#skull shaped ring pops

[mumblelard]

on halloween, a small plane crashed in the woods less than five miles from here and the pilot died on impact. ghost haunts flight path

after having dozens of trick or treaters last year, i had zero trick or treaters this year. i can't actually remember seeing any children lately. where have all the children gone. are they coming back. i need to pay closer attention to the news

this morning, i found a spalling hammer in the middle of the woods, a dead deer floating in the lake, and i got rid of two more boxes of stuff from the before times

#do you still hear the crawdads singing clarice #children of men #the world without us #skull shaped ring pops #hammers #plane crash #i remember damage #kimball bridge #i think i can fit all of my belongings in the small uhaul now #rambles #north fulton county #georgia #a single engine plane with one fatality

[dante-mightdie]

MORE ANGST.

Like, okay, more angst for reader, but I need some angst for 141. Like PLEASE.

So, the reader, frustrated (mentally and physically), decides to take things onto their own hands. If they treat them as if they don't exist, so will they. It starts simple. They don't greet them good morning and goodbye anymore, when the team would only offer a grunt or nod of acknowledgment. Reader doesn't ask them to hang out, or to join into their plans. They start living for themselves, not quite leaving them, more like treating the four men like roommates. Whenever one would initiate intimacy, reader would slip away, offering some lame excuse. At the same time, just an hour later, they'd see a glimpse of reader, all dressed up and pretty, not bothering to let them know where they'd be going as they run out the front door, only to be heared from a couple of hours later. Stumbling through the front door with a second pair of footsteps following suit, and a hearty male laugh. The apartment was as much reader's as it was the boys' so it should be normal they brought someone home ... but was this what the task force 141 though?

changed it ever so slightly but I love this yes

c/w: poly!141, mentions of emotional neglect, alcohol, intoxication

you got the idea after scrolling through social media, rotting away in bed had become a common routine for you. an advertisement had popped up for a bar that opened up a few months ago, you remember asking johnny and kyle to go with you but they were too busy at the time

it looked like a nice enough place. not like the dive bars in camden that simon takes you to, or those annoying ass scotch bars in canary wharf that john insists on ‘introducing’ you to. as if you’ve never had a glass of scotch before. the memory makes you scoff to yourself

surprisingly, it doesn’t take much to convince yourself to just… go. if they won’t go with you, there’s no reason why you can’t convince yourself. they were too busy ignoring you to notice you’d be gone anyway. so, you drag yourself out of bed and rifle through the wardrobe for something to wear

looking good really does make you feel good, you say to yourself when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror once you were ready. you’d decided on a fitted black dress with a pair of black strapped heels. they wouldn’t notice but you added a bit of detail to the outfit

if they did notice that every piece of jewellery was a piece they had bought for you, it would fucking burn. the diamond skull-shaped studs that simon got you, the vintage locket that john had found for you when he was deployed, and the anklet that kyle had grabbed from some fancy jewellery store on oxford street paired with the stunning ring that johnny found at a local market in scotland

you took a deep breath and held your head high before grabbing your purse. when you entered the front room, all conversation stopped as usual. but only because they were too busy eyeing you up and down, “where’re you goin’ dressed like that?”

you roll your eyes when john speaks up, not even stopping to respond. a curt ‘out’ leaving your lips as you walk out the front door and slam it loudly. the boys all looked at each other, shifting in their seats uncomfortably at the interaction

john narrowed his eyes as he glared at the front door. he didn’t like not knowing where you were. even if you didn’t know it, john always knew about your whereabouts

the bar was nice, nice enough for you to drink your feelings away in. in your head, you imagined flirting with anyone just to make the boys jealous. but every time someone approached you, it just filled you with more sadness. perhaps a part of you just wanted the boys to grab you, persuade you to stay with sweet words and gentle kisses like they used to do when you looked this good

it was a few hours past midnight when you finally returned, simon awakened by the sounds of giggling outside and your keys jangling in the door. he didn’t plan on getting out of bed until he heard a male voice speaking along side yours

he stalked down the stairs, following the sounds of your heels stumbling until he found you in the front room. you were drunk out of your fucking mind with some random bloke holding you up. simon’s fists clenched at his side and he decided to make his presence known

