#ive been meaning to draw em again ive had a Vision for so long

[twodimecastle]

fifty bucks & six months.

spencer reid x gender neutral reader new relationship, secret keeping nonsense, 4.5k words, ao3 a/n; turns out i love writing texting fic but tumblr destroys the formatting rip

zero months.

You smile conspiratorially, extending a pinkie towards Spencer and he gives you a skeptical look.

“You know the odds of being found out immediately are-” he starts, but you cut him off.

“Astronomical, I know. I know. But don’t you think it’ll be fun to see how long we can push it?” you wheedle, not caring that your voice sounds more like begging than is strictly dignified because seeing the way Spencer’s nose crinkles in amusement at your heavy handed persuasion is too adorable to pass up. You scoot closer on the couch, tapping the end of his nose with your pinkie finger, letting him catch your hand between his as you continue “I think we’ve got a good shot at hiding it for a little while. It would be like a game.”

Spencer draws your captive hand to his lips, brushing them across your knuckles and watching fondly as you forge ahead in your campaign to persuade him, enjoying the show and the attention too much to tell you he’s already on board. Your eyes are shining with the prospect of the caper, and you’ve made no move to take your hand back from him, and Spencer’s pretty sure he’d be more than happy to sit with you in this moment forever. “I mean-” you go on, gesturing animatedly with your free hand, “you’re like-a really good liar when you want to be. And everyone else always forgets how good you are at it.”

He snorts at that and the sound makes you light up, eyes tracking the arch of his brows, the warmth in his soft brown eyes, memorising the way he looks like this; utterly unbothered, completely at ease. It might be your favourite version of him, but that race has always been a tight one with no clear winner in sight. You have lots of favourite versions of Spencer. Twisting your hand in his, you tangle your fingers together, savouring the way you feel his thumb glide delicately along your skin and the unhidden joy in his face at the simple show of affection.

Time to play your trump card.

“$50 says we can hide it from the whole group for at least six months. If everyone figures it out before then, you win. But if not everyone has worked it out by then, I win.”

The mischievous shine in your eyes is irresistible, and Spencer smiles, disentangling one of his hands from yours to extend his own pinky finger.

“You’re on.”

The words barely make it out of his mouth before you’re colliding with him, pressing your lips to his.

two months.

“So, how long has this whole thing been going on?” Derek’s question catches Spencer off guard, and, based on the way he can see you freeze in his peripheral vision, takes you by surprise as well. Sliding into the driver's seat of the SUV, Derek continues “I hope you didn’t think you were gonna be able to keep me in the dark for long, pretty boy. You should know better than that.”

Following mechanically after him, Spencer takes the passenger seat, trying to frame his next statement as carefully as possible as he hears your door close and the car start. “We were-going to tell you guys-” he begins uncomfortably, glancing back to you for support, but you look just as on edge as he feels. “We were just gonna-keep it to ourselves for a while-before telling Hotch and everything-” he tries again, the mounting tension levering his shoulders higher and higher with every passing moment, but then Derek just laughs, shaking his head.

“Hey, I’m happy for you, kid. For both of you.” He spares a look at you in the back seat through the rear view mirror, and you can feel the tension in your jaw relax, the furrows in your brow straightening out at the note of approval in Derek’s voice. “I’m glad you two finally figured it out,” he says, fondly, and you laugh.

“I bet Spence we could keep it from you guys at least six months,” you explain, reaching forwards through the centre console to link your pinky with Spencer’s, and the touch of your hand releases the last of the tension he had been harbouring as he covers your hand with the other one of his own. He knows Derek clocks the motion, filing it away in his mind somewhere, but he doesn’t care about the scrutiny so much right now. Not when your hand is so warm and comfortable in his.

Derek reaches for the dial on the radio and flicks through the channel, thinking about something, and as you watch, a slow mischievous smirk spreads across his face a moment later before he glances first at Spencer and then at you.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says to you, and Spencer can feel a familiar grin tugging at his own lips as he watches a plan take shape in his friend’s eyes. “I’m happy to sit on this information for a while for a cut of the winnings from whichever one of you comes out on top.” He snorts good naturedly as he continues “I have my own bet to win with Prentiss, so if you two help me win that one, I’ll cut you in too.”

“A quid pro quo of sorts,” Spencer says slowly, and he feels your fingers tighten around his, as you snort softly, and he knows instinctually you’re grinning the same way you always do when you’re winning a game. “I think we can do that.”

Derek grins, turning the music up as he nods, eyes on the road. “Then you two love birds have got yourselves a deal.”

two months and two weeks.

PG: youre not as slick as you think you are ;)

YN: ???

PG: ;))))))))) you should invest in some concealer for your work bag sweetness or tell the good doctor to pay more attention to whats visible in your work clothes

YN: oh my fucking god wait how do you even know thats how that happened

PG: im all knowing and all seeing im like the omnipotent goddess of the fbi

YN: derek blabbed

PG: he sang like a canary but also im an omnipotent goddess im also totally clued in on the whole bet situation with em so for the low low price of every single juicy detail about how this adorableness went down you can buy my silence :)

YN: im getting derek decaf coffee on all coffee runs from now on >:( traitors dont get caffeine

PG: darling sweet angel i need deets all of them like immediately

YN: >:( fine ok so. after that case down in georgia a few months ago? the weird one? with the creepy mother son thing?

PG: omg yuck pls dont remind me im here for the CUTENESS not the MURDER

YN: sorryyyyyyy anyway so spence was like being super weird about it all on the plane and whatever but he was doing that super annoying thing where he ignores it and says hes fine so everyone leaves him alone

PG: YEAH why does everyone here do that ALL THE TIME its SO annoyingggg

YN: ikr its insufferable and like super not subtle ANYWAY. spence was being weird and whatever and i just. refused to let him sulk on his own or whatever like i could tell there was something bothering him and so after work i insisted that we were gonna get like shitty diner food or whatever and watch a movie and he knows better than to say no to me

PG: smart boy

YN: so we got fries and milkshakes and then went back to his place to watch a movie and he was still like weird and silent and like brooding yknow? but whatever just figured hed talk about it when he was ready so i put on a movie and offered to make popcorn and then he was just staring at me and he looked so SAD and TIRED and i thought id done something wrong like the poor guy looked like he was gonna cry and i was panicking over fucking popcorn and then he says ‘why are you always so nice to me?’

PG: oh my god hes like if a sad victorian orphan was actually a triplicate phd holder

YN: i was SO thrown off i was like spencer. spencer were best friends. ive been forcing you to hang out with me for years now why do you THINK im being nice to you its bc i care about you asshole and then. like after another million years after letting me sweat it out over whether hes about to cry for like fucking years the asshole grabs my hand and says. i shit you not. ‘you know im in love with you, right?’ !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PG: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YN: anyway hes my boyfriend now :’) dont tell anyone tho gotta win the bet

four months.

Lingering by the elevator, you glance around at the uncharacteristically silent office building, waiting for Spencer to leave the bullpen. The sound of his footfalls drawing nearer makes you smile and you mentally applaud yourself for suggesting the two of you remained behind after disembarking from the plane, taking advantage of the manufactured privacy to take the same car home, back to his apartment.

When he sees you waiting for him, he can’t help the soft fond smile that tugs at his face, as he reaches for your hand, sliding his fingers into yours with a gentle squeeze, the quiet of the building allowing him to indulge in the show of affection. You return the squeeze, leaning your head on his shoulder with a yawn and as he presses a fond kiss to your temple he’s rewarded by a sleepy hum of approval from you that sends a rush of quiet joy shooting through him.

“At least we won’t be sleeping in hotel beds again tonight,” you say, voice weary, and Spencer nods as he shuffles you into the elevator. The doors slide shut and the elevator starts to move and in the moment of absolute privacy, you steal a kiss, tilting your chin up to catch his lips with yours, revelling in the soft huff of surprise he lets out, even as he smiles against your mouth. Even after months, the simple act of kissing Spencer still feels new and thrilling somehow, like you can’t quite believe it’s something you’re allowed to do.

His nose brushes yours and he breathes “unless something big comes up, we get a sleep in tomorrow too,” and the way you beam at him sends his heart racing in his chest, unable to look away from the fondness shining in your eyes.

As the two of you exit the elevator and make your way through the Bureau car park, you tuck yourself against his side, wedging yourself under his arm with a happy sigh, eager to get yourself horizontal and asleep as fast as possible. Spencer brushes his lips against your temple again as the two of you close in on his car, almost free and clear of the office when a voice behind the two of you brings you up short.

“Reid?”

Spencer is reacting before his mind catches up, turning on his heel towards the sound of Hotch’s voice echoing through the parking lot, conscious of the incriminating way you’re still tucked against his side, even as his brain is rifling frantically through any possible excuses for the current circumstances.

“Hotch-” you step away from Spencer, cheeks flaming, not wanting to chance a look at him. “I-we-thought everyone else had gone home,” you trail off lamely, trying your hardest not to balk under Hotch’s ominously impassive scrutiny. A second passes, then another, and the short silence feels like months, or years even as the three of you stand locked in a stalemate.

“I take it the two of you would prefer to keep this under wraps?” He asks, finally, and it registers with Spencer, somewhat belatedly, that Hotch’s tone isn’t admonishing. It isn’t enough to dissipate the tension coiling in Spencer’s muscles just yet, but he spares a glance at you as he nods, and a moment later, Hotch gives the two of you a curt nod of his own. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, a shade of irony colouring his voice. “If you two fill out the paperwork for in-team relationships for me, I’ll keep it to myself. I understand privacy is hard to come by in our office.”

The words take a while to fully sink in, and you’re conscious that you’re standing there blinking and gaping at your boss like a bemused fish for a good few seconds before you’ve composed yourself enough to say “absolutely, sir. Of course. Thank you.”

Hotch nods again, heading towards his own car, and as he passes the two of you, a brief smile flashes across his face.

“Congratulations, you two. Get some sleep.”

four months and three weeks.

Spencer isn’t sure how late it is, but he knows you’re not asleep yet, the faint glow of your phone screen casting faint distorted shadows across his room as your free hand rests lightly on his chest. In the dark blue twilight of his room, the space feels undefined and dream like somehow, the line between his mind and his surroundings blurry or indistinct somehow, and as you huff out a near silent laugh at something on the screen in your hand, a thought rises to the surface of his thoughts like flotsam on an unwanted tide.

The more clinical part of his mind notes the autonomic response in his body, the way his heart lurches unpleasantly in his chest, heart rate rising with an influx of cortisol through his nervous system, automatically rifling through ways to control the anxiety response. Age old instinct surges forwards, starting to push his spiralling anxiety down out of sight so as not to bother you with it, but then your hand shifts infinitesimally on his chest, fingers curling in the soft fabric of his pyjama shirt, and for once his body is miles ahead of his brilliant mind, your name is leaving his lips before he’s really aware of it happening.

Your gaze flashes up from your phone at the sound of his voice, soft and hesitant, and you let the screen go dark as you set it down. You can feel Spencer’s heart hammering against his ribs under your palm, and your brows knit together in concern as you shift closer to his side, tracing gentle circles over his shirt with your fingertips, the repetitive motion intended to soothe, though you’re not sure if it’s for his benefit or yours.

“Yeah, baby?” You ask softly, working hard to keep the rising worry from your voice. After three years of friendship and almost six months of dating, you know him well enough to sense when his propensity for overthinking and catastrophizing is slipping out of his control. You can feel his chest rise as he inhales sharply, whatever he’s about to say cut off by second guessing, doing nothing to pacify your concern. “Spence? Is everything okay?” You ask again.

“This-bet-hiding our relationship-it’s-” he trails off, throat tight as he rolls onto his side, facing away from you, and smushing his face into the pillow, already wishing he hadn’t said anything. You’re the kindest person he’s ever met, but offering up this kind of raw insecurity feels like pulling teeth. Even if it’s you. Especially if it’s you. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to find out if you care about him enough to stay when his racing mind gets the better of him. The pillow muffles his voice as he says “never mind.”

You feel your own heart rate tic up in response to that, matching the wild beat of Spencer’s that you could feel under your palm only a second ago. “Baby, talk to me. What’s on your mind?”

He shakes his head, face still hidden in the pillow. “It’s stupid.”

He can feel the rush of your breath on his back as you sigh, and your voice is almost achingly patient as you say softly “it’s not stupid if it matters to you.” There’s a long pause, and you press yourself against his back, settling close and letting your hand slide over his side to rest on his chest, the heat of his skin sinking into yours even through his thin shirt. In spite of his height, he feels so small as you wrap yourself around him, drawing closer, trying to reassure him without yet knowing what he needs to be reassured of. “Spence?”

“Are you ashamed of-being with me? Is that why you want to hide it?” The words are almost whispered, the sound almost lost against his pillow and your heart sinks, plummeting faster and further than if you’d dropped it off the side of a skyscraper. You should’ve known he might worry about that, should have realised it might have felt that way. Remorse rises hot and bitter in your throat and you swallow it down, trying to steady your voice.

“Spencer. Sweetheart. No. Never. I could never be ashamed. I love you. I’m so sorry.” Your arms wrap more tightly around him and you bury your face against the crook of his neck, the tension you can feel in every inch of his body making you feel more cruel and short-sighted than you already do. “I’m sorry I didn’t realise it might feel like that. I could never be ashamed of being with you, Spence. You’re my favourite person.” He takes the kind of shaky, shallow breath that comes with trying not to cry and your heart breaks a little more as one of his hands slowly moves to cover yours where it rests against his chest, just over his heart.

As his hand rests over yours, his thumb strokes lightly along your knuckles, and he knows you know him well enough to notice the way his hand trembles, just a little, because then your hand is shifting against his, turning to clumsily tangle your fingers with his, holding tighter to him as he tries to collect himself, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath as his eyes squeeze shut. He can hear the contrition in your voice as you say softly “I’ve never really liked having people know everything about what’s going on in my life. And I love our friends but-something like this, that’s so-special? So new? I wanted to be able to keep it to just us for a while.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice comes out a little shaky, scarcely more than a whisper, and it’s more than you can take as you pull back and gently force him to roll over to face you. He’s not crying, but his eyes are glassy and you recognise the fight to keep the tears unshed in the tight set of his jaw and the hard line of his lips. Leaning on your elbow, you lift your free hand to gently smooth out the furrows of his brow, letting your fingers linger along the planes of his face.

“Why are you sorry,” you ask gently. “You don’t need to be sorry, baby. Not for talking to me about things that bother you. We can tell everyone else tomorrow, if you want? We can call off the bet. Derek will live. If he’s got a problem with it I’ll turn all his shirts into crop tops.”

He can tell the joke is a last bid attempt to make him smile, to ease his fear, and it works. In spite of the anxious weight in his chest that feels like it’s pressing him into the mattress, Spencer laughs weakly, meeting your eyes, and he watches as a relieved smile breaks across your face, releasing your lower lip from where you’d trapped it worriedly between your teeth. The unmitigated affection that floods into your eyes renders him momentarily breathless as he takes in the moment. You’re still here, still trying to take care of him. Just as kind and steadfast as ever.

