh cough. “Well now I know you’re definitely barking up the wrong tree. I’d never be friends with a fucking queer.”
At that, the guy’s mouth dropped open, head whipping around to stare at Steve in shock.
"Don’t deny it, I can tell. You’re practically drooling over there.” Steve smiled with all his teeth, even as he struggled to keep his breath even. “It’s disgusting.”
“You know what, fuck you. I thought you were different and you’re not.” The stranger spat, with far more venom than Steve was prepared for. “You’re the same as all the rest.”
He scoffed, before whirling on his heel, middle finger high in the air as he stormed off into the woods.
“Have fun with your sad, beige fucking life!” He yelled, voice a little choked up.
“I will!” Steve yelled back at him, oddly heated.
Rubbed his chest when he was gone, before sitting down to try and figure out what the hell just happened--and why the hell his chest hurt so much.
xXx
Steve’s life remained completely and painfully normal--until Nancy Wheeler.
Nancy and her smile, Nancy and her reminder of what it felt like to be loved. 
She didn’t fill the void inside him, but what she did came close.
Felt similar.
Steve found he’d do anything for her, looking at life once again through the lens he had back when he was seven.
It was great.
Better than great--it was the best he’d ever been.
Then Barb went missing.
Shit hit the fan so fast that in retrospect, Steve still doesn’t understand it. There was Jonathan and his camera, with the background of his missing little brother. Tommy and his insults, grabbing Steve up by the collar. Nancy being weird, Nancy ducking him to hang out with the guy who took photographs of them having sex.
Steve's brain tracks it all in little snapshots. The way he realized that maybe Nancy was right--he was way more of an asshole than he thought. How he decided to clean the theater, and then apologize to Jonathan.
(Creepy shit or not, Jonathan’s brother was gone. Steve had never had a brother, but he understood how it felt when something important was taken from you.
How it made you act after.)
There was a shift inside him. Not coming from the void, but from how Steve dealt with it.
And then there was a fucking monster coming out of the ceiling.
This is how Steve learns the magic he once had wasn’t special. That it’s not the only supernatural thing that exists in the world.
Only unlike the snow and gingerbread house and boy with pointed ears and an Uncle that looked a hell of a lot like Santa Clause, this version came with evil government laboratories, the Upside Down and his girlfriend holding a gun.
It was kind of a lot, really.
Particularly because his parents weren’t home.
(They still came home of course, but it wasn’t with the same frequency as it used to be.
The business trips went from once a month, to every other week, to long stretches of away periods. Long enough that Steve spoke to them over the phone more than he did in person, and knew more about business mergers than he ever cared too.
Also his fathers love life, courtesy of his drunk mother.)
Steve didn’t exactly handle it well.
Doesn’t think any of them handled it well, really, even if Nancy blamed him for trying to pretend he was okay. But right as their relationship blew up in Steve’s face, shit started happening again.
Flickering lights and freaky monsters. A group of kids Steve found himself in charge of, who were doing their level best to commit suicide.
(“We’re helping El and Will, idiot!” Mike Wheeler protested in the back of Billy Hargrove’s Camaro when Steve brought up that this was not what being benched meant, and Steve let him have that one given the way the world was spinning.
God that asshole hit like a train.)
Another snapshot, full of fear and fury, and things were over once again. 
Steve was telling Nancy it was okay. She could go with Jonathan, that he could tell it was what she wanted.
It hurt him to do it, but he wasn’t going to be like his own parents.
Realized with a weird amount of clarity, that he wanted to be the very opposite of his parents.
Late in the night, feeling every ache and pain in his body but knowing everyone was safe, Steve finally started the long trek home. 
He didn’t have his car (he hoped that was still at the Byers place) and he didn’t have his keys (no clue where those went but he was praying it wasn’t in the freaky tunnels) and was well into the middle of his walk when his chest started acting weird. Really weird. 
Steve ignored it.
He kept ignoring it, focused on getting back to his bed, and his bed alone.
(Maybe he had been thinking more than that. About how the last time he had truly been happy wasn’t with Nancy, but with Eddie. That he’d give anything to go play in the gingerbread houses again.
Maybe he was even thinking of how warm his Uncle had been, the way he was so gentle when he held Steve’s hand.
How he’d argued against Steve’s parents, when no one else ever did.
It was probably just the head injury.)
Unfortunately--or fortunately, depending on who you asked later--the weird feeling didn't stop.
It grew and grew, until it felt like something was breaking out of him.
Like a cough you’d long suppressed that crawled forcefully up and out of your throat, it both hurt and felt amazing, a pang echoing out through his very core--
Then suddenly there was snow on the trees and Steve was stumbling into a teenager with fluffy hair.
“Sorry.” He muttered, right before he went down on his knees.
“What the hell---” Fluffy haired guy said, spinning around and looking at Steve like he was a ghost. “Oh shit, are you okay!?”
“I’m fine.” Steve lied, even as he gave in and laid down.
Man, this snow was nice.
Comfy and soft, and cold on his face.
There was a string of curses coming from above him, and Steve made the effort to twist his head so he could watch fluffy hair kneel frantically next to him.
“ What happened!? How did you get here!?”
“S’long story man.” Steve slurred, feeling bad and looking worse. His head fucking hurt.
“Don’t suppose there’s a guy named Eddie around? He has uh,” Steve fumbled, hands trying to point to his ears. “Pointed. You know.”
He gestured to his own ear again.
(Figured he might as well ask, given all the snow.)
The Fluffy Hair pulled said hair back at that, revealing his very own pointy ear. “Dude you’re in the North Pole, all us elves have pointy ears.”
The North Pole.
The words Steve had only ever dared to think, and never said out loud.
“Cool.” He said instead, not really feeling like he was inside his own body.
“Just--stay there, okay? My name's Gareth I’m gonna go get someone.” Gareth the elf (an elf, wasn’t that a trip. Did that mean Eddie was also an elf?) said, hands hovering awkwardly in the air, before he darted off, out of Steve’s sight.
“Can you get Eddie?” The question came out in a whine, the hurt in Steve’s chest overtaken by the pain in his head.
He didn’t get an answer.
Which was okay, he thought.
He didn’t really need one.
He had the snow, and the woods that weren’t straight out of a fucking nightmare, and, he could just sleep right here…
“Steve!”
He blinked, and found he must have passed out.
“There you are. Stay with me.” A blurry face was saying. A couple more blinks brought it into focus, and Steve knew this person, even if he couldn't put a name to a face.
The hair was longer, and there were more rings on his fingers, ones Steve could both see and feel as a hand ran along the back of his head.
Worried doe eyes met Steve's own, and just through the curtain of curls, he caught the outline of a pointed ear.
“Ed--ie?” He croaked, unsure.
“Yeah Stevie, it's me. You're okay, we brought you back to my place. Gareth is getting help.”
He was trying to sound reassuring but he mostly just sounded worried.
Not that Steve cared, because he finally figured out why older Eddie was familiar.
“Oh.” He managed, the words feeling like he had to push out. “It was you. By the--pool.”
“What?”
It felt like eons ago. The weird guy, asking after him. Back when Steve had been doing anything he could to fill the void his magic had left behind, and turned into a raging shithead as a result.
“M sorry.” Steve slurred, voice cracking in its honesty. “I was--asshole. M'sorry.”
The look Eddie gave him was wild. Like he couldn’t believe Steve was here, and definitely couldn’t believe Steve was apologizing.
Which was fair. Until last year Steve wouldn’t have ever apologized, to anyone, ever. 
“Yeah you were, but we can talk about it later. Right now I just need you to stay awake.” Eddie said instead. It was gentle, a lot more gentle than Steve felt he deserved.
It made him want to explain, more than anything, what had happened.
“I was tryin to fix…the hole. Inside.” Steve needed Eddie to understand. Needed it more than breathing, just then.
“I know, big boy.” Eddie soothed, and his hands were back in Steve’s hair.
It felt nice.
“S’not an excuse, promise it's not. I was hurt--hurting, and--I was mean.” Steve continued. It was getting harder to think, the world swimming in and out of focus, but this was important.
Perhaps the most important thing he’d done in a long time, sans saving the kids from the demodogs.
“It’s okay, Stevie. I didn’t get it back then but I understand better now and…”
He might have said something more. Steve thinks he was, but then Eddie was shaking him harshly, and Steve realized he might have tried to pass back out.
“Come on Stevie, sweetheart, you can’t sleep right now. You have to stay awake for me, okay? Steve?”
Steve tried to shake his head and hissed when he found out how much that hurt. Breathed in and out through the pain, before his brain connected back to what he’d been trying to say.
“Not jus’ to you.” He panted. “Wasn’t mean just to you.”
That was important too. That Eddie knew he hadn't been targeted. That Steve was a dick to pretty much anyone he came across.
“I know. I've uh, been watching you, from here."
“Yeah?”
“We have this giant globe. Like a crystal ball, but it’s set deep into the floor so you can only really see half of it. It can also connect to snow globes, and it can let you see places. Watch people.”
Eddie’s voice was soothing, the deep timber of it echoing through Steve’s chest. Belatedly he realized his head was in Eddie’s lap.
That felt nice too.
“I was real mad at you but the Bossman--uh, your Uncle, he kinda showed me you once or twice and then I started watching you myself. Sorry I know that’s weird--”
“Least you didn’t take pictures.” Steve wheezed and then tried to grin because that was very much supposed to be a joke.
(He definitely had felt more put together when he dropped the kids off in Billy's Camaro--so what the hell was happening? Had the shock worn off? Adrenaline?
Fuck maybe he should have just driven Billy’s stupid car back to his house, instead of leaving it at Max's house.
Asshole deserved to not know where his car was anyway.)
Then suddenly there was a lot of noise and light and fuck did that all make his head hurt. Hands went all over him, people barking orders, and a girl Steve was pretty sure was his age was peering at him.
“Steve?” She asked, but it sounded distant. Echoey and unclear.
“I can’t keep him awake!”
That from Eddie, who sounded much clearer, if not utterly panicked. 
“It’s okay, I’ve got him.” The girl said, tight but professional in a way that typically belonged to someone used to medical emergencies. “You can let him go now.”
“Are you kidding me, Buckley you’re an apprentice medmage-!”
Steve frowned at that, but found something was drifting over him. A weight, like an invisible blanket pressed down gently, and he had a second to recognize that this too, was some kind of magic before sleep tried to take him.
He fought it for a moment as a thought occurred.
One last thing he needed to say.
“You’re still good. Eddie. You’ve always been--”
The magic took him away.
xXx
It smelled like cinnamon.
Cinnamon and sharp hints of peppermint, the kind that tickled at Steve’s nose as he slowly rose back into consciousness.
Steve winced as he sat up, head itching like ants were crawling all over it. Idly he tried to scratch at his forehead and found himself touching a thick bandage, at about the same time his body seemed to catch on that he was awake.
It reminded him that he had had a hell of a night in the form of an onslaught of aches and pains.
His fingers traced the edge of the bandage as he took in the cheerful red walls surrounding him. The room was the exact kind of kitschy his mom hated, little twirls of white here and there making the place look like the inside of a candy cane.
The center piece was the full size window, taller than Steve was and twice as wide. Fat, fluffy flakes of snow drifted lazily outside it, some sticking to the window panes as they floated on by.
It was a little like being knocked out and waking up in the Wonka factory, but given all the shit that he had been through the past twenty four hours, Steve didn’t mind it.
Snow was infinitely preferable to the weird ash that came out of the Upside Down.
As if sensing he was awake, the door opposite the window swung open. A tray came through, positively stacked with a stupid amount of pancakes and oozing with maple syrup, the type Steve could smell.
“I,” Eddie announced, head just visible above the good, “had a very embarrassing meltdown when they tried to take you away from me. So suck it up Harrington, because you’re stuck with me now.”
Steve stared at him, mildly concerned he was a hallucination.
“I brought you pancakes.” Eddie added, pausing as he approached the bed like he hadn’t actually thought through to this point.
“I see that.” Steve said, just to fill the sudden, awkward silence. “There’s…kinda a lot there, man.”
So much so it was threatening to escape the confines of the tray and drip down onto the carpet.
“You play sports things don’t you?” Eddie defended, making the executive decision to put the tray down on the bed. “Kinda thought you’d need like, a lot, especially if you're healing." 
Steve snorted, but didn’t bother to hide the smile that crept onto his face.
Even if it hurt.
Dragged his gaze from the pile of pancakes now laid before him, to the man fidgeting awkwardly by his bedside.
Realized belatedly, that Eddie hadn’t changed much.
Not since Steve had last seen him, though he never in his life would have thought one of Santa’s elves would wear so much black.
(Frankly Eddie looked just like every other teenage metalhead Steve had ever met, sans the pointed ears. One of which was now pierced and had little metal hoops threaded through it.)
Eddie realized Steve was looking, and bashfully twist a strand of his hair in front of his face.
It was cute.
It made him look cute.
“You might as well sit and help me with this, it’s way too much.” Steve told him.
Which was the truth--Eddie had brought him a shit load of pancakes and Steve wasn’t exactly sure he could chew all that well right now, considering his left cheek was so puffed out it felt like a chipmunks.
Didn’t want to turn down a gift though--or rather, turn down a gift from Eddie.
Who he absolutely still needed to apologize properly too.
“I guess I should start off with a thank you.” Steve began, as Eddie dropped onto the bed. “I think you might have saved my life, though I swear I wasn’t doing that bad off before I got here.”
“Robin said the shock wore off.” Eddie told him. He didn’t wait for Steve to dig in, grabbing a pancake and rolling it up like a sausage before stabbing one end in syrup. “She also said you had a hell of a concussion, two cracked ribs and a literal boatload of scratches,”
Which sounded about right, considering.
“Still though.” Steve frowned, looking at his hands. “I mostly just fought off Billy, the demodogs never got me.”
Something he was incredibly thankful for, given the sheer amount of teeth.
“I think you’re downplaying your injuries here, handsome, you gave Robin a hell of a fright. She cursed in four languages." Eddie talked fast, just like the little boy Steve remembered him as.
It made him grin. 
“Handsome, huh?” Steve teased, and regretted it the second it slipped out of his mouth.
He hadn’t meant to call attention to it. Not just yet anyway. Wanted to work his way up to his apology and then the things he had kind of realized on his walk home (and possibly before that, though he thinks he might have…repressed it.)
Given the way Eddie froze, Steve figures he’s got about two seconds to talk himself out of it, before Eddie rightfully shut him out.
“I like it. The nicknames.” He said, which is also not what he intended to come out of his mouth and God he was really blowing this, wasn’t he?
“Steve,” Eddie started, sounding a little strangled and nope, no, he was going to fix this dammit!
“I’m sorry.” He said honestly. “I know I was an ass when you came to check up on me, and I know I said some terrible things to you. I regret it. I regret it a lot, and I shouldn’t have treated you like that.”
“You weren't wrong.” Eddie cut in, twirling a ring on his finger, eyes firmly on it. “I am gay. I am flamingly gay. And I understand if after today, you don't want me here.”
Which apparently answered the question about whether or not elves gave a shit about such things.
(Or maybe they did, and it was humans who cared, and Eddie was giving him an out for it.
Steve figured he’d ask later.
After he had finished groveling.)
“I want you here.” He said, as seriously as he’d ever said anything. “I think the real question is why you would want to help me?”
It was the one thing that didn’t add up. Why Eddie had been so nice, when he’d shown up.
Sure it was one thing to be a good citizen or whatever, help out a guy who was passed out on the ground, but Eddie hadn’t just gotten help.
He’d stroked Steve’s hair. He’d kept him awake.
Hell he called Steve sweetheart.
And now he was here again, right by Steve's bedside, checking up on him.
You didn’t do that for the guy who was a downright douchebag too you, even if it had been a few years.
Eddie bit his lip, before he chanced a look back at Steve, up through his bangs. “Because you said I was good Steve. You were the first person who ever said I was good.”
Quieter he added “And because we were friends once.”
“I'd like to still be friends.”
“Even if I'm gay?”
Steve took a deep breath, and let out a truth that he’d maybe been ignoring for almost as long as he’d tried to forget about the hole in his heart.
“Cards on the table Eddie, I’m not sure I’m not gay Or whatever both is." 
He'd heard the word once from Chrissy, but hadn't cared to remember it.
(Regretted that a little bit.) 
He got a mighty frown in response.
“Don’t do that. Don’t--joke, like that.”
“It’s not a joke.” Steve said slowly, feeling the words as he spoke them. “I think this is part of the stuff I always just--ignored. Didn’t want to deal with it, because my--”
Steve couldn’t bring himself to say magic, and so, aborted the sentence entirely. “I couldn’t deal. So everything connected to this place, to the rest of my family, to you, I just pushed aside. Pretended it didn’t exist.”
Pretended that he was normal.
Just like his parents wanted.
Then he’d met Nancy.
Realized what he felt about her, he’d always felt about Eddie. That the way she looked at Jonathan wasn’t the way she looked at him--and even then, in the love he had for her, Steve hadn’t looked at her like that either.
Steve had been attracted to her for her yes--but initially, maybe, because she’d looked a little like someone else.
Admitted to himself that he the reason he could clock Eddie so fast back when he was fourteen, wasn't because he was that good at reading people, but because he recognized what it looked like to get caught checking out a guy.
“But I could never forget about you.” Steve added because well. “I’ve never been able to forget about you.”
He’d already said cards on the table, hadn’t he?
Might as well reveal his whole hand.
“You were the last thing I thought of, when I was trying to get home. I wasn’t thinking about my house, or my parents. I was thinking about you. I’ve never been able to come back here, not after Uncle Nick,” He cut himself off again, frustrated that he couldn’t just fucking it, but made himself take a breath.
Continue.
“--but I could, last night. I could get to you.”
Technically he’d gotten to Gareth, who Steve probably also owed a thank you too, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.
Gareth had found Eddie anyway, in the end.
“I absolutely get if you want nothing to do with that, considering I think I’m just now accepting this about myself but. I wanted you to know. You’re important to me, Eddie. You always have been.”
It was weird--Steve should have felt laid bare. Vulnerable now that he’d laid out all these things he’d suppressed, that he thought taken away alongside his magic.
Instead he felt lighter than air.
Like the weight had finally been lifted and he could breathe deep once again.
For a long moment no one said anything and Steve figured this was it, he’d gone too far, when Eddie darted in, pressing a quick kiss to Steve’s cheek.
He pulled away just as fast. Wide eyes searched Steve’s face, as though expecting Steve to change his mind. 
If anything, it just solidified it.
Steve reached out slowly, gently grabbing on of Eddie’s hands. Brought it up to his mouth and kissed the back of it, while maintaining eye contact.
Enjoyed the way Eddie’s face went bright red.
“You’re important to me too.” He managed, voice awed. “You’ve always been important to me. Stevie.”
Finally feeling like he knew where he belonged, Steve grinned back. 
xXx
Bonus
“When I said let him sleep Munson, I didn’t mean with you!” Someone screeched a few hours later, jolting Steve awake.
“He was awake when I came in!” Eddie protested, shoving himself up onto his elbows when the women from yesterday--Robin, Steve thought her name was--stormed in. “We fell asleep together after Robbie, I swear!”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Hi.” Steve said with a little wave, before the two of them could screech some more. “I’m Steve.”
“I know, Dingus.” Robin told him, eyes narrowed in fury. “You’re a member of the Clause family, everyone knows who you are.”
“Oh.” Steve said, though it felt less cool and more weird that someone had finally said it out loud.
That he, Steven Harrington, had an Uncle, and that Uncle was Santa Clause.
‘Dustin is gonna freak.’
“I’m sure Mega-Idiotson here hasn’t told you, but I’m the medmage that saw you last night. Or kinda--see I’m an apprentice medmage, but my teacher was kinda out with the Boss seeing someone a town over and time was tight and we couldn’t exactly wait--”
“Breath, Buckley. In,” Eddie teased, before demonstrating a deep breath on himself, hand sweeping into his chest before he loudly exhaled. “and out.”
“Shut up, Eddie, I’m working up to something here!”
“What is it?” Steve said, feeling like if he didn’t interject Robin would take a while to get to the point.
“I might have accidentally undid whatever was on your magic?” Robin rushed out, so fast Steve nearly didn’t catch it. “Like I can tell that’s the Boss’s magic, and that he did--whatever that was, but I couldn't figure out how to heal you with it there and it was kinda already leaking out so I just--took it off?”
Steve gaped at her.
“You fixed me?” He managed after a moment, hand darting out to squeeze at one of Eddie’s.
“Um. Yes?” Robin cautioned, like she wasn’t exactly sure that’s what she did.
“Oh my god. Oh my god!” Steve laughed, then felt absolutely stupid for not checking in with himself.
Because Robin was right.
The hole was gone--and his magic was back.
How had he not noticed that his magic was back!?
“Eddie, Eddie she’s right--I have it back!”
He turned in bed, dropping Eddie’s hand so he could cup his face and kiss him instead.
“Okay, I don’t need to see this--” Robin complained, but Steve didn’t care.
Could only laugh delighted into Eddie’s mouth, before Eddie deepened the kiss.
(“Guys seriously I am still right here! Can’t you at least wait until I’m gone!?”
“No. Now get out Robin, you’re ruining my moment!”
“It’s okay, Eds. I’ll give you as many moments as you want.”
“Ew, ew, ew-!” )
This whole ass thing on A03 if you'd rather read it there!
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bigassmoonchild · 7 months
Text
Feral
Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader
Word Count: 2.7k
The first three parts give context, but aren't required for this read.
Summary: You had your problems with your squad, no different than anyone else running their first. One Alpha, Michael, gave you the most problems, dragging you from leave to punish them all. It didn't take long for him to become your biggest problem, or for Simon to try and take care of him.
Content Tags: Shouting (not w/ between Ghost & Reader), A lot of Anger, Fluff, Protective Ghost, Violence, Fighting, Ghost shows his Face, Non-Sexual Punishments, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha! Ghost, No use of Y/N
A/N: I woke up this morning with over 100 notifications from tumblr, and I've spent all morning trying to think of another part for Maple Syrup. As always, content is under the cut and my asks are wide open <3.
Part 1 | Previous, Next | Headcannons, Masterlist
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Ghost could watch you forever. Seeing how you flit around the soldiers, taking care of each of them, barking orders at your own little squad. After being removed from missions, you were able to convince whoever would listen to give you a squad to train, a group of hopeful combat medics.
Sometimes he would find himself watching what you were doing, and he would inch himself close enough to hear what you'd be telling them. Sometimes, it was nothing short of you screaming at them, other times it might be explaining how to stitch someone up. Most times, you sat back and watched as they worked through the exercise that you had created for them.
You were still off on leave, leaving your squad under the hands of Soap and Gaz to train them further on combat situations. Ghost had spoken with them a few times, listening to them rant about the soldiers you had to deal with. Especially one Alpha, who had been demoted from a regular soldier to being entrusted with saving others.
So when Ghost got the first hint of your scent, not the stale one, his head spun to the doors. Your leave was supposed to last another 6 days, not that Ghost was counting, and worry spiked through him. Had something happened? Was everything okay with your family, or did you merely forget one of the gifts you were giving to your nieces and nephews?
When the door slammed open, your eyes gazed across the mess hall. Your brows were furrowed and Ghost could smell the anger lacing your scent, alongside the musty smell of the rain that was coming down. The room had gone silent, everyone looking over at you. Your eyes locked on your squad, body tensed.
"Get the fuck outside," you growled, staring through your squad. They hesitated and your fist slammed into the wall. "Now!" You shouted, watching as they scrambled up and moved. All but the Alpha, who moved leisurely. Your eyes didn't leave his and you pointed. "You move any slower and I'll have you dishonorably discharged for insubordination," the man didn't flinch.
He gave a smile, looking at you. "You're not even a soldier, you have no say in what I do," your muscles relaxed, leaning your head back, eyes falling closed. Ghost stood, moving towards the two of you, opening his mouth to say something.
"You're on my squad, you do as I say, unless you want me to remove you. You want this to be your last strike?" The Alpha looked away, opening his mouth to make a remark.
"I'm sure there isn't going to be a problem, is there?" Ghost finally spoke up, moving beside the man and staring down at him. The Alpha scoffed and walked away, leaving you looking around.
You gave a soft smile. "Leave your stuff, it'll be cleaned up," and you turned and walked away, adjusting a hood onto your head. Ghost stared after you before walking back to Soap and Gaz, sitting beside them again.
"What the hell happened?"
You stood in the rain, having grabbed another jacket to protect you from the chill of the wind, alongside the rain beating against you. Your squad was running until they collapsed or someone admitted who caused the problems. You knew, though, that the stubborn Alpha in your squad was always the problem.
"You need to get back here," Soap said into the phone. "I honestly don't know what to do with them," and you booked a flight.
Now you were waiting, patiently. Someone would give in soon enough, someone always did. There would always be a weak link, and if it took running them until they threw up so be it. A hand fell on your shoulder and you looked back, eyes climbing to find Ghost standing behind you.
"I've never heard you scream," you laughed, looking back to your squad. The Alpha ran at the front of them, no reaction to the amount of running he was doing. You were pretty sure he had lapped everyone at some point, but you weren't paying close enough attention.
You looked back to Ghost. "You have most definitely heard me scream, just not angrily. Soap called, said that the squad was getting out of control and they didn't know what to do," you sighed. "I thought I taught them better, but I guess I haven't treated them exactly like soldiers," Ghost hummed behind you, eyes trailing the Alpha.
A shiver ran through you and Ghost pulled you back into him, letting you soak in his own warmth. "Does he always give you problems?" You nodded, letting him take on your weight as you leaned against him.
"There is rarely a day that goes by when he doesn't give some form of lip, but everyone's grown used to it, I guess," you whispered, sighing deeply. It bothered you, so much, that you couldn't get all of your squad to act like it. Like a pack. "He's just trying to take control back. He was kicked from his last squad because of similar problems, speaking down on Betas and Omegas," Ghosts scent changed a little, but you weren't able to decipher what it was before it had disappeared.
Neither of you spoke for some time, merely watching the group of wanna-be's run around and around. You wanted to be back home, with your family and watching the little ones run around, not some grown adults. You just wanted to be able to control the squad like other people, but you needed a break. So you went on leave, but came back too soon.
There wasn't much of choice, though. Either let Soap and Gaz keep getting eaten alive, or you come back and beat them back down, but maybe if you talked to Simon he would've been able to help. No, this was your squad, they were your responsibility. You'd have to be a Drill Sergeant, and it was already giving you a headache.
You pushed off Ghost, watching as one of the Omegas stumbled before righting herself. You gave a deep sigh. "Get over here!" You shouted over the rain and wind. As everyone gathered, you glared through them. "I am not your mother. I shouldn't be coming back from leave early because your senior officers are unable to control you," you huffed, looking away for a moment.
The rain still pattered down, and the Alpha was looking away. You couldn't decipher how you felt about him, but you knew it was heavy dislike. Something about the man made you uncomfortable.
"You'd expect a group of adults to behave better than a group of pups, but I suppose none of you have grown," the Alpha opened his mouth to speak and Ghost took a step forward, daring him to make a comment. "I haven't been treating you as soldiers, clearly, so from now on you'll be meeting up with Task Force 141 to being your morning training," a smile graced your features.