“better take your hand off her before you fuckin’ lose it, mate.” he spits, taking a step closer to yank you from the man’s grip. you squeak and stumble from the harsh tug, landing right against simon’s bulky frame as he holds on to your arm to keep you steady

the man takes a step back, holding his hands up in surrender. “woah, i’m not here to cause any trouble. was just making sure she got home safe. my colleague over served her and she said her roommates were too busy to pick her up.”

simon clenches his jaw, keeping his gaze on the man and just waiting for him to step out of line. he doesn’t even notice that the others have climbed out of bed too, coming downstairs to hear what the commotion is about

he turns his head only to shove you into price’s arms, squaring his shoulders as he stares the bartender down. “well, our girl is home and safe now so you best be on your way.”

“relax, mate. she’s really not my type. that one there is more my type.” the bartender chuckles, nodding his head towards soap before turning around and walking out the door but not before giving you a goodbye

price steadies your body against him, already getting an idea of the kind of drunken state that you’re in. he lifts your basically limp body into his arms before carrying you up to bed but he doesn’t take you to the spare room. he takes you to what you have recently come to know as their room

“had a bit too much, princess?” he chuckles, placing you down on the bed. you look at him confused before letting your head fall to the pillow

“‘m still your princess?” you mumble into the fabric. price frowns slightly, turning his head to look at the boys before making work on taking your heels off

“course. you always have been.” he mumbles. you respond with a small hum before completely passing out against the sheets…

#mw2 #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #captain john price #john price #john price x reader #ghost x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #john soap mctavish x reader #soap mactavish #soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader

[tojipie]

3:30 pt. 2

pt.1

content: dilf toji, slight temp play (?), car blowjob, age gap, fem!reader, slight exhibitionism, lots of teasing

──────────────────────

“is the pistachio flavor even good?”

the older man side eyes you from the drivers seat, taking another bite of the pale green treat in his hand.

the mall parking lot is always quiet just before sunset. you watch as the sky casts soft hues of gold and orange over the corded muscles of his biceps and shoulders.

he’s.. gorgeous you think. even despite the permanent scowl on his face and how comically small the spoon he’s holding is compared to his massive hands.

“what, you wanna try or something?” he asks you, motioning for you to lean towards him.

a large hand settles on the base of your neck as the older man feeds you a spoonful of his ice cream, wiping the corner of your mouth with his thumb as you swallow down the bite.

toji pops the finger into his own mouth, chuckling with low eyes as he sucks the sugar from his skin.

“messy.”

“shut up.”

“you calling me a liar little girl?”

“hell yeah old man.”

you pause for a moment in spite of the butterflies in your chest, pondering the new flavor.

he scoffs as soon as your face screws up with a sour grimace.

better than whatever the fuck you got.” he laughs.

“there’s nothing wrong with black raspberry!” you say with a light shove to his chest. the older man catches your wrist with his own, pulling you towards his body and placing a playful bite to the junction of your neck.

you shiver hard at the contact, fighting the urge to groan at the feeling of his mouth on you. the beginning of a moan is quickly covered up with a laugh as you pull back.

you secretly hope he leaves a mark, teeth shaped indents in soft shades of blue and green you can run your fingers over later.

“fuck, you ok? cold?” he asks with a chuckle, running his warm hands down your sides. you shiver just as hard at the contact, mentally berating your body for giving your thoughts away so openly.

“sensitive huh.” you practically feel the sleazy grin forming on the older man’s, even without seeing it. you’re currently too preoccupied to focus on anything but the clear shape of his hard cock through his denim work pants.

“wanna park somewhere quiet and help this old man out?”

you’re embarrassed at how fast you nod.

˚ ✧ ───────────

an animalistic groan erupts deep from within his chest at the feeling of your freezing cold mouth closing around his tip. toji winds a fist into your hair, guiding you up and down his hot length.

the roof of the dodge still lies open, exposing the two of you to the night air. you’re parked as far back as the lot goes, illuminated by what little light the street lamps cast on the two of you.

the seats of the car are pushed forward, giving you room to work in the back on your knees.