“No,” he says eventually, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you down on top of him like a living weighted blanket, letting your warmth chase the bulk of the tension from his body and luxuriating in the way you curl into him, one hand sliding into his hair. “We shouldn’t call off the bet. We still have to take Emily’s money, remember?”

Your sleepy laugh is the last thing he hears before his eyes close and the feel of your body wound around his lulls him to sleep.

five months.

SR: Can I talk to you about something?

DM: you dying or something? that’s a really fuckin ominous text to recieve out of the blue

SR: I’m not dying, why would that be what you assumed? I just have a question.

DM: just a figure of speech but what’s up?

SR: It’s about your bet with Emily. What’re the terms for it?

DM: wym?

SR: What exactly did you two make the bet about? What needs to happen in order for you to win the bet?

DM: does this count as collusion?

SR: Technically yes, but calling it collusion implies a certain degree of illegality.

DM: whatever anyway the terms i made with em were that you’d make some kind of move before your birthday but she reckoned you were gonna need some kind of near death experience to do anything about your crush why?

SR: I’m just making sure I have all the information.

DM: what’s going on pretty boy? you planning something?

SR: Maybe.

DM: not a helpful answer reid is everything good?

SR: Everything’s fine. We’re just figuring some stuff out. Nothing to worry about.

DM: is there something you’re not telling me?

SR: Don’t worry about it.

five months, three weeks and six days.

In the chaos that was the scramble from the briefing room to the jet, you haven’t yet had the chance to speak to Spencer about the outcome of his most recent thesis defence panel. By the time you’ve got a moment to breathe, the jet is underway, coasting across the country towards Montana, the whole team settled in for the six hour flight. You corner him in the tiny kitchen area of the jet as he’s making a mug of mediocre coffee, fingers tapping out an absent minded rhythm on the countertop as the coffee machine whirs, clearly not paying attention to anything outside of his head.

“Hey, boy genius.” He jumps, whirling around, eyes wide with surprise, and you smile fondly. “So?” You demand, and Spencer raises an eyebrow in confusion. You snort, rolling your eyes as you elaborate. “Your defence panel. Did it go okay?”

You’re shifting your weight and fidgeting restlessly with the belt loops on your pants and as he studies you for a moment, it occurs to Spencer that you’re nervous for him over this outcome. The thought brings an almost giddy smile to his face.

“You know this isn’t my first thesis defence panel, right?” He says mildly, deliberately burying the lede, enjoying the way you scowl in irritation too much to answer your question right away, too enamoured with this display of concern on his behalf.

“Don’t be difficult, Doctor Reid. It’s still a big deal.” He just shrugs noncommittally, and you huff, swatting his arm lightly. “So did it go well?” You ask again, eyes narrowing as you try to dissect his microexpressions, trying to discern the answer he seems determined to keep from you for yourself. A few seconds later, he relents.

“I can now add degree number six to my wall.” He confirms. Getting degrees doesn’t hold the same rush of pride for him now, the accomplishment feeling somewhat less exceptional as he acquires more of them, but the way your face lights up with pride for him reminds him how special the things he’s capable of can be. You’ve always made him feel like more than the sum of his parts somehow, like something infinitely more precious than he always assumed he is.

“I fucking knew it. That’s amazing, Spence,” you say, chest warm and full with pride and love, and his almost shy smile in return is enough to make a decision for you in a split second. Your hand dips into your back pocket, drawing something out, and you carefully hide it from view in your palm as Spencer tracks the motion curiously with his eyes.

Your eyes are shining with affection and something that looks like mischief and the way you’re smiling at him is more than enough to divert his attention as you step closer, just barely noticing as you slip something into his hand. You’re dangerously, distractingly close now, and he’s conscious, if somewhat distantly, that neither of you is concealed from the rest of the team, scant meters away in the seating area of the jet. But you’re smiling and close enough for him to feel your breath on his face and suddenly your lips are on his, and even after nearly seven months of being able to touch you like this, it’s enough to make him forget everything else as he melts into the contact, savouring the warmth of your skin and the faint smell of your shampoo.

You pull back a second later, the kiss over almost as soon as it started, but it’s enough to attract attention, and you can hear a belated ‘oh SHIT’ from Emily in the main cabin of the jet. In your peripheral vision, you can see money changing hands, your friends scrambling to react, but you don’t look at them, choosing to enjoy the bemused, affectionate look on Spencer’s face as his brain catches up to the events unfolding around the two of you.

“I was tired of keeping it a secret,” you say fondly, loud enough only for him to hear. “You win.”

Blinking in confusion, he finally tears his gaze away from yours, fingers uncurling to reveal the fifty dollar bill you had pressed into his palm right before you kissed him. The penny drops and he snorts with laughter, shaking his head in half hearted indignation as his other arm loops around you, pulling you in, letting you rest your head on his shoulder, hiding your face from the rest of the team as he kisses your temple, revelling in the way you wind yourself around him in response.

“I was gonna do this in like two days. I wanted you to win,” he murmurs against your hairline, and he can feel your faint laughter.

“Too bad, baby. I’m used to getting my way,” you say, pulling back to steal another quick kiss before peeling yourself out of his arms with a wink, turning to face the onslaught of ‘care to fucking explain that’ and ‘I fucking told you so’ from the rest of your friends, tugging him with you by your joined hands.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid/you #spencer reid/reader #reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #dr spencer reid #my writing #spencer reid fluff

[your-iron-lung]

No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross 10

aka ‘The House That Dripped Blood’; available to read on AO3 HERE

Story Synopsis:  Some weird low-key occult parties start popping up that Steve can’t in good conscience ignore and takes it upon himself to investigate. Billy gets caught up in the consequences of his meddling, and isn’t it funny? For all the strange things the Upside Down has thrown his way, it’s werewolves that Steve has trouble accepting exist.

Chapter Word Count: 7927

Pairings: Eventual Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington

Genre: Supernatural/Drama/Horror-ish

Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

Next Chapter: 11

Notes: if you follow me you may have noticed i havent posted in a while- this is bc i spend all my time playing ffxiv instead of setting aside determined amounts of time to spend on writing/drawing and i have a bunch of artist alleys coming up that im ill prepared for and im terrible at budgeting UH YEP bad excuse but WHAT CAN YA DO here we are

(ive also set up a ko-fi account if you want to give drop me some tippy tips if u enjoy the word things i do) ((no pressure tho))

"Bigfoot."

Hopper leaned back in his chair; let it creak and groan under his weight until he knew it was at its limit, and then pushed it a little more. He studied the no-nonsense expression on the hunter before him, and intrinsically knew that the man was speaking truth.

"Bigfoot," the old man said again, speaking a little sterner than he had before once he recognized Hopper's amiable expression of disbelief. "I seen't him out in the woods just the other day."

The aging man had lumbered into the police station almost immediately after Hopper came in, bundled in some worn hunting gear that looked almost as old as he was. The deputies had offered to speak with him after hearing his initial claim, but they'd been refused when Callahan couldn't stop smirking. The old hunter had insisted on speaking with Hopper, who leaned forward now, taking the stress off of his chair to take a sip of the coffee Florence had brought in for him. He didn't look at the old man as he drank.

"So let me get this straight," Hopper began, setting his coffee aside to rub at his forehead, "you came in first thing in the morning worried about a missing friend of yours, but now you're telling me you're worried about Bigfoot."

"You know me, Jim," the hunter said, a slight hint of pleading desperation edging out of his voice. "You know I ain't some crazy old coot. I ain't seen Lamm in a long while, and yessir I'm worried 'bout him, but when I went out to his cabin to check on him I seen it: I seen Bigfoot!"

As incredulous as the claim was, Hopper believed him- not about it being Bigfoot, exactly, but he believed that the man had seen something out there in the woods, and it had the possibility of being that something he'd spent the last two weeks fruitlessly searching for.

Regardless, he didn't want to let the old hunter know he was taking him seriously. The last thing he needed was for his community to think he believed in this sort of nonsense, but people in town were going missing, and people he knew were getting hurt: if his only lead should turn up in the form of an old man believing he'd caught sight of an urban legend, then so be it. He'd follow it through, but he'd be subtle about it.

"You sure it wasn't just a trick of the light or something, Wes? You know your eyes aren't what they used to be," Hopper remarked casually, softening his voice to let him down easy. "And this isn't the first time Lamm's gone missing; you know he's one of those types of shut ins. Remember those weeks he was gone hunting 'vampires'? He's the kind of guy who lives in his own head more than he lives out here, he'll turn up again on his own time."

The hunter's lips twitched into a frown. "Alright, maybe Lamm is a little off kilter," he relented, averting his eyes for a second, "and maybe it weren't Bigfoot, but the tracks it left were huge 'n mighty, by God, and I ain't seen nothin' else like it before. If it weren't Bigfoot, then at the very least it had big feet, Jim, and I ain't never seen feet quite like 'em."

Interest piqued, Hopper became more attentive. "How's that?"

"Well, they was stretched out lookin', for one." The hunter paused, tilting his head slightly as he tried to recall the details of what he'd seen out in the woods. He held his hands up, spaced apart in an approximation of how long the prints he'd found had been. "Human lookin', almost, which is what had me thinkin' it coulda been Bigfoot. They weren't the tracks of somethin' native 'round here, and I only caught but the barest glimpse of it, but it was tall, Jim; taller'n you or I."

That sounded right; the prints he'd found and unsuccessfully tracked were, as the hunter said, 'huge 'n mighty' and matched the description of what he'd just been told. It didn't take an expert's opinion (though he had consulted one) to discern that the markings just weren't natural. Hopper set his mug of coffee aside and pulled out a notepad from one of his desk drawers. He uncapped a pen and held it to the page for a moment before writing down a few preliminary notes for himself on the top line.

The hunter cocked his head and leaned forward to look at what he was writing and said, "That don't look official."

"Because it's not; this one's just gonna be between us, alright?" Hopper said, looking up to meet Wesley's blue, watery eyes. He held the stare long enough to get his point across, waiting for a sign of affirmation before looking back to the notepad and pressing the tip of the pen to the paper. "Tell me where and when exactly you saw this 'Bigfoot' of yours."

The day was cold and grey at its start, with harsh, biting winds ushering in thick clouds that blocked out any hope of the sun ever making an appearance. Steve eyed the sky apprehensively as he made his way back to his car, wary of the way the clouds looked as though they might start dropping hail on him at a moment's notice. Billy feigned disinterest as Steve opened the rear passenger door and leaned in to shove the box of things he'd bought at the Hunting & Camping store into the backseat. Even with his vision obscured in part by the sunglasses he'd elected to wear, he didn't miss the strong look of annoyance that graced Steve's features when he came around to the driver's seat and entered the car with a pout.

"That guy give you a hard time or something?" Billy asked as Steve buckled in and put the BMW into reverse, turning in his seat to hastily jerk the car out of the parking lot. "Why do you look like someone shit in your cereal?"

Steve clicked his tongue. "He just kept asking what a 'kid like me' needed with a bunch of chains and rope and shit. My god, he just would not let it go, like he thought I was trying to build my own sex dungeon or something. Fucking annoying."

"You mean that's not what we're doing?" Billy asked, grinning a bit at the way Steve's face pinched up in disgust. "What'd you say?"

"I told him the truth; said it was to tie up a werewolf. 'It's a full moon tonight, y'know? Gotta tie 'em down or they go all crazy on you', I said to him, and you know what he said to me then?" Steve asked, speeding out of the little downtown shopping area Hawkins played host to and sounding every bit as gossipy as Carol did when she caught wind of a scandal.

"How the fuck would I?" Billy drawled, turning away from the conversation to watch the scenery pass by disinterestedly.

"He said, 'Damn fool kids will never learn'," Steve said, ignoring him. "'Damn fool kids will never learn', like, what the hell does that mean?"

Billy shrugged. "Who knows? As long as he accepted daddy's plastic then what does it matter?"

Steve clicked his tongue again in annoyance and rolled his eyes. "Fuck you."

Feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on, Billy declined to retort. They rode on in silence, the chains in the box Steve had bought clinking together softly in the backseat before the radio was finally turned on to mask the sound.

Regardless of whether or not Steve actually believed something was going to happen to Billy that night, he couldn't deny that the whole day leading up to that evening just felt… off. From meeting up with Billy earlier that afternoon to go by the camping store, to grabbing lunch together before heading over to the Henderson's house, it all felt wrong.

It was something Steve had difficulty pinpointing the origins of, but as they began work on clearing out enough space in the cellar for Billy to do whatever it was he thought he was going to do, he soon came to realize that the feeling of wrongness seemed to stem from Billy himself.

Few words could better describe Billy than 'annoying' or 'smart-mouthed', but he'd been uncharacteristically tight-lipped all day. He'd become a remarkably dull version of himself, and Steve wasn't sure quite how to handle that.

Usually one to argue and bite back at everything Steve said, when he'd begun dishing out instructions on how best to clear out some floor space in the cellar, Billy hadn't talked back to him a single time; merely lit a cigarette and blinked at him slowly, silently acknowledging what had been asked of him before getting on with it.

It was unsettling. Steve could almost say that he hated how submissive Billy was because of how used he'd gotten to the back-talk and smart-ass remarks Billy usually had ready for him, and though, yes, there were times he had wished for this kind of attitude from him, the silence and absolute subordination coupled with all of the other behavioral changes Billy was exhibiting were enough to set Steve on edge.

Billy kept tonguing the gaps in his teeth where they'd fallen out over the course of the week, and he never seemed to realize he wasn't alone. Sometimes he'd jump at the sound of Steve's voice, or shake his head and crease his brow in confusion when he turned around to see Steve moving stuff somewhere behind him, but arguably the worst part of it all was that he stank.

He'd tried to mask it with an overabundance of cologne that had nearly suffocated Steve when they began working in closer quarters, but buried beneath that was a hint of something that smelled awfully rotten. If he had to, Steve could liken it to the stench of the monster they'd encountered in the woods, but he chose not to, instead chalking it up to a severe case of nervous b.o. or something. The implications that the scents could be related bothered him too deeply to believe, and even then he wasn't sure he really wanted to know what the source of the smell was.

The stench of decay emanating from Billy's person was worrisome enough on its own, but with so much to do in order to get ready before sunset, Steve had a hard time figuring out where to primarily apply his focus: there were simply too many things going on for him to worry about one thing more than another.

The giant hole in the wall that Dart made to tunnel out of the cellar was his immediate concern, but Dustin had done a good job of hiding it from his mother by placing a tall shelf in front of it, essentially blocking it off. That didn't mean it wasn't entirely inaccessible, but Steve wasn't sure what more he could do about it. In all honesty, he'd forgotten about it until he'd tried to move the shelf aside and then found himself peeking into the eerie tunnel. He'd knocked over several things in his haste to put the shelf back in place, but Billy hadn't seemed to notice it, and if he didn't, maybe he wouldn't think to use it if- or when- he lost himself to whatever supernatural effects he was experiencing.