You'd spoken with Price briefly over the phone on your flight back. It didn't take much to convince him, and his tone gave you the chills once or twice as he described what he could do. You didn't mention anything to Ghost. You weren't entirely sure what he would do if he found out you were being dragged away from your family because of a problem child.
Everything was still in the air, what you would end up doing with them. As you gazed across, the only person not having any form of regret was the Alpha. Michael. If you could, you would have rejected him from being a part of your team. You'd read his file, it was nothing short of infraction after infraction.
You gave a deep breath. "You're going to go into the mess hall and clean it, if I come in there tomorrow and find even a crumb you'll be stuck cleaning it every day until you leave," no one moved. "What are you waiting for?" They scattered into the wind, Michael still taking everything at his own speed.
Ghost grabbed his soldier, eyes not leaving the mans. "You'll be with me," and you watched him get dragged away. You were finally free to take a warm shower, perhaps curl into your nest for some sleep you'd lost while traveling.
It was late in the evening when you heard from Simon. He had walked into your room, taking his boots off and crawling next to you in your nest. His balaclava scratched at your neck as he scented you, brushing his cheek against you.
You turned the page in your book, letting the large Alpha nearly curl around you. Your fingers found the top of his head, scratching at him over the balaclava. Yet to see his face, you never pushed it. It was none of your business to push him, even as his mate.
You could hear him chuffing softly, nose digging into your neck slightly. It was quiet for some time, outside of the chuffing of Simon and the pages turning from your book. His hands were around you, tugging you closer to him as your fingers continued scratching.
The chuffing quieted, a bothered grunt coming from him. "Want to feel your hand," he muttered, tugging at his balaclava before being able to pull it off entirely.
You didn't look, didn't move, just kept on reading as your fingers found hair. That made you pause, brows furrowed as you turned to look at him from where he returned to your neck, his chuffs returning.
Purring, you tugged him to look at you, book falling from your hand. Simon groaned softly, trying to pull his head out of your grip. A quiet be still, coming from you before he paused, eyes opening to glance down at you.
Scars littered his face, your fingers finding some of the larger ones to stroke at, trying to memorize every part of his face. You could see his cheeks growing a little red and you laughed softly, pressing your hands to his cheeks.
"Little embarrassed of being looked at so thoroughly?" Simon looked away, finally pulling out of your grip and hiding his face back against your neck. You could feel him lick you slightly, laying down a nip or two, his hands tugging you against him again.
It was a few moments later that either of you finally said anything. "What did you do with Michael?" Simon huffed against you, a quiet who?, coming from him. "The Alpha you pulled away from the rest of the squad," you added.
Simon pulled away to look at you fully. "Nothing illegal," you looked at him, smile dropping. He gave you a little grin. "Just gave him some things to do to get all of his energy out, he had a little too much to be acting that way," you laughed.
The next morning, you had a knock on your office door. "Come in," it wasn't anyone you would've expected. Not Ghost, nor Soap or Gaz. Michael.
He slammed his hands on your desk and leaned over it. "I want out," you raised your brows. "I'm not gonna let some little doctor think she can control me," you gave out a deep sigh. "And what about Ghost? You fuck him to get where you are?"
"My relationship with the Lieutenant is none of your business, soldier," you answered, crossing your legs. "You want out? You leave this squad and it's the last place you'll be. You know you can't join the military again if you get discharged. Too many infractions," you shrugged, pulling his file out of your desk. He looked at it.
Lunging for it, you pulled it out of his reach. "Who the hell gave that to you?" You laughed at him, his scent changing to something reeking of anger. God, why were you able to smell him? "Or, is it because you're an Omega?" He smiled shortly.
You stood. "You haven't been taking your suppressants as prescribed, have you?" There was no other answer for why he was so angry constantly. Without a consistent dosage, the androstenone in him would be too high to think properly. He could go feral.
Lunging for your phone, you were only able to get one number dialed before he threw it into the wall. "A little Omega bitch, fucking Ghost in order to get where she is," he snorted. The door was cracked open still, but Michael was in the way. There was no leaving.
Looking away, you blinked slowly. "I'm assuming this is how you were removed from your last squad," he threw your chair into the wall and you opened the file.
"You have no right to read that, you bitch," he growled, trying to grab it over your desk. You pulled it back, Michael growling deep in his chest. "You're gonna give me that, or I'm gonna fucking kill you," you could feel your heart in your stomach. Sure, you could fight but it was nothing with an almost feral Alpha trying to kill you.
Glancing around, you had to look for something to hopefully protect yourself with. A man like Michael could easily kill you, you didn't doubt it. One wrong punch and you'd be in the infirmary, another and you could be out of it. Forever.
"You touch her and you'll find out why I'm feared," Simon. You could feel the relief coursing through you. He wouldn't let anything happen to you, let alone allow another Alpha to hurt you. You looked between the two, seeing Michaels face slowly start to drop.
You dove under your desk the second either of them moved, a growl ripping through the area as you heard a body slam into the wall in front of you. You knew the fear on your scent would be pungent, especially to Ghost.
And it was. He could smell it from down the hall, causing a spark of fear to course through himself. The only other thing he could smell was another Alpha, and he hoped to god he wouldn't be too late. When he opened the door just a tad bit more, he heard the threats.
It set something off in him that he hadn't felt in a long, long time. He didn't hesitate before throwing the other Alpha into the wall, seeing you dive under your desk in his peripheral. His fists found the man, but it barely did anything. A feral Alpha would do anything to kill whoever he saw, and Ghost could hear shouts coming from the hall.
Michael charged at Ghost, who braced for impact, colliding with him and being dragged into the hall and on the wall across from your office. Ghosts knee found Michael gut, throwing him onto the ground and climbing over him.
Some MP's had come careening down the hall, guns up and shouting commands. Ghost tried holding the man down, but it didn't do too much before he was bucked off and climbing to his feet. The fear was still pungent on your scent and it set Ghost off.
He couldn't do anything before gunshots echoed down the hall and Michael collapsed. A few tranq darts scattered along his back.
Ghost was put on administrative leave, pending investigation. You'd used the rest of your leave to be able to stay with him and for the entire duration you weren't out of his eyesight.
Showering? He was standing against the far wall, staring through the doorway.
Trying to use the bathroom? The locks on your bathroom doors had never been used more, and when you left he would be standing in front of it.
For some time you had also been far to shaken to let Simon leave your eyesight. There was nothing he would do that you weren't following him for, his showers left you sitting on the counter and talking to him, even without a response. You didn't go into the bathroom with him, but sat by the door as your eyes flittered around to each corner of the room, looking for feral Alphas.
Before either of you became more comfortable, Simon wouldn't even go into your nest. He would sit outside of it, never moving much at all. It took you panicking in the middle of the night for him to start going back inside of your nest.
Neither of you knew what the future would look like, but as long as you had each other, you figured you'd be alright.
Next
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asterdisaster06 · 7 months
Text
Rottweiler's Callsign Story
platonic 141 x reader
summary > The mission was supposed to be an easy in and out stealth operation; however, you getting cornered by enemy guards that weren't drawn out by the team's distraction left you to desperation. Such circumstances resulting in unsavory acts needed to get out alive and back to your team. Half the blood on you might not even be yours, but you're out alive and safe.
word count > 5.6k
warnings > graphic description of blood and violence, like i'm not kidding. medical terms used to describe some of the gore. reader is described like a feral dog.
ao3
You had always been quite animalistic in your ways, vocal on the battlefield with snarls and hisses escaping your lips through the sheer effort of your tyranny. Grunts and growls being a point made to enemies you faced before absolutely thrashing them to death. Your skills with a gun whether a handgun or an assault rifle were top tier, your training made sure of it, but your real talent laid in hand to hand combat. Specializing in utilizing your own body and surroundings to tear your enemy down. It was something that had confused and yet impressed your teammates on the taskforce. They stared at you with something akin to visceral horror and pure adoration when you save their asses more than they can count. 
Whether that comes from tackling the one on top and pinning them by their throat or managing to spot an enemy that they had missed on their six. Either way, any way, they were significantly impressed by you and your prowess. Your expertise offered something new to the group. Your bones held your pride that was either to be completely snapped or remain unwounded. Your muscles flexed to show the pride that was your mortal self. Your teeth were bared to the world like a stray dog. And in a sense, that was what you were.
You were found by Laswell and Price with your fur matted and your teeth too sharp from eating trash-thrown bones. Metaphorically of course. Literally though, they were your saviors. She took you off the previous military base you would’ve died on and Price raised you like his own flesh and blood. He took the limping, ugly mutt and showed a kindness you had always heard directed at others but never you. You learned to not bite at the hand that feeds you. 
The others came later once you were settled in - learning very little of your past; only knowing what you had seethed through tight lipped smiles. At that point you were known simply as ‘hound’ to them. You’re not entirely sure how or when it came about, but it seemed to fit you for the moment. 
You weren’t exactly talkative, similar to Ghost in that aspect. That’s not to say that you didn’t learn to open up and trust, especially when you were on a mission that required trust and teamwork. Collaboration and communication were the foundation for the taskforce, and it wasn’t something you could opt out of. You mostly sat back and smiled at a few of the jokes shared, but the one time you spoke to add onto the dark humor from Simon scared the shit out of them. Even Simon was a little caught off guard despite his vehement denial. It was the start of the blossoming friendship between you and the team. 
This particular mission was no different than the others. Or at least, it shouldn’t have been. Unfortunately, the world had different plans in mind for you and the boys. 
Soap had been talking your ear off and you listened in with a small smile on your face at his antics. It was amusing to you that he wasn’t put off by your scars, both physical and mental. He looked past them, not quite ignoring them but not pushing for you to spill the story behind them all if you weren’t ready. You were forever grateful for that. Gaz was in a similar vein, learning to eventually see you for who you were. Sometimes he poked and prodded you, but only in the intentions of helping you. Especially when you refused to see a therapist. Not after the last incident.
Ghost respected you at face value. The mask was who you were to him, and it didn’t make a difference in the slightest for your identity. It was a refreshing contrast to the other two who were not exactly openly prying, but their curiosity emitted from them like radiation. And you didn’t need a geiger counter to see that being near them would eventually unravel your DNA containing your secrets. Ghost simply left your skeletons in the closet lie. A needed deviation in your life. 
This mission required you to sneak into the compound in order to collect intel about nuclear weapons that a recent terrorist group had gotten their hands on. Obviously, that was a paramount issue that Shepherd had wanted the taskforce to take care of. Your boys would be creating a distraction away from your position, eventually creating a path to your location for a safe exfil after they had planted bombs around the compound. This establishment wasn’t going to be left standing after you guys were done with it if you could help it. 
“Is everyone clear on their positions?” Price’s voice breaks through the disassociation your mind had thrust you into. 
The ringing in your ears faded as the chatter began to quiet down and focus was injected into your veins. There was a small nagging feeling in the back of your mind, but you brushed it off as simple leftovers of anxiety growing mold in the fridge of your consciousness. You responded with a simple affirm alongside the rest of the team, eyes beginning to lose the dazed look within the cornea. You blink once and then twice as you take in your surroundings and run your tongue over your sharpened canines. 
Your muscles tense with anticipation, letting your legs carry you out of the truck that was about one klick from the objective. You were to be going on foot from here to avoid raising suspicion. The treeline would offer some cover for the infiltration attempt, the leaves in full swing. Unfortunately that also meant so were the bugs and thorns. You would just have to deal with it, although Soap wasn’t so easily placated.
“Fucking hell,” Soap exclaims, swatting at a very vague buzz that was swarming him.
“Here,” Gaz says, throwing Soap a can of bug spray. 
The droning and whirl of wings belonging to insects that lived long before humanity came about offers you a weird amount of comfort. It’s almost a commiseration of sorts between the creatures that nobody wanted around. You and the acarids. Nonetheless, you cover yourself in a self assumed shield of the spray that sticks to your skin in a way that makes you almost uncomfortable. The thorns and sticks pricking you through your tactical gear brings you relief. The opposite from what you presumed the others were experiencing.
It’s not like you were a masochist, peace and comfort have just never quite been something you’ve gotten used to. It’s what you’ve known most of your life and it’s what you’ll continuously go through. Much to the chagrin of your boys.
Speaking of, they appeared to be having varying levels of reaction to the harsh woodland environment. Soap has been openly complaining, although you knew it was mostly to break up the monotony of the trip alongside easing the anxiety of the others. He knew just how to utilize his personality like that and he wasn’t scared to come off as brash or even semi-annoying. You try to humor him enough to keep that spark going in his soul. That’s honestly a thought that keeps you up at night; Soap becoming like you or Ghost.
Gaz was experiencing his classic bad luck; truly trying to avoid any muddy spots or tripping on an exposed root, but it appears that it wasn’t working out for him. He had tripped over his own feet two times, an exposed root five, and almost twisted his ankle thrice. It was almost as if the woods had it out for him. You wince and make that last thing four times now as Gaz tripped over a small pebble and had to execute an almost ballerina-esque move to avoid falling face first into a puddle. It made you huff out a laugh, earning you a middle finger in your direction. Gaz truly does try his hardest in everything he does, placing expectations upon himself that nobody else even thinks of. Pressure mounting upon him that moves you to make sure he takes care of himself. You’ll be damned if you let him drown himself in the same way you do. 
Ghost was similar to your apathy, although you could tell from his body language that he was in as much discomfort as Soap was expressing. He refused to let even a slip of a grunt or groan escape from his sealed lips. His combat boots were sinking into the mud as much as Gaz, but he had significantly more coordination and confidence in his steps than Kyle did. You observed him quietly, seeing thorns stick into his skin - likely releasing the red ichor of his mortal body. Nonetheless, he braved on with only a slight wince betraying his emotions. It reminded you of how he faces his own torment and demons with nothing showing to anyone around. Not unless they’re particularly attuned to him and his distinctive micro-expressions. You know this as well as anyone, so you make a conscious effort to try and get Simon to open up to you. Not a lot, and sometimes not at all, but enough to sand down the roughness around his edges. Enough to heal him one scar at a time. 
Price was admonishing Soap for being so loud and semi-obnoxious. All in good fun, at least, at the distance you were away from the location. Given that Price was back at the car, you couldn’t exactly see what he was doing or his own personal quirks. However, you had known him long enough to know his personality and behavior. You had spent a good chunk of time analyzing the man that had offered you not only a position on this team, but a hand to help you up from your back-alley way of living. He was a tired man that needed some positive affirmation in his life if you were being honest. He had this entire team on his back alongside his position that designated him to a life chained to his work. His title delegated him to the duress that came with everyone expecting victory from you. It’s probability is down right improbable for him to always come out on top. Although, you doubt that he’s come to terms with that idea. You try your best to offer support in your own way, realizing that words alone aren’t going to cut it. You try to guide him to sleep if he’s too caught up in paperwork or offer him a cup of coffee just the way he likes it if an all-nighter is inevitable. You want to be there for him like he is for you. 
Laswell’s voice cuts through the comms and snaps you from your stupor. Kate Laswell. She offered you kindness while others offered you chains. She let you into her life instead of caging you like a feral animal. She took the muzzle off of your maw and let you speak. She presented you with a purpose outside of being a killing machine for your previous team sent in with no regard for your health or happiness. She gave you a life. One of your own. A team that you could rely on with a street of protection that goes both ways. Possibilities were opened up that you had never dared to dream of beforehand. You owed her your life, and that’s what you fought with on every mission. 
“You’re closing in on the base. Can we get a general overview of how it’s going?”
You smiled and shook your head before the Scot even opened his mouth.
“How’s it going? Oh wonderful, absolutely joyous,” Soap spoke with mock annoyance, good-natured humor shining through despite his tone.
“All is well, the intel we were given appears to be good. There should be no difficulties from our view over here,” Ghost answers, genuinely. 
“Affirm, I’m all set and ready here, Kate,” Price speaks, his commanding timbre sending rumbles down your spine and through your nervous system. 
“Remember, get in and get out, don’t get caught up in the blast,” Kate reminds you all, as if you could forget. 
A chorus of proclaimed agreements echoes throughout the trees of the forest. The silence that falls over the group afterwards makes you tense up and get into the mindset of the feral mutt that has kept you alive for this long. Your breath ends up heavy, saliva coating the inside of your jaws as you harshly swallow it down - almost choking every time you do. Your shoulders rise and fall in time with your respiration. Ghost checks in with the group one last time before you’re sent off first into the craw of the compound. Being a sacrifice is nothing new to you, but it still causes you to shudder in anticipation. Goosebumps rise all across your skin despite the temperature dictating otherwise. 
You wander forward, joints creaking in protest as you sneak around the side of the building. It’s inevitable that you have to utilize your knife, but you use it sparingly - not wanting the alarms to ring because some unfortunate soul stumbles upon the body of their fallen comrade. It’s almost second nature to you at this point and you would’ve zoned off if it wasn’t for the pure adrenaline rushing through your system.  You finally reach point A in which you reaffirm with the rest of the boys that the plan is a go and no complications have arised. 
You hear a plethora of acknowledgements before you begin to move forward with the permission of Ghost and Price. You snake cam the door before lock picking it after deeming it safe. There didn’t appear to be any enemies nearby much to your satisfaction. The less possibilities for this plan to go wrong, the better. It’s a waiting game as you come upon the stairwell door leading up to the room you were meant to infiltrate. The clock ticks down, the beats of your heart sounding out in your ears as a unit of measurement. 
Boom.
It’s the signal for you to proceed as all of the cameras are abandoned with the clicking of the gun trigger replacing the clack of keys in the office. You were all set up and ready to acquire the real reason your mission was handed out. Pushing past into the stairwell, you’re met with the surprise of an elbow to the face, effectively causing a gush of blood to start trickling down your face. Despite the advantage the enemy had from his effort of concealment working to catch you off guard, you gained your balance back quickly, and the pounding of your head did nothing to quell the vexation that led you to putting a knife in the guy’s eye. You shoot a bullet straight into his cranium with a glare, just to cover your tracks. 
You lick your chapped lips, tasting the metallic mouthful you had gotten from your little scuffle. You didn’t hear a crack, but it was definitely going to be a pain in the ass the next day. Nonetheless, you pushed on, aiming to be more aware of your surroundings. There was an odd lack of guards around the area for what seemed like the main structure. It set off warning bells in your head, but there was no turning back now. From the gunfire sounding out from below it seemed that the others would be too caught up to engage in a verbal conversation regarding your worries. Not like you weren’t confident in your own abilities, quite the opposite, but Price had managed to drill into your head that not everything had to be faced alone. Jokes on him, this situation had the appearance of it being a one man operation. 
You and your blood soaked sleeves made your way to the computer where you gathered yourself into a semi-coherent being in order to upload data from their system. The hard part was already done for you; all you had to do was plug a hard drive into a computer and wait. And that you did. You almost felt sorry for getting their keyboard all slick with your carnage escaping from your sinuses. It also felt as if you had bitten your tongue during the altercation, your mouth being yet another outlet for the liquid escaping you. You spat on the floor, maroon saliva staining it. 
Running down your neck, the blood seemed to stop at that point, trickling off into a simple seeping of gore. You consider yourself lucky, just in time for the information to be uploaded onto the hard drive you were given. You report over to Price and Laswell, a slight lisp imbued into your words due to the tip of your tongue suffering from puncture wounds your teeth had embedded into the soft muscle. They understood you perfectly fine however, and you were instructed to continue with the orders you were given. At that moment however, the lack of communication on your part about your suspicions of an ambush was coming back to bite you in the ass. Almost literally. 
A gloved hand smothers your mouth, effectively suffocating you. If the arm around your throat and its connected hand stifling your ability to productively breath wasn’t enough, there was now a knife lodged in your side. Your attacker drove the knife you suspected he took from your gear even further into your abdomen, twisting it like he was wringing out the last of his laundry. Except you were the clothes and your blood was escaping you, much to your chagrin. Fortunately for you, this particular guard was practically brain dead when it came to medical knowledge, so you were pretty confident that you were going to live. That is, if you could escape without being asphyxiated to death. 
You maneuver your maw into an opportune striking position, opening your jaws like a dog being thrown a bone. The coincidental nature of that thought would’ve made you laugh if you weren’t currently on the verge of being slaughtered and gutted like a pig. You chomp down and dig your teeth into the metacarpals of his skeleton, relishing in his grunt of pain and attempt to recoil. You were like a dog with a bone though, and you’d be damned if anyone tried to take it from you. His attempt to pry your jaws open with the hand that soon abandoned the knife in your side after the puncturing of his palm. You ground your teeth into the fat of his hand before realizing the glove was going to be an issue. You turn your teeths’ attention to his exposed wrist, aiming for his radial artery. Unfortunately for him, your fangs found their intended target and perforated his skin. You threw your head back, grasping his arm with your other hands - clawing at it like a feral beast. 
You effectively were one, your mouth full of flesh and muscle that didn’t belong to you. Although, you suppose that one could argue it didn’t belong to him either. Not anymore. You spat out the pulp of tissue, realizing that he had let you go. You put a bullet right through his eyes, spraying blood and brain matter across the room. Well deserved for someone like him. You drive your boot into his lifeless corpse, really kicking the man while he was down. Your joke, although knowing nobody alive was around to hear it, made a hysterical laugh claw its way out of your throat. Your larynx had really betrayed your deranged and volatile behavior. Your manic nature had kept you alive so far, so you supposed you had only yourself to thank. 
You shoved your bloodied tongue around your mouth, hoping to wash out the taste of human flesh. It wasn’t the worst thing you’ve tasted - that goes to Ghost’s attempts at cooking - but it certainly wasn’t pleasant. You wiped your mouth against the back of your hand, quickly realizing that it too was bloody. Red wasn’t really your color right now, otherwise you would have appreciated the look. You quickly checked over your supplies, knowing that you could make due with anything around the room or at the very least your hands, but feeling comfort in the weight of the metal contraption that delivered death at a much quicker rate. Hemorrhaging from either a knife or a gun was much more effective than your bare hands. Or teeth. 
It appears that your enemies didn’t appreciate your sentiment though, ambushing you only to take away such things from your grasp. There were two this time. They almost reminded you of Soap and Ghost, if those two were actively trying to kill you. Your boys only sometimes did that, and most of the time it was pitiful attempts. You were actually the one that got quite a few new rules implemented during training - but seriously, who stops in the middle of a fight to ask if something is legal? No-one, which is exactly why you simply did what was necessary to survive, to quote verbatim what you had said to Price as your excuse when Soap had ended up in the med bay. 
Be that as it may, these guards weren’t who you thought them akin to. Therefore, everything was on the table. Especially since they had made the grave error of giving your standard weapons a place on the backburner. Now, the only thought in your mind was kill. At all costs necessary. Your sharpened canines glinted in the dim lighting with a scarlet staining the pearly white as your mouth opened. It’s unfortunate for them that they didn’t have a muzzle on hand. 
Before the one in front of you had an opportunity to shoot you through any vital organ, you used your body weight to shove the one holding you to the ground - the bullet whizzing above you. A guttural growl escaped your throat as you turned your attention to escaping the grasp of the poor soul restraining your body. You grasp his upper arm, twisting yourself to use his body as a human shield. It would’ve made you gag if this was the first time you’ve done this. Regrettably, you have quite a bit of experience in this particular experience. 
The bullets pierced the soon to be corpse of his comrade, narrowly avoiding you except for one that grazed your side. You really were losing a lot of blood today. Making your way to safety was your biggest priority; however, that was proving difficult with leftover guards that were actually doing their job semi-well. You untucked yourself from under the weight of the stiff remains and threw yourself at the unlucky fellow who had just run out of ammo in his weapon. A simple click is all you heard as the gun escaped his grasp in favor of his bare hands. You were thrown into a chokehold yet again. These guys really did like their chokeholds. His hand gripped the knife slick with your own blood from your hands and ripped it out, leaving you to bleed to death. His mistake though was only using one hand to contain your rage filled body made of torn flesh and bones. 
You tore yourself from his grasp, with the worst luck in all of history happening with the knife getting knocked down the stairwell - sounding like a fork being dropped in the sink on its way down. You were in no condition to run or even jump after it, and the only other weapon was out of ammo, so it seemed you were yet again stuck using your bare hands. They trembled as you gathered yourself, preparing yourself for what you were being forced to do in order to escape this ordeal alive. You settled your weight into your haunches and launched yourself at the enemy, vision bloodshot and tinted red. An animalistic growl escaped yourself, sounding almost like a hyena’s maniacal laugh. Your lunge proved fruitful as your claws came into contact with his facial features, digging into his eyes to blind him. The texture of the soft tissue under your sharpened nails flexed and then ruptured. The front layers of his cornea gave way to the gooey gel similar to egg whites that filled the orbs. 
A visceral scream escaped the man below you, causing Price to finally check in over comms. At least, you think so, it was getting hard to hear with the ringing in your ears. You didn’t respond either way.
You knew that even blind, the man was still a liability. Or maybe he wasn’t, but to your addled brain firing neuron after neuron that drove you with the only thoughts occupying you being: survive and kill; well, the feral nature of yourself pushed you to make sure he was dead. You had your training to thank for that. You knew that the rest of his body was protected by the structure of his epidermis, much to your dissatisfaction. Your thoughts wandered back to the first enemy you encountered as you loomed over the blinded man. Your mind was made up.
In a split second decision, you descended your fangs into his throat, sinking your teeth into his trachea and hearing a sickening squelch of his bare flesh. The muscles gave way as you shook your head like a rabid dog, separating his tissue from their home within his body. You didn’t stop until you felt his carotid artery begin to hemorrhage. You shakily stand up, staring at the massacre you had left behind. Your jaw would definitely be sore the next day. There wasn’t a surface of you that wasn’t absolutely drenched in blood, and you couldn’t tell where yours began and theirs ended. The corpse beneath you had stopped screaming after the first puncture of your teeth - at least, you’re pretty sure. The haze surrounding your mind made thinking about it too hard. It almost fills you with a sense of regret at letting the monster you once were out of their muzzle yet again. The halfway decapitated body was left as you limped down the stairs and out a back door. 
You shambled out into the woods, faltering only twice to prevent yourself from tripping since you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t be able to get up again after that. The rush of blood in your head faded as the sounds around you finally cascaded back into reality. You swore you could feel the dripping of blood spurting out of all open wounds in time with your heart. The chaos finally sunk in, the screaming over comms for your response demanding your attention.
“I’m,” You break up your sentence with a cough. “I’m fine,” Your voice sounds crackly and hoarse. Not that you’re surprised.
“Where the fuck are you, you were supposed to be out of there five minutes ago,” Price yells out over the radio. 
“I don’t exactly know. Somewhere out in the woods?” You respond, your head pounding.
“Ghost, find them!” Price had apparently discerned that you were in no condition to be taking in your surroundings accurately enough to ascertain an accurate location. 
“Fuck, I think I see them. Hound!”