“fucking freak.” he mumbles, letting go of your hair to bring a zippo to the end of the cigarette pinched between his teeth. he tips his head back and blows smoke into the air, groaning at the cocktail of stimuli his body is receiving.

the older man pets your head as though to make up for his harshness, humming at the way you try to take him into your throat. toji attempts to ash his cigarette into the soupy remnants of your dessert, blowing more smoke into the evening air.

you release his tip with a cough, a sparkly line of saliva stretches from his cock to your swollen lips.

“mm don’t.” you tell him, leaning down to mouth at the thick vein that runs up from his base

“hm?” he hums absentmindedly, tucking your hair behind your ear with his free hand. a sharp “fuck” rings out as you start bobbing your head again.

“why’s that baby?”

“use the ashtray.” you tell him sweetly, pressing a chaste kiss to his weeping tip. “cleaner.”

“cleaner huh?” he teases. the older man gathers your hair into a ponytail at the base of your skull, stopping to massage your scalp with deft fingers. he takes a short drag and blows the smoke directly in your face, chuckling at your sour expression.

“wanna take that sweater off for me?” he asks, looking down at you with dark eyes.

you nod, raising your arms as he helps you out of your uniform. you wince at the bite of the night time air on your back, upper half exposed to the world.

toji palms at one of your tits with his hand, pinching your hard nipple through the thin fabric of your bra.

“cute.” he mumbles, fixated on the weight of your breast between his fingers.

“open.” he tells you, grabbing his cock by the base and holding it out for you. you stick out your tongue immediately, arching your back to get a better angle.

he slaps the head of his cock on your tongue twice before reaching for your thighs. the slap that lands just below your ass bounces off of the pavement and rings through the lot.

you take him back into your mouth without being asked, relaxing your throat to accommodate his thick length. the man above you rewards you by flipping up your already tiny skirt, thumbing the lacey fabric that covers your little slit.

“fuck.” he groans, sinking back into his seat and reaching to stroke his length. “fuck, i’m gonna bust.”

you whine at the loss of sensation on your pussy but quickly pull back, silently requesting his release.

“ohhh?” he chuckles darkly. “you want it on your face then? you want my seed on your fucking face?”

you nod with a sickeningly innocent giggle, replacing his hand on his length with your smaller one.

you stroke him to completion, gasping at the milky ropes that flow over your knuckles and down the length of your wrist. toji holds you in place with a hand on your crown and slaps his cock against your face, smearing his release over your lips and cheek.

“say thank you toji.” he tells you, flicking the butt of his cigarette onto the pavement.

“hm’ thank you toji.”

you press a final kiss to his milky tip.

#fushiguro toji #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji drabbles #toji fluff #toji fushiguro #toji hcs #toji headcanons #toji x reader #toji zenin #dilf toji #dilf!toji #zenin toji #jjk hcs #toji x fem!reader #jjk toji #toji #jujutsu toji #toji thirst

[libraryofgage]

Addams Family Steddie AU Part 2

Part two of the Addams Family Steddie AU from this post! Anyway, here are five times Eddie gave Steve a gift plus one particularly special gift Steve gave him in return

I'll be honest, this one really got away from me LMAO

Also, @xjessicafaithx asked to be tagged if there was a part two so here ya go! I have a few more ideas for this AU so there might be more parts later too lol

One~

Steve is idly flipping through the mail he just pulled out of the mailbox, delaying his return to the house where Dustin is currently screaming about dice rolls over a Discord call, when he feels someone staring at him. His shoulders tense, and his grip on a junk letter creases the envelope as he looks up.

Crouching on the walkway leading up to a pitch-black house, elbows resting on his knees and a covered plate in his hands, is Eddie Munson. He's staring straight at Steve, eyes practically boring through him. When he realizes Steve has noticed him, Eddie perks up and balances the plate in one hand so he can wave with the other.

Steve hesitates before flashing an unsure smile and waving back. He thinks of the recently-washed plate that held the arsenic and chocolate chip cookies currently in his kitchen, waiting to be returned. Maybe he can return it now?