"Big if, though," Steve muttered aloud to himself. Turning away from the shelf, he looked over to where Billy was inspecting some old power tools, turning a nail gun over in his hands before setting it back in the box he'd pulled it out of. "So, are we good or what? This baby-proofed enough for you?" Steve asked, startling Billy out of whatever ruminations he'd been lost to.

Billy looked at Steve blankly, face impassive and emotionless. He frowned, and then looked around himself as though he'd forgotten where he was. When he spoke, his voice was monotone and devoid of his usual arrogance as he said, "I don't know, Harrington; is it?"

"You tell me, man, this was your idea." Steve watched as Billy returned his focus on the box of tools he'd originally been rummaging through. Picking up a hammer, Billy balanced its weight in his hands before gripping the handle tightly. Steve distrusted the look in Billy's eye as he held it. "What are you, a child? Quit rifling through their shit, put it back," he said.

Billy didn't reply or even acknowledge that he'd heard him. Ignoring Steve's demand, he stepped up to the abandoned work bench to splay his left hand out over the wood and lifted the ballpeen up.

"What the fuck are you doing? Put it down," Steve said again, his voice rising slightly in pitch when he understood what Billy was doing. He started towards him in an effort to stop him, but halted when the hammer was brought crashing down.

It missed his hand, but the force of the impact splintered the wooden table's surface. Steve gaped as Billy turned around, a cocky little smile turning up his lips.

"Someone could get hurt real bad down here if they weren't careful, huh, Harrington?" he said, a fierceness that Steve hated to admit he'd missed charging his voice. "But we've been real careful cleaning this shithole out, haven't we, pally?"

"You sick piece of shit, give me that," Steve snapped, snatching the hammer away from Billy's pliant grip. "Fuck you, Hargrove; you could've just said you wanted to move this shit out of here."

"Had you pegged as being more of a visual learner," Billy sneered as Steve threw the hammer back into the box of tools. "Your concern was touching, though, really."

"You're the one who came asking me for help, fuckface. Begged me, almost, if I'm remembering right. 'Oh, Steve, help me, I'm so scared of fake movie monsters!'"

Steve hadn't meant to rise to the taunt, but Billy's insufferable attitude had him stooping to his level as he hoisted the hefty box of tools in his arms and lugged them over to the stairway. Billy laughed dryly at Steve's mocking tone.

"We both wish that fucking thing had been fake," he said as Steve placed the box on the ground at the foot of the stairs beside the box of supplies he'd bought earlier. They were both quiet for a moment, their attempt at a conversation dying as quickly as it had been brought on.

"Only one thing left to do then," Steve said morosely.

Billy blinked and turned to face the stairway, eyes rising slowly up to where the cellar doors were propped open wide. Steve felt the guilt of having to lock him in prematurely and had to remind himself that he wanted to be locked in.

"Better hop to it then, Harrington," Billy said lowly, lips curling back into a familiar grin, but without all his teeth in place to flesh it out, Steve found the display to be more unsettling than annoying. "Let's get this sex dungeon set up."

Steve grimaced. "Not even in your wildest dreams, Hargrove."

"Nothing's off the table in my dreams, pretty boy." Billy breathed out a small laugh at the disgusted look on Steve's face, but the grin he'd been displaying slowly fell away. "Is it getting dark yet?"

"Uh, kind of, but the sun hasn't set yet," Steve replied, stepping up into the stairwell to check the status of the sky. It was as dull and grey as it had been all day, the overcast weather acting as a harbinger for the snowfall the local meteorologist had foretold was coming. "If you took off those fucking sunglasses you'd be able to tell."

"These are for your benefit as much as mine," Billy snapped, frowning suddenly.

"Yeah, okay, whatever that means," Steve said dismissively as he began to fish out the cords of rope from the box, letting them spool out onto the ground before gathering them into his hands. "How do you uh, how do you want to do this?"

"Aw, is this kitten's first time tying someone up?" Billy purred, not moving from where he stood in the middle of the cellar, directly under the light. "Who knew 'King' Steve's favourite flavor was vanilla."

Steve rolled his eyes as he brought the ropes over, wrinkling his nose at the mixed smell of rot and cologne that got stronger with proximity. "I've dated girls kinkier than you'd know what to do with," he retorted as he gestured for Billy to hold out his hands.

"Oh please," Billy said with a snort, "there are no kinky girls in Hawkins or I would've found them by now."

"You're obviously not looking hard enough," Steve muttered in response, gesturing again for Billy to hold out his hands.

Shrugging out of his leather jacket and tossing it over the work table he'd splintered, Billy held his hands up obediently and watched stoically as Steve wound the rope around his wrists, binding his hands together roughly.

"What's should our safe word be?" Billy teased, smirking as Steve wound another, longer length of rope over the original knot.

"There is no safe word because this isn't a sex thing!" Steve insisted angrily.

Flustered, he sighed irritably as he wound the long part of the rope around Billy's waist, hating how close he had to get in order to make sure the rope was tight enough, though Billy seemed to be enjoying how close he'd gotten. He kept shifting his weight around, trying, it seemed, to get Steve into a more compromising position. Annoyed, but determined to finish, Steve did his best to ignore Billy's constant movement and the disgusting, rotten musk that was wafting off of his person to finish tying him up.

"Why do you fucking stink so goddamn badly?" Steve finally asked with a scowl, repressing the urge to gag as he tied the ropes off into a clumsy knot. He stumbled away from Billy, reaching up to pinch his nostrils shut so he wouldn't have to smell the rot anymore, but the rancid scent seemed to have lodged itself deep into his nose. "You smell like a dead Calvin Klein model or something, holy shit, did you use a whole fucking bottle?"

The amusement Billy had held while taunting Steve left his face. His smirk shrunk into an awkward grimace as he looked away in embarrassment.

"I don't know, alright?" he admitted bitterly. "It doesn't matter how much I bathe, and between that and my eyes I have no idea what the fuck's going on with me."

"What about your eyes?" Steve asked hesitantly, unsure if he really wanted to know the reasoning behind why Billy had insisted on wearing sunglasses all day.

Billy faltered for a moment, hesitating briefly before reaching up and plucking the sunglasses off his face. With both hands bound together, he awkwardly folded the legs against the lenses and tucked them into the collar of his button up. He turned his gaze to Steve, who couldn't help but suck in a slight breath of surprise.

His eyes were so bloodshot they looked ready to start bleeding straight out of the sockets. There were hardly any whites left in the sclera to be seen as Billy winked at him, looking immensely uncomfortable at the way Steve was gaping openly at him.

"Do they- hurt? Or whatever?" Steve asked, unconsciously taking a few steps forward to get a better look. In the dim lighting of the basement, even the blues of Billy's eyes looked reddish.

"What's it to you if they do?" Billy snapped, suddenly irritable. He squared his jaw and looked away, unable to face the amount of concern Steve was showing him.

The worry Steve felt for the both of them in that moment grew stronger as he backed off, letting the matter of the changes in Billy's physicality drop, despite how alarming they were. "If I don't hear anything an hour after the sun goes down, I'll let you out," Steve said abruptly as he walked backwards towards the stairwell, grasping for the hand rail behind him blindly, unsure why he was so reluctant now to let Billy out of his sight. It was what they'd agreed upon earlier, and he said it meaning for it to sound reassuring, but the way Billy's lips twitched made it apparent he didn't interpret it that way.

Billy didn't respond.

"Well, uh, I guess that's it then," Steve said as he bent down, placing his box of chains atop the box of tools Billy had been messing around with before lifting them up together to carry them up and out of their man-made dungeon.

The cellar doors shrieked loudly as they were closed, a high pitched agony that erupted when the metal grinded against itself uncooperatively. Steve didn't mind that so much as he hated the sound the chains made as he wove them through the door handles, reminding him of what he was doing and who he was imprisoning as the steel rattled sharply against the doors. He winced at the commotion, but continued to loop them through the small door handles until no more could be fit between them. He tested their sturdiness by attempting to pull them open, and to his pleasure, they remained shut. The doors were secured; the cellar, as far as he was concerned, was now a suitable prison. All that was left of him now was to play the role of the jailor appropriately.

He stared down at his handiwork for a moment before the cold, blowing winds prompted him to seek shelter. Already a few snowflakes were fluttering out of the sky, flying into his cheeks as he turned away, re-gathering the box of tools in his arms and headed for the door Dustin promised he'd leave a key for.

Searching under the backdoor mat, Steve found the promised key, and true to the rest of Dustin's word, the entire home was empty, save for the cat that chirped a greeting for him from atop the kitchen counter. With a deep intake of breath Steve glanced at his watch, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him, wondering if he really was prepared for the worst. In the trunk of his car his bat waited for him, ready to be put to use just in case shit really did hit the fan, but he found himself questioning if he'd really be able to use it; bludgeoning monsters to death was one thing, but turning it on a boy he knew was only a monster figuratively was something else entirely.

For both his and Billy's sakes, he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Shrugging out of his thick coat, Steve set it down beside him as he took a seat on the Henderson's couch. He glanced at his watch again, dismayed by the fact that time wasn't progressing as fast as he wished it was and sat in anxious worry about what the rest of the night might have in store.

But at least he was comfortable and warm.

The cellar was not.

It wasn't the cold that Billy minded, so much as it was the anticipation: when would the transformation start? Exactly at sundown? A little before? A little after? Would he actually end up transforming? And why the fuck did the word 'transform' make him so damn uncomfortable? The unknown factors surrounding his circumstances were almost worse than any of the physical symptoms he'd been experiencing as of late, and he'd been experiencing a lot.

Anxiety wasn't something Billy had a lot of experience with, but it was the only thing he could think of that explained why his heart had been beating oddly all day. It was running at a notably higher rate, as though he'd been playing basketball or working out extraneously, and brought on palpitations he wasn't used to dealing with at the elevated speed.

In short he felt terrible. His whole body ached like it was going through puberty again. Both his arms and legs were sore in ways that mimicked the aches that came with growing pains when he'd had them, but he couldn't understand why he would begin to hurt in that way again. He hadn't had the energy to work out in two days despite eating practically anything he could get his hands on, so the soreness in his limbs was unwarranted. Either his body was preparing itself for the coming night, or he was having an incredibly drawn-out heart attack.

Standing at the foot of the stairwell, Billy felt the cold permeating in through the closed opening and moved away to find a better spot to wait. He wanted rub his arms to bring some warmth into them, but couldn't with the way they were bound. Already the ropes were beginning to dig into his wrists, rubbing uncomfortably against his skin as he realized he wasn't actually that cold anyway, despite the frigid weather; his body temperature had been on a steady incline leading up to now, leaving him with a rosy complexion and a near constant fever, the long-term effects of which left him feeling severely disoriented.

He could barely remember meeting up at Steve's house only a few hours ago to carpool to his kid friend's house, riding with the windows down in spite of the severe wind-chill as they went into town to get lunch and buy rope. Even though they'd ridden together, he couldn't remember now if they'd actually talked about anything or not. All he could remember were the low tones of the radio and the resonating throbs of the wind as it swooped in through the open windows, rushing to fill the audial space between them. It was as though his mind had been steeped in a fog, and he couldn't accurately think through it: everything was clouded over, incomprehensible, like waking up the morning after a bender and being unable to remember everything he'd done the night before, but knowing all the same that he'd taken part in some memorable shit.

Would there be pain, he wondered, and would it come on as suddenly as it had to the character in the movie he'd made Steve watch? Even though 'American Werewolf' was just a movie, stories like that had to spawn from some sort of truth, didn't they?

The dim little lightbulb that hung overhead flickered briefly, drawing Billy's attention to it as he took a seat at the work table's bench, wishing his eyes weren't a dry and sore as they were.

Coming from above, he could hear the muffled sounds of a TV show permeating through the cellar's ceiling. He couldn't help but think ill of Steve in that moment, but if their situations had been reversed, he probably would have been doing the same thing; he couldn't fault Harrington for finding a way to pass the time, though he wished he had something similar to do for himself. There was nothing interesting to hold his attention, and time passed at a dreadfully slow rate.

Stretching out on the bench, he laid himself down slowly, mindful of which parts of his back hurt the most, and gazed up at the cement overhead disinterestedly. He listened to the muffled sounds of the distant television, trying to conjure an image in his mind that corresponded with what little dialogue he could hear, but the rapid beating of his heart overpowered the noises coming from the TV. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing in an attempt to lower his heart rate, but it just kept going, pounding in a determined rhythm that seemed to be quickening with each passing minute. A bead of sweat trickled down from his scalp and over his ear as he wondered if the tingling he felt in the tips of his fingers was because of the cold or from the ropes being tied too tight.

He flexed his fingers, opening and closing his hands into a fist to try and bring sensation back into his fingertips, but to no avail. They remained numb, and the cause of which eluded him.

Frowning, Billy stiffly sat up and began to pinch at his skin, belatedly realizing that the numbness was spreading slowly down the lengths of his fingers, a sensation that sent a chill running down the length of his spine.

"Oh," he said. "Oh shit."

The pain, when he finally did begin to feel it, started in his feet. There were still thirty minutes before the sun went down.

Billy licked his lips nervously as he tried to get his boots off, his numb fingers and bound hands fumbling uselessly with the laces as the pain centralized in his toes and grew in sudden intensity. He was no stranger to pain, but this was unlike anything he'd ever felt before: it was sharp and stabbing, with each throb of pain stemming from the bones in his toes, as though they were growing more pointed in an attempt to pierce their way through his skin as they elongated. He could feel them cracking; each joint slowly popping free of itself as the bones began to push themselves forward.

"Oh, shit," he repeated, and could hear the muffled sounds of a laugh track from whatever sitcom Steve had turned on upstairs roaring in delight as he struggled to finally pull his boots off.

The stabbing sensation didn't relent, even once his shoes lay discarded by his feet. He peeled away his socks with shaking hands and stared down at his toes.

They'd turned a bright, beet red and were bulging like they might burst apart, his skin bubbling up around toenails that were already starting to peel off. He couldn't help the whimper as he tentatively felt them, a pain like touching a freshly popped, skinless blister causing him to draw his fingers back.

It was real. It was happening.

Sweating freely now, he reached away from his feet to brush his dampened hair away from his forehead as sweat rolled down the sides of his face. He paused when he felt his hair pull free from his scalp, clinging to the back of his hand stubbornly. Billy stared at the loose, curly strands with a horrified expression and reached up with a shaking hand to grab more. When he pulled, a handful of his hair came away easily, eliciting another whimper from deep within his throat. Disgusted and frightened, he threw his hair away to the floor.