You think you hear a faint yelling of your name, although it doesn’t quite register to your unhinged and disoriented brain. All you could tell through the muddy fog of your mind was a person. Enemy. Kill. Survive. Escape. You felt their hands on you, your throat closing up in response as you preemptively expected to be strangled half to death. You let out a snarl, baring your teeth and coming into contact with what you think is a hand. Either way, it doesn’t matter to you and you bite down with the force of a wild animal. A yelp is heard, only cementing your actions in your mind. 
“Calm the fuck down Sergeant.”
A voice cuts through the haze like a hot knife through butter. You fall limp in the grasp; whether it’s because you recognize the voice or you simply are accepting your fate is up in the air. Nonetheless, your surroundings begin to load in, your eyes stopping their constant darting around and focusing on a singular face. Or, faces. Ghost, Soap, and Gaz. They had found you. You were safe. You notice Soap has a bleeding hand - your own handiwork without a doubt. Guilt floods you, your behavior similar to a puppy hearing the words ‘bad dog’ for the first time in their life. 
“Hey, hey, you’re okay. You did great, Hound,” Soap begins to say. 
“Come back to us, Love,” Gaz whispers, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. 
“Shit, fuck, I’m sorry,” You cry out, finally feeling the effects of your pure exhaustion. 
“I don’t blame you, Jesus, you’re gonna have a hell of a story to tell us when you get all patched up again, Hound,” Soap exclaims.
“How much of this blood is yours?” Ghost finally cuts in.
“Not a lot, just where the knife was and I might’ve gotten shot.”
“Might’ve?” Soap laughs.
“Mission, guys,” Price finally interrupts. “I’m glad you’re safe, Hound.”
The mission continues, you leaning on Soap since you’re pretty sure stumbling down the stairs strained one of your ankles. You spewed out numerous apologies for his hand, but he didn’t want to hear any of it. The go ahead for the air team with Laswell to level the building was given, and the exfil point was finally reached by your ground group. At that point, you were barely conscious, hearing echoes of pet names assuring you only a little longer and to stay with them. They plagued the darkness that overtook you and greeted you as you woke up to the blinding light of the medical room. 
“Welcome back to the world of living,” Soap says. “The doctors hadn’t seen anything like you before,” He laughs. 
“Do you want to explain why they found human tissue in your mouth?” Ghost asks, his tone inquisitive.
“Shit man, let them have a bit of a break before we interrogate them,” Gaz chuckles, offering you some water, much to your appreciation. 
You gulp down the water like it was the last time you would ever get the precious liquid, your body thanking you. You sheepishly hand the empty cup back to an amused Gaz. You clear your throat, not quite ready to delve into the specifics of what you had to do to survive, but knowing you had to. Being open in communication was a non-arguable point to being a part of the taskforce. 
“Most of the blood on me when you found me was probably belonging to the man I might’ve,” You pause, “ripped the throat out of?” You rush that last part out as quickly as you could, knowing that despite your efforts, they’re going to question you.
Both Soap and Gaz’s eyes widened almost comically, both quickly exclaiming different curse words. One being Scottish curses that you could barely make out from his accent. The other being aggressively British expletives spilling out of Gaz’s mouth. Ghost simply looked upon you with what seemed to be both admiration and affirmation. You had known he would be the most likely to not be surprised at your actions. He knew what it was like to have an untamed beast within you. 
“What in the bloody hell did you say?” Price was apparently looming in the doorway, keeping himself hidden until this moment.
You cough, and ask “Is now a good time to mention I also might’ve done the same to a man’s hand?”
Soap had a horrified look upon his face. “You’re saying I could’ve lost my precious hand?”
You had almost forgotten about Soap’s injury, and stared at him with a semblance of guilt flashing across your face. 
“Yeah, sorry about that,” You say quietly. 
“What happened to the good ole knife or bullet?” Soap asked, offering you his bandaged hand to hold in an offer of forgiveness and trust.
“They stole my shit, and my knife ended up kicked down a staircase after it was ripped out of me,” You pouted, the drug concoction of morphine and other such things loosening you up to talk. 
“You’re quite a rabid beast, ain’t you?” Price said, his tone betraying the fact that he was in fact quite proud of you. It wasn’t meant in a derogatory way and you knew that. You smiled in his direction, jokingly baring your teeth at your Captain. 
“Aye, I think you’re more than a baying hound at this point. Maybe Rottweiler would serve you better. That mouthful of teeth sure does remind me of my childhood,” Soap says, shivering at the thought of being the victim of your maw. 
“I hate to think of the final view those soldiers saw of you,” Gaz laughs. 
“I think Rottweiler suits you,” Ghost says. “Fearless yet loyal.”
The rest of the team nods in agreement, surrounding you with support and love. Something that still unsettles you to this day, but not in the same way facing down the barrel of a gun would. It’s a warm embrace in front of a fireplace that sends a jolt of something new down your spine. A fondness spreading like wildfire, adoration deep seated in your bones to those around you. Just like a dog, you were a fierce protector of your family, but with them? You were a tender beast that rolled over at their feet. 
You couldn’t think of anything better than that thought which warmed your heart. 
843 notes · View notes
steddieas-shegoes · 1 month
Text
crawl home to you
for @steddiesongfics february song 'work song' by hozier
rated e | 5,223 words | full tags on ao3
🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸
Steve should never have kissed him. He knew that now.
While Eddie was dying, bleeding out on the ground of their version of Hell, the only thing Steve felt he could do to help him was kiss him. It was quick, just a peck on the lips, lingering only for a moment. Their eyes never even closed.
Steve wanted to take in every remaining moment that Eddie had.
There was nothing else he could do, just hold him, try to whisper comfort that may not have even been heard.
Dustin was yelling to save him, but there was no way to do that. His injuries were too severe, he’d already lost too much blood. Moving him now would just kill him faster and more painfully. Nancy and Robin were trying to hold Dustin back, but their tears were making it harder to maintain any control.
When Eddie was gone, Steve set him back down on the ground.
“We have to get out of here,” he said, biting back the sob he could feel in his throat.
“We can’t leave him! Steve, please,” Dustin begged.
“We can come back for him once we check on everyone else. I promise. I’m not letting him stay here,” Steve lifted Dustin in his arms, ignoring his protests.
******
When they finally managed to sneak through the safest gate, Eddie’s body was gone.
Steve fell to his knees, silently begging any higher power to make him appear.
But Robin’s hand on his shoulder and Jonathan’s voice by his side made him stand up and leave.
He was gone.
He couldn’t even bring his body back to bury it properly.
He’d made another mistake.
******
Nobody moved on quickly, but Steve seemed to feel the most guilt. It was written all over his face anytime someone mentioned Eddie, it was in the way he visited Eddie’s uninhabited grave every weekend to clean it and leave flowers, it was there when he wore the battle vest around town, still bloodstained and obvious.
No one commented on it. Only Robin ever saw him cry over it.
Only Robin knew that part of his guilt was from not saying how he felt before Eddie died.
The kiss was too late and the words were nonexistent, and now Steve had to live with the missed chance.
******
It was a hot summer day when things changed.
It was subtle at first, the sky darker than usual and the air stagnant.
He got ready for his day, skipping the vest since he’d be volunteering and “bloodstains scared the children.”
And then he heard a crash outside, followed by yelling and banging on his front door.
“Steve!” “Open up!” “Code red!”
Steve ran downstairs and threw open the front door.
“It’s time,” Dustin said.
“Now?” Steve asked, incredulous. How had they not had more warning?
They all thought El and Will would be able to sense more of the Upside Down leading up to Vecna’s return, even Dr. Owens had mentioned a possibility of signs for days or even weeks leading up to his return.
How could they all have been so wrong?
“Where are we meeting?” He asked, running through a checklist in his mind of everything he would need to bring with him. Most of the emergency things he planned on having were already in his car, but it helped him keep the nerves at bay to have something to do.
“The cabin. It’s closest to the gate we can use. El’s already there with Will and Hopper getting what they can done. We don’t know how long we actually have.”
“Do they feel him?” Steve had to ask, had to know.
“El said she’s not sure if it’s Vecna or the mindflayer, and Will thinks it’s just the entire hivemind, but yeah. They do feel something. They expected it to be stronger so Nancy thinks something is messing with their connection,” Lucas said.
Steve nodded and told them to load their bikes in his trunk while he finished grabbing some things.
Most of what they would wear was already at the cabin, but he couldn’t do this without a piece of Eddie.
He slipped the vest on and laced up his boots. He put the only ring he had of Eddie’s on his ring finger, the only one it would fit on.
He checked the mirror once to make sure he didn’t look like he was falling apart at the seams.
The black shadows under his eyes and greasy hair would have to be alright.
******
They split up, but differently this time. One group stayed with El, protecting her while she protected the world. One group stayed with Will in the Upside Down.
Steve insisted on being part of the group in the Upside Down.
He carried his nail bat while Robin carried a flamethrower. She had lessons and everything.
Joyce had a rifle loaded with special bullets that exploded into actual flames upon impact, something Dustin and Suzie had cooked up over the last month to try to gain any leverage they could.
Nancy and Jonathan were ahead of them, rifles in hand to fire warning shots if they saw anything before Will felt it.
Will was quiet, but he’d been pretty quiet since he’d arrived in Hawkins.
It was eerily quiet, more than they were expecting. They’d come in thinking they’d be fighting off demobats and demodogs constantly, but so far they were met with nothing but falling ash and the occasional sound of a tree limb breaking.
“Are we sure he’s still here?” Steve finally asked.
“He’s here. I can feel him. He’s just being quiet, waiting,” Will answered. That was the most he’d said all day.
So they continued.
A gunshot went off.
Everyone froze.
Jonathan yelled to them that something was nearby.
“It can’t be him. He’s still too distant,” Will said as Joyce stood in front of him.
“Unless he’s messing with you,” Robin whispered. “He knows we’re on high alert, right? He knows we’re strong and we aren’t just gonna give up. He’s not gonna let himself be known until he’s certain he’s got us in our weakest spot.”
Will nodded. “I don’t think he has that much control over what I can feel, though.”
“He has a lot more control over all of you than you think,” a voice said from to their left.
All weapons were pointed towards it except for Steve’s, who would recognize that voice in any situation, no matter how insane.
“Eddie?” He pushed everyone out of the way and moved towards the voice.
“Wait!” Eddie said from the shadows, barely an outline visible in the darkness. “Don’t come closer yet.”
“Why not?” Steve felt Robin’s hand on his shoulder, comforting and holding him back at the same time.
“I’m not…Steve.” Something in his tone told Steve to actually listen to him, to not push.
“Can you at least let me know if you’re alright?” Steve was scared to actually believe this was Eddie.
Eddie was dead. His body was missing.
If this wasn’t actually Eddie, Steve wouldn’t handle it well. He’d do what he needs to make sure everyone gets out of here, but after that?
Who knows.
Eddie sounded like he was cursing under his breath, which felt like such an Eddie thing, Steve couldn’t help smiling a little.
Maybe the world would end today, maybe he’d die, maybe everyone would die. But right now, Steve felt Eddie’s presence, and that was something worth dying for.
“Okay, this is gonna sound like a trap.” Eddie cursed again. “But I don’t know if I can be trusted near anyone except Steve.”
“Yeah, hard pass,” Robin said as she tugged Steve back. He’d already put one foot forward like he was actually going to get closer. “If I can’t see you, you’re not getting any closer to him.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Eddie sighed. “I just need you to not freak out if I come out there.”
“Why would we-” Steve started to ask as Eddie stepped out of the shadows.
It was still pretty dark, but it was easy enough to see the outline of him.
In many ways, he looked the same, still pale, still long dark curls, still wearing the clothes he’d died in. But there were things Steve noticed immediately.
His wounds seemed healed, which should be impossible. Well, he shouldn’t even be alive, but even still, there should be way more scars covering his face and neck. His eyes were nearly black, not the deep brown they’d been before the life left them in Steve’s arms. When he opened his mouth to speak, his teeth were pointed, sharp.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I haven’t been around anyone since-” He gestured to himself. “And I’m not sure how much control I have.”
“What…are you?” Nancy asked from behind them.
“I wanna say vampire, but nothing is really that simple, so blood-thirsting creature who hasn’t had blood since he discovered he needed it.” Eddie flashed his teeth. “I’ve got no heartbeat, which is weird. And I can hear what Steve’s thinking.”
“What?” Steve asked, almost too shocked by seeing Eddie to actually process what he was saying.
“Your thoughts have been like, the only thing keeping me alive. No blood yet, remember?”
“How does that even work?” Joyce asked, hand on Steve’s arm. “Did you feel anything strange?”
“No,” Steve answered, not taking his eyes away from Eddie. “So you…you know?”
“Yeah, Stevie. I know,” Eddie took one step closer and paused, closing his eyes. “I don’t wanna get any closer to anyone. But I know for a fact that I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“You know how that sounds, right?” Will finally spoke up.
“Yeah, Will the Wise, I do. Which is why I won’t push. But I think something happened when Stevie here kissed me while I was bleeding out in his arms and I’m pretty sure that I would actually die if I hurt him,” Eddie said.
Everyone looked to Steve, who could no longer think of a single reason not to go to Eddie.
Robin seemed hesitant to let him go, but he smiled at her and said to trust him. They all had plenty of weapons if something went wrong.
He walked closer, his only thought being able to actually touch Eddie again, maybe kiss him when he wasn’t dying.
“I wouldn’t be opposed,” Eddie said quietly as Steve stopped right in front of him. He seemed taller, just a couple inches, but definitely noticeable. “Gotta watch the teeth though. They’re pretty sharp.”
“It’s really you,” Steve reached a hand out to cup his cheek. Eddie nuzzled against his palm. “You came back.”
“I’ll always crawl home to you, Stevie.”
“How did this happen?” He whispered, his hand dropping to Eddie’s chest. He really didn’t have a heartbeat. “How are you here?”
“I don’t really know. I woke up and got flashes of your thoughts, and then my own memory kicked in and all I could think about was getting back to you.” Eddie leaned forward until his forehead touched Steve’s. “It killed me to hear how much you were hurting and I couldn’t do anything.”
“Why couldn’t you come through the gate?” Steve asked, fingers curling into Eddie’s shirt. “Why didn’t you come to us when we came to get your body?”
“Every time I tried to leave, I would pass out. One of those times was when I could hear your thoughts about coming to get me and I wanted to meet you at the gate, but I blacked out somewhere by Skull Rock?” Eddie sighed. “I didn’t get to you in time.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Steve sobbed.
“Hey,” Eddie cupped his face and shook his head. “You didn’t know. This isn’t your fault. If anything, you’re the reason I’m even alive-ish to begin with.”
It was like everything around them disappeared when Steve leaned up to peck Eddie’s lips.
It was even quicker than the first time, barely even a graze. But they both felt the spark.
Steve fell against his chest, his face nuzzling into his neck as he let out another sob. “I needed you.”
“I know. I’m here now,” Eddie said.
Steve hadn’t realized how much it was true, how much he did need Eddie this whole time. The grief he’d felt was beyond what he should’ve felt, more than what even some of the people closest to Eddie had been showing. It didn’t make sense to him why he felt so much for this man he barely knew.
“It feels like I have your heartbeat in my chest,” Steve mumbled. It didn’t make any sense.
“Maybe you do, sweetheart,” Eddie kissed the side of his head. “Must’ve stolen it from me when you kissed me.”
Steve smiled against Eddie’s skin. “Maybe I did.”
“Um, not to break up…whatever this is,” Robin started. “But Will’s hearing things.”
Steve whimpered as Eddie pulled away.
“It’s okay,” Eddie said as he laced his fingers with Steve’s. “I’m right here with you.”
And it turned out, he was more help than anyone could’ve expected.
He wasn’t exactly connected to the hivemind, but he could sense Vecna. He was almost certain Vecna was the reason he passed out anytime he tried to leave.
Which Nancy had explained probably meant Vecna would need to be severely weakened or die before Eddie would be able to leave.
If Steve had to kill Vecna himself to have Eddie back, he would. He would do anything.
But since Eddie seemed connected to him, he could give them more warning than even Will could when something was going to happen.
That warning is probably what saved them and ultimately helped El get into Vecna’s mind to finish the job she started in March.
It was obvious almost immediately when she won, when they won.
Steve’s first response was to hug Robin, her tears and sweat and a little blood soaking into his shirt while he cried into her hair. He could distantly hear everyone else crying and yelling, cheers coming from the walkie that Joyce was holding.
Everyone was okay.
Robin patted his back and pulled away. “You better get to Eddie before he rips my face off.”
Steve’s brows furrowed as he looked over to Eddie. He’d distanced himself from everyone, and even though he was smiling about their victory, he looked incredibly uncomfortable.
“Hey,” Robin said, patting his cheek. “I’m happy for you. If he’s what you want, I’m glad you get to have him.”
“Thanks, Robs.”
Robin turned to pull Nancy into a hug and Steve made his way over to Eddie.
“We couldn’t have done it without you,” Steve started. “You made sure we got him before he could get us.”
Eddie’s wide eyes wouldn’t focus on him, darting from his face to his neck to behind him.
“Stevie, I-” He groaned. “I really need blood. Everyone smells so strong. I think Vecna was covering some of my hunger before.”
Steve paled. “Okay. Let’s just- okay.”
“Steve.”
“Bite me.”
“Steve!”
“No, seriously. You won’t hurt me. You can’t hurt me. And I barely even lost any blood today. Might as well let you have some.”
Eddie whined. “I-”
“Eds, look at me,” Steve guided his face towards him. “If you drink a little now, we can all leave here. You can come home. You can see Wayne. You can see the kids. You can stay with me if you want.”
Eddie nodded. “I just don’t wanna freak you out. I feel like you’re handling this too well.”
“Maybe,” Steve snorted. “But this is not even top three weirdest things to happen to me. I want you to feel like you have control again. You can be in control of your own body.”
“I don’t know what it will feel like for you. It may hurt,” Eddie said.
“It won’t hurt as much as knowing you’re suffering.”
“You would fall on a sword I’m holding if it meant I was happy, wouldn’t you?” Eddie asked, shaking his head. “How have you not died?”
“I almost have many times.” Steve cupped the back of Eddie’s head and pulled him in, tipping his head to the side so he had better access to his neck. “This won’t be one of them. You can’t hurt me.”
“Steve,” Eddie nipped at his neck. “You smell so good. I can’t-”
“Then don’t, baby. Drink.”
The moment Eddie’s teeth sunk into his skin, every surrounding noise and sight was gone from Steve’s mind. All he could think about was giving Eddie everything, whatever he needed was his.
He could feel Eddie moaning against his neck, but couldn’t quite hear it.
Eddie’s arms were around his waist, holding him up while he took the blood he needed.
Steve lost track of time, lost track of everything except the way Eddie’s lips felt against his pulse point. His tongue lapped up the blood leaking from where his mouth connected to his veins.
They both shivered.
Steve blacked out.
******
“If you killed him, I swear to god Munson, I will kill you.”
Robin’s voice was the first thing Steve became aware of.
And then he felt Eddie’s fingers on his wrist, probably checking his pulse.
“‘M not dead,” he managed to say.
He was definitely in a bed, though he couldn’t be sure if it was his own. He didn’t really want to open his eyes yet.
He turned his head a few inches and let out a small whimper at the sting in his neck.
“Can’t believe you tried to eat my babysitter,” Dustin’s voice said from somewhere across the room. “After he basically saved you by kissing you. I gotta call Suzie. There’s theories on a “sleeping beauty” kiss, but there’s no actual science to back it up. Yet.”
“Dustin, please shut up,” Steve groaned. “I’m fine.”
He finally opened his eyes to emphasize his point, shocked to see almost everyone surrounding the bed he was in.
“This wasn’t really an everyone needs to be here situation, was it? I just passed out.”
“Eddie was panicking. He thought he killed you,” Lucas provided.
“But he cannot. You are soulmates,” El said from a chair on the other side of the bed. She looked exhausted, but otherwise okay. “It is impossible for him to kill you.”
“Well that’s…nice.” Steve was feeling a bit exhausted himself. “How long was I passed out?”
“Long enough to get through the gate and get you back to your house. 30 minutes maybe?” Eddie said, pulling his hand up to kiss his fingers. “I was worried I took too much.”
“No,” Steve said, certain he hadn’t. “I think it was just overwhelming. It won’t happen next time.”
“Did I hurt you?” Eddie’s voice sounded broken and unsure, like he would crumble into pieces if Steve said yes.
“No. You didn’t hurt me. I promise. It felt…good,” Steve was hesitant to say more with so many ears listening in, especially young ones. “It was just a lot.”
Eddie watched him for a moment, determining if he was lying. But he could read his thoughts, knew he wasn’t, and eventually gave a nod and another kiss to his knuckles.
“Well, since we know he isn’t dead and probably won’t be anytime soon…we should go!” Robin said because she was a good friend who knew what Steve was thinking even without the mindreading superpowers.
“But we should monitor him and make sure nothing weird happens. We don’t know what Eddie’s got going on and-” Dustin started to argue.
“Yep, he’s fine.” Hopper started to nudge everyone out the door. “We have stuff to do anyway. Eddie can watch him. He’ll call if anything weird happens, right?”
“Right,” Eddie answered, not taking his eyes off of Steve.
As everyone filtered out of the room, Steve blinked back at Eddie, fond smile spreading across his face.
“You need any more?” Steve asked when the door closed.
“You’re joking,” Eddie laughed, but there was no amusement in it. “I could have actually killed you. I’d never drank before and you tasted so good, Steve. You have no idea how hard it was to stop. And then you passed out! I almost had them bring you to the hospital!”
“I’m fine! I passed out because it felt good.”
“Steve. No one passes out like that just because something felt good.”
“Well, it did! It felt kinda like having five orgasms at once. Except kinda different, too. Like I wasn’t quite over the edge?” Steve shook his head. “Either way, I’m okay and it felt good and if you need more, you can have more.”
“I don’t need more right now,” Eddie sighed. “But I know I will. We’ll figure out what to do to make sure you get enough vitamins so I can drink from you next time.”
“Mhm. Sounds good,” Steve closed his eyes and tugged Eddie’s hand to rest on his chest, where his heart was beating against his ribs. “Feels like you’re part of me.”
“Yeah. You feel it too?”
“El said we’re soulmates?” Steve opened his eyes again and found Eddie’s gazing back at him already.
“I don’t know, but there’s definitely a connection. A pretty strong one. I don’t think we can ignore it,” Eddie admitted, almost apologetic.
“I wouldn’t want to. I should’ve told you before how much I wanted to get to know you,” Steve felt tears in his eyes. “You didn’t deserve to only know after you were already dead.”
“I’m not dead. I’m here with you.”
“But I watched you die. I thought you were dead. I mourned you with the kids. Robin had to stay with me for a week straight because I could barely sleep, blamed myself for everything. You must have heard all of that.”
“I think I heard a lot of it. You tortured yourself. I wanted to come here and tell you I was okay so many times. I tried so many times,” Eddie kissed his forehead. “But I’m here now. You’re mine now. I’m yours. We can figure out what this means for us.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, sweetheart.”
“Will you get in bed with me?” Steve asked.
“To sleep?”
“Eventually,” Steve smirked. “Remember when I said I was still on the edge?”
Eddie snorted. “I’m not fucking you tonight. No way.”
“Why not?” Steve pouted.
“Because it should be special and because you’ve already been through enough today,” Eddie chuckled. “You can wait a day or two.”
“Can we at least make out a little?” Steve tried to compromise.
“Will you get some rest after?”
“If you make me tired enough.”
“I didn’t know I’d end up with Steve Harrington, The Brat.”
“You’re the one who pointed out I was a spoiled rich kid,” Steve argued, turning on his side so that Eddie could climb into bed next to him. “I’m used to getting what I want.”
Steve hadn’t felt this light in a long time, maybe even years.
Eddie must have sensed it, his beaming smile lighting up the room, his sharp teeth glistening in the low lamplight.
His lips crashed against Steve’s, his arms pulling Steve closer and then on top of him as he rolled onto his back.
Steve moaned into his mouth, licking past his lips and across his fangs.
He could almost still taste his own blood in Eddie’s mouth.
He rolled his hips forward, cock already straining against his pants. The friction was perfect, just enough to keep Steve on the edge, but not so much to make it seem like he was pushing.
He was pushing though. He wanted to see how far Eddie would go, how far they could get tonight even with the events of the day behind them and the exhaustion sinking in.
Eddie nipped at his lip, just enough to break skin, and Steve whimpered.
“Shit, sorry. Forgot how sharp these things are,” Eddie pulled away and thumbed away the blood.
“It’s good, I like it,” Steve gasped out. He pulled Eddie’s thumb to his mouth and sucked on it. “Bite me anywhere.”
“Sweetheart…”
“Please, I’ll be good. You don’t have to drink. Just…bite me.”
Eddie held him still for a minute, his eyes searching his face.
“I have an idea.”
Steve nodded. “Anything.”
“Ever fingered yourself?” Eddie asked casually.
“Um, kind of? I mean I have, but I got frustrated with the angle pretty quick.” Steve suddenly caught up to what Eddie was suggesting. “Are you gonna finger me?”
“If you have lube.”
Steve sat up, nearly falling back over from a head rush. Once he managed to stay upright, he reached over into his bedside table and moved a couple things over to get the lube.
He handed it to Eddie and started to get off of him, but Eddie’s hands grabbed his hips and stilled him.
“Nope, like this. I want you to ride my fingers,” Eddie smirked. “You can find what feels good like this. Use me to get off.”
“Is that what your idea was?” Steve gulped. He’d never done anything like this before and wasn’t sure he’d do it right.
“No, but it’ll make my idea more fun,” Eddie squeezed his hips. “But we can stop anytime, okay? Even if it’s just because you’re too tired.”
“I’m not.”
“Love, you defeated an alternate dimension and its super evil guy today. Plus, I drained you of a pint or two of blood. You can be tired,” Eddie opened the cap of the lube. “You wanna get undressed?”
Steve rushed to pull his shirt off, and quickly stood up to remove everything else. Eddie tried not to laugh at his eagerness; It was honestly pretty endearing.
Once he was naked, he got back on Eddie’s lap. “Are you gonna get undressed?”
“Not right now. This is all about you, sweetheart.”
Steve’s blush went down to his chest, and Eddie was ready to proclaim his love to anyone who would hear it. He didn’t care how ridiculous it was; He loved Steve and his beautiful red glow.
He hadn’t mentioned it to him yet, but Eddie could hear the blood rushing in his veins, could hear his heart pounding even from across the room. He could almost feel every breath in his own lungs.
He spread the lube across his fingers as he helped Steve scoot up enough to make this easier for both of them.
Steve’s breath hitched as he circled his hole, and Eddie heat rushing to the places his fingers brushed against.
He pushed a finger in slowly, slow enough that it felt like Steve’s entrance was making his finger a part of him. Steve let out a long, low moan as he pushed himself down further, until Eddie’s knuckle was resting against him.
“You were made for me, weren’t you?” Eddie said in awe. He’d done this plenty, but never like this, and never with someone who wanted him this badly. “Taking me like you’re starving for it.”
“Am starving for it. Need you,” Steve moved his hips forward and back, barely riding Eddie’s finger.
Eddie pulled his finger out and replaced it with two, trying to take it slow, but Steve wouldn’t let him.