While he's thinking, Eddie has apparently taken the wave as permission to pop to his feet and walk over. And, well, he isn't wrong. It's not like Steve immediately started walking away after waving; he just kept standing there, locked in place by neighborly social conventions and Eddie's intense gaze.

"Good morning, Stevie," Eddie says, flashing that too-sharp grin at Steve as he leans on the mailbox. "You're looking particularly ravishing today."

"Ravishing?"

Eddie slowly looks him up and down, his eyes dragging along Steve's figure before finally letting their gazes meet once more. "Good enough to eat, really," Eddie replies, leaning in a little closer and making Steve's heart race with something that could be fear but is more likely embarrassment. Not that he wants to admit that. So, fear it is.

Steve laughs awkwardly and leans back, looking away and blaming the heat in his cheeks on the sun. "Uh, thanks. You, uh, look nice too," he says, glancing back at Eddie to take in the ripped jeans and short-sleeved black button-down (is that silk? It looks like silk) and chunky rings shaped like bats and skulls and coffins and wow, Eddie's fingers are kind of long.

Thankfully, Steve is saved from his mind wandering too far by Eddie shoving the covered plate into his hands. It's a familiar motion, and Steve almost laughs at it. "Thanks, sweetheart," Eddie says, letting his fingers brush across the back of Steve's hands before pulling away. "Anyway, Wayne baked more last night before communing with some spirits. He made too many eye of newt brownies, and I thought you'd enjoy them."

Steve blinks, looking down at the plate in his hands. "Eye of newt?" he asks, curiously lifting the tin foil to see perfectly normal-looking brownies inside.

"Yeah, they're to die for," Eddie says, his grin widening as he pushes off the mailbox and leaves Steve with a plate of brownies and a confusing feeling in his chest.

Two~

"She likes meatballs."

Steve blinks, staring at the concerningly large Venus Fly Trap in El's hands. Behind her, Eddie is smirking at him, holding his sister's shoulders and giving Steve an expectant look as El holds the flower pot out to him. The pot itself is also concerningly large for how she's holding it, and Steve can't stop himself from quickly taking the pot so she doesn't strain her back any more than she already has.

He grunts at the sudden weight when she lets go but doesn't drop the pot. Instead, he carefully and gently places it on the ground, silently letting out a breath of relief as the plant sways slightly in the pot, brushing against his hip.

The two had caught Steve when he was getting out of his car, his entire body already feeling heavy from work. His plan had been to go inside, do his best to not fall asleep standing in the shower, make Dustin dinner, and then pass out in bed until his alarm woke him again in the morning.

But instead, El had run over to him the moment he got out of his car, cheeks slightly flushed with excitement as she offered him the plant. Eddie had leisurely followed her over, amusement clear on his face as he watched Steve's brain struggle to catch up.

"Doesn't she eat flies?" Steve asks, looking down at the plant. For some reason, he feels like it's staring back at him.

El shakes her head. "Flies are not big enough. You should feed her one pound of meatballs on Wednesday and Sunday."

Cool. Great. Perfectly normal. It's not like Steve has had a Venus Fly Trap before, so he can't contest that. "Why are you giving her to me?" he asks, tearing his eyes away from the plant to look at El.

"Aunt Morticia took cuttings of her Cleopatra and sent us a few," El says, her tone implying that should be more than enough explanation.

Steve's expression, however, surely says differently. Thankfully, Eddie picks up on it and leans forward over El. "She'll make a great guard plant for you and Dustin, Stevie. Plus, she's almost as good a listener as I am," he explains, playfully wiggling his eyebrows at Steve.

"Oh," Steve says, pointedly ignoring the second part of that explanation. "Does she have a name yet?"

"Nix," El tells him.

"Nix?"

"Yeah. Stevie," Eddie says, pointing at him before pointing to the plant and saying, "Nix. Because you said you like Fleetwood Mac."

Yeah, Steve did say that, but it was in passing, and he didn't think Eddie had actually heard him say it or paid any attention. It was said to Dustin while they were walking to the car, and Eddie had just happened to be sitting on his porch at the time.