Breathing quickly, he hastily rubbed his hands free of the loose strands in a panic and tried to calm himself. His whole body trembled as he breathed in deeply through his nose, wondering if he should try to call out to Steve to alert him that the worst case scenario was indeed unfolding. Another laugh track from upstairs came through the ceiling as he felt a sharp, sudden stab of pain in his ribs, prompting him to gasp loudly and curl forward over himself. He could actually feel some part of his ribcage shifting inside his torso as he tucked his arms in to his sides. Any lingering thoughts of trying to remain calm left him as he transitioned from panic to full on fear.

He stood up not knowing what he was going to do, but regretted it instantly: as soon as he put weight on his foot, his ankle collapsed in on itself and brought him to the floor. A shout almost came out with his fall, but he managed to internalize the pain as he was used to doing and grit his teeth as his foot essentially broke itself in half.

The central part of his foot that arched snapped without warning. Billy swore loudly and reached for his foot instinctively, wanting to hold the break in place, but he couldn't bear the agony that came with the contact. Warm tears leaked from his eyes, and when his other lateral arch also split in half, he couldn't help but cry out.

From up above, the noises coming from the television ceased. Steve must have heard him and was listening for him now, trying to gauge whether or not he should intervene. Billy clenched his jaw tighter, determined to keep quiet, but gasped loudly when two of his molars gave out under the pressure, snapping to the side and coming loose of his gumline. The copper taste of blood filled his mouth as he spat the teeth out, shuddering uncontrollably when he felt the vertebrae in his spine begin to pop, one by one, pushing up against his skin that was quickly beginning to feel too tight.

Huffing in great breaths of air, he panted heavily as the bones of his tones finally pierced through his skin, causing most of the flesh surrounding them to burst open like little balloons. Blood splattered across the floor in gruesome, miniature arcs and Billy finally, finally became undone. He shrieked, unable to keep silent any longer as new appendages could be seen inside the flayed bits of bloody skin, slowly growing outward, already a part of him.

Warm tears of pain streaked down his face in thick lines as the skin of his feet continued to be ripped apart, making way for more muscle, new flesh. He wiped at his eyes helplessly and thought he could hear Steve's voice distantly calling out his name, asking if everything was alright.

He blinked, his vision blurred by the tears that would not clear away as he pulled himself over to the stairway.

Shaking wildly all over, Billy stretched out on the floor, realizing belatedly that the waistband of his jeans was growing tighter and tighter. Hissing sharply, he cursed himself for not having the foresight to undress himself as he hastily tried to undo his belt. A pain similar to the initial agony he'd felt in his toes was beginning to manifest itself in his fingers as both of his hands slowly began to turn red, swelling up under the bonds of the rope as he fumbled with the buckle, desperately trying to get it to come free.

"Fuck!" he shouted in frustration, his clothing growing ever tighter as his body continued to bloat. He felt like he was being pinched in half with his belt acting as an unneeded tourniquet. "Fuck! Fuck!"

"Hey! Talk to me Hargrove, what's going on?"

Steve's worried voice trilled down through the cellar doors as he continued vocalizing his frustrations. Billy felt an organ in his abdomen shift out of place before popping, prompting him to groan and curl in on himself before he threw up. His couldn't undo his belt as his vision began to darken.

"Hargrove!" Steve shouted, banging a fist against the steel door. "What the hell's going on? Talk to me!"

"Fuck you!" Billy screamed, unable to articulate anything else as he tried to rub the blackness out of his eyes, but the more he pressed his fingers to them, they more they began to hurt.

A pressure was building up behind them the more he rubbed, and as it increased, his vision grew ever darker. He kept blinking, over and over, feeling his eyes bulge out of their sockets and against his eyelids, trying now to keep his eyeballs in place. He was hyperventilating when he finally went blind, the pressure behind his eyes becoming intolerable eyes before it finally came too much, and his eyes popped free.

He felt them slide out onto over his checks and onto the floor, the slimy, blood-slick nerves leaving tracks of blood on his face as he became totally and completely blind.

"No," he whispered to himself, retching again on the floor as he scrambled across the cement, trying to find the stairs, unable to see. "No, no! This isn't real!"

Beyond the cellar doors, Steve had his ear pressed against the slight crack between the panels, desperately trying to understand what was going on. He wasn't sure what to make of the noises he was hearing, unable to determine if Billy was just trying to mess with him or if he was in actual distress.

"Hargrove," he said impatiently, turning his head to try and peak in through the crack to get a glimpse of what was going on, "you gotta start talking to me, man; what the hell's going on down there?"

"I'm fucking blind," he heard Billy shout, his voice rife with fear. "I can't see anything!"

His voice was shaking as he spoke, and Steve knew then that whatever was happening was legitimate; Billy wasn't one to openly show weakness.

"Okay, stay calm," Steve stammered, but he wasn't sure if that was actually sound advice or not. "It's- it's going to be okay, okay?"

Billy howled, and Steve understood that the pain that carried with his voice must have been terrible to get him to shriek like that. He licked his lips anxiously, not knowing what support he could possibly offer him. He continuously opened and shut his mouth, words of encouragement dying on his tongue before he could manage to speak them.

And then, all at once, the cacophony of agony ceased.

Steve couldn't hear anything over the rapid sound of his breathing for a moment before he finally spoke: "Hargrove? Is… are you okay?"

"Hurts." Billy's voice, quiet, strained, and barely audible over the sounds of things (flesh, fabric) slowly tearing, sounded disconcertingly like he was speaking with a throat full of water. It was gargling and grotesque; completely unlike the smooth, honeyed voice he'd become known for.

"Okay, what, uh, what… what hurts?" Steve whispered in response, fear quieting his previously urgent tone.

"Everything."

"Shit," Steve said to himself, backing away from the cellar door panels as the sounds of something large and heavy being knocked over made him jump. "Just, uh, stay calm," he said, though he wasn't sure if he was saying it to himself or Billy. From down below, he heard Billy groan loudly before going silent again.

Steve's heart was pounding as he hesitated, unsure of what to do. All the details of Billy's haphazardly concocted plan fled his mind as he tried to think back on what they'd agreed to do if something ended up happening, and his first instinct was to open the doors to go down and check on him. He looked at the chains wrapped tightly around the door handles and bit his lip before crouching down and pressing his eye to the crack.

The overhead light wasn't bright enough to reveal much, but at the base of the stairwell there was a small circle of illumination. Steve squinted, ignoring the cold of the steel as he pressed his face against the door, trying to see all that he could.

Blood stains. Torn bits of… something he couldn't quite make out. Dark masses on the stairwell; lots of evidence that pointed towards Billy transforming, but no trace of Billy himself.

"Hargrove," Steve whispered, and then shook his head to clear himself of his cowardice. "Hargrove," he said again, louder and with more emphasis, "dude, you have to talk me through what's happening down there."

He waited, unconsciously holding his breath as he waited for a reply. It was steadily growing darker as the sun slowly sank, making it all the harder to see into the cellar from the tiny slit. Frowning and unable to see anything, Steve turned his head and pressed his ear against the door. From somewhere in the depths of the cellar he could hear something breathing heavily. It was moving, too; he could hear something shuffling, moving around the floor space cautiously.

When he turned his head again to see through the crack, he caught a glimpse of... something large and hulking cross under the light, tall enough to set the lightbulb swinging. He couldn't help but suck in a sharp breath of air, his lungs and throat burning with the sting of the cold weather. The thing- whatever Billy had become- halted just outside the rim of light. Entranced, Steve found he couldn't move as it emitted a low, threatening growl that sounded more like a man impersonating a dog than an actual beast.

From his limited viewpoint, he couldn't see the way the muscles in its legs were tightening, or how it had begun to crouch; he didn't have time to react as it sprang forward, jumping up the stairs in a single leap to ram itself against the doors.

The chains held the doors shut, but the sudden impact smashed the metal against Steve's nose and soon all he could smell was blood as it drained out of his nostrils. He fell backwards, holding his nose as the Billy-creature growled again. Horrified, Steve could only sit in the snow and watch as the doors lurched forward when Billy rammed against them again, trying to escape. The second impact loosened the restraints, and all Steve could do in that moment was watch as they rattled uselessly in place, beginning to slip through the handles as they hadn't been properly locked into place.

Cursing to himself, staggered to his feet and rushed to grab the chains, but as Billy threw his body against the doors again it soon became obvious that even if the doors stayed shut, they were about to pop free of their hinges entirely. Blood dripped down over his lips and onto the metal panels as he tried to think of what he could possibly do to counteract the damage Billy had done. In an act of desperation, he threw himself against the steel and hoped that his added bodyweight would be enough to keep them in place.

If it managed to do anything, he couldn't tell. Almost immediately Billy was throwing himself against the doors again, nearly bucking Steve off.

"Stop!" Steve cried out, grasping for the chains to hold them in place. His fingers scrabbled against the cold steel links even as Billy let out another deep, throaty growl. With the doors as loose as they were, Steve was almost certain the doors wouldn't survive another body-slam. "Give it up, Hargrove!" Steve said again, desperately. "Just- fuck, Billy, stop!"

He braced himself for another impact, but it never came. Eyes closed in anticipation, Steve blinked them open and exhaled shakily, his fingers trembling as he let the chains go. Crystalized air puffed out in front of his face over and over as he rolled off the doors and stood up unsteadily, trying to wipe away the blood that had already frozen over and turned to crust on his upper lip. Somehow, miraculously, his pleading had worked, but before he could take comfort in that fact, other disturbing sounds began to creep back up to him from down below.

Things were being tossed around; the metallic clang of old paint cans being bounced off the floors and walls mixed with the hoarse, angry vocalizations of the creature Billy had become made his blood run colder than the air currently was. The noises Billy was making were at once both animalistic and human, deep and throaty and more akin to the bellows of a moose than a man or wolf.

Steve stood in front of the cellar doors not knowing what to do. Already their plan was falling apart, and he was quickly becoming aware of how vastly unprepared he was to handle the situation. He wanted the security of the bat in his trunk, but didn't trust himself to leave the doors unattended for the length of time it would take him to run back inside and grab his keys to get it, but he felt so weak without it.

Another loud, crashing noise came from within and Steve stilled, listening intently. Faintly, he could hear Billy snuffling about, and after the sun finally completely descended, all was quiet. His nose was throbbing as he stood attentively, but when nothing more could be heard, his stomach sank.

With trembling hands and his mind screaming at him to stop, he knelt by the doors and slowly unwound the chains from the handles. The fact that he couldn't hear anything coming from within didn't sit well with him; he had to make sure Billy was still down there.

He tried to shift the chains as quietly as possible, but with how nervous he was, he had a hard time keeping his hands steady. They rattled noisily against the door, grating on his already frazzled nerves as they slid free. Heart pounding madly, Steve carefully pulled the doors open and took the first step down into the cellar.

It was silent. He couldn't hear anything as he hesitantly took a second step, mentally berating himself over and over for being stupid enough to walk defenseless into the lion's mouth. He had no idea what Billy was capable of now, or if he'd even recognize him enough to (hopefully) have enough sense to not harm him. The lightbulb that dangled freely from the ceiling was swaying, throwing its light around erratically, showing him glimpses of the gore that lined the steps.

Eyes wide, Steve gagged at the sight of the flayed strips of bloodied skin that were splattered near everywhere. He had to avert his eyes as he took another step, making slow progress as he was careful not to step in any of the mess. At the bottom of the stairs he warily peered around the walls, hoping he'd only stuck his head into the lion's mouth figuratively. To his immediate relief, but long-term dismay, there was no trace of Billy to be seen in the space of the cellar.

Exhaling deeply, Steve tried to even out his breathing as he came to stand in the middle of the room, looking around to assess the damage. As the swinging lightbulb steadied, he turned towards where the shelf that was hiding the tunnel had been and found it on the ground, knocked to its side and several feet away from where it had originally been positioned. His shoulders drooped at the realization of Billy's escape.

He went and stood before the opening of the tunnel and felt all hope of remedying the situation vanish. A numbness overtook him as he recognized his responsibilities of keeping Billy captive had changed; he was the only one who knew about Billy's circumstances, and he was the only one who could do anything about it now. Distantly, and much further away then he would've liked, he could hear the muted, labored sounds of Billy's breathing as he escaped confinement through the underground system.

The burden of his responsibilities threatened to overwhelm him in that instant, but instead of letting himself be overtaken by despair, Steve took a deep, steadying breath and rolled his shoulders back. He hesitated for only a minute before he took charge and ran in after him, disregarding his urgent need to turn back and get his bat out of the car. There was no time, he thought; no time to get a weapon, no time to get a flashlight. If Billy was now as the werewolf in the woods was, then he was capable of speeds greater than Steve could muster, and every second mattered. If he lost his trail now, then it would be lost to him entirely. There was no time; he had to go now or he wouldn't go at all.

Alone and unarmed Steve ran, chasing after Billy into the dark, cold tunnel, hoping he would be able to catch him in time, and dreading the repercussions that would come if he couldn't.

#harringrove #harringrove fic #billy hargrove/steve harrington #billy/steve #steve harrington #billy hargrove #werewolf!billy #slow burn #long fic #stranger things #stranger things fic

[reallyautomaticvoid]

Calling It: Good Intentions Chapter 3: There’s Tim!

Characters (in order of appearance in this chapter): Conner Kent, Bart Allen, Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson

Chapter Summary:

Conner and Bart find Tim.  Or, rather, Tim finds Conner and Bart.

After checking the dozen safe houses that they knew about plus a couple of old ones that Tim had abandoned (shocking an old lady when they burst in through her front door, though they did get pie…) Conner and Bart are out of ideas.

“I’m telling you,” Conner runs to keep up with Bart, “I don’t think he’ll be there.”

“It’s as good as any to regroup,” Bart counters as he punches in the security code.  “Besides, I don’t want to miss Tim’s apartment being this clean.  It might not ever happen again.”

Conner snorts because yeah, Bart has a point.  

Conner follows Bart into the living room.  Conner walks towards the perch’s entrance and stares at it again.  

How bad could the security be?

Conner hesitates for half a second before using his X-ray vision to see through the door into the stare case.  Or trying to use his X-ray vision.  

He couldn’t see anything.  

“Shit, Tim lead lined the goddamn door.”

“Because, of course, he did,” Bart snorts, staring at the door, “that’s our paranoid bird.”

“It’s not paranoia if someone is really after you,” a new, weary voice came from right behind them.  

Jumping, Conner and Bart before turning to see, “Tim!”

It’s something to be said that two of the fastest people in the world couldn’t catch Tim before he collapses onto the couch.  Tattered suit pants and collared, long sleeves hung off of Tim’s frame making him like he’d lost ten pounds.  

Clammy skin?  Check.  At least a half a dozen new scratches, some infected, covering his arms and face?  Check.  Giant fresh gash covering Tim’s forearm?  Check.  

Conner knows there was more but didn't trust himself to use his x-ray vision.  With how shitty Tim looks, literally the last thing Tim needs is for Conner to fuck up and fry him instead of scanning him.  

Instead, Conner gently puts his hand on Tim’s forehead.  

“You look like shit, Tim,” Conner mildly says.  He mouths fever at Bart who nods before running off to get supplies.  “You know, when someone is missing their spleen, normal they do little things like gee, I don’t know, eat.  Sleep.  Take a shower.”