“Oh fuck,” Steve whined when Eddie crooked both his fingers inside him, brushing against his prostate repeatedly as Steve’s hips started moving again.
His cock was leaking, dripping precome down his length and onto Eddie’s stomach. He couldn’t wait to have a taste of it later. Soon, if the way Steve’s heart kept skipping a beat was any indication.
“You want another?” Eddie asked him, somehow feeling breathless despite the fact he may or may not even need to breathe.
“Please,” Steve begged. “Need to be full.”
“You want me to fill you up?” Eddie stretched him open around three fingers, going a bit slower this time when Steve tightened around him. “How much can you take? Think you can do four fingers? Think you can have my whole cock in there next to a couple fingers?”
Steve nodded, though Eddie was pretty sure he had no idea he was doing it. He wasn’t picking up any actual thoughts from him right now, which was definitely good for his ego, but a little concerning.
“Hey,” Eddie paused with his fingers inside him, his free hand against Steve’s chest. “Let me see those pretty eyes.”
Steve blinked his eyes open and Eddie was gifted with a few random thoughts about how nice his fingers felt and how much he wanted to come.
“You wanna come on my fingers?” Eddie asked.
“Mhm.”
Eddie thrust his fingers in and out a few more times before tugging Steve down.
The new angle caused him to nearly scream, Eddie’s fingers putting constant pressure against his prostate as his cock got trapped between them.
“Gonna test something. Can I bite you?” Eddie whispered against his ear.
“Fuck, yes,” Steve agreed, tilting his head to the side like the good boy he was.
Eddie stilled his fingers, but kept them as deep inside Steve as he could. He leaned forward and breathed in the scent of Steve, his sweat, the lingering smell of his body wash from his last shower barely clinging to his skin, his blood.
His teeth found their mark and he bit down, groaning as he broke the skin and tasted the first drop of blood on his tongue.
He didn’t suck, didn’t need to. He lapped at the droplets of blood as he felt Steve tense, let out a high-pitched whimper, and warmth coat both their stomachs and chests.
He pulled off immediately, pulled his fingers out so he could wipe them off on the sheets.
“Fuck, sweetheart, that was perfect. You were perfect for me,” Eddie kissed his neck, his shoulder, the side of his head. “Can’t believe I get to do that.”
“Mmm…again?” Steve’s raspy voice breathed out against his shoulder.
Eddie laughed. “Not tonight, beautiful boy. I need you to rest. You did so good.”
“Mhm. You too.”
Eddie laughed again. How did this become his life? Or death? Undeath? Whatever.
He didn’t have the heart to move Steve, but he knew they’d end up literally stuck together with dried cum if he didn’t at least wipe them down. He managed to lift Steve enough to wipe them off with the sheet, but it wasn’t perfect and they’d definitely need to shower as soon as they woke up.
Eddie had changed as soon as he got to Steve’s house at everyone’s insistence, but he had yet to shower, and he was pretty certain the only reason he didn’t smell worse was because he technically wasn’t alive to produce any body odor.
He turned his head to look into the bathroom.
Steve had a huge bathtub. They could share in the morning.
For now, Eddie ran his fingers up and down Steve’s back as he fell asleep on top of him.
“Thanks for kissing me, sweetheart,” he whispered before closing his eyes and letting out any of the tension he’d been holding onto.
Tomorrow, they’d find a way to explain his presence to Wayne, and he’d really be back home.
But tonight, he’d let the weight of Steve and his love cover him up.
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metamatronic · 9 months
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Please PLEASE tell me we do get a reunion between Greed and Ling?? I'm sobbing just thinking about it!!
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first / prev
the boys get to hug. as a treat.
also listen. we all know lan fan could easily take barry in a fight, but we’re suspending disbelief for content, alright?
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namodawrites · 11 months
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pairing: millions knives x gn!reader tags/warnings: knives is his own warning, knives tries to strangle reader, post '98 anime, trimax elements, reader sustains minor injuries, bullying by townspeople, slight possessive behavior, canon-typical violence, reader is called a "bitch" once, arson, jealousy, touch-starved knives, reader called "doc" as a nickname, hopeful ending, slice of life-ish genre: angst, slight comfort wc: 17,765 note: knives domestication arc real. there's a lot i could say about this fic (especially the word count…) but… i hope you all enjoy! please heed the warnings! 😭
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The stairs creak with each step you take to the only occupied room on the second level.
In the quiet of an empty house, the light rattling of plates produces an ugly, jarring sound. But the minor inconvenience of improperly balanced dishes is nothing compared to the riots that’d taken place for nearly a full week prior.
It had taken a cumulative three hours of reassurance from Vash—making promises to keep the situation under control—desperate for the villagers to extend the barest amount of tolerance for bringing the Devil’s son to their settlement. Under it all, he faced cruel words and hysterical accusations—half the population furious at him for even considering letting such a demon to recuperate amidst their peaceful neighbors. Angry words came from every direction; at the previous homeowners, the doctor willing to stabilize this house’s only patient, the man who’d brought him here, and you—the single volunteer who’d offered themselves up as an extra pair of eyes to watch over the slowly recovering man.
Except, Millions Knives isn’t a man. The villagers had called him many things, and there was only so much they could comprehend—or be willing to understand—after the frightful demonstration of his gift he’d frightened the villagers with.
(“That Devil’s Abomination will ruin us!” they shrieked, clutching lit torches and pitchforks. “How could you think of bringing him here to our village!?”)
You can’t say that volunteering to look after Knives was due purely to satisfy a desire to help him, but you trust Vash: the look of relief he’d given you amidst the venomous cajoling of the crowd had been enough to win you over. And if you lived to tell the story in five or ten years, it would mean that the risk he’d taken of bringing his brother here hadn’t been for nothing, after all.
Millions Knives leaves no inch of his hatred to the imagination: just his glare is enough to raise the tiny hairs on the nape of your neck—his bloodlust potent enough to feel.
Maybe he thinks that enough insults will drive you away—will break your resolve. Maybe he’s hoping you’ll lash out and give him an excuse to kill you. But with the strict order from his brother—who’d been all too willing to accept your help, flourishing a wide, hopeful smile at your tentatively raised hand—to keep violence off the table no matter what, he was about as threatening as an aggravated child.
That didn’t stop Knives from reciting the most chilling threats at you, bearing sharp teeth all the while: lips pulling back until the pink of his gums could be seen.
But it hardly matters; you’ve been called worse by lesser men, and his vitriol barely leaves a dent when he’s fighting the lucidity of a fever—one stern, slightly disappointed look from his brother enough to send him crawling into the far corners of his bed, sulking like a feral cat.
According to Vash’s explanation of his brother’s special ability, it’s sharp enough to slice cleanly through steel—precise enough to sever nerves in a human body without damaging them.
(“I don’t want to scare you,” he’d said, voice grave, “but I don’t want you to be in the dark about it, either.”)
You’d been at the back of the crowd when Knives had lashed out, swallowed by the piercing shrieking screams of men, women, and children who’d been unlucky enough to witness it.
Knives himself hasn’t deigned to show you how deadly it is just yet, but you don’t doubt he’d hardly need much convincing to demonstrate.
“Human scum,” he sneers when you open the door, balancing the tray of food on one hand. “I’ll kill you.” His fever had broken yesterday, leaving him well enough to stay awake for a few hours at a time with little issue.
“The soup is good today—it would make Vash happy if you tried it,” you say, unblinking. “The bread might be a little stale, but if you dip it—”
“I don’t need to eat to live. Only your pathetic species needs to debase yourselves like that. You should know that much from my brother.”
“—I’m sure it’ll taste good,” you finish. “Vash has told me the necessary information. He’s hoping you’ll try some of the food while you recover.” You move the soup and plate of bread onto the table beside him, next to an untouched glass of water.
There’s a chair beside his bed. One you wouldn’t dare sit in: Knives had made it clear that seat would be reserved for Vash and Vash only.
“You probably think you’re special since Vash accepted your help—forget it.” Knives sneers, fists clenched so tightly in the sheets you’re certain they’ll tear. “Once I’ve recovered my strength, I’ll wipe out this whole village. Starting with you.” His threats are softened only by the fevered crease of his brow, the way his cheeks are blotchy with the lingering effects of his cold.
“That’ll make Vash pretty upset,” you remark, and watch his jaw move, teeth grinding his face into an exceptionally poisonous expression. The furrow in his brow reaching the bridge of his nose in its intensity. His lip curls up—in disgust or mockery, you’ve no idea. It matters not as you go to open the windows, hoping some birdsong or a breeze will placate him.
It had been unclear when Knives would regain his mobility—Vash had briefed you and the doctor about his brother. Namely that, though his body shared many similarities with human biology, his ability to regenerate put him well outside the expected recovery time of normal people. When he’d first arrived, he’d hardly been able to move his arms and legs. You thought it would be that way for at least a few weeks. But clearly you’d been underestimating his generative abilities.
You make the mistake of turning your back to him—an act Knives deemed punishable by death upon your first meeting—and look over your shoulder just in time to see him snatch the bowl of soup up from the nightstand. Eyes going wide, you’re frozen—meeting his wild, triumphant snarl as he flings it at you, its contents spilling all over the sheets and floor.
It all happens so fast—before you can even blink: the house creaks, a trigger is pulled. The bowl skews off course—colliding with the rubber head of a plunger dart and crashing into the wall.
The dish shattering doesn’t startle you as much as Vash’s appearance in the doorway. The toy gun in his hand is pathetically small and harmless. He twirls it, pretends to blow steam from the barrel; tosses a wink at you.
“If there’d been a gunshot, people would’ve panicked,” he explains to your wide-eyed expression. “Sorry about that, Doc. Can you give us a minute? Those insurance girls are here to say hi.”
“But,” you say, swaying—hands hovering towards the mess on the floor. The soup is still steaming.
“I’ll take care of it. Run along now, don’t keep them waiting,” he chirps, smile not quite reaching his eyes despite the sincerity of it. He looks tired.
You step over the soup and shattered bowl on your way out. Vash waves, shuts the door behind him with a gentle click. It’s tempting to linger and eavesdrop, but you know he’ll realize if you stay behind. You rub trembling hands on your legs with a sigh and head downstairs.
“Hiya Doc!” Milly greets you with a cheerful tilt of her head. She and Meryl are sharing a cup of tea at the kitchen table. “You’re alive!”
“Yes, somehow.” You give a wry smile in return. Take a moment to calm the rapid beat of your heart.
“We heard something break,” Meryl says, brows furrowed. “Was it Knives?”
You shrug. “He’s about as happy to be here as you’d expect. I don’t think stale bread alone is enough to convince him not to destroy the village when he recovers.”
“He said that?” Meryl pauses, face mapped with worry. You wave her off, pulling a hat onto your head.
“He did, but I doubt Vash would let him.”
“That’s right, Ma’am!” Milly beams, teacup raised to her lips.
“I’m going to buy a replacement bowl before going to work,” you say.
“I’ll go with you.” Meryl smiles, stands. “It’s safer that way, right?”
(“He shouldn’t try anything like that again,” Vash will explain to you when you return, bowl secured. “He’s promised to behave for the time being. If he tries anything, let me know, okay?”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” you’ll tell him, unwrapping the bowl from its paper confines to place into the cupboard.
“Sorry about this,” he’ll apologize, eyes downcast. “I know he’s not the friendliest.”
“There’s no need to look so gloomy,” you will say, bumping his side with your elbow. “As long as he doesn’t try to cut my head off it’s not an issue. I’ve handled worse.”
“He won’t… He shouldn’t,” Vash will say. “I just… it’s harder than I thought.”)
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With tensions running high in the village, Vash had suggested that Meryl and Milly keep you company when running errands whenever he wasn’t available. They couldn’t placate the hateful words or glares of the villagers, but Milly’s huge stature and enormous stun-gun had been a deterrent for many of the unarmed citizens from trying to attack you.
Hostility, however, is one of those emotions that finds a way to sneak through the cracks, no matter how carefully monitored.
(It rises around you, like the thin spout of water in a slowly filling pond.)
At your job there is little protection: anyone with a gun can walk in. Though the owners make everyone forfeit their weapons before serving, you know there’s no such thing as an unbroken rule.
All things considered, you should be lucky not to have been fired immediately following the protests: plenty of people that come to the eatery for drinks and food glare at you. They’ll spit on the floor at your feet and whisper things under their breath. But you still get paid, your bosses give you sympathetic looks in private, after closing when no one else watches.
(It fills up, and spills over while you’re paying for groceries at the variety store.)
Even though you’d chosen the check-out line with the least amount of people, even though you have Meryl with you for safety, it does nothing against the sudden, rough pressure shoving against your back, forcing you to stumble. The cashier releases the change a second too late—or perhaps intentionally—leaving it to scatter on the floor at your feet.
“Hey!” Meryl exclaims, enraged. “How could you do such a thing?!”
You kneel to pick up the change. The heavy heel of a work boot steps on your fingers, crushing them against the floor. Air hitches in your lungs in a pained gasp, eyes squeezing shut.
Meryl lets out another angry shout, but the person is already hurrying away, heavy footsteps fading quickly as you cradle the injured hand against your chest.
“Are you alright?” she asks, hovering beside you, kneeling down to assess the damage.
“Move along, will ya? Yer holdin’ up everyone else!” a rough voice barks. The line that formed behind you hadn’t been there just a few minutes prior.
“‘Move along’?!” Meryl parrots, furious. You grab her arm, shaking your head.
“The bags,” you wheeze, grimacing. “C’mon, let’s go.”
“But they—!” Meryl protests.
“There’s no point. They’re gone,” you say, standing to move out of the way. “Let’s go.”
“It’s cowardly!” she argues, carrying the bags in her arms. “They shouldn’t be treating you like this simply for showing kindness.”
“It’s understandable,” you say, trying to flex your fingers and wincing at the throbbing pain. Your dominant hand too. What a pain. “It doesn’t matter to me. Vash has already sacrificed so much. I don’t want to let him down.”
Though the doctor checks your hand after you return, though you ice it to bring down the swelling and ease the pain, your fingers will be bruised and tender for some time. Nothing broken, luckily, but you’ll have a hard time carrying heavy things for a couple weeks at least.
But still you bring Knives’ meal up, trying to hold most of the weight with your uninjured hand.
Your appearance in his room is met with a frigid silence.
According to Vash, his brother agreed to cooperate to an extent: no more attempts to hurt anyone going in and out of his room. Not that the promise means much when out of the whole village, less than five people even go inside that house: you, the doctor, Meryl, Milly, and of course Vash himself.
“These are Vash’s favorite,” you tell Knives, setting down a plate of salmon sandwiches. Your fingers ache with a twinging, bruising pain. “And some soup.” At least when you move to open the windows, nothing is thrown at your head.
Knives is tight-lipped, but his glare is as chilling as ever. You ignore the prickle of it along your neck and busy yourself tidying up the room. The sheets and floor have been cleaned.
“You may hate me,” you say, facing away from the bed, “but I’m going to help you regardless. That won’t change.”
His expression is so furious when you look up, your breath stalls.
“You’re just a pathetic human,” he spits, face twisted with the force of his ire. “I don’t need your help. I’ll kill you, I swear it. I’ll wipe your pathetic existence from this planet.”
Silence befalls the room. Muffled outside, you can hear the sounds of people. The occasional bird call. Muffled laughter drifts from downstairs—Milly and Vash conversing in jovial tones.
You take a slow breath. “The soup will taste better if you try it while it’s hot.”
The bowl crashes against the wall when you leave the room. You consider it a win and head downstairs.
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The next morning, there’s someone already in the kitchen.
You’re not a stranger to Vash’s early morning routine, but he’s already dressed, loitering without even waiting for the kettle to boil for coffee.
“Just in time for breakfast,” you tease with a smile, only for it to falter when he remains stony-faced, hovering in the doorway. “Vash? What’s wrong?” you ask, walking forward to meet him.
Your home is gone. Set aflame by villagers who wanted to teach you a lesson for putting your trust in Vash—who wanted to punish you for stepping forth. For your arrogance and baseless beliefs in a man who could kill the whole village in the blink of an eye. The neighboring rooms are vacant and untouched. Only your belongings are gone—consumed in that unforgiving inferno.
“I’m sorry,” Vash apologizes quietly, as you stare at the building from the adjacent street. He looks as stricken as you feel. “The insurance girls are trying to recover stuff now, but…”
The dream of making it out alive and keeping the quiet triumph alive disappears—swept away with the smoke as a breeze carries it up towards the cloudless sky. Tears sting your eyes under Vash’s solemn gaze. But you can’t cry yet. Not yet.
“We’re starting over,” you tell him, hoarse. “Me and Knives. There’s no…” your voice catches. “There’s no going back now.”
You can’t cry yet, but Vash sheds a tear for you anyway.
At work, no one can look you in the eyes. The eatery has gotten quieter lately: you’re sent to the back again to wash dishes, where the hot soapy water runs over your hands until the temperature no longer scalds you.
Sheltered in the back of the building, no one pays any mind to you. But in that house, showing weakness to Knives is not an option. You earn enough of his ire simply by existing.
When you climb the stairs later that afternoon, some hours before dinner, your eyes are dry despite the ache behind them. The lingering pain in your fingers has yet to fade.
Vash had offered to give you his room upstairs and take the couch, but you refused: there’s no way Knives wouldn’t raise a fuss over you suddenly sleeping where his brother was. It was better for you to remain downstairs so they could be closer together.
“I’ll be doing errands upstairs today,” you tell Knives, shucking the curtains open after collecting his meal—untouched, of course, except for the empty cup of tea. Vash often takes it upon himself to eat what his brother leaves behind, flourishing you with praises. “Not that I expect you would, but if you need anything, call for me.”
“What errands must be done in an empty shell of a house?” Knives’ lip curls. “Watching you scurry around here like a bug makes me sick.”
“…The situation suddenly changed,” you tell him, smiling apologetically. “If I’m here it’s a little easier on Vash. He’s only just settling down.” Knives snarls after you.
The day Knives moved in, the owners of the house had taken what they could in two suitcases and left the rest, moving out of this small settlement—driven by angry neighbors and the fear of retaliation from Knives himself. With your job and Vash’s help, you have the funds to take care of his brother.
Not a peep is heard as you tidy up the second floor rooms, making mental notes of what should be tossed and cleaned. In particular, there’s a study that overlooks the main street, giving you a clear view of the village.
The bookshelf in the room is full of untouched titles—left behind to collect dust. You’re not confident anyone would want them, and certainly not from you, but perhaps when things calm down they’ll find a new home.
Your deliberations are interrupted by a loud, heavy series of thumps from across the hall. Dropping the books you’ve gathered, you almost trip over your own feet to get to Knives’ room.
“Are you okay?” you ask, throwing the door open.
He’s in a heap on the floor, the blankets tangled around his legs. The food has fallen off the nightstand, though you suspect he likely swept the tray off as an act of rebellion.
“The doctor is coming to assess you tomorrow,” you tell him, stepping through the doorway, “please be patient until then—”
“Get out!” he roars, and you barely dodge in time to avoid the plate flying towards your face. It hits the wall behind you and shatters on impact, leaving a stain and a trail of food on the floor. “Get out! Get out! Leave! Don’t come near me! Don’t speak to me! Die, just die!”
His glare has not lost its potency. He’s breathing like a feral animal, chest heaving, the tendons in his throat and shoulders flexing, body trembling under the strain of trying to push himself up off the floor. A long, tense moment passes with your eyes locked.
“I can’t do that,” you say finally, quietly. “It would make Vash sad.”
His nostrils flare, teeth grinding. He grabs the nearby cup, the remaining drops of water spilling out to hurl it out into the hall. It shatters high above your head, glass bits raining down behind you.
“Don’t speak about him,” Knives heaves, voice trembling in his anger. “Disgusting human, pathetic—how dare you. How dare—”
Adrenaline pulses through your body. Instinct tells you to run. But instead, you crouch, begin to pick up the shattered pieces of plate, dropping them carefully into your palm. Your bruised, aching fingers throb in protest, but still you do it. Knives crawls back against the wall, looking not unlike a cornered animal. Fists clenched against the floorboards, glaring at you.
It’s agonizing and slow, and he watches you the whole time.
You call the doctor over to help Knives back into bed. The blond practically flies away from the touch as soon as he touches the mattress, buries himself under the blankets and doesn’t say a word. You thank the doctor and continue cleaning the mess, turning the floorboards spotless.
Vash returns later that evening with Milly and Meryl. They greet you with a smile. He manages to steal a sandwich from the plate of leftovers.
“Knives has been anxious to see you, I think,” you tell him honestly. Vash goes upstairs to visit his brother while you sit on the back porch with Milly and Meryl. There’s not much to see, mostly dry bedrock with a view of the vast desert planet. It’s sort of nice, in a lonely way; that even with the hostility you face in the village square and its shops, this house’s immediate perimeter has become an unspoken, off-limits area for everyone else.
Knives doesn’t seem to mind the quiet. From what you recall of his past—at least from what Vash has told you—he’s used to wandering alone.
“Well? Aren’t you going to tell Vash?” Knives sneers at you when you bring him dinner.
“Did you want me to?” you ask. He gives no answer except the tilting snarl of his mouth. “There was no reason to,” you tell him honestly. “The two of you have been through enough.”
You hadn’t even told Vash about what happened at the store, either. But the knowing, softened frown on his face tells you there was no need: Meryl already filled him in.
“You don’t know anything,” Knives hisses. At least there’s nothing dangerous within reaching distance.
“I may not know everything,” you tell him, pausing in the doorway, “but I’m not ignorant. I know what you’ve done. Why the village was so reluctant to let you stay here. But they let you because they trust Vash. And I do too.”
“You humans with your useless sentimental feelings,” Knives sneers. “That’s why you die.”
“It’s why we live, too,” you remind him.
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Without a home to return to, when your hours are cut from washing dishes or taking care of other menial tasks at the eatery, you take care of the house as if it was your own, paying extra attention to the rooms that haven’t had much use.
Amongst the rooms downstairs, there’s a piano. Hidden by a sturdy leather cover, you peel it back to admire the sight of it. Except for a chair against the wall, the room is empty except for this instrument and its accompanying bench.
There’s not much you can do to liven the room up except get rid of the dust, but you lift up the fallboard to reveal the black and ivory keys. You test out a chord. The sound is twangy and a bit hollow. Not great, but not as bad as you thought. Playable.
For all the skills you’ve picked up over the years, tuning instruments is not one of them. But you remember that the doctor had an acquaintance that used to play during holidays and festivals. Maybe you could convince him to help you fix it up.
Knuckles rapping against the window nearly scare you out of your shoes.
It’s Milly and Meryl, peering at you from the other side of the glass.
“Hiya Doc!” Milly grins as you open the shutters to greet them. “What’re you doin’?”
“Dusting,” you say, waving the feather brush. “This room hasn’t been used in a while. It’s a shame with that piano there.”
“I’m sorry,” Meryl says, frowning. “It must be lonely.”
“It’s not so bad,” you say, leaning against the windowsill. “Knives aside, Vash seems to like it here. I think he’s enjoying finally having a place to settle down.”
“I think he would be happier if you played something for him!” Milly suggests. “I’m sure the piano gets lonely too. No one’s used it since we came here.”
“That thing’s been out of tune for a while,” you tell her, massaging your fingers. “They stopped doing regular maintenance on it a while back.”
“But that’s so sad!” she protests, lips turning a pout. “Can’t you play a song for us, Doc? Just one!”
“I’ve never really—” you try, but Milly leans into the window, puts her face close to yours. She smells like tea and sun and soap. You wither. “…Okay.”
The bench creaks as you sit. You try another few keys. Milly claps at the window to encourage you.
“This thing’s pretty busted,” you say, testing a few more notes. The sounds fill the quiet space of the room nicely. While you play, you imagine a happier future—the piano tuned and fixed up, the room full of happy, dancing people, and a cool evening breeze drifting in through the windows. A place where laughter is shared.
You try for a song from your childhood—something bouncy and trilling, fingers clumsily passing over the keys, memories filtering back to you. Meryl and Milly smile with you during the awkward pauses, the wrong notes accidentally pressed. The bruises on your hand have not completely healed, and it makes playing difficult. But you do all the same, unaware of how much you missed music before your ears crave for more.
The song’s ending is unsatisfying with the croaky notes, but Milly and Meryl clap for you all the same. They seem excited by the idea that it could be fixed up. You send them on a mission to ask the doctor’s acquaintance: they’ll probably have better luck than you.
Surprisingly, when you go to Knives’ room that afternoon, he speaks up about it.
“That was an awful racket,” he so graciously tells you. “You clearly have no ounce of talent.”
It takes a great deal of effort not to smile.
“Of course it was terrible,” you tell him matter-of-factly, “I’ve never had any formal training.”
He glares after you, but says nothing more.
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Just a handful of days after that, the doctor deems Knives well enough to walk.
He would not accept help from anyone but Vash. And of course he’d bared his teeth at the doctor for trying to show his brother how to support him while walking.
So instead, the doctor asked for your help: posing as Knives for a demonstration. Vash had been all too happy to let you use him as a support, getting an arm around your waist like the doctor instructed.
Knives stared the whole time, stiff with what you could only imagine was barely controlled rage.
On the first attempts to get him to walk, he clings to Vash like a leech. Removing all hopes of mobility and nearly sending both of them tumbling to the floor. From watching them—taking in how Knives sneers and bares his teeth at you—you get the sense he’s leaning more weight into his brother on purpose. The arch of your eyebrow threatens to twitch up.
There’s not much he has to do to get better, but after a few weeks of bed rest, he needs to get strength back in his limbs.
The doctor had raised his eyebrow at the timeline Vash gave—an estimated length of time that would’ve been impossible for a regular human to imitate. But despite the relatively short period, it’s impossible for Vash to stick around at every waking moment.
It had taken nearly five days of convincing for Knives to even allow you to come within five feet of him. But Vash managed to convince Knives to at least let you walk the length of the room with him. Of course, it still meant Vash had to be there for the next few days.
Knives touches you as if there are strings attached to his limbs. His movements are stiff and creaky, made all the more difficult with his refusal to wrap an arm around your shoulders (though you don’t doubt he’d do it if it meant he could try choking you out), and as a result much of his strength belied in the painful grip he held onto your shoulder with, pushing tender spots into the skin.
He walks faster with you—likely to shorten the duration of having to rely on you for support—but Vash seemed to take that as a way to help Knives get better faster, using you as a motivator to improve his condition.
“Let’s try the stairs today,” Vash says with a smile, too cheerful and wide for Knives’ fingers that are digging bruises into your waist. “Those insurance ladies and I will be waiting at the bottom. See you soon!” He hums all the way down to the first floor, audible even after he slips out of sight.
You take a breath. “Shall we?”
Knives fingers dig into your shoulder. He tries to angle away from your body, but with an arm around his waist, it’s difficult.
“I have no idea what he sees in you,” Knives starts. His voice is different this close. You can’t tell if this is a good or bad development. The sound of it is nice even if it does rumble with the barely contained urge to kill you. “But I swear I’ll reveal your disgusting nature if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Can I at least get you down the stairs first?” you sigh. “Vash is waiting.”