But he did pay attention. And now he and El have given Steve and Dustin a plant whose name is a reference to Fleetwood Mac. Steve can't help a smile, suddenly feeling a lot lighter than just ten minutes ago. "Thanks, I know Dustin will love her, too," he says, feeling blinded by the tiny smile from El and the full-on grin from Eddie.

Three~

Nix likes to get sun, but she doesn't like being in the sun for too long. She also doesn't like staying still in the sun; she prefers to be moved around constantly, never staying in one spot for more than a minute if she's particularly patient. She also prefers to go on a sun walk right after eating her pound of meatballs.

These are things Steve learns over the course of three weeks through trial and error that often resulted in Nix snapping shut around his arm whenever he didn't immediately do as she liked. Steve had never heard of a plant having a personality before (especially not such a temperamental one), but he's come to find it endearing. Plus, carrying Nix around the yard does make for an effective workout.

So, on a very hot Sunday at the very end of June, Steve is carrying Nix around his backyard. Her pot is in his arms, sweat is dripping down his back, and Nix is helpfully trying to shade his head from the sun using her...head? Steve actually isn't sure what to call the top part of her. Is it a mouth?

"It's called a lobe."

Steve jumps, his grip on Nix's pot tightening as he whips his head around and sees Eddie crouching on the fence dividing their yards. He isn't even sure how Eddie manages it, considering how narrow the fence is, but he's also stopped trying to figure it out.

"What is?" he asks.

Eddie hops down, walking over to Steve and carefully taking Nix out of his hands. He continues walking around the backyard, and Steve doesn't even question following him. "This," Eddie says, pointing to the top of Nix's head. "This is called a lobe."

"How'd you..."

"You had a curious expression and were looking at Nix."

"You know my curious expression?"

Eddie looks over at Steve, a smile pulling at his lips and his eyes softening some, and Steve suddenly feels like he's drowning in the ocean and floating among the clouds. "I know all your expressions, Stevie," Eddie tells him.

Steve feels seen and terrified and...and utterly under whatever spell Eddie has spent the past few months carefully casting. He doesn't say anything about it, though. Instead, he rather dumbly says, "Oh."

The smile widens, and Steve finds himself wondering not for the first time what it would feel like to run his tongue over Eddie's too-sharp canines. "By the way, I got something for you, Stevie."

Steve blinks, watching as Eddie easily cradles Nix's pot in one arm and reaches into his back pocket. For a brief moment, Steve thinks he's going to pull out his dagger again. Last time, he'd placed it in Steve's hand and very seriously told him, "If you ever see me on the verge of death, take this dagger and stab it through my heart. I'd rather die by your hand than whatever else got to me first." He'd then showed Steve where he kept it, his smile bright despite his words leaving Steve speechless.

Eddie does not, in fact, pull out a dagger. He pulls out a tiny, leatherbound journal. The journal is black like everything else the Munson family owns, and a heart is carefully painted onto the cover with two skulls looking outwards and meeting at the jaws to create the heart's point.

Steve slowly takes the journal, the cover feeling soft under his thumb, and he looks up at Eddie. His confusion is made even stronger when he sees his bashful expression. Eddie uses his free hand to tug on a lock of his hair, habitually hiding his mouth behind it. "I, uh, write music, you know," he says, waiting for Steve to nod once before rushing out in one breath, "I wrote songs for you."

When the words actually register, Steve's eyes widen, and he cracks the journal open to a random page. Eddie's familiar scratchy handwriting crosses the paper. Steve can only just see a line about the arrows of fate and burning stars before Eddie's hand covers the page. "Maybe, uh, maybe read them later."

Steve easily agrees, and Eddie quickly changes the subject. After finishing Nix's walk around the garden, Eddie helps Steve return her to her room and returns himself to his own home. Steve watches Eddie through the window, waiting for him to go inside before opening the journal once more and finding the page Eddie had covered.

i'll throw myself before the arrows of your fate// take all your misfortune as the gift it is// piercing my ribs as you burn brighter than stars// unhindered by the despair i have stolen for myself

Four~

Eddie's hand is warm in Steve's as he leads him up the stairs of the Munson home. The halls are dimly lit by old lanterns whose flames make shadows dance across the walls, and Steve finds them more romantic than creepy. When they reach the attic, Eddie stops at the door. "Okay, some of them don't look like normal bats," he says, turning to look at Steve.