A faint smile twitches on Tim’s face.  “I’ll be sure to let Ra’s know that you’re not interested in his vacation package.  He was so hoping that you'd be going next.”

“You were with Ra?”  Bart reenters the room but freezes at Con’s words.  

The exchange a look; both knew the Demon’s Head has an unhealthy interest (obsession) in Tim.  Tim’s never been keen on sharing the hows and whys of that interest which pisses Conner off to no end.  

“Yup.  Not the best vacation I’ve ever been on but still not the worst.  That still the time that Bruce tried to make us all go on that family retreat when the Demon tried to leave me in the woods to starve.”  Tim’s voice gets higher as he mimics Damian in a dead-on impression.  “But Father, why do we even need Drake here.  I’m here now; you don’t need a cheap replacement.  Grayson, I don’t care if you like him; he’s weak and should be removed.  Fuck, that was a long week.”

Conner and Bart exchange an awshiiiiiit look.  

They know some of the Batfamily drama.  

No, that’s a lie; they knew very, very little about the Batfamily drama.  Tim rarely (if ever) talks about the ins and outs of what actually happened once Damian arrived at the Manner.  All Conner knows for sure was once Damian moved in, Tim had slowly, but surely started spending more time in San Francisco and less and less time in Gotham.  

Fuuuuuuuuck, Tim must really be fuck he’s talking about it so freely.  

Bart grabs the thermometer and gives it to Tim.

Tim makes a face.

Bart arches an eyebrow.  “It’s your mouth, or I’ll find someplace to put it.”  

Tim takes the thermometer, putting it under his tongue.  After thirty seconds, it beeps with a temperature of 101°.  Bart and Conner exchange a knowing look.

“Oh, don’t look at each other like that,” Tim moans.  “I’m fine.  I just need a little sleep.”

Conner snorts.  “No doubt, but let’s get you something to drink first, okay?  When was the last time you ate?”

“Had a salad with Tam,” Tim grunt.  

“Salad doesn’t count.  When was the last time you had real food?”

“Salad does so count.  It had chicken on it and everything.”  Tim whines as he rolls over and shoves his face into the back of the couch. “Sleep.”  

Conner looks at Bart who mouths fuck.

Little known Titan lore: if Tim Drake whines about wanting to sleep, it means some shit has gone down.

“Man, you really gotta learn how to take care of yourself.”  

“I’ll be sure to let Ra’s know you don’t approve of his solitary confinement package.”

Conner files that away for future discussion (which Conner’s sure won’t get him anywhere) before hoisting Tim up bridal style.  “Come on, man.  Let’s get you some food.  Can’t take your antibiotics on an empty stomach.”

Tim hisses.  “I hate those things.  They always make me nausea.”  

Bart shakes his head, muttering, “sure it's not the whole not eating anything for a week things?”

Tim’s head lulls back to glare at Bart.  “Nope.  Defiantly the antibiotic.”

Conner doesn’t say anything, as he’s too busy trying not to laugh.  Or cry.  He isn’t sure which.  

“Here you go,” Conner deposits Tim at the table where Tim slumps, face first, into the table.  “What do you want—uh, what do you have to eat?”

“Coffee.”

Bart snorts.  “One, that’s a drink, not a food.  Two, you know the rules: no caffeine on an empty stomach.”  Bart zips around the kitchen opening cabinets, looking for food.  He finally ends at the empty fridge.  “Power bars, energy drinks, and coffee?  Really Tim?  That’s all you have in your kitchen?  Even I can’t make something out of that.  More importantly, how are you alive if that’s all you eat in Gotham?  How have you not had a heart attack?”

Bart’s— the best chef among the Titans—could do wonders in the kitchen. Conner once saw Bart make a mouthwatering casserole out of an orange, licorice, tofu, and a few other ingredients that Conner missed.  As Bart put it, “if you had to eat twenty thousand calories a day, you’d get good at cooking too.”  

“Coffee,” Tim stubbornly repeats.

Rolling his eyes, Bart says,  “I’ll be back,” before zooming out of the room without another word.  

Conner goes over to the cabinet that holds some of Tim’s emergency shits hit the fan supplies including bags of saline solution and an IV.  Tim eyes Conner as he moves around but doesn’t object when Conner gently put the IV needle into Tim’s arm.  Although, Conner isn’t sure that Tim has the energy to object to anything that the Meta might do to him.  Conner sits down, watching the IV drip.  Tim closes his eyes; head resting on the table.  

“You want to talk about it?”  Conner murmurs.

“No.”  It’s the strongest thing Conner’s heard Tim say since Tim had stumbled back into his apartment, so Conner doesn’t argue.

After about ten minutes, Bart comes charging back in.  “You know, fast food places really aren’t that fast.  It took them FOREVER to get the food done.”

Conner snorts, “I’m surprised you didn’t go behind the counter and make it yourself.”

Bart tosses Conner a burger before handing Tim some plain toast.  “Thought about it.  Decided that it would probably just draw too much attention to myself.” 

“You guys know I’m off of carbs.”  Tim groans.

“Shut up and eat your toast or I’m calling Cassie.”  

Tim flinches but starts nibbling at his toast.  “I still want some coffee.”

After a long talk with Roy, who didn’t believe that Jason was okay which he was, Jason’s suiting up for the night when he feels his phone vibrate.  Fishing it out of his pocket, the new text alert flashes from an unknown number.  Jason opens it and read:

Got Tim.  Heading back to the Tower.

Jason blinks, a knot that he hadn’t known was in his lower gut loosens, before he fumbles with his phone for a minute, trying to figure out what to write (things ranging from where the hell was he to get his ass to the cave now all floated through his head) before finally settled on:

Is he okay? 

Jason had finished zipping up his jacket (contemplating the best way to go and find those ‘heroes’) when his phone went off again.  

He says we’re inhuman because we won’t give him coffee.  See you around. 

Jason punches the front of his locker.  

Luckily, it didn’t dent; otherwise, he’d have to deal with disappointed Alfred sighs for the next month.  He didn’t like being brushed off especially by a couple of pip-squeaks.  

Jason’s Robin Sense went off before he saw anything.  “The fuck you want?”

Dick appears right next to him because fuck him Dick had been goddamn Batman.  

“What happened to your phone?”

Because shit he’s still clutching his cracked screen phone in his hand.  

Jason glares at Dick.  “Nothing.”

 Dick hums. “Okay.  You seemed distracted.  Everything okay?”

Jason slams his locker shut.  “I’m fine.”  

Dick gives Jason a smile that only an older sibling can. 

Fucking hell, why is Jason here again?

Alfred’s food.  

Right. 

Fucking hell, say it already.

“I was just thinkin’ about Babybird.”  

That got Dick’s attention.  

Jason grins to himself.  

“Why were you thinking about him?” Dick nonchalantly asks which he mighta bought if Jason couldn’t see Dick’s back stiffening and his muscles were twitching.

“Just trying to remember the last time I saw ‘em in the cave is all.”  

Jason isn’t one for sublet.  

It takes for fuck ever for someone (cough, cough, Dick…Bruce) ta realize the fucking point you’re trying to make.  

It’s much more satisfying when you could smack someone in the face with their stupidity.  

Preferable with a fist.

The Bats, however, like to believe that they were fucking perfect (especially Dick, especially in the brother department).  They didn’t take it so well when they get caught being stupid.

Dick, for his part, gives Jason a look like Dick clearly question if Jason’s lost his mind.  “What are you talking about, Jay?  He was just here last week.  He ran a virus sweep on the Batcomputer.”  

Jason had to fight the urge to smack Dick.

Repeatedly.

With his fist. 

Instead, he cocks an eyebrow at his brother.  “That was six months ago.”

The reaction is instant.  Dick recoils like Jason had punched him.  He stares at Jason for a full minute before slowly shaking his head.  Though it looked like there're ‘bout a billion thoughts flashing behind Dick’s eyes.

“What?  No, it wasn’t.  It was last week,” Dick insists, his voice rising.  “Do you honestly think that I haven’t seen my brother in more than six months?  I would have noticed not seeing him for that long.”

Jason pauses, giving Dick one of his patented, you’re full of shit but whatever you need to do to let you sleep at night looks before raising his hands.  

“Sure, Big Bird.  Whatever helps you sleep at night.”  

Opening his locker, Jason looks for his rubber bullets.  

Where the fuck are my motherfucking rubber bullets?  

Days like today make him reconsider rejoining the Bats.  Before all Jay had to do was shoot the asshole and move on.  

Now, he has play nice with the Bats.  

Some days, Jason wonders if it was worth it.  

Then Alfred makes Jason’s favorite dessert, or Bruce would give him one of those goddamn almost smiles (which was like a goddamn hug from the old grump), and Jason found himself coming back home.  

Home.  Jason mused to himself.  

It’s weird after all of these years to have a place that he’d consider a home.

“Jason?” Dick's voice sounds off.  

“Yo,” Jason grunts without looking at Dick.  

There was a pause.  

Dick shifted uncomfortably as Jason finally found his bullets.  

Damnit, Damian must have gotten into his locker again and moved shit around just ta fuck with Jason. 

Again.

Maybe it was time for Jason to teach Titus how delicious Damian’s slippers were.

“Has he really not—did I miss—er—never mind.”  

Jason looks up in time to catch a glimpse of Dick disappearance (showoff) before Jason he could say anything.

The next morning in Red Robin’s room at the Tower, Tim’s fever’s back down to normal.  He was still coughing but he fine.  

Really, he doesn’t understand why Bart and Conner are hovering.  He’s in bed just like they want him to be.  

Snug as a goddamn bug.  

It’s Hell.

Tim does, however, have a company to run and needs to catch up.

“Don’t you have school,” Tim coughs.  

“Flex day,” Conner answers while Bart nods along.

Damn.  Tim thinks.  “Why don’t you guys go catch a movie or something?”  

Conner’s lip twitch and Bart gets a glint in his eye.

Shit.

“A movie does sound like fun.”  Bart turns to Conner, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Marathon?”

“Marathon.”

“Good, bad, or terrible movies?”

“Mix, of course.”

“Perfect.”

“Food?”

Bart drums his thumbs Tim’s desk.  “Give me half an hour.”  And Bart dashes off.

Tim looks up at Con.  “Do I get a vote in this?”

“Nope,” Con pop the p.

“Fantastic.  I do have work to get done.”

“You were kidnapped and torched.  You can take the day off.”

“Red Robin, maybe, but Tim Wayne?  Didn’t you hear?  He just got back from a lovely whirlwind vacation.”

Conner rolls his eyes.  “Really now?  Were there any hot models there?”

“Not a one sadly.  There was some lovely time to meditate though.”

“Don’t they call that solitary confinement?”

Tim shrugs, “eh, if life gives you lemons.”

“You say ‘what the hell?  I ordered oranges.’”  Con smirks.

Tim rolls his eyes.  “Well, I did order oranges.”  Tim laughs which was a mistake because it set off another round of coughing.  Before he could ask, Conner was handing him a glass of water.  Tim grimaces.  “Coffee would be better.”

“You know the rules:  No coffee for twenty-four hours after a fever spike.”

Tim hisses.  “It was only 101.  That’s barely a fever.”

Conner looks utterly unmoved by this argument.

Bastard.

“Close enough.”

“I’m a mature twenty.  I can take care of myself.”

“Uhuh.  And what show did you leave as a parting gift to Ra’s?”

“Teletubbies,” Tim grins.  Not his new business-friendly smile but a real grin that let the former Robin shin through.  “I thought he’d enjoy it.  Plus he could use a refresher on how sharing is caring.”

Con laughs at that before sobering.  “You know, I was thinking,” Tim internal winces, but keeps his face smooth.  He knew this was coming but it did make the experience any more enjoyable, “maybe it’s time you move out of Gotham?  You could move to the tower full time or something.”

Tim keeps his expression smooth.  “Aren’t you the one who’s always nagging me to get out of the tower?”

Con glowers at him.  “To see a movie, take a walk in the park, go on a date.  Not to go back to one of the most crime-ridden cities in the world.  Hell, in the universe.”  Con took a deep calming breath.

Tim thinks about it.  He really thinks about it.   He considers moving out of Gotham permanently.  What would the ramification of leaving the city that's rejected him several times over?  And while the idea is tempting, to be free of the Bats (fuck yeah that’s an excellent thought now, isn’t?), of all of the baggage that came with Gotham, but—

“It’s home, Con.  I’m—I’m not ready to leave it yet.”  Tim’s voice sounds young, even to his ears.

Con sighs.  “Yeah, that’s what you always say.  Had to ask though.  I think you should still move though.  Ra’s knowing—” Tim cuts him off with a snort.

“Ra’s make it a point to know what laundry soap I use.  Hell, he makes it a point to know what kind of cough drops I take.  He’ll know if I move.  Might as well stay where I’m at for now.”  

The rest of the argument is cut short by Bart reentering the room carrying way, way too much food.  Bart then speeds back out of the room only to reappear in a blink of an eye with a rather large stack of movies.  

Tim stares at the pile.  

No way they’re getting through that stack in one day.

Bloody hell.

Thanks for reading!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18106355/chapters/43592294

#calling it #chapter 3 #fanfiction #conner kent #bart allen #Tim Drake #Jason Todd #dick grayson

[xyfanficarchive]

Squish

Pairing: DBH Ralph x Female Reader

Warnings: Absurdly long exposition for a tiddy squish fic

Summary: The reader and her boyfriend settle in for a calm night of cuddling and Ralph gets exploratory with his hands.

Word Count: 1699

Author’s Note: I did not in any way intend for this to be as lOng as it is. But uhhhh part 3 of Firelight is coming a little slow so have this thing ive had in my head for a while!!! anyways i headcanon ralph is a stimmy man and he would totally love to squish his partners tiddies just to feel em man

Moments of pure calm like these were rare, to say the least, when it came to living with Ralph. He was a person of extremes, emotions always dialed up to 100, always easily excited by small things. Even in his more tranquil moments he was generally fidgety, always doing something with his hands, and perpetually ticcing, not that you ever minded his twitches. Not that you ever minded him as he was, exuding that kind of constant energy, but you were only human and sometimes you ran out of steam. Sometimes you just couldn’t keep up with him any longer, and you two just took a moment to try and take it easy.

The day was drawing to its close. The sun hung low in the late afternoon sky, casting lovely reds and yellows and violets above the tops of the buildings you could see from your bedroom window. The lights were dim, with only a single lamp and various candles lit on surfaces to create a soft atmosphere. You were sat up against the headboard of your bed, a throw blanket wrapped loosely around your shoulders as you waited for your love to return to the room so you could curl up next to him and retire for the night.