“You dare mock me?” he hisses, dangerously close to bruising bone.
“You want to get this over with as soon as possible, right?” you ask, attempting a smile. “C’mon. After this you and Vash can sit together and I’ll get out of your sight. That’s ideal for you, isn’t it?”
His jaw audibly clicks as he snaps it shut, turning his face stubbornly away from you.
It’s not terrible, considering. Your shoulder aches from where his fingers are pushing bruises, but seeing Vash at the bottom of the stairs helps to loosen the knot in your chest. Knives goes first. You follow him slowly, tightening your arm around his torso at any signs that he might fall.
You’re not sure if Vash’s enthusiastic praise and encouragement helps, but having his brother there does seem to make Knives a little less hostile, his hold loosening slowly to a firm but less uncomfortable pressure.
He snarls at Meryl and Milly when they poke their heads curiously around the corner. And the downstairs trip hadn’t relaxed him by any means, but he re-tightens his grip on your shoulders when they appear, tensing up with all the intention and strength of a man who could kill if he wanted to. You send them an apologetic smile before they scurry away.
“Going up stairs is the hard part!” Vash chirps, bounding up two at a time. Knives scowls. You wait patiently for him to begin the climb.
Vash is right: going up is much slower than going down. Against Knives’ wishes, you end up leading, using the strength you have to half-lift him when his body falters—either under the strain of moving or lingering pains that have yet to disappear.
His jaw is tensed the whole way, the tendons in his throat flexing, teeth grinding. His gaze doesn’t waver, though, focused at the top of the stairs. It’s the most human you’ve seen him—the struggle and desperation he’s exerting to get better.
“Good job you two. I knew you could do it,” Vash says, greets the both of you with a smile. He’s leaned up against the door of Knives’ room, steps aside to let you in. “A few more days of that and you’ll be good as new, Kni.”
“Don’t patronize me, Vash,” Knives snaps. You elect not to mention the tremors in his arms, the strain of holding himself up, refusing to rely on you more than necessary. “The moment I’m better it’ll be over for this village!”
He and his brother share a look. When you’re within arm’s length of the bed, Knives all but tears himself away from you, throwing himself back onto the mattress with a snarl.
“Well! I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.” Vash beams at you. “Shall I get started on lunch?”
“You’ll burn the food without cooking it if you try to do it all by yourself,” you tell him, exasperated, resisting the urge to roll your shoulder. “Get Meryl and Milly to help—I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Mm… okay. Behave, you two,” he says with a flourishing wave, and hums all the way out of sight once more.
“Who do you think you’re fooling?” Knives sneers, sat on the edge of his bed, fingers digging into his pants. “Don’t expect any gratitude from me. It’s all your fault, trash.”
“You seem determined to hate me,” you say, staring him down. Even though he’s the patient, just his glare is enough to make the fine hairs on your neck stand. “You don’t have to thank me, but I think you’re mistaken: it’s true you may be different from us, but deep down, you want some of the same things.”
“What?” He glares, voice lowering to a deadly rumble.
“We both want to live. We both want to find a place for ourselves in this world,” you tell him, the fine hairs on your neck prickling under his stare. You think of the look on Vash’s face when he broke the news of the fire. You think of the look on Knives’ face when he learned he would be staying here to recover. “You can hate humans all you want, but you’re not as different from them as you’d like to believe. Neither of us are perfect.”
His movements are clumsy, but it catches you off guard all the same as he lunges with a snarl, hands outstretched to wrap his fingers around your throat. The weight of his body and the force at which he throws himself at you sends you hurtling back, landing painfully on your spine. It forces the air from your lungs, and Knives squeezes. Your hands automatically find his wrists, trying to pry his hands away from your neck.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” he bellows. Footsteps thunder up the stairs. “We’re nothing alike! I’m nothing like you! You filth! Garbage! Scum! We’re nothing alike! You’re all just a hoard of disgusting animals!”
“Kni!” Vash’s hollers from the doorway. “Knives, release them!”
“Get off of me, Vash!” Knives yells, jerks a hand off your throat to elbow his brother in the jaw. “I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all right now!”
“Knives!”
Your knee comes up to slam against Knives’ abdomen. Vash grabs Knives by the collar to haul him back, snatching his fingers away from your throat.
Curling up to suck in wheezing, ragged breaths, you miss the immediate skirmish that follows after—the two brothers grappling on the floor, Vash winning the upper hand to wrestle his brother into submission.
“Mr. Vash! Doc!” Milly is at your side, a hand wrapping around your shoulders to support you.
“Kill…! I’ll kill you!” Knives is spluttering, red-faced, fingers reaching for you, clawing on the ground. “I’ll kill you!”
“Get them out of here!” Vash barks at Milly. “I’ve got him!”
“Vash!” Knives screeches, and aims a punch at his brother.
You scramble for the door, chest tight, adrenaline spiking through your blood as Knives’ scream reaches you even to the piano room.
(“I’m sorry,” Vash will tell you later, hunching with the weight of guilt and shame. “I shouldn’t’ve left.”
“It’s not your fault,” you’ll tell him, cradling a bag of ice against your throat and wondering when the bruises will fade this time. “I provoked him a little too hard, I think.” And he’ll look at you with a wilting, faltering smile, too many emotions to process flicking across his face.
“I’ll understand if you don’t want to continue looking after him,” he’ll say, a quiet offering to you. “We can figure something else out for you.”
And you’ll think about Knives, the furious agony in his face, and will shake your head.
“No,” you’ll say, voice creaky, a physical mark of Knives’ hands left behind. “I’ll stay. I made a promise, after all.”)
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The following days leave Knives moody. But with Vash hanging around more and you busying yourself with taking care of the house, you don’t see him as much.
Except for one particular morning, you keep your contact with him at a minimum—strictly for mealtime while his brother and the doctor take care of other necessities.
Vash is sitting beside the door, watching you place Knives’ meal on the nightstand. There hadn’t been much talking even before you entered the room: you suspect Knives had been sulking at his younger brother for stepping in and preventing your murder.
Vash surprises you with the sound of your name.
Startled, you glance back at him. He beckons with a gesturing finger, a quiet smile on his face.
“Can you come here a moment?” he asks. You find no reason to refuse. His expression doesn’t change much, but you think his eyes flicker for half a second—just over your shoulder. “How’s the bruise here?” he asks, motions to his neck while staring at yours.
You resist the urge to glance back at Knives. “It’s fine,” you tell him, knowing his older brother is hearing every word. You hold your tongue against telling Vash what he was there to hear: that there would be no lasting damage, despite the slight hoarseness of your voice as the bruise fades.
“Can I have a look?” he asks. Perplexed, you tilt your chin up, allowing him to see your neck. You’re not expecting his touch, despite the wide motions to telegraph it, and the calloused pad of his thumb feels foreign against the column in your throat. Vash traces a thumb around it, looking oddly morose. And his touch is gentler and nonlethal compared to his brother’s, but your heart rate still jumps when his thumb passes over the dip of your throat, just at the base of it.
“Human,” Knives kisses mere feet behind you, beyond the limits of his patience. You swallow. Vash’s fingers move with the motion of it.
“It’s okay,” Vash reassures you, voice quiet. You’re not quite sure what he’s seeing: he can’t feel the lingering throb in your neck as his fingers pass over it, but whatever he does gather from this odd development must satisfy him, because his touch recedes. He leans back in the seat, smiling. “Thank you. I’m going to stay here a little while longer and chat with Knives,” he says, the dismissal not unkind, but firm despite its subtlety. “Those insurance ladies were talking about sharing some tea with you yesterday. The tall one was especially excited about restocking her pudding supply. I’m sure she’d be happy to have you tag along.”
Unable to rid your skin of the ticklish sensation, you raise a hand to rub the area lightly.
“I’ve never not seen Milly happy about pudding,” you say carefully. Vash’s smile widens. “I’m headed off to work. I’ll be back for lunch.”
“Mm. Take care.” Vash waves you off with a pleasant air. You do not make eye contact with Knives as you exit the room.
He’d been smug about nearly strangling you, and his smile—however leering and sharp, looks better on him than one of his angry, twisted scowls. You’re sure he would’ve been content to remember it as a victory over you. And maybe that’s why he doesn’t throw any more plates or bowls at the wall, why he agrees to be some watered-down version of civil when Vash is away.
“You really shouldn’t try walking on your own just yet.” You catch him mid-motion one afternoon: peeling back his blankets, looking half-caught. “Is there somewhere you wanna go? I’ll walk with you.”
Knives sneers, finishes tossing the blanket aside.
“I don’t need you,” he hisses. “I can get there on my own.”
It’s like watching a child walk for the first time. He sits on the edge of the bed, eyes down, bracing himself. He can push himself up fine, lips spreading into a victorious smirk. But then his knees buckle, and you lunge for him, hoping to catch him before he hits the ground.
“Don’t touch me!” he snaps, swiping at you. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself!” He curls away from you, this particular twist of his mouth looking different than you expect. Rather than looking angry, the tilt of his mouth carries the ghost of shame.
Slowly, you kneel in front of him. Vash is out—if Knives really were to try and kill you this time around, it’s likely he’d be successful.
“I’m sorry,” you tell him, “about kicking you. I did have a reason, though. You ever heard of that saying? That the mouse will attack a cat if it gets cornered.”
His lip curls, looking more like the Knives you’ve come to know.
“There’s no outcome for the mouse other than death. Because that’s what happens when you’re up against a power greater than yours. The mouse seeks death to escape the pain of living.”
You shake your head. “No, that’s not quite it. It attacks the cat because it wants to live. You want to live, and so you attack. I want to live, so I kicked you.”
Knives’ eyes narrow. “Clearly you don’t. Otherwise you would’ve left and never come back. You’re just feeling superior because there was a higher power on your side this time. But there won’t be next time.”
“So you admit your brother is a higher power than yourself?” you ask.
Knives hisses out a noise—a low snarl. Sat on the floor, though, he reminds you of the fussy stray cats, fluffing themselves up to appear deadlier than they are.
You stand. His eyes follow you. “I want to help you. That’s what I promised Vash. My feelings haven’t changed.” Your hands find your hips. “Now, about that piano—one of the doctor’s acquaintances has agreed to help fix it up, so it should be in better condition. If you wanna try playing it, I can bring you there. But you have to let me help you.”
“And why would I do that?” he asks, lip curling. “Maybe I’ll kill you now that Vash isn’t here.”
“Then I won’t be able to walk with you to the piano room,” you tell him. “Earlier you mentioned my playing, right? I figured maybe you’d wanna try it out for yourself. I bet it sounds better.”
Knives’ lips pull back to reveal his gums. “As if better sound will do anything for your lousy playing.”
“You should try it, then,” you say lightly, echoing Milly’s words. “I’m sure the piano is lonely.”
The look on Knives’ face tells you all you need to know about what he thinks of that sentiment. You try to keep your expression matter-of-fact, even as he tenses with clenched fists. Your throat tingles.
It feels like victory when he finally, finally acquiesces, easier to ignore the way he flinches when you help him stand, getting an arm around his waist. Out of politeness, you let him lead. He’s hobbling more than walking, but as long as he’s using the muscles you suppose it’s not a terrible thing.
The piano greets him with its sleek black cover. You can feel his chest expand with a quiet, long breath at the sight of it.
“Leave,” he commands when you help lower him onto the bench. It’s an act of mercy for you to comply without any remarks.
The house is quiet after wandering into the kitchen. Knives tests a few of the notes with a string of chords. The sound is better than you expected.
“Yo.” Vash greets you from the entrance. “Everything going well?”
“Vash,” you smile, “you’re back.”
“Those insurance girls are good at pestering people,” he sighs, drapes himself in a chair. You chuckle. “I’m always stuck with the hard jobs when they’re involved.”
“You seem to be having fun, though,” you say. “Are the… the villagers aren’t treating you poorly, are they?”
His smile is thin. “It’s alright. I don’t blame them for being upset. The insurance girls are good about keeping the damages under control.”
“Well, it is their job, I suppose. Old habits are hard to break. Besides, it probably makes it easier on them that you’ve finally settled down,” you say, smiling.
“You should keep them company too.” He pouts.
“I’ve got my hands full at the moment,” you say, gesturing to the direction of the piano room. There’s a song coming from it, now, a low, melodious hum that strikes a terribly nostalgic feeling in your chest. “Though maybe when Knives makes a full recovery we’ll finally be able to invite some people over.”
“I hope you have the funds for pudding,” he sighs.
“That depends on you, doesn’t it?” you tease through slight laughter. “Though I’m sure Milly would be just as partial to beer as she is pudding.”
“She’s terrible at holding her liquor,” Vash says, waves his hand in the air. “You’ve never seen her drunk, have you?”
“No, but I’ve seen you,” you say, moving towards the stove.
“I’ve never actually gotten drunk!” he protests, pout deepening. “Those other times don’t count.”
“You mean the times you vomited in public?” you tease.
“It doesn’t count!”
The moment it escapes, you realize it’s been a while since you’ve laughed. The sound of it surprises you, but it’s relieving to see Vash join in. It feels good—like stretching a muscle after a long period of stagnancy.
A loud, ugly sound from the piano room startles you out of it. Sharing a look with Vash, the two of you leave the kitchen to find Knives still at the piano, shoulders hunched, head lolled forward. His back is to the door. Vash angles himself in front of you.
“What’s the matter, Knives? Get bored already?” he asks with an air of nonchalance.
“I didn’t realize you were here,” Knives says. He looks over his shoulder to glare at you. “Were you enjoying yourself?”
Vash leans in his line of sight, hands up. You can hear the smile in his voice. “It sounded like you were having fun. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Take me back,” Knives says. You move into the room. He snarls. “Not you.”
“Now, now,” Vash says, puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “They just want to help, Knives.” He turns a smile to you. “I’ll take him back up, don’t worry about it.”
Though Vash seems content enough to help his brother, you cannot help but raise an eyebrow as Knives gives you a triumphant, leering grin on their way out the room.
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From then on, whenever Knives picks up that his brother is in the house, he plays more passionately—gut wrenching songs filling the house. You think it must be a message from him—something Knives makes sure his brother hears before leaving.
And now that he’s more accustomed to walking, Knives makes it a point to fill the other rooms with his presence, too.
He watches you make dinner one night, seated in a chair by the door—having claimed he doesn’t want to sit at the table like a human—and sneers the whole time, watching you chop vegetables. Taking periodic sips of his drink, though never when your eyes are on him.
“Is that enough for the three of you pests?” he sneers.
“Hm? Well between the two of us”—you gesture between the two of you with a free hand—“and Vash, it’ll be enough.” His eyes narrow suspiciously at you. “…Oh, you mean Meryl and Milly? They’re limiting their time here.”
“Did they finally decide to leave my brother alone?” he snarks.
Your mouth quirks up. “No, but you didn’t like it when they visited, right? They understand. The porch is just as welcoming as the downstairs is.”
(Neither Milly or Meryl had been too put-off by your suggestion, waving off your apologies with an understanding smile.
“It’s the best course of action if it prevents Knives from becoming too violent.” Meryl had nodded sagely.
“Do we still get to eat pudding with you?” Milly’d asked. You laughed and told her yes, of course.)
Knives doesn’t say anything in response. When you glance back at him, there’s a split second before he scowls where his expression is less severe. Just for a moment, though, as if your eyes had reminded him of the hostility he was supposed to be spitting.
“Do all humans use these weapons as clumsily as you?” he asks snidely.
“This is a kitchen knife for cooking. I’m not using it as a weapon,” you tell him. “I’m using it for dinner.”
“You shouldn’t bother. I don’t need you poisoning my brother more than you already have. You’ll rot his brain.”
“I don’t wanna hear that from someone who won’t even eat the meals Vash helped make. He worked hard to help me, since I’m doing it all myself.” You sniff. Knives’ glare sharpens on your back. You’re lucky he’s not within arm’s reach, or you’re sure he’d test how well you could defend yourself with a utility knife. “Vash is coming back for dinner soon. You should try some of the food. I’m sure it would make him happy,” you say.
Knives merely scowls and looks away.
The more he begins to settle in, the more weight is lifted from your shoulders. The more he settles in, the more obvious it becomes that not everyone is as optimistic as you.
The assault comes before you have time to process what happens.
A gasp pulls from Meryl’s mouth—audible even across the street as a tomato pelts the center of your chest. It comes out of nowhere—soft and smelling slightly rotten from the sun, staining your clothes with the pulpy flesh. Another follows, splatting against your spine, the sound of it loud over Meryl’s protests. A rough set of hands shoves you off the walkway lining the grocery store’s front, sending you tumbling into the dirt. You can feel the bread get crushed between your shoulder and the ground.
“We’ll remember your face when that Devil’s Abomination kills our loved ones!” an angry voice hollers.
“You’re just like him! A curse on this village!”
“You should be ashamed to show your face around here!”
“Enough!” Meryl shouts, hovering protectively near you. “How can you all treat someone else like this?”
“Don’t bother, Meryl,” you say, pushing yourself up, using a hand to catch the groceries threatening to spill from the mouth of the bag. “Let’s go. Vash is waiting.”
“But—!” she tries. You turn to look at her, pleading.
“Let’s go. Please.”
No amount of scrubbing can get the stains completely out. With no other clean shirts, you’ve no choice but to wear it. The dirt will come out easily enough, but the tomato will linger as an odor and a visible mark. You’ll have to go to work in this shirt.
Knives clocks the stain for half a second before his eyes rise to meet your face, scowling from against the pillows.
“Are you so clumsy that even handling food is no longer a possibility?” he sneers.
You try for a smile. “You can tell?”
“Not only are you pathetic, you’re also a fool,” he snaps. “Even your measly skills couldn’t have regressed so much in such a short period.”
It’s not a question to ask what happened, but his eyes linger. You bite the inside of your cheek.
“Maybe I should ask someone for lessons?” you suggest.
“Human,” he growls, “don’t play games with me.”
“I’m not,” you tell him. “Vash will be here soon. I think it would make him happy if you ate lunch with him.”
Knives’ scowl deepens.
Even after switching shirts, you can feel the lingering imprints of the bruises, and Knives’ eyes flicker to the spot more than once, silent and observing.
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Even with the extra eyes, you can’t completely swallow the trepidation in your throat, fingers tight around the scissors.
No matter how much time will pass, you get the feeling Knives won’t be very forgiving if you make him bleed—no matter how accidental the slip might be. If you’re not careful, you might clip the top of his ear.
When his hair had first shown signs of growth, he’d staunchly refused to let you come anywhere near him with hair clippers. It was only with continuous reassurance from Vash that he allowed his brother to carry him out the back door into a chair set out as a temporary haircut station.
Considering everything, his hair is surprisingly easy to work with. Soft, from what you can tell. He twitches with every quiet brush of your hand near him, likely disgusted from having your touch on him. But it’d been amusing to hear that he’d refused Vash’s generous offer to cut it.
Your nails accidentally scrape against his scalp—just a light touch, but it has Knives jerking his head away, turning to glare over his shoulder at you, body hunching. This close, he wouldn’t have to exert much effort to kill you. And it’s in the moments where you’re physically closest to him that you remember Vash’s warning about Knives’ ability.
“You can tell me what you want, you know. If you don’t say anything I won’t understand what you’re thinking.”
He’s completely tense in the chair, not even the muscles in his jaw relaxed as you continue to trim the pale blond strands.
“I doubt your small mind could understand anyways,” he snaps.
Your fingers pass over the curve of his ears. His lips pull back in a quiet snarl—more subdued than the one he would’ve given just a few weeks prior.
“Well, you never know until you try.”
“Pretty words from a hypocrite,” he scoffs. His ear is warm beneath your touch.
“It’s the human in me,” you say, trying hard to suppress a smile as his brow creases, visibly annoyed.
“When you’re done over there, can I get one?” Vash calls your attention over with a wide grin. He and Meryl are watching from the porch, their expressions carrying varying degrees of tension.
“Vash, I gave you one just the other day,” you say, raise an eyebrow at him as your fingers brush Knives’ nape. He twists, scowls. You move the scissors away from his head.
“When was this?” he demands. “I didn’t hear about this.”
“It was the beginning of the week,” you tell him. His eyes narrow, no doubt searching your face for any indication of a lie. “He asked for one.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?” he asks, sounding not unlike a child. Your hand runs lightly across his temple, separating the shorter hairs from the ones still needing a trim. His eyebrow twitches, lips pressing in an expression you daren’t call a pout.
“I didn’t think you’d care,” you say honestly. “Plus, you wouldn’t let me cut your hair until today. Else I would’ve given you both one on the same day.”
Knives scoffs, turns back around.
“Mr. Vash, I’m back!”
It’s Milly; waving with her whole arm, carrying a bright smile as she approaches. There’s a little package in her hands—it must be mail for him. You refocus your attention back to Knives. He hadn’t exactly told you what he wanted in terms of style, but you doubt he’d appreciate having anything that made him stand out—a simple trim would be enough.
“Doc!” Vash catches your attention with a loud, cheerful voice—his tone crooning the first notes of an off-key song. You brush stray hairs from Knives’ shoulders. “Can you come here a sec?”
“But…” you say, frowning. Vash smiles, beckons you with the wave of his hand.
“It’s alright—we have a delivery for you,” he says. “You can come here.”
You debate if you should leave the scissors with Knives. A half-thought you squash when you stick them in the apron’s pocket, giving his hair one last glance over. He’s not pleased—you can tell from the scowl in your peripheral. But he says nothing as you approach the porch.
“Here.” Vash’s voice is surprisingly quiet, his cheerfulness having mellowed into something soft—melancholy, if you had to pinpoint the lilt of his brow.
The packaging crinkles beneath your fingers. Vash prompts you to open it with a little nod. Milly and Meryl are smiling beside him.
It’s your pocket watch. The one you had tucked beneath your mattress—a parting gift from a figure of your past long ago. It’s yours, because of the etchings on the inside of the cover, though the watch itself looks new; shinier than you remember—even on the day you received it.
“It’s the only thing that survived the fire,” Meryl explains as you cup it in both hands, running a thumb around the circumference of it. “We brought it to the jewelers for them to fix up. Is it to your liking?”
The dusty air stings your nose. The fire hadn’t been that long ago, but you still mourned the loss of all your possessions: the ones that mattered, at least. Your pocket watch had survived, though, heralding the beginning of a new story for you.
“’s perfect,” you say, speaking around the thickness in your voice. “Thank you.”
They’re respectfully quiet as you inspect it: turning it over in your hands, running your fingers around the short, delicate chain. Snapping it shut and clicking it open, feeling the dulled, scratched out words on the inside of the lid. You raise a hand to your eyes, but they’re dry.
“It’s the least we could do,” Vash says. “You’re doing so much for us. And Knives.”
A smile touches your face. “Dummy, I don’t need anything in return for that.”
Vash’s eyes flicker up, glances behind you. He leans back in his seat with an easy expression. You pocket the watch and reach out a hand. He takes it—you squeeze his fingers gently, repeating the motion with Milly and Meryl.
“Thank you,” you say again, dry-eyed and soft. “I appreciate it.”
“Take good care of it, okay Doc?” Milly smiles.
“I will.”
Knives has a grumpy expression on his face when you return.
“We’re almost done,” you tell him, telegraphing the motion you make to pluck lightly at his hair.
“Finished mourning those burdensome sentiments?” he sneers.
The pocket watch is a comforting weight. You know he can hear the smile in your voice when you respond.
“Yeah. For now, at least.”
He doesn’t say another word, but he keeps that sullen expression on his face up until he makes Vash help him back inside as you tidy up the area. In the following days, however, you feel there is less resistance when you help him around the house.
Though you’d like to believe it’s because he’s finally come to tolerate you, the real reason is likely due to his recovery. The doctor had commented on the unusually smooth process.
“You’ll probably be able to walk on your own pretty soon,” you tell him, watching how he walks. Looking for any moments where he might falter. His posture isn’t as stiff, either. Though he’s not leaning into you more than he has to. “It’s impressive—most people would still need a few weeks to recover.”
“Of course,” Knives says, looking oddly smug. “You pathetic humans die so easily. It’s a wonder you’ve managed to survive this long.”
“We’re good at that,” you say, turning into the doorway to the piano room. “I know we’re nothing but greedy animals to you, but if anything, we’re resilient in different ways. The important ones, I think.”
His arm clamps around your shoulder, but his grasp loosens when he learns all it does it inadvertently pull you closer.
“Useless,” he gripes, but the severity of his leering is not as stinging as it had been when you first met. You mark it as another win.
Movement in your peripheral. The way the bench is facing, Knives can’t see behind him through the window. But you can—spotting a figure tiptoeing past, the silhouette belonging to someone other than Vash, Milly or Meryl.
A knot of anticipation twists in your arteries. Spine straightening, you glance down at Knives. He’s settling on the bench, stretching out his fingers.
“You’re fine here on your own for a little, right? Gotta bring the laundry in,” you say, lightly. He throws a scrutinizing glare at you, but you’re already moving towards the door, turning away before he can see the smile fall away from your face.
A hot dry breeze pushes into the house as you open the back door, beelining towards the figure.
You recognize the figure immediately: Marvin Goodrich—he’d been extremely vocal against allowing Knives to stay in the village ever since he arrived, carried over Vash’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. If you recall, he and his brother Jonah had also been the ones to threaten the owners of the house into leaving. An encounter with either of them spells trouble.
“What are you doing?” you ask, voice strong and clear.
He fakes a surprised look, swinging a rusted shovel over his shoulder, doing very little to suppress the leering grins spreading wide across his face as you approach.
“Nothin’ much,” he drawls, the free hand on his hip, drawing your line of sight to the gun strapped there. “Just goin’ for a walk.”
“Where’s the other one?” you ask. Jonah might be an idiot, but he’d been one of the first to voice his protests at letting Knives stay—had cajoled the crowd into a heightened state of frenzy before Vash, Meryl and Milly were able to calm everyone down.
“Dunno,” Marvin shrugs.
The muscles in your jaw tighten. You gesture to the shovel. “What’s that for, then?”
“Just a little digging,” he says, looses a chuckling sneer. “Maybe I’ll hit a vein of water and become filthy rich.”
“That sounds nice,” you say, voice plain. “If you don’t mind I’d like to take the laundry in,” you tell him, gesturing with the basket in your hands. “Those sheets should be dry now.”
“Oh, are they?” Marvin hums, circling around one of the poles keeping the clothes line up. “It’s not very smart to leave them out like this. The wind could just”—he plucks the corner of one with a hand—“blow it away.”
“The winds have never gotten that strong around here,” you say, fingers tightening around the basket handles. “You’ve lived here as long as I have, Marvin. You should know that by now.” The smile falters on his face.
“Why don’t I help you, then?” he suggests airily, gesticulating with wide movements as he reaches up to release the clips attaching the sheet to the line. He mocks a bow. “More hands make light work. Plus, I know how tired you must be: looking after that Devil’s Abomination must be such hard work.”
“It’s actually quite simple,” you tell him. “I’m sure even you could do it.”
“Bitch,” he sneers, and rips the sheet from the line.
“Stop it,” you demand, and let out a startled gasp as arms wrap around your body, stopping your movements.