You looked up from the tablet you were occupying yourself with to admire the many lush, thriving potted plants that adorned your room on every surface – the window sills, the TV stand, your dresser, and every side table had green. It wasn’t uncommon for people to have house plants but you wondered how many other people lived in a virtual greenhouse like you did; all of it a product of Ralph’s little hobby (or obsession) that had creeped into every corner of your small apartment, making the whole place feel alive and the air smell cleaner than you could have imagined before he came into your life. You never were particularly bad at taking care of plants, but you couldn’t imagine not being overwhelmed at the prospect of taking care of so many all on your own, whereas Ralph handled it like a professional (likely for the fact that he literally was a professional at taking care of plants).

You had just turned your gaze back down to your tablet when you heard the door open, and Ralph stepped in, clad in a grey crewneck sweater and black sweatpants, holding a steaming mug gently with both hands and closing the door behind him with his foot. A smile crept onto your face.

“Ralph made Y/N tea! He thinks he did it right… He hopes he did it right.” He walked over to you looking expectant as he handed the mug to you.

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” you say as you raise the mug tentatively to your lips, taking a small sip. As it’s still piping hot, you make a face, before setting it on the table beside you. You look back up to see him staring back down at you with his eyebrows drawn slightly and you add: “It’s fine. It’s just hot.” He seems satisfied and you lean up, placing a hand on the side of his face (the left side, always the left side unprompted), guiding him down so you can place a chaste kiss to his lips. When you pull away, he’s smiling a smile that reaches the corners of his eyes and you want nothing more than to draw this moment out forever so you can just admire his beauty.

Because god was he beautiful. Soft blonde hair combed to the side, you followed the curve of his pink lips with your eyes before meeting his gaze, one eye hazel and one turned black and blue but both seeming to shine with pure love for you. His scars, of course, were more than just noticeable, but you had seen the faces of uninjured WR600s before and it made you wonder if anything on this earth could mar the attractiveness of that face. Your heart felt full, and you took his hands in yours as he lifted a leg up, opting to climb over you to reach the other side of the bed rather than walk around. He flopped down beside you and you turned over to face him better.

That smile was still gracing his lips. You brought your hand out to tenderly stroke his face, before carding your fingers through his hair. He let out a soft hum of satisfaction and you took his hand, the one stripped bare of artificial skin, to press kisses to all of his fingers.

You reach over to take the mug of tea in your hands and sip from it slowly as you two just sit in silence, staring at each other. Eventually, Ralph speaks up: “Y/N should lay down next to Ralph,” and at that you smile and nod, taking one last sip before returning the half-finished mug to the side table and sliding down so that you were laying prone, facing Ralph on the bed.

“No! No! Turn over, turn over! Ralph wants to be the big spoon!” He said impatiently.

“Okay, jeez! Alright!” You say in mock offense as you turn over and sidle up close to his body, your back pressed flush to his chest, bending your knees to accommodate his slightly curled up position as he slips and arm underneath you and wraps the other around you.

You felt him press fleeting kisses to the back of your neck while he clasped his hands in front of your stomach, and you brought your hand up to lovingly stroke the length of his arm, the other finding its place supporting your head between the pillow and the bed. Ralph tended, sometimes, to babble sweet nothings at you in these quiet, intimate moments, and that was what he was doing – you felt him mumbling his stream of consciousness softly into your hair, maybe not entirely intelligible at times, but it made you feel warm and loved all the same.

That was it. Time flowed just as thick and sweet and slow as dripping honey in that moment, cozy in the embrace of your lover. You tried to remain awake, you wanted to be conscious to experience this little occasion, but eventually, as all things fall to entropy, your concentration fell apart and you found yourself slowly drifting off.

That is, until you felt a pair of hands drift up your shirt. It stirred you from your half-asleep state, interrupting your hypnagogic visions, and when you felt Ralph’s hands creep up to cup your bare breasts, your face drew up in confusion. Was he trying to initiate something? You took a moment in your hazy state of mind to determine that, no you weren’t really in the mood to have sex right now, but you opted to question him rather than turn him down outright.

“What’re you doing Ralph?” you asked, voice still hoarse with sleep.

“O-oh… Ralph, he…” he hesitates for a moment, “he wants to squish. Is that 0kay?” Your eyebrows drew together even more. He wants to squish?? What the hell?

“What?” you question him further, a slight chuckle in your voice.

“Can he squish?” he asks and, as if to demonstrate what he means, squeezes your breasts gently with his hands once before simply resting his palms on them again.

You’re a little bewildered. What a weirdo! But as confused as you are, you’re also intrigued, and if anything a little flattered that at least he would ask your permission before moving forward. Hell with it, you think, and you stutter out an okay with another laugh on your lips.

And… the situation is pointedly non-sexual. Ralph proceeds to simply… feel you, as a sensory experience more than anything, rhythmically contracting his fingers and pressing his palms into your chest just to feel the movement of the flesh around his digits.

“Why?” you ask softly, after a little while.

“Soft,” is his one-word answer. You smile. He’s… adorable.

His touch is gentle. He never hurts you, even for such a sensitive area, and the feeling of his hands around your breasts becomes almost calming in a way, and you can feel sleep beckoning to you once again. You would have drifted had you not heard, just barely audible against your neck…

“Squish.”

He squeezes.

“Squish.”

He squeezes.

“Squish.”

He squeezes.

“Squish.”

He squeezes.

You’re glad he can’t see your face in this moment. Your cheeks begin to heat up, and you have to purse your lips, drawing them into a tight line to prevent yourself from letting a giggle escape. You don’t want to spook him and embarrass him in this moment, which would undoubtedly make him stop immediately. But you really can’t believe your ears. He’s almost childlike in this little exploration of your body and you can feel the love and laughter rise up in your belly. In an effort to contain it one last time, your hand snaps up to cover your mouth, but this catches his attention.

“Heh?” is the little questioning noise that escapes his lips as he halts his hands, and you really just can’t help yourself anymore as you let loose all the giggles you’d been stifling. He draws away from you, and you turn around (still laughing) to see him holding his hands close to his body, wringing them together and avoiding your eyes, an expression of embarrassment on his face as his cheeks start to take on an azure hue.

“Noooo! Ralph!” You exclaim, still smiling, at the pitiful look on his face. You didn’t want to make him feel bad! You push yourself up on your elbows and reach your hand over to cup his cheek. He turns his face to look you in the eyes and you tilt your head.

“God, you’re so weird sometimes…” you chuckle, and his face sours just a little bit more. “But… You’re so cute, Ralph,” you hesitate just for a moment, looking deep into his lovely eyes. “And I love you so, so much.”

His face softens at that, and you lean over to press a kiss to his lips that lingers.

#dbh x reader #detroit become human x reader #dbh ralph x reader #dbh #dbh ralph #x.writing #so apparently i dont knwow whatthe fuck happened but firelight opened the writing faucet #in my brain in a way that its NEVER been opened in my whole life

[legion1993]

Dark Arts + Love = Passion

A/N: once again trying something new... this is gonna be my first AU i think but thats not as important as tagging @luci-in-trenchcoats for giving me this idea... hope you enjoy this story...

AU=Soulmate

Pairing: Constantine x Reader

Summary: Constantine is the one that saved you from a demon, he shared his world with you, he brought you to the bunker.. but when Zedd comes back from a demon possession stopping of her own, she reveals a vision concerning both you and John... this is how it happened, this is how your journey with the famed John Constantine started...

Masterlist

“My name is John Constantine. I am the one who steps on the shadows, all trench coat and arrogance. I'll drive your demons away, kick 'em in the bullocks, and spit on them when they're down, leaving only a nod and a wink and a wisecrack. I walk my path alone because, let's be honest... who would be crazy enough to walk it with me?”

NOW

Y/N (possessed): “John constantine its time i kill you and return your head to my master...”

John: “ya i dont think so, now why dont you pus-sac pig headed lowlife get out of this fine lady and leave now...”

Y/N (possessed): “you have no idea how to save me without saving her... you dont realize that she is watching everything im doing right now and she is screaming for your help but she doesnt realize that i have full control of her actions and her words...”

John: “i got news for you mate, the girl will be just fine...”

John lights his lighter and throws it at the ground and it forms a circle around you... 

Y/N (possessed): “ill make sure she doesnt survive this John...”

John wouldnt allow another innocent to get hurt because of him... he did an exorcism...

John: “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu!”

with a lot of screaming and a huge intake of breath the fire went out as the demon left your body, you hit the ground with a thud, well at least your body did, your head however was caught by john’s lap...

there is always a reasonable explaination for everything but waking up with your head in the lap of someone that you didnt know was the weirdest thing you ever experienced... 

John: “take it easy love... your still on an adrenaline high...”

Y/N: “where am i? what happened to me?”

John: “a demon took your body for a spin just so it could strike at me...”

Y/N: “a demon, what the hell are you talking about and who are you?”

John: “my name is John constantine, i specialize in the weird cases... this is gonna make this sound weird you and i are connected... its hard to explain but i need you to stay with me...”

Y/N: “ok but why am i covered in blood?”

John helped wrap you in his trenchcoat, you didnt reject his touch but you were shivering, John could feel it, you were emitting tremendous signs of power...

John: “come on let me take you somewhere safe where you can get cleaned up, and i can make you something to eat and explain whats happening...”

Y/N: “good something we can both agree on is food and a bath...”

John: “ay we can agree on those but i must warn you that what i have to say might not be what you want to hear...”

Y/N: “it can’t be the worst thing ive heard recently...”

John: “are you good to get up now?”

you nod as John helps you up, he holds onto you for a moment before hlping you get into the car...

As John drove you felt something, a spark between you and him... there was something there and you wanted to know what...

As John pulled up you vaguely co uld see the outlines of a house... a little cottage... but appearances on the outside isn't necessarily what it is on the inside...

your eyes were in wonder as John helped you out of the car, and you then walked with John into the house...

John: "don't touch anything these are all cursed objects, magical objects! you will learn more as time goes on..."

Y/N: "John what was that spark that I felt when I touched your skin... earlier lifting me off the ground made my skin tingle then just a few moments ago when you helped me out of the car.. what is happening?"

John looks around as if hoping someone was there...

John: "I don't know if now is the best time to discuss this... right now we need to get your powers under control..."

you backed up a bit from him as he finished speaking...

Y/N: “wait wait wait hold on a moment i have powers... what do you mean i have powers... im normal, i dont have powers...”

John: “thats where you are wrong love... you see everyone in one way or another have some sort of gifts... mystical or not, you however like me have gifts of the mystical kind...”

Y/N: “how do you know that?”

Zedd: “cause i told him...”

she comes downstairs and into the light... you back up and you look at John who is rolling his eyes....

Zedd: “oh no me and John arent together that is your job...”

Y/N: “what the hell are you talking about?”

Zedd: “im a seer i have visions... i drew this a while back, John has been trying around the clock to find you...”

she held towards you a piece of paper with the drawing of 2 forearms with joined hands but the forearms had names on them... one said “Y/N” the other said “John”...

Y/N: “this is impossible... how did you know about this???”

you rolled up your sleeve and revealed John’s name on your forearm... John who had his sleeves down rolled his up as well and connected his hand with yours as he revealed Y/N on his forearm...

you looked at John as he looked at you with the same fear that went coursing through your veins...

John: “bloody hell Zedd why did you draw this moment...”

Zedd: “i draw whatever i see John now if you dont mind im off to exterminate a demon problem nearby... plus if it wasnt for me sending you to deal with Y/N’s possession you would never have met her... by the way i saw that too...”

John: “cheeky little blitter...”

you tried to move your hand away from Johns but it didn't move...

Y/N: "what's happening? why won't our hands move?"

John: "Its the soulmate bond... it's a magical binding that happens when 2 soulmates touch with their marks... it signifies the binding of 2 souls together..."

Y/N: "so what does this mean?"

John: "it means we either at this moment need to announce the mystical bindings of marriage or consummate our soulmate binding..."

you were out of place, you were beside yourself you were talking with this guy who saved your life but turned out to be your god damn soulmate at the same time thats something that you never thought would happen...

Y/N: “my vote is announce the bindings of Marriage... so i have time to get my powers under control before we consummate anything... does that make sense...”

John breathes in lightly, his eyes staring right into your soul, his mind running wild with all sorts of thoughts... 

John: “we envoke the rights of marriage bindings, anything that we do from here on out will have a great tole on both of us till the day when we stand up in church with the rings embedded with the symbolic binding powers vested in both of us... sub vinculo tenetur illas leges per quos magicae (bind us together under the laws laid out by those whose magic bound them also)”

the second john finished his lines the circle surrounding both of you was lighter but john and you couldnt let go yet... zedd came back and laughed...

Zedd: “you guys only did the first part... there is another part that needs to happen before you guys can have your arms back...”

you and John were now facing eachother the hands that had been at your sides were now attached one on top of the other. both of you sort of smiling at eachother the thoughts swirling through your heads of all the nasty options... Zedd pulled you and John out of it and back to reality as she brought up anohter circle around you guys and she smiled at both of you...

John: “what the bloody hell did we miss?”

Zedd: “you have to both agree to the bond otherwise it doesnt work... it has to be done with another person asking you both a question of course in Latin and of course you have to answer in Latin... are you guys ready?”

John looks at you and you at him as if trying to discover how the other is feeling about all of this...

John: “im ready if you are Y/N..”

Y/N: “lets do it, i cant wait to start practicing/discovering my powers...”

Zedd: “ergo consentire in matrimonium est vinculum universorum vincula? (do you agree to the bindings of this marriage bond?)”

Y/N: “Nunc munere in hoc conveniunt (i do hereby agree)”

John: “Nunc munere in hoc conveniunt (i do hereby agree)”

Zedd lowered the circle before speaking one final line as though to complete the binding.

Zedd: “Ecce ego unionem in magica huius benedicat constitutionis (i hereby bless this union under the magical constitution) you may kiss the bride...”

John leaned in at the sametime you did and your lips did the rest, before long your hands were freed but they seemed to do their own thing...

but thats when Zedd had a vision, she started sketching as you and John made out right in the middle of the bunker, she saw multiple things...

doves

rings

a cage

the demonic circle

a set of demonic black eyes

a broken knot

seeing all these things kinda terrified Zedd but she was just happy that right then her friend and her friends soulmate were happy but she finished sketching anyway and hid it in the back of her book... for the fear that if she told right now it would make things worse than they already were...

~thats all for now folks~

#au hit list challenge #constantine #constantine x reader #dark arts

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The Line [4]

...and where to draw it

SERIES: Destiny WORD COUNT: 6,516 SHIP: Quinn/Drifter CHARACTERS: quinn leonis (AU), glyph, ash, finn, adebole, the drifter

iv. gambit

n. a device, action, or opening remark, especially one entailing a high degree of risk, that is calculated to gain an advantage.

Her boots hit solid ground with a crunch of dirt and her senses rush back with dizzying speed. Blinking away the disorientation of being in one place and then another massively distant one in the next instant, she thinks—not for the first time—that long-distance transmats never stopped being unpleasant.

They’ve been dropped into a small cave littered with arches and levels, and ahead of them sunlight peeks through a set of openings out into what must have been their arena. Everything around them is painted in deep browns and unnaturally vibrant reds and earthy greens, the usual for Nessus scenery.