It’s Jonah. He snuck up behind you during the conversation with Marvin. He leers too close to your face. You try to cringe away.
Marvin takes it upon himself to strip the line completely of laundry, tossing each sheet to the ground and stepping on it on his way to the next one. Trampling the fabric into the dirt.
“Now, now, c’mon, just watch the master at work,” Jonah murmurs. You try to kick him in the shin. “Don’t be hasty,” he hisses, pulls out a short blade to hold to your throat. “We’re just trying to help you.”
“Funny, because to me it looks like you’re just throwing a tantrum,” you snap. He presses the sharp edge of the blade into your skin. Not quite cutting but close to it, the threat swelling at the base of your neck. Fuck, you shouldn’t have sent Milly and Meryl away.
“Well, that was fun.” Marvin sticks the head of the shovel into the ground. “But I think it’s missing something.” He starts to pile dirt onto the crumpled sheets.
“You—!” The knife digs into your throat. But Jonah pulls it back; he must not want to actually hurt you.
“Stop wriggling!” he barks, tightens the arm secured around your arms.
Marvin reaches for his gun. You freeze at the motion, thinking of Knives in that piano room. If they killed you, would they attack him next? You’re sure he’d be able to defend himself, but that’s not the issue—if even a single person outside of that house got hurt, not only would it increase the possibility of a revolt by ten fold, but Vash and Meryl and Milly would also face consequences.
But Marvin doesn’t point the gun at you. Instead, while he stomps the piled dirt into the sheets, he takes aim at the line strung between the two stakes.
“Don’t—” you try, but the gunshots drown your voice. The rope is shot clean through, dropping on top of the mess he and Jonah’d made with the sheets.
Satisfied, Jonah hooks a foot around your ankle to send you tumbling, taking the knife away from your neck in time as you collapse into a heap. You clamber up, racing towards Marvin. He takes a fistful of dirt and flings it at you. Your arms come up to protect your eyes.
“Doc! Duck!”
Without thinking, you drop, arms crossed over your head. The reverberating boom of Milly’s gun aches in your eardrums. Marvin and Jonah scatter with muffled curses, snatching up the shovel and escaping around the neighboring building.
“Doctor!” Meryl is the first to reach you, careful hands brushing dirt away from you.
“And stay away!” Milly shouts, mouth set in a firm line, chest puffed out. She rushes over when they’ve disappeared. “Are you alright?”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t get here sooner,” Meryl gasps. You lean into her touch, harsh breaths escaping your mouth.
“It’s okay,” you sigh, raising a hand to cup your eyes.
“It’s—” Meryl’s voice catches. “It’s not,” she whispers, furious. She and Milly stay at your side as you regulate your breathing.
“You really saved me there,” you say, raising your head to smile at them. “Thanks.”
“Your neck,” Milly says, frowning. The air stings it. You must’ve gotten nicked.
“Jonah has always been a clumsy oaf,” you say, standing. “I’m surprised they even thought to do this. It’s a miracle for them.” Your mouth twists bitterly.
“We’ll help you clean it up,” Meryl promises.
“I can’t ask you to—”
“Don’t worry about it, Doc!” Milly smiles at you, bright and kind. “It must be hard on your own. Besides, Mr. Vash wanted us to help keep an eye on the house anyways. This is part of that.”
She and Meryl won’t take no for an answer. Your shoulders sag.
“I guess I can’t refuse, then. Can I?” Milly’s smile widens. “Okay. I’ll get the bucket. It’ll be hard without the line to hang them up, though.”
Milly straightens her back, taps her fist against her chest. “Don’t worry about that! We’ll fix it up right away.”
“You should see to Knives,” Meryl says, picking up the nearest sheet and shaking out the dirt. “I don’t think he should be left alone for too long.”
You cast a glance towards the house. “No, I suppose not.”
You try to pat off as much of the dirt from your clothes as possible on the way in. It’ll be impossible to explain to Knives why you took so long. Why you’re covered in dirt. Not that you think he’d ask—or care, for that matter.
It’s quiet inside. Knives must’ve stopped playing a while ago. You expected him to wander off, no matter how difficult it would be for him to walk, but to your surprise he’s still seated at the bench. Hands in his lap, posture stiff.
“What’s wrong? Did you get bored?” you ask.
“You’re dirty.” He scowls. You offer a sheepish smile.
“The wind was stronger than I thought. It picks up a lot of dust.” His gaze sharpens.
“What happened.”
“Nothing much,” you lie, head tilting. “Something did come up, though. Lunch might be a little late today. Milly and Meryl—oh, you’ve probably forgotten. They’re the nice insurance ladies. They’re going to have lunch here so I’ll be making extra for them.” You move to close the fallboard.
Knives’ hand moves faster than your eyes can see. His fingers closing painfully around your wrist, but the pain is ambient as realization strikes you hot in the center of your chest: this is the first time he’s voluntarily touched you. Touched you, without the intention of hurting, if the fractional loosening of his grip is any indication.
Your eyes are wide as he yanks you forward, your other hand preventing you from falling face first into him by slamming onto some keys, creating an ugly sound that reverberates.
“I saw you,” he hisses. “I saw what they did.” His eyes flicker to your throat. “Why are you hiding it?”
“I’m not—” you protest. “It just—it’s not important.”
“It was about me, wasn’t it?” he snaps, voice rising. “You’re not showing me kindness by concealing it. I’m not weak.”
“It’s not that I think you are,” you argue, frowning. “I just—” Your lips purse. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.”
His lips pull back into a snarl. He releases your wrist.
“Useless,” he hisses, curling away from you. “Don’t touch me,” he snaps when you reach for him. “Leave me.”
On another day, you’d argue. But Meryl and Milly are waiting for you.
“We’re having pasta for lunch,” you tell him, and leave to fetch the bucket for washing.
He doesn’t speak another word for the rest of the day, content with expressing his dissatisfaction with varying degrees of snarled faces. It’s the worst mood he’s been in for a while—and you can’t for the life of you understand why. Maybe he misses the thrill of killing indiscriminately. Maybe he’s frustrated that he still hasn’t fully recovered, despite being quicker than a regular human.
He’s still sulking even when you return, electing to stay in the piano room while you make lunch.
After that, he takes to watching you. Not that he had any qualms about openly staring—choosing to follow your every move like a hawk, spitting all the vitriol he could at you into just his expressions alone. But it’s different now. No less deliberate but quieter.
You don’t talk about the incident with the laundry again, but it hardly matters when you can feel his gaze on you—tracing the front of your throat where Jonah’s blade had been: the tiny wound scabs the next day and is gone before the week is over, not even a scar left behind.
There are too many things to do—Milly and Meryl help you reinforce the clothesline. Their visits become more frequent, but they respect your wishes and don’t come inside, keeping to the porches and perimeter.
Now more than ever you want to create a home. Not just for yourself, but for Vash, who’s always smiling kindly at you no matter how much trouble you bring; even for Knives, who, despite his vehement denials and quiet leering at your insistence to keep everything tidy, belongs in a place he can think fondly of no matter where he goes—a place he deserves to call home.
When you next go to work, one of the owners stops you before you can make it to the back to get ready.
“I’m sorry,” Donna says, looking at least a little apologetic. “You should’ve seen this coming, though. We’re getting less and less customers. I think it’s because—well, it’s best if you stop coming here for work.”
There’s nothing you can say to change their minds. Not even offering to work without pay will get them to agree, and you walk back to the house, numb. When you get past the entrance, you sink to the floor in a crouch and stay there for the entire length of what should’ve been your shift.
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It’s hard to try and keep things cheerful, but you do your best—testing out your luck with the piano when Knives isn’t playing it; getting Vash to help you with the mundane but necessary tasks like prepping for meals and deep cleaning the house.
One day, Vash surprises you by popping out of nowhere.
You’re fiddling with the piano keys when his head appears outside the window, much like Milly and Meryl had. You watch him with a raised eyebrow as he climbs in, pulling every inch of his lanky arms and legs through the opening.
“I don’t think Meryl will appreciate it if you make it a habit of coming in through the window,” you tell him, hands in your lap. “What about work?”
“They let me go early,” he says, nods to the piano. “Are you playing something?”
“Not really,” you say. “I don’t have formal training or anything—‘m just messing around with the keys.”
“May I join you?” he asks. You scoot over, smiling.
“You don’t have to ask, Vash. Though I didn’t know you knew how to play.”
“I learned a little on my own,” he says. The leather cover dips with his weight as he takes the spot beside you. “I only know one song, though.”
“Should I fetch Knives? I feel like he wouldn’t want to miss his brother’s grand performance,” you joke. Vash merely gives you a closed-lipped smile. He places his fingers on the keys.
The melody he plays is unfamiliar in its simplicity, but he strikes each key with such tender confidence you cannot help but wonder if he’s still even in the room with you. He and his brother share multiple talents, it seems.
Much of the song has the same repeated notes. You stay quiet on the bench, swaying with the music and looking between the keyboard and his face—taking note of the distant expression, the somber tilt of his mouth as he plays.
The music fades too quickly when he stops. You think, for a moment, the way the light catches his eyes makes them look glassy. Out of politeness, you look away.
It’s a quiet moment you don’t often get to spend with him.
“Thank you for playing—it was lovely,” you say.
He takes a breath. Sighs it out. “Yeah, it’s a good song. It’s—it’s my favorite.”
“Do you know any others?” you ask, gesturing to the keyboard. Vash chuckles.
“No, that was the only one I ever wanted to learn.”
“Does it have lyrics?”
“It does. Though I’ve… forgotten them,” he says. “Kni might remember, though.”
“Oh—” You jolt out of the seat. “Meryl and Milly are coming over for lunch—I nearly forgot. I’ll have to make extra. Want to help?”
He smiles—a fond, tired thing. “Sure.”
“I’ll let Knives know—maybe he’ll want to sit with us,” you say.
The stairs creak as you climb; propelled up by the subtle lightness in your chest. The door is closed. You knock.
He’s sitting at the edge of his bed, body bowed forward, elbows resting on his thighs. His head is down. In a t-shirt and loose pants, the sight is almost domestic.
“Oh, good, you’re up,” you say. “We’re getting started on lunch. Milly and Meryl will be dropping by, but I can bring you downstairs to sit with me and Vash if you want—”
“Quiet.” His voice comes out rough and scratchy. “Scum—where did you learn that song? What were you doing?”
“Song? Oh, you mean the one just now? That wasn’t me, it was—”
Knives reaches for you, closing the distance quickly to encircle your wrist in a tight grip.
“Don’t play it,” he hisses. “I don’t care who taught you—don’t.”
“Knives—” you protest, trying to pull your arm away. He yanks you forward, causes you to stumble into him, saved only by getting a hand up in time to brace yourself against his shoulder. “I’m not the one who played it,” you tell him.
“I don’t care—” His expression twists. “Scum… don’t.” The fingers around your wrist are warm. You have half a mind to reach out to find his pulse, to find it along the length of his neck and feel it jump beneath your thumb.
His breathing is loud. Forceful and uneven. You let him sit and listen to his breaths, waiting patiently for them to mellow.
“What’s wrong?” you ask plainly. He refuses to answer. “…Do you want to sit with us?” you ask. “I’m sure Vash would like to have lunch with his brother.”
Knives shoves you away, leaves you with the bare throbbing memory of his fingers around your wrist, squeezing.
“Leave,” he snarls, and crawls back onto the bed. “Trash.”
“I’ll bring you tea,” you say. Curled up with his back to you, Knives makes no effort to respond.
Vash doesn’t mention his brother’s absence, and you don’t bring it up when Meryl and Milly arrive, all smiles and grateful hands when you pass off their portion of lunch to them. The four of you eat on the back porch, and even though you know they can see how often your gaze drifts up to where Knives room is, the windows firmly shut, you can’t stop the worry creasing between your eyebrows.
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Knives’ moodiness is nothing new. He keeps it to himself, though—unwilling to share with you or even Vash, who takes to visiting Knives after dinner. You think of the song Vash played on that piano. The significance behind it is lost to you—maybe a song from their childhood?
The chores keep piling, though, and the opportunity to ask Vash about it slips away. You take it upon yourself to repair little things—squeaking hinges in the kitchen and bathroom, loose screws of well-loved cabinet doors. You tidy up what you can and have Milly and Meryl help to put unused books and accessories away for later sorting. You fix up the creaky porch chairs that they love to sit in during visits. Milly helps you give the wood a fresh coat of paint.
And for the most part, Knives has nothing to say of it—though he does watch while you fix the stickiness that prevents the windows in his room from opening smoothly. Though you think that’s probably because he hates the change that happens without his knowledge.
“It’s empty in here.”
He sits stiffly on the couch—one leg crossed over the other, arms folded against his chest.
“I’ve been cleaning,” you say. There’s a growing pile of trinkets near your feet. The bookshelf nearly cleared off completely. Maybe Vash will help you redecorate it.
“…And this?” He nods to the folded up sheets hanging over the couch arm.
“Oh, I sleep on the couch—that’s my blanket and stuff.” He makes a face. “I put a sheet over it—it’s not dirty or anything,” you say, reflexively defensive when his mouth grimaces.
“I simply assumed Vash would’ve let you sleep on the floor or outside like a proper animal,” he says.
“Well, he did offer to give me the room he’s in now,” you say, “but I declined. Didn’t think it would be a good idea.”
“Most humans are content kicking someone else out for their own benefit,” Knives recites smartly.
“I just didn’t think you’d wanna be apart from him,” you admit. “And it seems that I was right.” His scowl deepens at the sight of your smile.
“Don’t push your luck, human.”
You leave him to his own devices not long after. He seems content enough to sip the mug of tea you brewed earlier, casting a critical eye about the room yet offering no insight to brainstorm about the next set of decoration.
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“I was thinking about painting the study upstairs soon.” You speak into thin air. “Milly said she’d be able to help. You’ll probably want to sit outside while it happens, though. It doesn’t smell very nice.”
“Must be nice to be so carefree,” he says as you wash dishes, dragging a soapy sponge over plates. “Taking care of someone that could easily free the planet of the resource-sucking scum that lives here.”
You don’t spare him a glance—it’s obvious he’s frowning at you.
“I have no choice,” you tell him, solemn; the quiet leaving no room for a cheerful facade. “There’s nothing else for me here.” There hadn’t been—not after raising your hand to offer help, voluntarily separating yourself from the people you’ve grown up with, their faces carrying deeply etched disgust and betrayal at your willingness to help Vash. There would be no easing the hatred that developed in your hearts for you—cultivating into a visceral enough emotion to wish bodily harm upon you, no fixing the emptiness that’d made a home in your bone marrow ever since Knives’ arrival.
With no home or job, you must find other activities to keep yourself busy. And if that means helping take care of Vash’s murderous, abominable older brother, you’ll do it as many times as it takes.
“It’s not like… like I can suddenly go back after this.”
And even though you regretted it, you’d do the same thing over if it meant Vash had a place for him and his brother. Watching Knives get better day-by-day is the only way you can justify taking care of a man that has no qualms with murdering everyone in the vicinity.
“I can’t. I still… still have a lot of fixing up here to do.”
The soap is fragrant, but even with its scent clinging to your hands, you remember the char of burning wood—the devastation left behind by the fire that consumed your home. The space you called your own, the people you called neighbors—they were all gone now. Out of reach, never to be touched again.
The loneliness inside you peaks, and spills over outside of your control.
Tears sting your eyes faster than you can stop them. They fall silently, invisible to all but the dishes still in the sink. You take in a quiet, shuddering breath through your mouth. Face and ears hot with him staring at your back, despite trying to cry as quietly as possible. You can’t show weakness. You won’t.
The floor behind you creaks. Instinctively, you glance over your shoulder, jumping when you see Knives approaching, leaning a heavy hand on the table.
“You—you can’t walk,” you hiccup stupidly, and watch his chin tilt, eyes narrowing. Your hands are hot and soapy and your face is wet.
He lumbers forward, reaches out to support himself with a hand on the counter—caging you in. It’s not that you haven’t noticed before, but at this very moment you remember he is Vash’s twin beyond skill or reputation: looming impossibly tall over you, casting a shadow.
Your shoulders hunch, wanting to turn away. He reaches out with his other hand, grabs your chin to tilt your face up. You blink tears from your eyes. His irises follow their movement down your cheeks to your chin, then back up to meet your gaze, watery and confused.
“This is why I hate filth,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens to protest, but the words die in the back of your throat with a withering gasp as Knives dips his face to meet yours, his tongue darting out to run up the left side of your face, licking away the streaks of tears there.
Even with his hand gripping your face, your jaw goes slack, gaping up at him with wide eyes—speechless. His head tilts.
Mercifully, he does not repeat the motion on your right cheek, but you watch his jaw move as he runs his tongue over his teeth. He uses his thumb to smear the tears away from the right side of your face.
“Kni—Knives?” you breathe, only just remembering that the sink is still running. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches over to shut it off. The silence slams into you like a physical entity—you shudder audibly in the quiet. Knives presses closer. At this distance, he doesn’t need to rely on his limited mobility to kill you.
A series of knocks on the door shatters the moment. You jump, chin pulling from Knives’ fingers, dampening your shirt by clutching wet hands against your chest.
“Doc! You in there? We’re here for our nightly visit!” Milly’s voice filters through the door. “Also, I’m kind of hungry!”
Knives nearly visibly hisses, you can see the scrunch of it in his face, the way he pulls away from you to hobble into the other room. You want to protest, but your feet are frozen in place. Your face is still wet. Dumbfounded, you raise a hand to touch where Knives tongue had been.
“Doctor? Is everything okay in there?” Meryl calls out.
“C-coming!” You dry your hands on the towel and drag your sleeve across your face. “Sorry about that,” you tell them when the door opens. “I was just cleaning up.”
“It’s no problem, but are you alright?” Meryl asks, obviously taking in your teary-eyed appearance.
“Y-yes, I just—it’s been a long few days,” you say, smiling.
“Where’s Mr. Knives?” Milly asks, turning to gaze into the kitchen.
“He’s, uh,” you stammer. “I’m not sure. He wandered off on his own.”
Meryl blinks, surprised. “He’s well enough to walk by himself already?”
“Well, not quite,” you say, glancing behind you. “He’s downstairs, but I… I think it’ll be alright if you have a cup of tea inside.”
“Are you sure?” Meryl asks, frowning.
“Well, if he has anything to say about it, he’ll have to go through Vash,” you say.
“Yay!” Milly cheers.
The house is livelier with them here. Vash will be returning late.
“Knives hasn’t been cruel to you recently, has he?” Meryl asks, hands cupped around her mug.
“No, he’s been fine,” you tell her, offering a small smile. “I think… well, not that he’s been enjoying it, per se, but I don’t think it’s as agonizing for him as it used to be.” She looks unconvinced, but Milly’s grin widens.
“The two of you have gotten pretty close, huh?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” you fumble with the words, eyes dropping to the table. They can’t see the spot where Knives licked, but you can’t help ghosting your fingers over it at the kitchen table with them while they talk about other topics, smoothing a distracted thumb over the spot, face hot.
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Knives continues his observation of you after that. With each day he regains more strength, and it seems he’s taken to not letting you out of his sight—entering each room after you, taking long periods to stare at you despite flashing that disinterested, disgruntled expression when you turn to look at him.
It might’ve been endearing had it been anyone else—had it not meant he was usually watching from some obscure corner, or through a window as you chatted with Milly and Meryl while elbow deep in laundry.
Though his tolerance of you has widened some, it hardly extends beyond simply making the conscious choice to overlap his presence with yours at any given moment.
He starts—to your delight—sitting in the kitchen when you and Vash eat dinner. There’s never a plate of food in front of him—only a mug with some beverage—but you enjoy seeing him there all the same. His stare becomes less overbearing, but his apparent interest manifests in other ways.
This is especially true when Vash is within the vicinity. The one time he had volunteered to help untie a knot in your apron, Knives had intercepted, reaching across the table and simply severing the strings off. The breeze of it barely touching your neck as it falls to a useless heap on the floor. He’d said nothing after the fact, merely leaning back in his seat and taking a sip of his drink, looking quietly smug and oddly satisfied while you and Vash gaped.
The music he makes has changed, too. On his next visit to the piano, he pins you with a look—brows furrowed and mouth pinched—and orders: “Stay” in an impressively flat tone, managing to leave no room for argument despite the way it made him look like he’d eaten something rotten.
The chords do not groan or protest as his fingers dance up and down the keyboard, body swaying with the music. For as ruthless as he’s made himself out to be, the scene unfolding before you is nothing short of breathtaking. It’s captivating, watching his chin dip, the tendons in his hands and wrist flexing as he plays, pulling sounds you didn’t know existed from the piano.
The experience threatens to choke you—emotion swelling in the back of your throat, not moving a single muscle through the whole performance.
You wonder what he sees in your face when he stops, his foot lifting from the pedals, shoulders drooping carefully as the last note feathers into thin air. You weigh the risk of him cutting off your hands for clapping.
“That was very nice,” you tell him sincerely, managing a smile. “I’ve never heard it sound like that before.”
Knives blinks slow, gaze unmoving from your face.
“Play something.” His command catches you just before your suggestion to sit outside.
You nearly bite your tongue. “On… on the piano?” you ask, stunned.
His eyebrow tics. “Are you testing my patience?”
“No, I just—it’s been a while and uh, well we both know I’m rusty and—”
Knives cocks his head at you. “Come,” he commands. With no choice but to obey, you try to swallow the flash of heat that sparks along your nape.
You sit as close to the end of the bench as you can. His gaze is heavy on the side of your face. Your lips part to take a breath. Though you’re not unfamiliar with this instrument, the keys look like nothing more than blank ivory and black buttons. But Knives is waiting, albeit with little patience, and you set out to find middle C, pressing the keys with a feathery touch.
It’s difficult to find the correct words: you settle for saying nothing at all, putting hesitant fingers on the keys and trying not to brush Knives with your elbow.
The song you play cannot hold a candle to the ones he’s coaxed from its chords, but it does well to chase away the anxiety of him watching you. And Knives says nothing the whole time you play, fitting perfectly into the polite picture of an audience.
Your arm stretches out as your fingers play up the scale, coming close to touching Knives’ chest. You try not to flinch away as your elbow bumps him: you’ve long overcome the novelty of touching him, but on the too short piano bench, it feels more invasive than even his attempt to strangle you had been.
When the song ends, you replace your hands in your lap trying to furtively adjust your position to put a few centimeters between you.
Knives takes the opportunity to lean into your space, a broad arm reaching for the lower register on the keyboard, coming dangerously close to touching you. The notes reverberate in the center of your chest—you’re sure they tremble in the very arteries of your lungs. He leans even more, his thigh shifting to press against yours. Heart in your throat, you try to fight for your claim on the bench, bracing your feet against the floor.
The corner of his mouth twitches. He plays a devastating run of notes, plucking them in time with the rapid pulse of your heart as he pushes against you, the solidness of his body threatening to shove you off the bench.
Instinctively, your hand shoots out to stabilize yourself, grabbing onto the edge of the piano. Your thumb catches the lowest key, startled by the low rumbling bass of it. Your other hand jerks uncertainly in the air, not wanting to grab into the only thing within reach to save yourself from falling.
Knives does it for you. Grabs your arm with his free hand, the contact tearing a quiet gasp from you. You’re nearly chest-to-chest with him, his body angled in front of yours to reach the lower register of keys. His eyes tilt down to glance at your mouth.
He’s close—closer than he’s ever been. Closer than he ever should be outside of the mandatory care you’ve been giving.
“Kn-Knives?” you ask, hardly breathing. He’s watching your lips move to speak, and this close you can count his eyelashes, watch them brush against his cheek as he blinks.
If you just tipped your head forward, you could meet him halfway. Your body tries it—coaxing you forward just a fraction, watching his eyes flutter. His head tilts, and you—
You fly off the bench, wrenching your arm from his loosened grip, retreating until your back hits the nearby wall.
Knives stares, eyes rounded, irises flickering after you. The meager amount of space you’ve put between you is nothing: he could cross it in an instant if he pleased. And for a moment, you think he will—his shoulders turning to face you, a hand supporting his weight on the bench. You hardly dare to blink—half afraid that if you do, he’ll be there in the next moment, leaving behind all pretenses to snap the tension building thick in the room.
“Kni? Doc? Are you playing hide and seek?”
Vash’s arrival helps the sudden numbness in your fingertips fade to an unpleasant buzz. You clench and unclench your hands, pushing blood back into your fingers as Knives stands.
“I—” Your voice catches. “I need to make dinner. It’ll, uh, take a while. Stew… stew takes a while. Wait… wait here. I’ll get Vash.”
The back of your neck prickles as you hurry away from the room, the distinct mistake of running away spidering across your neck, visceral and potent.
Knives takes dinner in his room. Or rather, after Vash comes downstairs, he gives you a bright little smile and says his brother doesn’t feel like seeing those insurance girls, who you all already know won’t be joining you for dinner. He takes up Knives’ meal, too, giving a dramatic little goodbye wave, humming all the way up. You can’t hear anything while all the way in the kitchen, so instead you busy yourself on serving up portions to give to Meryl and Milly later.
Meals with Vash are never a quiet affair, but you’ve known him to be extremely perceptive. All it takes is a too-stiff smile for you to know he can sense something is off.
“Why don’t you go see what Knives is up to?” he suggests while clearing the table. “I can hand off the containers to the insurance girls when they come.”
You’ve made the walk to Knives’ room many times before, but on this particular night it feels as though Vash has sent you into the maw of a beast.
The stairs creak ominously with each step you take—maybe it’s just the nerves that are choking you, the memory of his unmoving stare a distant threat.
“Knives?” The door is open, but you knock anyways. “Can I come in?” A grunt is your response.
You take it as a yes. He’s sitting at the table sipping his drink when you spot him.
“Do you want some more?” you ask, glancing at his tray of untouched food.
“No.” The cup bumps quietly against the table when he puts it down. “This is enough.”
“Vash helped make this stew. I hope next time you’re able to enjoy a bit of it,” you tell him, lamenting a bit. Vash will probably have no trouble eating it—you thought he would’ve volunteered to come up himself to do just that, in fact.
Knives hums. “The stew aside, you shouldn’t let the bread dry out like that. It was nearly too stale to chew.”
“This was our last use of it,” you tell him, pulling the curtains shut. “Tomorrow I’ll turn it into bread crumbs and—”
Your head spins so fast something in your neck pops. He’s not watching you, but his arms are crossed, stubbornly avoiding your eyes.
The piece of bread has a bite taken out of it. Just the smallest little chunk, but you can feel a smile spread across your face all the same.
“Did you dip it into the stew? Just the bread on its own is going to be a little bland,” you say, trying to diminish the excitement in your voice. “Vash didn’t say if there was anything you did or didn’t like aside from coffee, so I—I haven’t been thinking much about what to make. Or rather, I was hoping there would be something you’d like to try, so I’ve been making a bunch of different things—”
“Human,” Knives snaps, but he doesn’t sound truly angry—his mouth is pressed together, into what you can now confidently say is an embarrassed pout. Like this, you can see the resemblance he shares with his brother. Maybe if Knives practices that face a little more, it’ll be better at pulling on your heartstrings. “Stop it,” he says, glancing at you, no doubt referencing the wide smile on your face. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with that.”
“I wanted you to enjoy it,” you admit, resisting the urge to reach out and feel along the reddening curve of his ear. They were hot, too, that day you gave him a haircut. When you had an excuse to touch him.
And though he can’t read your mind, Knives looks at you, eyes narrowing, scrutinizing the expression on your face.
“Help me to bed,” he says instead. Not quite defeated—not Knives—but stiff.
“Okay,” you say, finally, finally giving yourself enough room to be quietly hopeful.
For the last time, you let him use your shoulder as support. For the last time, you get a hand on his waist to support him. He doesn’t flinch from your touch—you rest your arm on his back.
“Maybe due for another haircut?” you murmur, not letting yourself reach out to touch the strands. It hasn’t been that long since his last one—he knows it, too. There’s more you want to say to him, but the words are stuck in your throat as you linger.
It’s only a handful of steps to the edge of his bed, but those sparse moments melting away the tension and distrust left within the cracks—the warmth passing from his body to yours, yours to his in real time. The mattress creaks as he sits. You can feel everything. The drag of your fingers against his back through his shirt as he sinks onto the bed. The weight of his gaze, locked with your eyes and then dipping to your lips as they part.
“I think Vash will be happy to hear you tried some of the bread,” you say. “Even if it was a little stale.” His mouth thins. “Will you sit with us tomorrow, Knives?”
It happens before you can process it—his name as the precursor. The expression that crosses his face at the sound of it is hard to decipher: stricken and agonized. Then it settles into something hard, and his hands are reaching for you, hauling you onto the bed by your neck as his fingers wrap around your throat. The mattress dips with your combined weight as he climbs on top of you. Your own hands are limp by your head.
“I’ve been too soft with you,” he hisses, sounding distant. “I’ve been too lenient.” He doesn’t squeeze, but his entire body is tense; you can see his jaw tighten. “I could easily… snap your neck.” A thumb dips into the base of your throat, right above your collarbones.
“You could, but then I’d die,” you tell him plainly, “and I think that would make you sad.”
His fingers twitch. You know he can feel your pulse, the vibrations of your throat when you speak.
“No,” he whispers, a small tremor going through his hands, like he can’t decide if he should really strangle you or not. “No. I won’t let him have you.” Knives’ voice is quiet and distant—as if speaking to himself. He lets out a harsh breath. “I’ll never let him have you. He doesn’t need more of you.”
His grip tightens a fraction. Your hand lifts up from the mattress. His eyes snap away form your face to follow its movement, but he doesn’t let go. When you brush gentle knuckles across his face, the muscle beneath his eye jumps. He reacts to your touch like a frightened animal, but refuses to let you go.
Your fingers move along the curve of his ear. His fingers squeezing reflexively. But then your nails scrape lightly against his scalp, just like they had the first time.
“You have me,” you whisper. “I’m here.”
He blinks slow. You run the pad of your thumb just above his eyebrow, and he melts. His head drops, hanging between two broad shoulders. Knives makes a beautiful picture—closer to prayer and holier than even the mortal men that recite their hymns. The firm muscle of his chest presses into yours. His hands leave your throat; instead they cling to you, holding you beneath him.
Voices drift up from the floor below—Milly and Meryl are here.
“Knives, I have to get up,” you say. “I should greet them.”
“No,” he says, voice rumbling. “They should just disappear.”
“They’ve helped Vash a lot in the past,” you remind him lightly. “I don’t think they’re going anywhere anytime soon.”
He buries himself into you like a child, pulling you against him fully.
“Then they can wait,” he says, tucks his face into the crook of your neck.
It occurs to you that, though he’s had contact with a small amount of people, Knives has traveled mostly alone all this time. With no friends, no lover, no brother, you wonder how he’s managed with the loneliness—if he still considers himself above it all. Despite his hostility and cruel tendencies, there’s genuine love inside him for Vash. And no matter how hidden and locked away it may be, you hope there’s some of that same love left for humans.
Your fingers find his hair again. His body goes stiff, but all you do is drag your hand lightly from the crown of his head to his nape, threading your fingers through the short strands in a repeated path down, patting him to a loose and relaxed posture.
“Knives,” you murmur, “I have to get up eventually.”
He doesn’t budge. Merely slides an arm under your back in a near crushing move. Strong-arming you further against him, as if he could melt the two of you together—taking what he knows you’ll gladly give.
“Let them be,” he says.
“I have to go to sleep at some point,” you say. He scoffs. “Would you rather we sleep in the same bed?”
“…A bed would be an upgrade to that sorry piece of furniture, wouldn’t it?”
The laughter that escapes is surprising: it moves your bodies with the motions of it. You continue to stroke his hair.
“I’ve become attached to that couch,” you say around a smile. “Maybe I prefer sleeping on it.” Knives leans away enough to glare. “…Can I at least bring the tray downstairs?”
Knives’ glare softens to a muted scowl. He climbs off reluctantly, watches you until you leave the room.
Milly and Meryl are still here. You greet them and give the tray to Vash, meeting his eyes with a wide grin when he notices the bread.
When you return, Knives is waiting for you on the edge of the bed again. But this time, he’s sitting up—alert. You hover by the door.
“Are you sure?” you ask. His scowl deepens.
“Enough dawdling.”
You shut off the lights. He waits for you to get on the mattress and lays himself across you, leaving the other side of the bed completely open.
“You won’t get hot?” you ask.
“Quiet,” he mutters, and nestles his head on top of your chest.
It’s hard to tell who falls asleep first, but as the night stretches, you can feel both of your chests moving in sync, the rise and fall of each breath matching up to ensure not an inch of space grows between your bodies.
It’s hard to tell, but when your eyes next open, you’re tangled up in sheets and limbs. The room is still dark, but you’re almost too comfortable to move. Knives is nearly fused to your side, long arms wrapped around you, head resting on the pillow. Your eyes trace his face, the gentle curve of his lashes, the beauty mark beneath his eye.
(When he wakes, you’ll greet him with a little smile. He’ll frown and try to buy more time for sleep, turning his face into the pillow. But he’ll tighten his arms when you try to leave, refusing to relinquish you.
And when you’re finally successful in removing yourself from his clutches, he’ll frown after you until you tell him to come downstairs for breakfast.
“It’ll be better than the bread from last night,” you’ll tell him with a groggy little smile.
It’ll take some convincing, but when you finally go downstairs and greet Vash, he’ll give you a knowing little smile, will cheerfully ask if you slept well.
“Very,” you’ll say, a little shy, and Vash will laugh with the air of a man who’s finally willing to heal.)
But for now, you smooth your thumb across his cheek, and smile in the quiet privacy of early morning when his nose wrinkles—painfully human. You rest an arm across his waist, gaze at the wall, and think that maybe there is a place for him. Just like he’d always wanted.
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mickules · 1 year
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An alternate epilogue for A House Made of Cards
A Breach of Trust might be @phantomrose96 's best known mp100 fanfic, but A House Made of Cards is such a solid punch to the gut, I often find myself returning to it. The slowly mounting dread when you realise exactly what is being going on, just enough to haunt you, and your imagination supplies the rest.
But, I'm a baby, and because where the fic leaves off is agonising, I had to indulge in a little alternate post-script, exploring a different possibility.
The actual fic is not so kind . . .
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flyingwargle · 8 months
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freminet never thought of himself as a valuable hostage, but here he is, ankles and wrists tied behind his back, covered in dust from being manhandled by treasure hoarders.
he sits at the edge of their campsite, guarded by two holding crossbows. a fire illuminates the half dozen shadows responsible for his capture, drunk from stolen alcohol and singing shanties off-key and off-rhythm. their crooked voices and indiscernible words echo through the air.
energy swirls around him, but without his vision, he can only observe them, can barely coalesce the cryo threads into anything tangible. they’d taken his claymore too, right after he was ambushed. only his mechanical penguin was left at the scene, so hopefully, someone would pick it up and bring attention to it.
hopefully, that someone would be one of his siblings. it seems unlikely, however, because they have a show tonight, and it's routine for freminet to wait for them at home. based on the moon’s angle, it should’ve passed the midpoint by now.
"what'll we do with him, boss?" an inquiry aimed in his direction snaps him out of his thoughts. the shadows face him. he keeps his head low, eyes hidden behind his bangs.
"a scrawny kid like him isn't gonna fetch a lot of money," another comments.
"don't let looks deceive ya. this kid is part of the royal court. they'll pay a pretty penny for him." their leader takes a swig from his silver flask and belches. the scent of alcohol surrounds them. "so don't rough him up that badly. if you bruise him, who's to say they won't toss him out?"
laughter rises after him. freminet closes his eyes to lessen the sting, but there's truth in such words. the royal court is often compared to a painting – it depicts a snapshot of bourgeoisie dressed in petticoats and silk hats, but the layers underneath are rough and muddled. only a trained eye can identify a replica from the original.
he only tolerates it because of it’s the only avenue that utilizes his oceanographic skills. without the court, he has nowhere else to go.
the men return to their drunken rambles. freminet closes his eyes, becomes enveloped by the energy around him. anemo threads weave a patchwork through the sky, and geo pulses beneath him. electro crystals spark further along the trail, wreathed by dendro. hydro runs as a smooth curtain just out of earshot, and aside from the treasure hoarders' fire, there is no other trace of pyro.
...but what is that spark of flame blazing through the trees?
"what's that?"
freminet's eyes snap open. cards are falling from the sky. he recognizes the card backs anywhere, all with his brother's cat motif.
a few of the treasure hoarders catch them to inspect. their brows are furrowed, eyes narrowed. "what are these supposed to be?"
"your demise."
such a voice sends a shiver down freminet's spine, low with malice. the cards explode into smoke and the campfire flares. a powerful gust of wind sends smog across the clearing. a shadow approaches him as the guards dash into the fray.
"big sis?"
lynette materializes with a finger to her lips. with a snap of her wrist, she produces a pocketknife to slice through his ropes. "are you hurt?"
he shakes his head. the barest smile touches her lips. "good. do you know where they put your vision?"
"no."
"okay. i'll find it. keep still."
ahead of them, chaos has broken out. flame-tipped arrows fly in all directions, embedding into the ground and nearby trees. the treasure hoarders retaliate, from elemental bombs, shovels, and crossbows. there are shouts, grunts, cries. his brother is relentless.
the ropes fall slack. freminet rubs his chaffed wrists and takes lynette's hand to pull himself up. she manifests her sword and raises a hand to dispel the smoke. the fire is snuffed out, but lyney remains illuminated by his pyro.
it isn't common for freminet to see him fight. he knows his brother is adept with a bow, but it's frightening to see the extent of it.
cards fly in the air, snatching the treasure hoarders’ attention. a split second is all lyney needs to kick down his enemies and disarm them. he knocks them unconscious with a blow to the head, avoids all attacks that come his way. his top hat never wavers, just like the fire in his eyes. the moon serves as his spotlight.
lynette takes the rope and starts binding the unconscious treasure hoarders together. as the last one crumples to the ground, lyney dusts his hands off. "the curtain has fallen over another failure. enjoy your time in the cell block."
"they can't hear you," lynette comments mildly.
"it's stage commentary, my dear." lyney dismisses his bow and turns to freminet, scrutinizing him under a watchful eye. "you're not hurt?"
"no."
"bruises? cuts? elemental exhaustion?"
he shakes his head. lynette calls out, "one of the hoarders took his vision."
"you mean this?" lyney snaps his fingers and produces a cryo vision in his palm. "your claymore is over there. best to take that back before the police does.”
freminet fumbles to catch his vision. he fastens it back to his pant leg, stiffening when a hand rests on his shoulder, followed by a low murmur. “i’m sorry this happened in the first place.”
“oh…it just happened. it couldn’t have been predicted.” freminet shakes him off, raising his arm to clutch the opposite elbow. “i thought…i thought you wouldn’t come since you had a show…”
"we canceled it. how could we perform knowing our little brother is in danger? no matter where you are, if you're in trouble, we'll come." lyney smiles at him. "promise."
once the criminals are bound together, the siblings depart, already sensing the police's arrival. freminet walks between his older siblings, flanked by either side. no matter what awaits them, he knows that they'll always have one another.
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sassaffrassa · 14 days
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commission for @out-there-on-the-maroon aka aunt_zelda, of a scene from a Western AU they're working on, which you KNOW i am hyped about🤠
i had far too much fun working on this one, ngl, people should commission me to make more comics, i love themmmmm
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xspeter · 4 months
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𝑻𝑯𝑬 1
𐬺 ➾ 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑛 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝑓𝑒𝑚!𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟
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𐬺 ➾ 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒊𝒏 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒔𝒖𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆, 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒏 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒘𝒐 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖.
𐬺 ➾ 𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑘𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑡!
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There’s something so calming about autumn in New York.
Everyone is calming down from their summer adventures, central park is littered in decorative leaves, and every shop in town is decorated for the season.
You take a deep breath and are met with the warm smell of pumpkin as you enter the local coffee shop. The barista, who must know your order by heart at this point, greets you with a warm and welcoming smile.
You thank the woman briskly as she hands you your coffee, the warmth immediately filling your cold hands as you grab it.
You take a sip of your drink as you leave. As soon as you step onto the sidewalk you’re met with the sound of children laughing, and you glance towards the noise. You’re met with the sight of two children walking to school, one boy and one girl. Your heart pangs a bit at the nostalgia the sight gives you.
No matter how much you try to forget him, you know he’ll always be there. Like a moth to a flame, your thoughts will always eventually lead back to him- to Dean.
The way things ended between the two of you was no one’s fault, it was just a struck of fate that things had to end the way they did. You both wanted different things out of life. He wanted to stay on the road and fulfill his fathers legacy, and you.. well you wanted more.
You wanted an actual job, a stable life, kids, marriage…
Well, more like you wanted all that with him.
When you finally worked up the courage to express these thoughts to Dean, he had thought you were joking.
“What do you mean?” He asked, his warm hands creeping into your own cold ones.
You sniffled, pushing a piece of hair behind your ear, you explained more in depth. “I don’t want this life anymore, Dean. We don’t even have a real home. We’re constantly in different hotels, I don’t have any friends- no money- no nothing! I just want… I want a stable life for both of us. Do you really want to live like this for the rest of your life?”
Dean was silent for a moment, his pupils dialting in shock as he processes what you’ve said. What you’ve admitted to him.
In all the years he’s known you, which is a lot, Dean has never heard you express these thoughts.
“What’s gotten into you, y/n? You’ve never said anything about this before. I mean- since when did you want such a simple, boring life? I mean, what? You’re just gonna go live day to day just waiting to die? Because that’s what everyone else in this world does. We’re lucky! We get to have adventure. We don’t have to just sit down at some boring desk job with the rest of our lives laid out in front of us.” He said hurriedly, his breathing beginning to become erratic.
You bit your lip, “What if.. What if that is what I want, Dean?”
Dean stiffened, his hands instinctively going into his jacket pockets.
“Then I guess this is where we say goodbye.”
You quickly push the memory in the back of your mind, instead deciding to continue on your journey to work.
Of course you often wonder where Dean is and what he’s doing. Last you heard he was on his way to Stanford to pick up his brother, but that was seven months ago.
Sam, his brother, had the same idea as you. He wanted a different life, something without all the danger and unpredictability.
You know it hurt Dean when Sam left, but he still had his dad. And you think a part of him always knew Sam was different from the two of them. Even when you were growing up with the boys you could tell. Sam was more reserved, smarter. Where as Dean and his father were more adventurous, constantly looking for danger where danger shouldn’t be.
You feel a sense of relief as you enter your work building, happy to finally escape from the cold.
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Dean knows there’s no possible way he’ll see you. New York is a big city, what’re the chances he’ll see you of all people?
“You okay?” Sam asks, placing a hand on his shoulder. Dean turns his head to look at him and goes he’s a nervous smile. “Yeah.”
Sam nods, obviously not believing him.
So much has happened since you left. Sam joined him on the road to find his father and also got powers, they found the demon who murdered their mother, and Dean would have died if his father hadn’t given his life for him.
So, yeah. A whole new bowl of trauma.
“You nervous you’ll see her?” Sam asks. Sam hasn’t seen you since he left home for Stanford, but he knows you leaving really hurt Dean.
Dean scoffs, “No.”
Sam just smiles, “Of course you’re not.”
“I’m really not.”
“It’s okay if you are-”
“I’m not!” Dean yells.
Sam puts both hands up in surrender, turning to continue putting his stuff in the drawers of their motel.
Dean sighs and rubs his temple. Of course he’s nervous he’ll see you. He just wishes things could still be how they were, when the nerves in his tummy were for a different reason.
Deans stomach flutters with butterflies as he knocks on your door. He grips the flowers so tightly his knuckles begin to turn white.
The door opens with a click and he’s met with the gentle, smiling face of your mother. “Hello, Dean.” She says cheekily. Dean laughs nervously, “Hello, ma’am.” He says, his accent slipping out a bit.
“She’ll be down here soon. Why don’t you have a seat while you wait?” She asks, leading the younger boy inside. Dean swallows as he takes a seat, careful to smooth down any wrinkles in his suit jacket.
“You look very handsome.” Your mother says, and Dean thanks her with a smile as she retreats up the stairs, most likely going to tell you that he’s arrived.
Dean fiddles with the pink flowers in his hands. Who would’ve thought going to prom with your long-time crush would be more nerve wracking then hunting monsters?
Dean practically shoots out of his seat once he hears the click of your heels down the stairs. Slowly, he watches you emerge. Your hair is down, and your wearing a beautiful flowing blue dress. You look like a princess.
“You look.. Wow.” Dean stammers, and you giggle, a dark pink coating your cheeks as your eyes sparkle up at him.
“You really think so?” You ask.
“I know so.”
“Are you ready to go?” Sam asks, pulling Dean away from the memory. Dean stands, rubbing his hands on his pants and rolling his neck.
“Yeah.”
Dean throws his head back against the leather seat with a groan. He forgot New York traffic was practically hell on earth.
“Well this sucks.” Sam sighs out annoyed.
“Give me a run down of the case again?” Dean asks Sam. Sam opens his notebook and skims over the details for Dean.
“Uh, women in their late 20’s are going missing off the subway. Usually y/h/c, y/e/c…” Sam swallows when he realizes who the description reminds him of.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut. “You’re positive?”
“I sure as hell wish I wasn’t.”
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Your nose and cheeks are flushed a bright red by the time you get to the subway. Your hair blows against your face harshly as the train wizzes past, the crowds of people around you all pushing to get to where they’re going.
You used to feel overwhelmed in the subway, all the people and the constant rush of the train, but now you can positively say you’re an expert at navigating the underground station.
You push your hair behind you ear to prevent it from blowing in your face again, and out of the corner of your eye your positive you see someone eerily similar. Your head snaps in the direction, but instead of seeing him, you see no one. Suddenly your aware of how quickly the station has emptied. Leaving you and and just a few others.
You rub your eyes and try to ignore the fact that you’re starting to see things. You hadn’t done something like that in months- it must’ve been that memory from earlier.
Before you can think too much about it though, your subway arrives and the doors are opened. A cascade of people in all sorts of attire step out, and you push your way past them and step in.
Very few people are on your cart, with only a young couple sitting a few seats down from you. You try to assure yourself and assume it’s because of the late hour, but no… that wouldn’t be right, would it? It’s rush hour.
A sinking feeling in your stomach starts as you begin to put some of the pieces together.
Something paranormal had to be happening. Or were you just being paranoid?
You had hunted for just as long as Dean, your parents raising you just as Deans father had raised his boys. You knew the signs, but there was no way that’s what was happening here right?
The train stops once more and the couple gets off, and now you’re alone.
You take a deep breath and try to calm your nerves, you fists clenching and unclenching. You do your best to ignore the creaking of the train, or the way the lights begin to flicker.
A rotten smell fills your nose, and your now absolutely positive that something not natural is happening.
You reach into your purse to see if there’s anything at all that could help you, but stupidly you’d thrown out any and all weapons except for some pepper spray back when you’d first moved.
The air around you starts to feel suffocating as a black smoke begins to seep through the vents and any cracks it can, your eyes go wide as you start to panic.
The only thing you can think to do is chant an ancient protection spell under your breath, hoping that would drive the thing off at least for a second.
The smoke eventually meets in the middle, coming together to form a shadow of a man. There’s no definitive features- just dark, black, smoke.
It turns it’s head to stare straight at you, and you quickly bolt for an emergency stop or a door or- or anything really.
The smoke stretches it’s arms though, it wraps itself around your body like a snake as it engulfs all your senses. It goes into your nose and covers your eyes until all you can see is black. You begin to panic swatting and punching at what feels like an invisible force.
Suddenly- the blackness is lifted. You begin to stumble and almost fall, but someone is there to catch you.
You know who it is before you even turn around. You had dreamed about being held by these arms again for months.
“Dean..” You whisper, finding your standing and slowly turning to face him.
“It’s me, baby.”
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“So there’s some entity that’s coming after women who look like me?” You ask, fiddling with your thumbs. Sam and Dean had filled you in on everything that’s happened in the few months you’ve been gone. It hurts your head that you weren’t there for them when they lost their father- but there was no way you could’ve known.
Sam nods his head, “Pretty much.”
You furrow your brows, brining your hand to your lips and beginning to nibble on your nails. A nervous habit. “Do you know what it is?”
Sam shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, “No. That was the first time we’d ever saw the thing.”
You sigh, running a hand down your face, “Amazing.”
You glance at Dean. He hasn’t said much of anything since they saved you, and his silence is putting you on edge.
Sam must notice the tension between you and Dean, because he stands and leaves with a smile and an excuse of going out for some food.
Once you and Dean are left alone, things are even more awkward. You continue to take glances at him, and if he notices he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stares at the table and fiddles with his thumbs.
“Dean…” You start, finally working up the courage to break the silence, but his position doesn’t change. You take a breath, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
He shrugs his shoulders, finally looking at you for the first time since he saved you. “Wasn’t your fault.” He mumbles.
You sigh, you feel the familiar build up of tears in your eyes and you place your head in your hands. Your hair falls around your face creating a curtain around you.
“I know that.” You sigh, “I just… I just wish I could’ve been here.”
Dean scoffs, he pushes his chair out from under him with a screech as he stands to his full height. “You could’ve been here, y/n! But you chose to leave- you chose to leave me and our relationship and for what? So- so you could be hunted by monsters?” He rambles.
You sigh, you expected this would happen, just not so soon. “Dean…” You mutter.
For the first time you see just how this last year has effected him. The usual light playfulness was no longer in his eyes, instead there’s a dark sadness you’ve never seen on him before.
“Why did you leave me?” He suddenly asks, “Was I not enough for you? Did I not- Did I not make you happy?”
You shake your head so fast you could’ve gotten whiplash, quickly, you stand next to him and attempt to reach out for him, but he pulls away.
You bite your lip, “You were everything to me. You think it was easy for me to leave? You think I don’t regret it everyday?” You sob, “I just couldn’t live like that anymore Dean! I was lonely and I was sick of constantly putting my life on the line. What’s the issue with just wanting a normal life?”
He rolls his eyes, “Yeah, and being hunted by a demon is normal-“
“That’s not fair.” You say, “You know that’s not fair, Dean.”
Dean sighs and bites his lip, he runs a hand over his face and nods his head, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
You shake your head and sit on the bed. “No. I’m sorry.” You say, “I should’ve… we could’ve kept in contact- or something… We didn’t have to break up. We could’ve gone long distance or-”
Dean sits down next to you and shakes his head softly, his eyebrows furrow and his eyes shine with tears, “No, we couldn’t of. There was no way we could’ve been able to stay together without seeing- feeling each other.”
“We would’ve made it work.” You mumble.
Dean sighs and rests his head in his hand, “We would’ve tried to, yeah, but… we would’ve just been hurting each other so much more.”
You sniffle and nod and pull your knees into your chest. No matter how much you didn’t want to admit it, he was right. The two of you would’ve only ended up hurting each other more in the end.
Slowly, Deans arm creeps around the middle of your back as he pulls you into his chest. You welcome his touch with open arms. The smell of pine cones and bond-fires filling your nostrils is one you’ve missed all too much. You snuggle closer in his hold, finally relaxing once you feel his arm tighten around you.
Hesitantly, you whisper, “I missed you. So much.” You say it so quietly you’re not even sure he heard you- but he did. He kisses the crown of your head and sighs out in relief.
“You have no idea.” He replies.
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“You’re positive this’ll work?” You question Sam for what feels like the thousandth time tonight. Sam sighs, annoyance creeping in his tone as he replies, “Yes, i’m positive it’ll work.”
You swallow, “Okay,” You psych yourself up, “So all I gotta do is go in there and be bait?”
Sam nods, he closes his bad with a snap and throws it over his shoulder, “That’s pretty much it.”
Easy enough.
The three of you arrive at the subway station and slowly make your way down, it’s empty because of the late hour, only a few people every now and then.
Dean glances back at you every few seconds, clearly sensing the nervous energy you’re giving off. He slows his pace to match yours, letting Sam take the lead. “You don’t need to be nervous,” He says, “You’re the strongest woman I know. Plus, you’ll actually be able to protect yourself this time in case anything goes wrong.”
Your hand ghosts over the salt gun in your waistband and you reassure yourself. You groan, “I just feel a little… rusty, I guess.”
Dean chuckles, “You? Rusty? Last time I checked my girl is always on her A-game.” He says slyly.
You try to ignore the pink that begins to dust your cheeks as you shrug. The three of you walk in a comfortable silence as you get to the correct station.
Your chest fills with anxiety again, but you just roll your shoulders and push it into the back of your brain.
When the train arrives, the doors open with a swoosh and you enter. You glance back at dean as you do, reminding yourself he’ll just be in the train cart next to yours.
You sit and fiddle with your thumbs, the train cart is completely empty, which makes your anxious body feel even more uneasy. Your body rocks as the subway picks up speed, and you can’t tell if the lights are flickering like they would normally or if it’s because something else is here.
Your question is answered as the smell of something rotten begins to fill your nose, and your reaching for your gun before you can even process.
You have to remind yourself not to blow your cover, and instead take a breath, hoping the demon hadn’t noticed. The black shadow begins to creep into the cart just as it had before, and you mentally prepare yourself for whatever is about to happen.
The creature meets together to form a smokey figure of a man, just as it had before. The man walks towards you, and this time you really reach for your gun.
The man continues to creep closer just as Dean and Sam burst through the doors. Sam begins to chant some kind of prayer at the demon while Dean attempts to shoot at it.
The demon seems to have expected this though, because he continues to get closer to you until you’re eventually face to face.
“De-” You begin, but stop as the demon begins to fill your senses. It enters your nose and mouth, effectively choking you. You fight against it but it’s no use, your hands can’t even touch it.
Your vision goes black, and the last thing you see if Dean reaching for you before you pass out.
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“Y/N? Are you awake?” Your vision is foggy as you open your eyes. You can’t make out the man in front of you, but you recognize his voice.