Quinn realizes then that none of them had discussed any sort of strategy.

Ash lets out a cheer and charges forward before she can even consider gathering one. “C’mon! Last one to bank buys drinks!”

I’m not drinking with you, she thinks to herself as Glyph drops her auto rifle into her hands. Stepping forward and hopping down from the high ledge they’d been transmatted onto, her knees bend with the landing and she starts forward with the rest of her team hopping across the higher level rock formations above her.

“Get ready for a firefight, and drop those motes in the bank!” The Drifter’s voice crackles in through her helmet comms and a waypoint appears in her heads-up display directly ahead. “Enemies inbound at the base.”

She wonders what that’s supposed to mean as they all exit the caves.

Their arena is laid out in a semi-circle ahead of them, penned in by a towering cliff that stretches around on either side like arms until it drops off at a sharp horizon and blue sky with the hazy backdrop of Nessus fading into the distance far below them.

A series of caves consumed by Vex machine architecture sits high in the left hand side of the cliff, and to the right is a small copse of red-leafed trees. The ground shudders under her feet with a teeth-rattling grinding noise filling the air as a massive Cabal resource drill drops into the ground somewhere behind those trees.

Immediately in front of her on a light incline sits one of the Drifter’s mote banks, already filled with twisting Taken power, and next to the cave entrance they’d just exited is a circular gate made of Vex tech. It looks altered, somehow, but she doesn’t waste time examining it further—it was likely the portal to the other arena they’d been told about.

Her teammates continue on ahead and she follows, all of them winding around a rock formation and finding the familiar industrial, rigid engineering of the militaristic Cabal stretched out across carved white stone.

A pair of Cabal legionnaires jump jet into sight ahead of a group of their fellows, all of them seven feet tall and massive in bulk compared to the four of them.

Here we go.

Ash and Finn reach the two legionnaires first. One well-placed hand cannon bullet pops a legionnaire’s head from its shoulders with a hissing geyser of organofluid and a crackling, electricity-fueled shoulder charge turns the other into a three-hundred pound, charred pancake against a base wall.

Sparkling, opaque motes like the one Drifter had shown them pop upwards from the felled bodies and are picked up by one or both of their ghosts, dematting them out of sight.

At the top of her HUD, a bar she hadn’t noticed until now fills slightly with gray.

‘The Drifter’s ghost sent the rest of us details on what to track and send back to her,’ Glyph explains. It’s a tracker bar for how many motes they held, then—and divided into halves, the other side ticking up slightly.

A way to keep the pressure on for them, letting them know where the opposite team was at in progress.

Adebole nearly runs her over in his haste to reach more enemies approaching them, forcing her to hop back and fight the immediate, irritated urge to take aim at the back of his head.

It’d definitely be one way to let loose steam, and she has no issue with knocking New Monarchy supporters down a few pegs—unfortunately, she does want to win, and that meant tolerating Adebole’s arrogant behavior for the time being and hoping all four of them have enough semblance of coordination to make this work, strategy or no.

Charging forward and jumping up she plants her foot on a rock face and pushes off of it, two pulses of light letting her hop through the air as though she were on stepping stones, heading away from her teammates towards enemies they’d overlooked.

Her boot lands directly on the face of a legionnaire’s helmet and her momentum knocks it off balance. It makes an angry, unintelligible roar in an alien language before she unloads her auto rifle into its head and silences it, then she turns her fire on another.

Like with Ash and Finn’s victims, two more glowing motes appear. She collects them both with Glyph’s help and then moves ahead into the base on the hunt for more, aware of the alien weapons fire filling the air around her.

Adebole curses her whenever she grabs the motes that drop near her from his gunfire, but she’s seen several of the motes vanish and fade after being left in the open air for too long, so he can kiss her ass.

After picking up several more Glyph starts to mutter something about them. A Cabal centurion, meanwhile, larger and with hellishly nastier weapons than its lesser-ranked peers, turns its attention on her.

Its heavier weapon knocks down half of her overshield before she manages to duck into cover. “Glyph, later, please.”

‘Sorry!’

Bracing a knee on the ground, she spins out of cover and takes aim, squeezing the trigger and gritting her teeth while the rapidfire bullets chip away at the centurion’s shields—which pop and shatter after a full magazine.

She reloads quickly and then cuts it down with another hail of bullets. Unlike the lower-ranked legionnaires, it drops a handful of motes rather than a single one.

She darts forward and they all disappear as Glyph grabs them for her.

‘That’s it, I can’t carry anymore without them doing damage to me and to you,’ it says, sounding uncomfortable. What the hell are these things? Nothing in the field she’d picked up had ever caused damage while in Glyph’s inventory.

It’s all well and good either way, she supposes. Not like she plans to hold onto them for long.

She twists around, her knees bending with the abrupt shift in direction and her boots and greaves scraping the stone underneath them as her momentum halts; ahead of her she can see all three of her teammates already running for the mote bank.

A new waypoint appears in her HUD, directing them to the network of Vex caves dug into the cliffs with waterfalls of crackling white liquid flanking its entrances.

Her teammates drop their held motes in the bank, and on her HUD the gray-filled portion on their side of the tracker bar fills halfway with the color blue. Two bloated orbs of glowing Taken energy burst up through the steady stream of it piercing the sky above the bank.

Her stomach twists. She’d completely missed seeing that earlier.

Keep it together.

Just as she reaches the bank the other team’s bar fills with red and a roar of power explodes from the bank. It retracts into the base dug into the ground, and the quiet plea with herself flies out the metaphorical window as a Taken knight materializes in her path.

Its twisted, unnaturally twitching body swathed in glowing, oily darkness drips black ichor that poisons the air and ground around, and it sends a flood of terrified adrenaline through her veins.

The white orb that serves as the creature’s face, floating amidst the mass of what had once been a Hive knight’s head, twitches sickeningly to settle on her and her heart leaps into her throat. A roar leaves its mouthless face and its arm lifts above her.

She skids to a halt, nearly crashing right into it, and her skin starts crawling immediately with the sucking sensation of otherworldly power and the scent of ozone washing over her.

The ground shakes with the force of a downward swing that she barely dives out of the way of in time.

Before she can even think about turning around to fire on the knight, the same swelling roar of energy crashes through the air twice, and two grotesque caricatures of Cabal phalanxes with their massive arm-mounted shields join the knight.

Both are far too close for comfort.

“Guys, guys, we’ve got Taken blocking the bank!” She yells over the comms, trying and likely failing to keep the panic from her voice.

“So take care of ‘em, miss ‘trial-by-fire’!” Ash calls back mockingly.

She glances towards the new waypoint where her teammates’ friend-or-foe tags are shown. Not a single one of them turns back to the center of the arena. She’s on her own with her worst nightmares right in front of her.

The split-second glance away is a mistake.

A rush of ionized air tasting like ozone strikes her in the chest and throws her off her feet back into the thick roots of one of the trees in the arena, knocking the breath out of her and sending a wash of stars across her vision that she hurriedly blinks away.

Her shields are gone and her back aches from the blow, and one of the two phalanxes is rushing her with its shield held out before it—it’s going to crush her against the tree.

Forcing her lungs to cooperate, she sucks in a gasp of pained air and taps into her light, vanishing in a flash of blue sparks and light and reappearing a few feet to the side just as the phalanx and its shield slam into the tree.

The bark cracks and splinters under its force.

Unphased, the phalanx turns for her again.

Dropping her rifle to the ground at her side, she pulls her hand cannon from the holster on her thigh and takes aim, firing a handful of rounds into its glowing eye.

It stumbles back with every heavy round until it vanishes as though sucked through a vortex, the remains of its corrupt energy seeping into and poisoning the grassy ground it had stood on.

The knight chooses then to remind her of its existence, roaring in a way that sends a ripple of gooseflesh over her skin, dredging up horrible memories of similar howls stalking her in a dark, lightless place.

Her aim follows her line of sight as she looks at the enemy—it’s stooped over with its arms wide, and she knows immediately what’s coming next.

Liquid fire erupts from the knight, spat from a mouth that isn’t there, and it arcs through the air in her direction.

Grabbing hold of her discarded rifle, she dives to the side with flame licking at her coattails and boots. Earth-shaking booms strike the ground from the knight’s massive, alien weapon as she darts under the lifted roots of a tree and around to the other side.

She has Glyph demat her rifle. She needs these things gone fast, and the rifle’s lighter bullets did fuck all against an enemy that was half-incorporeal and soaked them up like a sponge.

‘Your shields are back up,’ Glyph tells her as she reloads.

When she leaves the cover of the tree’s roots, the remaining phalanx is waiting for her with its shield raised and ready to slam down on her. Her first instinct is to turn and run away, her throat tight with terror—instead she puts on a burst of speed and jumps forward, throwing her shoulder into the center of the Taken’s massive form, knocking it back.

She would’ve hoped to knock the shield from its hand, but it was fused to the damn thing’s arm by whatever atemporal bullshit the Taken were made of.

It doesn’t need time to recover, and she wouldn’t have given it time to even if it did, her gun lifting. She shoves it into what counts for its face—one, two, three shots, and then like the first its form melts and vanishes.

Unlike the Taken, she needs time to recover, but she doesn’t have it. Before the phalanx’s form has fully dissolved, she sidesteps it and breaks into a run towards the knight that had appeared first. It roars at her, stooping in what she can only interpret as rage-filled challenge.

Fire erupts from it again and streaks towards her; she leaps from the ground, a pulse of light propelling her above the arc of flame and directly for the knight.

Her free hand closes around her hand cannon as she takes aim in midair, her legs outstretched and boots landing on the abhorrent creature’s chest. It falls under her weight and momentum and she unloads the rest of her clip into its head, the send of weightlessness from the fall nothing but an afterthought.

By the time her feet hit the ground again the knight has dissolved just like the phalanxes.

Her hands are shaking with adrenaline as she reloads her gun, dropping the empty cartridge and replacing it with one that Glyph transmats into her palm. She barely notices the sound of beeping and the hiss of the bank reopening behind her.

Right in the middle of an intense competition isn’t the best place to have a complete meltdown, but she can feel her vision narrowing and breathing growing shallow with the sudden panic overwhelming her now that it has nothing to push it back.

Her eyes well up with tears.

The Deathsong is a horrible roar in her ears, and massive claws reach through the blank emptiness between planes for everything she is.

Behind her the bank beeps and then retracts once more.

‘Quinn,’ Glyph trills at her in alarm, and it has to repeat itself twice before she even registers her own name, ‘Quinn! More Taken inbound!’

A pathetic whine accompanies her sharp intake of breath and she stumbles, spinning around as more booms reach her ears. Two more phalanxes appear. She lifts her gun in shaking hands, but before she can fire off any panicked shots a void light grenade erupts between the two Taken and melts them.

The bank beeps as though mocking her and reemerges. She exhales, lowering her gun and noting Ash and Adebole dropping down into the center of the arena from the Vex caves. Ash is laughing at her, and Quinn swallows down a wave of shame.

“So much for ‘preferring trial-by-fire’, huh, blondie?” Ash mocks, hopping up to the bank cheerily and dropping her motes into it.

She hopes her flinch at the rush of energy that lifts into the sky isn’t noticeable.

Adebole moves wordlessly to a different mote node and does the same, and eager for a distraction from the mortification Quinn notes that when he does so another swell of power doesn’t follow Ash’s.

Before anything else can be said the Drifter cuts in, “Invader on the field! Find ‘em before they find you!”

Through everything else she had completely forgotten about the second goal the Drifter had explained to them. Invading. Portal to the other arena and kill the opposing team, depriving them of the motes they needed to win.

A gunshot cracks across the arena, an expert sniper round catching Finn through the helm in midair and killing them as they drift down from the caves on a stream of their light. Their body drops to the ground limply and their ghost appears, frantically trying to revive them.

“That came from behind the drill!” Adebole calls out. He and Ash rush into motion, moving around her and disappearing into the trees.

She, on the other hand, darts around to the side of the bank opposite where they’d gone and ducks down, her panic vanishing once more under the weight of pure, cold survival instinct.

Another pair of shots ring out. Glyph grays out her teammates’ FOF tags in her HUD.

This guy was good.

Her hands are white-knuckled around the grip of her gun as she waits, kneeling behind the bank and alternately watching her radar and surroundings. Her radar lights up with red and she braces herself, lifting the weapon in her hands.

A titan, broad-chested and wearing dark red armor and a black mark clipped to his belt, crosses into her line of sight with a wicked-looking shotgun held in his hands.

She adjusts her aim.

He notices her right as she fires off a trio of shots, the first two knocking out his shields and the third piercing his helm. His body drops, and his ghost appears and glowers at her. Before it can revive him both disappear in a flash, transmatted back to the other side.

Her breathing hitches when the Drifter’s laughter crackles on her comm. “You didn’t start that fight but you did end it. Good job.” Somehow, his voice being right in her ear was worse than just hearing it aloud, and she still can’t decide why it affects her that way.

The rest of her team reappears from back in the cave they’d arrived in initially and she finally drops the damn motes she’s been carrying into the bank. Maybe she was imagining it, but the wave of energy that blooms from it and surges upwards seems bigger than the ones her teammates had caused.

As though to spite her, the bank retracts again and the portal that appears erupts into a form that makes the first handful look like dust particles in comparison.

Oh, fuck is the only thing she can manage to think as the lumbering, hunchbacked form of a Taken ogre with its bulbous head and wicked teeth towers over her. Its presence alone is enough to warp the air and space around it with power, making her feel ill, and the roar it lets out rattles in the cage of her chest.

She’s sure she’s white as a sheet under her helmet.

It occurs to her, then, that the Drifter had said that the nastier the Taken that appeared in the arena, the more motes they had to bank—if she was carrying the most motes possible, had she dropped one of these behemoths on the enemy team?

This was a terrible idea. She should have left the Drifter’s ship the moment she had found out this competition involved the Taken.

She can’t do this.

‘Guardian, move!’ Glyph’s terrified voice snaps her out of her daze and she blinks, her heart leaping into her throat at the sight of the ogre’s massive arms raised and ready to crash down upon her.

Swearing a blue streak, she dives out of the way. The pressure of a clawed fist almost three times her size displaces the air she had been standing in only seconds before, and it slams into the ground hard enough to make it quake.

The shockwave sends her flying and she rolls to a stop fifteen feet away, her back slamming into the hard surface of her team’s gate.

She had to do this.

She’d already made the choice—stupid or not—to come here, to participate, and damn her but she can’t stay paralyzed with fear of the Taken forever.

Gritting her teeth and gripping her hand cannon tighter, she forces herself to her feet.

Her teammates open fire on the ogre and draw its attention from her, ducking in and around the Nessus trees as the creature’s powerful eye blasts are aimed at them.

She joins them in the gunfire, popping off shot after shot and diving out of sight whenever its attention returns to her; she could handle a handful of shots from lesser Taken, but an ogre’s eye blasts would vaporize her with ease, overshield or not.