“Dean…?” You whimper out, your voice hoarse. You feel something wet hit your cheek as dean laughs and holds you closer to his chest.
“Yeah baby, it’s me. Thought I- thought I lost you for a second there.” He sniffles out.
You wrap your hands around his neck and pull him to your mouth. Dean ignores his shock and quickly accepts your advances. He kisses you sweet and slow, effectively showing you just how much he’s missed you and your touch these past few months.
When you pull away your met with his smiling face.
“You’ll never lose me,” You whisper, “Never again.”
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𐬺 ➾ 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐤𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭!
tag list - @fictional-characters-i-love-them
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karnaca78 · 10 months
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[The City of Dunwall - Rothwild Whale Slaughterhouse]
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bigassmoonchild · 7 months
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Maple Syrup Masterlist
THIS SERIES IS COMPLETED
Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader
Total Parts: 17 as of 6th January
Summary: A mission that was supposed to be easy doesn't go your way, but when does it ever when the 141 is involved? Aphrodisiacs that were incredibly powerful were used on yourself and Simon, and with one accident it took over your lives. Now, you need to figure out how to go about life as a newly mated Omega in a world made for Alphas.
Content Tags: Smut, Dubious Consent, Sex Pollen, Fuck or Die, Heat, Rut, Angst, Knotting, PIV Sex, Biting, Hurt/No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Canon Typical Violence, Depictions of Violence, Mentions of Pregnancy, Kinda Pregnancy Loss, Teasing, Use of Pet-Names, Simon is shit at talking and emotions, He figures it out tho, Dropping of the L word, Near Death, Pregnancy, Vomiting, Task Force 141 is a Pack, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha! Ghost, No Use of Y/N
A/N: I just wanted to make sure anyone who needed (or wanted) to have a one-stop shop for the Maple Syrup series (and drabbles pertaining to it) can have it. Please send me asks! Masterlist under the Cut!
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🧼 = smut, 🧸 = angst, 💞 = fluff
Main Storyline:
Part 1: Maple Syrup 🧼
Part 2: The Aftermath 🧸
Part 3: Alpha, Please 🧼💞
Part 4: Feral 💞
Part 5: The Hearing 🧸
Part 6: Talk 🧸
Part 7: Lost and Found 🧸 💞
Part 8: Hot and Cold 🧼 🧸
Part 9: Hoops 🧸
Part 10: Thirteen 🧸
Part 11: Tags 🧸
Part 12: Ghost 🧸
Part 13: Tea 🧸💞🧼
Part 14: Meetings 🧸💞
Part 15: Tears 🧸💞
Part 16: Nothing 🧸
Part 17: Happy 💞🧸
Drabbles, Oneshots, Side-Stories:
Simons Rut 🧼
Headcannons 💞🧸🧼
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eliwashere · 8 months
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Can't Hear You
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summary: König gets a radio from you in the middle of battle. You tell him your hearing aids got busted, and he runs. tags: könig x gn!reader, hoh!reader, angst (?), fluff, pining, canon-typical violence, no use of Y/N, slightly proofread word count: 2.9k words
fyi this is my first fic on here!
and i'm also aware that hoh ppl can't join the military but i just like the feelings
requests are open !
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The ride is bumpy.
König’s sniper hood scratches the tip of his nose as the van moves along gravel, the vehicle shaking, the engine revving. The sweat-caked fabric scrapes against his lips, a familiar feeling, one that he’s gotten used to over the years here with Kortac. He leans on the wall of the vehicle, eyes scanning over his squad.
The mission had sent them to the middle of South East Asia, the humidity sticking uncomfortably to König’s skin. He hears the quiet murmurs of the squad, silently complaining about the heat. His eyes land on you, seated across from him. You have your hearing aids turned off, your eyes closed as you simply wait till the van stops or gets attacked.
Your colonel knows you like to take moments to yourself, to let the noise muffle out. Well, you’d told everyone on your first day, when you’d just been shifted from another base due to your battle-earned hearing loss.
Your first day, when you first met König.
===
König remembers it well.
He remembers his superiors introducing you to the team, taking an extra moment to specially mention that you were hard of hearing. It surprised him, though he didn’t let it show (he couldn't anyway). Usually, they’d let soldiers go if they lost something on the field, a limb, a sense. But he figured that maybe they had a reason to keep you around, and that intrigued him.
“Sometimes I take them off, at night or during down time,” you said, pointing to your hearing aids as the Kortac squad stared you down, whether it be to size you up or… other actions with other motives. You had clocked König in the crowd from a mile away, his head sticking up among the others like a tower in a field. He had a tilt in his head, which he held unnecessarily high. You could almost hear the whirring behind his eyes, the churning cogs in his brain, trying to figure you out.
“And so, if anyone would like to partner up with your new teammate here, it would be greatly appreciated,” your superior had said, and you almost sighed. Someone had to keep an eye out for you, in case there was a drill, or an alarm you couldn’t hear. It bothered you that you needed to be followed around, that you’d likely be assigned a caretaker, or god forbid, a roommate. You need privacy, everyone in this base needed privacy, and having to share that space with someone felt akin to an intrusion.
But of course, the military couldn’t take any chances.
When no one answered, König couldn’t say he was surprised. Nobody would want to follow someone around all day on the off chance that there was a danger to the base, and he figured that you wouldn’t want that either, especially not with total strangers.
“Alright, then I guess we’ll have to–”
“I’ll do it.”
Heads whipped back to König, who only looked at his teammates once before looking back at you. He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe he pitied you, like you were the kid that got picked last during a game, or maybe he just related to the silence that you were met with, all too familiar.
“Well, that’s settled then.”
===
The van came to a stop at the edge off the main gravel road, the hood of the vehicle poking into the forest. You turn your hearing aids back on, the soft hum of the world flooding back into your senses. The team filed out of the back of the van, dirt and rock crunching under your boots. König checked his rifle for the nth time, before looking over to you. You met his gaze, an unspoken understanding for you to stay close by him filtering between the two of you.
The squad started north not long after, towards the enemy base. König, as colonel, leads the team. His head is on a swivel, looking out for any stray enemy soldiers, or landmines and traps on the forest floor. He spares a half a second to glance at you, your rifle held tight in your hands, expression focused, almost unreadable. It’s the expression you wore whenever you were training with the team, the expression that engraved itself into König’s retinas during your first few days with them, with him.
===
To your luck, they still let you have your own quarters, but also to your luck, you had to spend every other moment out of your room with König. Protocol, you had heard him say, accent deep set into his voice. You hadn’t expected it, to be honest, for a man his stature and size to have that voice. By no means did you not like it, in fact, there was something mesmerising about it whenever he was out on the battlefield. Crazed, you would describe it, crackling, like radio static.
König never did hear your voice often, one of the many silent types in the team, him included. He’d figured he’d leave it alone, but it was rare to find someone that spoke less than he did. He found himself observing you most of the time, which he had a lot of with you.
He noticed that you spoke more with your actions than anything.
When you were tired, you’d stretch the muscles in your neck, sucking a breath in as it emits a satisfying pop.
When you were frustrated, you’d clench your jaw, or you’d press your tongue into your cheek. If it was the other teammates bothering you, especially with their volume, you’d turn off your hearing aids, which has made König chuckle on more than one occasion. You’d never hear it though, but you could see the creasing of his eyes, and you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of your lips.
===
The base is fairly barren, though most of the people who are there are heavily armed by the looks of it. That means it’s easy for your team to pick them off without getting seen, but it means a longer process and a more distance between the team. König can’t help but worry when you weren’t near, your presence having been a constant in his life for months now. At base or at battle, you would be at his side. So, when he sees you more than ten feet away from him, he breathes in a little deeper.
All it takes is one mess up, one wrong move, and suddenly the base’s sirens go off, the enemy soldiers yelling and firing. On one hand, König’s annoyed, because he’s going to have to find out who messed up and come up with a way to set them straight, but he can’t deny the adrenaline that pumps through his veins as he guns down enemies like target practice. The colonel watches their bodies drop with a twisted sort of satisfaction, the chaos of the moment fueling his hands as he slams an enemy into the brick wall of the building, a sickening crack and choked wail emitting from the now limp body.
König is a soldier, has been for a long time, and this is his element, his work, his life.
The static from his radio brings him out of the moment, and he ducks behind a wall for cover as he brings the device closer to his face.
“König?”
Your voice rings in his ears, and it would’ve bloomed a warmth in his chest if it wasn’t for its shakiness, the uncertainty in your tone. He doesn’t even get time to answer before you speak again.
“They…they’re broken, König. My hearing aids,” you say over the radio, ragged breaths and stutters punctuating your words. His eyes widen, but he doesn’t answer, knowing you can’t hear it anyway. He could hardly stomach the fear in your voice. You’re never scared, at least you’ve never shown it like this. But not being able to hear on the battlefield, not knowing if someone is behind you, or if a grenade had landed nearby; it scared König more than it did you.
“Nor–northern building, second floor.”
It’s all the information König needs for him to start running, sprinting to you.
===
It took a while for König to open up to you, four months, if anyone was counting. But König didn’t have anyone to really compare your time to, because you were the first one to ever try.
It was late in the night, König remembers. He forgot why he was even up, likely due to a nightmare, or simply the inability to even fall asleep, but he found himself in the common room, sat on the couch with a cup of tea in hand, the type that was supposed to help with sleep. He took a sip, sniper hood draped over his lap, his face exposed. The tea was warm, soothing, and König sighs through his nose as the liquid down his throat.
Training had been rather rough that day, with most of the soldiers already fast asleep by the time it hit midnight (a rarity). So, König hadn’t expected anyone to walk in, until you did, half asleep, feet dragging across the floors. You hadn’t noticed him, and he watched you open the shared fridge, pulling out the milk carton.
König hadn’t even considered the fact that his hood was off, and made no move to put it on either. He simply watched as you poured yourself half a glass, drinking it till it was gone. Your hearing aids weren’t in, he noticed, just as he noticed everything else. The scrapes on your elbow from training, the mess your hair was in, the dark circles under your half-lidded eyes… you looking right at him.
You tilted your head, empty glass in hand, the other holding the milk carton. At first glance, you had no idea who he was. Perhaps it was the sleep eating away at your brain, or the fact that he was sat in the dark, none of the lights on in the common room. But the electric blue of his eyes was familiar, and you knew.
The first thing out your lips was a hurried apology, looking away in favour of returning the carton into the fridge, placing the empty glass in the sink. You knew König never took that mask off for anyone, so to see the face under it felt like a violation of sorts on your part.
“It’s fine,” König had said, only to realise that his words couldn’t reach you, words that he was surprised he said himself. ‘It’s fine’? Was it actually fine?
Was König actually fine that you saw his face?
That your brows raised ever so slightly, surprised.
That you took a second to scan his features, despite the darkness of the room.
That your apology was so quick and so soft, that he swore his heart stopped for just a moment.
As you washed the cup in the kitchen sink, a hand finds itself on your shoulder, and you turned to face König, who was still unmasked.
To the untrained eye, he would’ve looked absolutely terrifying. Scars slashed across his features, his expression set and serious, but you saw the hesitation in his eyes, which were somehow the most expressive part of his face, yet the one feature he didn't hide.
König stood back a little, preserving your respective personal spaces as he drew his hand back to his side. You saw his lips part for a moment, as if to say something. You looked up at him, had to, because he towered over you, but you saw the indecision in his body language, and you gave him a nod.
“I can read lips,” you reassured. König heard you loud and clear, and his eyes look back into yours as he swallowed, adam’s apple moving along his neck. He thought for a moment, about what he wanted to say to you. A hard decision, considering the fact that he wanted to say everything in that moment, but he had a tendency to swirl into German if he got too carried away. So, he kept it simple.
“I don’t mind,” he said, aloud. He didn’t want to go out of his way to mouth the words to you, it felt rather condescending. But you got the message anyway, shown by the upwards curve of your lips, the single breath that you let out through your nose.
König breathed in. It was shaky, and filled his lungs to the brim. It felt like how he’d feel post-battle. The feeling of sinking emotions, of deep breathing and a mouth running dry. The feeling of pupils dilated, of his hands flexing and clenching at his side because god did he touch your shoulder just now? He didn't mean to do that.
“Are you sure?” you asked, cocking your head to the side with that slight grin, almost like you were anticipating, excited by the prospect of him wanting to share this part of him with you, one that he keeps so heavily guarded at all times. The thought made your chest ache.
Your colonel nodded, wetting his lips.
“I trust you.”
===
König runs incredibly fast for a bulky 6’10 man with tactical gear on and a rifle in his hands.
Fuck stealth, fuck sneaking and scouting around corners because every second he's not running is a second that you're alone and in danger. If any enemies are in his way, he simply shoots, not caring to make sure that they’re dead, he just needs them out of his fucking way.
He kicks in the door to the northern building, the sound reverberating through the building that he’s sure that you can feel. The colonel steps over the limp body of an enemy soldier, the puddle of red pooling under their lifeless corpse, soaking their camo maroon. His throat tightens when he sees your hearing aids sitting in that pool of red, or what’s left of it. Blood seeps into the shattered plastic, finding its way into the cracks, into the torn wiring of the device.
Making his way up the second floor, König catches a glimpse of the barrel of your rifle sticking out from behind a wall. Reckless on your part, but he could hardly blame you. He steps towards the corner, unsure of how to approach without startling you. The last thing he wants is for you to shoot him when he’s already so close to you; just behind a brick wall.
===
König found out why the military kept you around.
The first ever mission you go on together was his favourite. Before that, he’d heard the other Kortac officers talk about you, about how you'd snipe down enemies like candles on a cake, how you could scan a room in a single swipe of the eyes, how you’d saved their asses from more traps than they knew possible to put in one room.
He’d believed them, of course, because he never wanted to assume anything more than the best from you. But seeing was believing, and god, he was never more certain of anything in his life.
It was like coming face to face with an angel from a religion he didn’t know existed. He watched your steady hands, the rise and fall of your chest that held whenever you fired. You hardly missed, but when you did you’d pay it back by taking two more enemies out. König almost missed the grenade that landed by his feet, to which you kicked away before he could even react.
The two of you had to get shrapnel removed from your legs that day, but König smiles whenever he sees those scars, a reminder of you and your magnetic monstrosity.
===
He was right, you do try to shoot him.
König is lucky that your reflexes are just as good when retracting your rifle. He stares down at you, hands splayed and raised at his sides, firearm hitting the hard concrete floor with a cloud of dust. You’ve backed yourself into a corner where you had the best vantage point, where no one could see you through any windows or balconies. There’s a dull ache in his chest when he sees you like this, reduced to frantic breaths and wide eyes.
“König,” you say, his callsign slicing through your breathlessness as you lower your weapon. The relief sends chills down your spine, stirring together with the adrenaline in your blood; a boiling broth of feelings. You had half-expected that König didn’t hear your radio distress call, that someone had gotten to him before you’d gotten through. It was an imaginable thought, that someone would be able to take down this hulking boulder of a man, but you thought the impossible.
You watch him lower his hands, reaching them out towards you instead. You push yourself from the corner, your back killing you as you grab onto his wrists. His hands clench around nothing, the muscles in his wrists flexing under your grip.
“König, I can’t… can’t hear you. I-I can’t–”
Without a second thought, König slips his arm from your hands and lifts his hood over his helmet.
“You’re safe,” he says aloud, making sure you have your eyes on him. Eye-black mixes with his sweat, a trail of ink running down his pale skin. He’d lowered himself to your eye-level, definitely straining his back. He holds onto your bicep, giving it a squeeze. The pressure is comforting, grounding you to reality, to König’s presence.
You nod, movements stuttered. König smiles, and so does his piercing blue eyes.
“You’re safe with me.”
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steddieas-shegoes · 8 months
Text
Request
This request came in on my other blog from @mogami-13 and somewhere along the way it ended up deleted from my inbox there. I'm glad I had already copied it into a word doc, so hopefully you see it! It isn't quite the quote you were probably thinking, but I had to make it work for this situation, so I hope you like it still! Prompt: If you are still doing the asks, I just had a brilliant idea. So you know at the end of legally blonde where Elle brings up the rules of hair care? I need that quote with a Steve rescuing Eddie and Dustin from the bat tornado with a lighter and hairspray…
---------------------------------------------------
There was no way they’d win.
Steve realized it the moment he was being choked by vines against the wall of the Creel house.
But they had to at least get out alive so they could all regroup.
When the vines suddenly let them go, Steve had a sinking feeling in his gut that someone had done something stupid.
That someone had lost.
“We have to go!” he yelled to Robin and Nancy, hoping they would follow him quickly.
They didn’t have time. They may have already run out of it.
—-------------------------------------------
Running into the trailer park confirmed some of what Steve was thinking.
The bats were circling something, someone, and he already had a terrible gut feeling that that someone was Eddie.
That Eddie would have never let Dustin be in this position.
That Eddie was going to die.
He could hear him yelling, damn near screaming as the bats continued to dive towards him.
Steve couldn’t quite make out his entire body, but saw him desperately trying to stab at them with his homemade spear.
“Find Dustin,” Steve said to Robin. He turned to Nancy. “Use every bullet you have left on these things.”
“What are you gonna do?” she asked as Robin rushed towards the trailer that had been mostly boarded up.
“The bat is all I’ve got, but it’s better than letting him do this alone.”
They were missing fire.
They needed fire.
“Eddie!” Steve yelled as he got closer, smacking a bat midair when it tried to attack him.
“Steve, go! Just get out!” Eddie yelled back, sounding completely terrified.
“You’re not doing something stupid on my watch!” Steve yelled back.
The fight turned into a blur as he heard a handful of gunshots go off, a few bats falling, but still alive.
Eddie had managed to skewer one on his spear, but while he tried to fling it off, another one started wrapping itself around his middle.
Eddie’s scream echoed through the trailer park, and Steve froze.
That was a scream that happened right before death, right before someone’s last moments.
Steve wasn’t letting that happen.
“I’m out!” Nancy yelled.
“Go find hairspray and a lighter!” Steve yelled as he managed to beat two more bats away from him and Eddie.
He knew Nancy hated taking orders, but he also knew she was smart enough to know they didn’t have time to question anything.
They were used to working through emergencies with very few resources, with their plans not working.
“Steve!”
Steve would never forget the way Eddie yelled his name.
It was like he used what little remaining energy he had, like he was asking for help while knowing it was already too late.
Steve saw a flash of something out of the corner of his eyes, movement by the trailer that could have been more bats or could have been Nancy coming to help.
“Eddie, don’t give up, please,” Steve begged as he swung his bat. “Dustin would never forgive you. I would never forgive you.”
Maybe it was harsh, maybe he could have said something else to get him to keep fighting, but he knew it had to be at least a little effective when he saw another bat get speared on his stick.
His arms were getting tired, and he knew Eddie’s must have been too.
“Found some!” Nancy yelled to them.
Steve ran towards her, not wanting to waste any time waiting for her to get to them and risk the bats taking a bite out of her, too.
It was a large can of hairspray, thank God, but it wasn’t completely full, which meant he needed to use it sparingly.
He held up the lighter and the hairspray, pointed towards the bats, and started to spray.
The first few bats fell quickly, shriveling up a bit as the flames ate at their skin.
But he couldn’t quite get to all of them.
He kept spraying a path to Eddie, needed to at least get everyone back into the trailer to go through the gate.
Eddie was on his knees, blood on his face and hands, struggling to keep the spear up, already dropping his makeshift shield.
He was pale, and Steve could tell just from the quick glance he gave that he would die down here if they didn’t move much faster.
“Nancy, I need you to walk Eddie to the trailer while I spray. Do you have any bullets left?”
“No, gun’s jammed,” she said.
“Of course it is,” he sighed. “Alright, help him up, I’ve got your back.”
Being down here was about trust, something that Steve didn’t have much of with Nancy, but it wasn’t an option right now.
It was trust each other or die.
It wasn’t easy; Eddie was already weak and continued to get weaker every moment. Nancy was doing all she could to keep him upright and moving forward.
Steve was using up all of the hairspray just trying to keep the bats away from them as they moved to the trailer.
He could tell he was running out, knew they wouldn’t quite have enough at their current pace.
He needed to switch with Nancy and carry Eddie or they’d all end up dead.
“Nance, need you to take this and I’ll take Eddie.”
Again, she trusted him. She didn’t argue, she just grabbed the lighter from him, nudged Eddie over to him, and grabbed the hairspray.
It went much faster with Eddie on his back.
Steve had to ignore the pained groans leaving Eddie’s mouth every time he got jostled, knew if he stopped now, they’d never make it.
“He’s bleeding!” Dustin yelled when they got inside.
“Go, Dustin!” Steve yelled as he heard Nancy shut the door.
It wouldn’t hold for long, and it would take some time to get Eddie through the gate.
“No, not without him.”
“Dustin, go, man,” Eddie said from over Steve’s shoulder.
His voice sounded weak, wet, like he was slowly swallowing his own blood.
Nancy pushed Dustin onto the chair and between her and Robin, they managed to get him through.
Robin went next, knew an adult would need to be on the other side to help catch Eddie.
“Steve, his eyes are closed,” Nancy whispered to him before trying to help him readjust in his arms to get him through the gate.
“Eds, stay with us. We’re so close,” Steve begged, not stopping his movements.
“Steve…” Nancy said, her hand on Eddie’s wrist.
“No! No, Nancy, he’ll be fine. Just help me get him through.”
She wordlessly helped keep Steve stable as he got on the chair.
Eddie’s blood was all over him, but he wasn’t going to stop.
Eddie wasn’t breathing, but he couldn’t let him stay here.
“See you on the other side, Eds.”
—----------------------------------------------
The hospital room was empty except for Wayne in the corner, sleeping.
Steve refused to leave until Eddie woke up, so he was sitting by his bedside, hand on Eddie’s in case he woke up.
He hadn’t slept in the near 24 hours since they brought him here, hadn’t even gotten up to clean off in the bathroom in Eddie’s hospital room.
He was gross, and he knew the smell coming off of him was enough to make someone gag, but he wouldn’t leave.
He promised he wouldn’t leave him.
“You look like shit,” a raspy voice said.
Steve’s eyes zeroed in on where Eddie was smirking at him, eyes barely open.
“You and me both,” Steve said breathlessly.
“Well, my excuse is I almost died.”
Steve rolled his eyes, but bit back a sob.
“Wouldn’t have let that happen, Eds.”
Eddie searched his face for a moment before closing his eyes.
“Most romantic thing someone’s ever done for me, ya know,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Using hairspray and a lighter to save my life. How’d you know to do that?”
“The rules of haircare are simple: keep hairspray away from open flames unless you want fire,” Steve shrugged. “Was that really the most romantic thing someone’s done for you?”
“It’s tied with staying by my bedside until I wake up.”
Steve blushed.
“It’s alright, Stevie. I know you don’t mean it like that. Go home and rest,” Eddie said, sinking further into his pillow.
“What if I did mean it like that?”
Eddie’s eyes shot open.
“What?”
“Thought maybe we could go to the diner when you get out of this place. Sound okay?”
Eddie blinked slowly, his eyes still never fully opening from the drug induced haze.
“Eds?”
“Uh. Yep. We can do that.”
“Awesome.” Steve squeezed his hand once. “Oh, and if it’s okay with you, I think I’d like to kiss you when you’re awake next time. Just to make sure you know we’re on the same page.”
“Uh. Okay.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
Eddie slipped back into unconsciousness a minute later, and Steve finally let himself relax a little.
They may not have left with a total win, but he was leaving with a date.
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mickules · 2 years
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The (After) Life of the Party by @metamatronic Chapter 16: 2 Birds
the winner of my fanfic contest, where I asked for folks' fic recs and their fave scenes and picked one at random to draw
All credit to @metamatronic head over to their blog to check out their fics and wonderful art! They've got a bunch of extra ghost au interactions, as well as just tons of great stuff in general!
---
“ Don’t ,” Mondo said. His voice sounded weak, and for once he didn’t care. “Please, Kyoudai, please. Just don’t go in.” 
For a moment, Taka hesitated. Mondo held his breath, watching as the prefect’s hand hovered over the doorknob. Then, mechanically, Taka leaned back and checked his watch.
“Right on time,” he said with a twinge of relief, before grabbing the knob and pushing his way into the room. Mondo’s feet felt like bricks, but he followed.
For a moment, it looked like Taka was alone. Taka huffed, checking his watch and straightening up. No amount of white hair or fake curse words could change his thoughts on punctuality, it seemed. Mondo let out a choked laugh. 
Maybe Hifumi chickened out , Mondo thought. Maybe the plan fell apart, or Chihiro got through to him. Maybe, maybe, maybe.  
But the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, and that unease in his stomach hadn’t settled. His eyes darted around the room, before catching the glint of glasses as a figure stepped out from behind the open door. 
Hifumi was wielding a large hammer as he shuffled over to Taka. As he lifted the mallet over his head, Mondo let out a snarl and went in for a tackle. 
As he phased through Hifumi, he heard the nasty crack behind him and felt his blood run cold. 
Mondo fell to his knees at Taka’s body. He paid no attention as Hifumi let out a small noise of disbelief before shuffling out of the room. He watch Taka’s eyes flutter— he was still alive, he realized, bile rising in his throat. 
“C’mon, somebody, anybody ,” he whispered, trying to will a witness to come through the door and help the man bleeding out on the floor. 
Taka groaned, trying to push himself up before collapsing. Mondo watched as his hair slowly darkened back to its natural color. Mondo reached out, before recoiling. He was terrified that he would actually make contact, that he’d somehow drag Taka into this ethereal hell he and his other classmates were living in.
“Don’t die, just hang on. Someone’ll come, someone’s gotta come,” Mondo said. There was so much blood. It was just like Chihiro, just like Dai—
Mondo shook his head, trying to violently shake the thoughts out. He couldn’t do this, not again, not now.
Taka murmured something and Mondo snapped to attention.
“It’s okay, Taka, you’ll be okay. Just hold on,” Mondo said.
“Mon…do…” Taka’s voice was quiet as his eyes slowly fell shut. Mondo stomach twisted. 
“No, no, no,” Mondo whispered frantically. Just as Mondo leaned in, something flew up with such force that it smacked his chin and sent him reeling backwards. 
Sitting up and rubbing his chin, he looked over. He froze.
Taka was sitting up, rubbing his head and frowning deeply. His eyes opened before locking with Mondo’s. He stared for a quiet moment before the tears started. 
“Mondo!” Taka shouted, tripping over his feet as he practically launched himself into Mondo’s arms. Taka buried his face in his shoulder, and he could feel his hands clutching onto the back of his jacket so tightly he thought it might rip. He was sobbing. 
Mondo, for a brief moment, let himself be selfish. He wrapped his arms around Taka and squeezed. He’d never wanted this to happen, not to Taka, but there was a small, terrible part of him that was so thankful to at least get one more conversation with him. God, he’d missed him.
“What happened?” Taka asked, finally pulling away. “H-How are you here? I saw you…die.” He choked on that last word. Mondo stared at him, mouth agape. 
“You, uh…You’re not…Um.” Mondo stuttered. Taka seemed to have noticed Mondo’s eyes flick briefly over his shoulder, and slowly turned. 
Taka screamed. 
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