Over the comms the Drifter tells them their invasion portal has opened up for use and she barely notes it. They have better things to worry about—

—or do they?

She glances at her HUD and notices two things: the first being her team is leaps and bounds behind the other, and the second is that judging by the large gray section on the other team’s bar, they were holding onto a lot of motes.

When the other team’s invader had killed Finn, they had lost the motes they’d been heading to bank—and if the other team was holding onto their own motes and not banking them in order to send bigger, badder enemies their way…

‘Gambit’. A calculated and intentional, but risky, move.

She gets it, now.

The ogre bursts with a few more well-placed shots, its form losing cohesion and being pulled back into the Ascendant realm it came from. None of them have any time to celebrate—immediately after it vanishes, a knight and another ogre take its place.

Son of a bitch.

All of them take aim and lay in, but after a few potshots Adebole lets out a noise of frustration and then changes direction, running past her and nearly knocking her over again on his way for the bastardized Vex tech holding a Taken portal.

She stops firing long enough to attempt and fail to reach out and grab him. “We need your help, Ade!”

“If you were competent you would not.” He snaps back at her and then vanishes through the portal. It closes behind him.

Provided the Taken don’t succeed in sending her into a complete meltdown by the time this match is over—and provided she doesn’t get herself killed—she’s absolutely going to kick his ass. Lips pulling back in a snarl, she latches onto her anger and uses it to push aside her lingering fear at having Taken close by.

Fifteen seconds later the Drifter announces to them that their ally was being sent back without a single kill on the board.

The ogre and knight are gone by the time Adebole reappears from the cave, and while Ash and Finn dart off to the newest set of enemies, Quinn stands there and glares at him for a long, heated moment.

He’s radiating the same kind of absolute loathing she knows she is, and as she finally runs off for more motes she wonders if they’re even going to make it to the end of the match before one of them attempts to strangle the other.

Focus.

It’s easy to say when she isn’t facing down her worst fears.

Try as they might, they can’t catch up to the lead the other team built. Quinn finds herself missing the cohesion of her own team; no one on this team seems to want to pay attention to strategy, only caring about collecting as many motes as possible and ignoring their allies and other aspects of the competition.

If they wanted to win, they needed a strategy. Adebole was too arrogant to care about the rest of them, but maybe if she can come up with an idea, Finn and Ash would play ball.

They suffer through another invasion and one more phalanx blocker, and by the time the other team’s bar has been completely filled and their red is replaced with yellow, they’re frantic. They bank as fast as they’re able to pick motes up, the yellow bar on the enemy’s side slowly being chipped away as they go.

Was that the part of the competition the Drifter had opted not to explain to them?

Adebole tries invading twice more and only manages to knock out one of the opposing four in both attempts. Curiously—and concerningly, to be honest—she notes that the one kill he does manage drives the yellow bar on the opponent’s tracker back up slightly.

Best efforts still get them nowhere, and they haven’t even filled their bank by the time the Drifter announces the opposite team has won the round.

If feels really fucking bad, almost on par with how awful her first encounter with the Taken in years was. Both are mortifying, and as she feels the transmat pulling them back up to the Drifter’s ship she braces herself to deal with more mockery.

Shockingly, none is forthcoming after four sets of boots settle back on the transmat deck.

Ash, Finn, and Adebole are all as silent as she is. The last of the three is simmering in a quiet that speaks of rage rather than frustration, and it’s almost doubtless that he’s blaming the rest of them for their round loss.

“I like your team,” the Drifter calls out, drawing everyone’s attention up to him on the podium; he’s gesturing to her team, but the praise is immediately followed by, “do better.”

To add insult to injury, he then turns to the other team and says: “Other team looks great, keep it up!”

Yeah, there was the humiliation she’d been waiting for.

She steps off her transmat pad and waves up to get the Drifter’s attention. “Hey, coach, time out?”

He must be able to hear the weariness in her voice. Between the energy expenditure and the adrenaline rushes, the emotional turbulence from the last few weeks, and the lack of decent sleep she felt wholesale terrible—and he can tell, a shrewd smile on his face as he kneels down on his podium and nods at her. “Two minutes.”

He sounds amused. She scowls.

Muttering a weak thank you, she steps over to her teammates. Both Finn and Ash gather up without protest, but Adebole remains apart, apparently unwilling to swallow his pride long enough to figure out how to work together and win.

“Look, guys,” she says, keeping her words on the closed team channel rather than the open air of he bay, “I get we’re all strangers and none of us are particularly happy we got matched up together, but if you want to win we can’t just run off and do whatever we want. There’s too much involved in this for it. We need a strategy.”

“And I assume you have one?” Adebole sneers at her, crossing his arms and looking blatantly unimpressed even behind a concealing helmet.

“Actually, I—” she blinks, surprised to find that she does, in fact. The beginnings of one, anyway. “I do.”

Ash’s hands settle on her hips and her head cocks to the side, skeptical. “Right, sure, we’re gonna leave strategy to someone that nearly pissed themselves because of a few little Taken.”

Quinn starts to snap back that she’s got a damn good reason for being so afraid of them, but she bites it down and instead lets out a soft exhale. “How many motes did you guys bank after that first wave?” She asks, instead.

Whether the question confuses them or they just don’t know how to answer, she grits her teeth past the aggravation and waits, acutely aware that they’ve only got a few minutes to figure out how the fuck to turn this around.

“My ghost says I had twelve.” Ash says.

“Nine.”

She, Ash, and Finn all look at Adebole, who suddenly seems hesitant to speak. He shifts in what Quinn thinks might be bare discomfort. “...Four.”

A beat of thick silence. “How many did you bank total?”

“...Seven.”

Quinn balks at him. All that hotshot talk of not being a rookie and the haughty arrogance, and he had the smallest haul? Is he serious?

Up on the podium the Drifter starts laughing uproariously. Yep, he was definitely tapped into their team comms.

Inhaling through her nose and counting to five, she forces the building wave of incredulous fury out of her mind. Later. Focus on the ups.

Maybe he had grabbed the smallest amount of motes, but she had grabbed a significant number from enemies he had felled. “Okay, so out of the four of us, Ash and I managed to grab the most during a single wave. Finn and Adebole, you guys are good at clearing the enemies out.”

Finn picks up on where her mind is going without further explanation. “We steamroll, you gather. Bank fast, rinse-wash-repeat?”

Quinn nods.

“Aww, but I like killing the bad guys.” Ash pouts.

“I don’t think the ‘bad guys’ are planning on taking it lying down, Ash. You’ll still be able to kill them, but we need those motes to win and you and I seem like the fastest on the team.” Quinn replies, pausing for a moment to consider how sleep deprivation was going to start rearing its ugly head soon. That little fact likely wasn’t going to last for much longer. “There’s a max to how many we can carry, though, so Ade and Finn will have to run in and collect anything we leave behind.”

“I like it.” Finn says. “What about the invaders?”

Her mouth opens but the Drifter interrupts her. “Time’s up! Get ready for transmat.”

‘What about the invaders?’ is a damn good question that she doesn't have an answer for. They’re like the Taken, she supposes—deal with them as they become a problem.

By invading they can deprive the team of motes to fill the bank, putting them ahead, and if she hadn’t just been hallucinating—which was a whole possibility considering how tired she was and how far she was pushing her endurance—then when the opposing team had filled their bank, killing them would drive that inexplicable gauge back up.

It made little sense to her, yet, but she has disturbing suspicion as to the reason. They were dealing with the Taken, after all.

Damnit, she hates the Taken.

‘I’m not so sure volunteering to carry as many of these mote things as possible is a good idea,’ Glyph mutters to her unhappily as she steps back onto her transmat pad.

“Maybe the more we hold onto, the faster we’ll get used to them.” She offers, weakly.

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, either.’

Before she can respond, she’s pulled through space once more and lands on the red, grassy ground of Nessus. Instead, something else occurs to her when she catches sight of the bank outside the cave. “Guys, one more thing: we need to work together to clear out the blockers. These things hit hard and take a lot of punishment.”

“Got it!”

“Woohoo!”

Well, it wasn’t exactly an acknowledgement, but with Ash, she’ll take it. “Ade?”

“Yes, yes! If you’re so sure this will work, just go!” He snaps back. Still pissy, but at least he realizes that running off half-cocked hadn’t done them any favors last round.

Her and Ash move ahead of the other two, following their waypoint to the giant drill, and Finn and Adebole both hang back once they get close enough to start picking enemies off from afar.

Glyph warns her they’ve picked up the maximum safe amount to carry far faster than in the first round as her and Ash dodge and weave in and out of enemies and under flying weapons fire. When she glances over at Ash, the hunter gives her a cheery thumbs up—followed immediately by her jabbing one of her knives into the throat of a legionnaire that had been trying to catch her off guard.

The opposing team hasn’t even banked before she and Ash do, the sickening rush of Taken energy exploding upwards from the bank. Both of them turn and head for the next waypoint up in the Vex caves without pause.

On comms the Drifter lets out a cheer. “You just dropped two Taken ogres on the other side! Let ‘em chew on that for a while.”

His response—far too excited given the nature of it—is both validating and terrifying. It confirms her worry from last round and also makes her fear how many of those things they were going to have to face again.

If the opposing team was feeling petty, the fact that they’d just air dropped two ogres at once to deal with from the offset of the round meant they may do their damndest to return the favor.

Knights and lesser Taken are already bad enough. Ogres are the powerhouses, short only of—

She dashes that line of thought, an involuntary shiver nearly giving an ordinary phalanx the chance to crush her skull against the walls of the cave with its shield. She’s been struck by those things one too many times today as it is, thank-you-very-much.

“I am invading!” Adebole calls. Hundreds of feet away, she can hear the burst of the Taken portal as it activates and then shuts down behind him.

Even down one person, the Cabal in the Vex caves go down quickly and in droves. Quinn isn’t vain enough to assume it’s because her threadbare plan is that good, but she’ll at least allow herself to believe that her sense for people was still a high point on her list of skills.

On her HUD, the enemy team’s partially-filled gray bar is dashed in half.

‘They lost collected motes,’ Glyph remarks. ‘This is...beginning to make sense.’

Beginning to make sense, and, ignoring her unknowingly forcing herself to confront her fears, beginning to feel like fun. Glyph isn’t going to like that. “How many?”

‘Judging by how much our gauge fills with how many we collect, thirteen. Best guess. Oh—eighteen, maybe. Drifter’s ghost isn’t sharing details.’

With the Vex caves clear, Quinn and Ash head back for the bank again. Finn trails behind to collect what they’d left behind.

A pair of phalanxes wait for them; they fall quickly under the thankfully coordinated effort of her, Finn, and Ash. All three of them drop their motes in the bank and run for the next wave, a freshly returning Adebole with two kills under his belt following after he exits the transmat cave.

He seems pleased, now, offering her a nod of grudging approval when she passes by him on her way back to the bank. She returns it and allows herself a small smile, and the four of them set to work clearing out more waves in between clearing blockers and banking.

Her smile vanishes when the Drifter alerts them to another invader; her and Ash are both carrying fifteen motes apiece, and if the opposing team’s bar is any indication, they were getting close to catching up. If this invader takes out three of them as he did last round, it’s all but a certainty.

“Base!” Finn shouts moments before the first long-distance round echos off the cliff walls of the arena, coming from the area they’d indicated.

Quinn winces. Twice now. Poor Finn.

Glyph makes an equally unhappy noise as it grays out their FOF tag on her HUD. Eight motes down.

Ash darts past her in a flash, a quick, rolling dive tearing her through reality into the light of the void and rendering her invisible to the naked eye, hiding from bullets she knows have preemptively marked the two of them as priority targets.

Quinn swears under her breath, bursting through the Nessus trees into the center of the arena—only to turn right back around and make a break for some kind of hiding place, wishing she had spent more time with Nyx trying to learn the trick Ash had just pulled out of her sleeve.

Another shot echoes.

Fire blossoms in her midsection, a white-hot lance from a heavy round that cuts through her shields and armor like a hot knife through butter. Her vision goes white for a split second from the severity of the pain and she knows right away that the round hadn’t just pierced flesh.

Ribs, she thinks, sucking in a gasp of air and unpleasantly confirming her first guess, had to have nicked the bone.

She forces herself to keep moving, every movement leaving her in agony. “Glyph?” She coughs out hoarsely, diving back into the reaching roots of the trees and ducking out of the open before the invader’s next shot can go through her skull.

‘I can’t! You have to be healing yourself or I can’t isolate the material from your light!’ It replies, sounding like it was trying very hard not to panic and failing miserably.

She already knew Glyph couldn’t heal her itself—she’s not sure why the idea that it can’t just grab a bullet lodged within her energy field and transmat it out had caught her by surprise.

Not even the Cabal use hard, solid slugs like guardians do. She’s never had to deal with an injury like this before.

Well, now she knows why Shaxx won’t let her in the Crucible.

Another sniper round cracks out. Ash’s FOF tag is grayed out as well.

Both teams are now neck and neck.

Heavy footsteps approach her from behind as she leaves the safety of the trees, trying to reach the cover of the jagged rock formations within the caves. She braces herself to spin and throw up one of her bubble shields.

Before she can, a shotgun blast booms behind her and her stomach drops, a sense of vertigo hitting her as she waits for the inevitable pain to arrive.

None does.

Adebole breaks the startled spell she’d fallen under with a harsh bark and the cocking of a shotgun’s slide. “Gather yourself!”

She inhales sharply, the pain of the round lodged in her torso throwing everything back into stark clarity. Everything hits her at once, then. The fire in her midsection from the injury, her fear of the Taken and the stress of facing them again, the bone-deep and pervasive exhaustion she hasn’t been able to chase away with sleep since returning from the reef.

The cold sting of loss, and the frustration of not knowing how to deal with it.

Frustration gives way for cold, rather than boiling, rage. Her head feels clear for the first time in months.

Her eyes flick up just in time to see the opposing team’s gray collection bar tick up and surpass their own. Not banked, but they’d have one serious problem if it was.

“Portal’s open!” Drifter calls out. “Go give ‘em hell!”

Teeth grinding, Quinn makes one doozy of a stupid fucking decision and spins, sprinting back to the center of the arena—and then she turns and heads for the portal rather than the bank, completely ignoring the fact she was still carrying a full group of motes.

Fuck it.

Glyph lets out a tinny series of fearful noises. ‘What are you doing?’

Hell if she knows, at this point.

She doesn’t answer it. “I’m invading!” She tells her team, similar protestations from her teammates following after her as the swirling portal in her eyes grows larger and the sucking sensation from another realm grips at her.

Ash, on the other hand, lets out a whoop and a, “Get ‘em, girl!”

Without any of the hesitation she knows she should be feeling, Quinn leaps through the portal.

#v: destiny #f: the line #sh: embrace the dark #c: quinn leonis #c: ash #c: finn #c: adebole #ch: the drifter #c: glyph