"Are you giving me one of the normal ones?"

Eddie nods once. "Yeah, the demobats are too unpredictable, and the hivemind doesn't help. You wanted one bat, not a swarm."

Steve hums softly, leaning closer and placing his free hand on Eddie's chest, right over his heart. "I would accept a swarm if you gave it to me, babe," he says, smiling reassuringly at Eddie.

His words are rewarded with an arm around his waist, holding him closer like Eddie wants to pull Steve under his skin and hold him in the spaces between his bones. "But I wouldn't get nearly as much attention then, Stevie," he replies, punctuating each word with tiny pecks that begin at his forehead, follow the bridge of his nose, and end on his lips in a lingering kiss.

Steve almost loses himself in it, but he'd rather not get carried away where Wayne or El could catch them. So he begrudgingly pulls away, playfully reaching up and tugging one of Eddie's locks when he pouts. "You know you're dearer to me than all the bats in the world, Eddie. Now, which bat is mine?"

Eddie's pout immediately becomes a grin, and he opens the attic door. It's dark as night in the room, the only lights coming from red eyes staring at them from the ceiling. Eddie keeps his arm around Steve's waist, keeping him close as he shortly whistles three times. A screech sounds from the ceiling, followed by the flapping of wings and a bat flying out to land on Eddie's outstretched arm.

With his foot, Eddie shuts the door as he holds the bat in front of Steve so he can get a better look. The bat is small, no more than three inches, and its nose looks vaguely like an upside-down heart. It tilts its head, studying Steve in return as it shifts on Eddie's hand. "Isn't she cute?" Eddie asks.

Steve smiles and holds his hand out to the bat, a few seconds passing before she moves from Eddie to him. "Yeah, she's really cute," he says as she surveys her new spot. She shifts a few times before pushing off Steve's hand and flying to his shoulder. She settles close to his neck, a warm softness against his skin partially hidden by his hair. And then she chirps, sounding like the squeaking of sneakers on a gym floor.

"She's an African heart-nosed bat," Eddie explains, starting to pull Steve down the stairs again. "They're very territorial, and they mark their territory by singing."

"Is that what she's doing?" Steve asks, raising his free hand to gently brush a finger against her head. She humors the touch for a few seconds before gently nipping his finger, not breaking the skin but clearly getting across that he shouldn't touch her anymore.

"Yep," Eddie says, grinning at Steve. "So, what are you gonna name her?"

Five ~

Hulyet buries herself in Steve's hair as he stares at the floor-length black dress Eddie holds up. She apparently picks up on Steve's confusion and slight concern, decides something is invading their territory, and begins singing aggressively in Eddie's direction.

The sudden squeaks and chirps break Steve out of his confusion, and he can't help a laugh. He reaches up, gently stroking her back to reassure her that everything is fine, and asks Eddie, "What's with the dress?"

"All Hallow's Eve is approaching," Eddie says, "I thought we could go as Dracula and his bride."

"Am I the bride?"

Eddie pauses, looking at the dress for a moment before looking back at Steve. "I haven't figured that out yet," he admits. "If you don't want to be the bride, I don't mind it."

Steve blinks, suddenly realizing this is Eddie trying to plan a couple's costume for Halloween. A familiar warmth floods through him, and he can't help smiling. He studies the dress, coming to the conclusion that he doesn't mind wearing it. For Eddie, of course.

Well, actually, he also thinks it looks hot.

"Okay. Let me try it on," he says, holding out his hands. Eddie lights up, handing over the dress and looking at Steve expectantly.

Well, there goes changing in the bathroom. Steve sighs, feels relieved he wore briefs, and strips down. Hulyet grips tighter to his hair as he moves, chirping once in indignation before settling once more as Steve wiggles his way into the dress.

It's tight, but not overly so. The material hugs curves Steve didn't even know he had, and the neckline plunges between his pecs and stretches into off-shoulder sleeves. The very bottom of the dress flares outward in a spiderweb pattern formed by lace. He takes a few experimental steps, relieved to find his movement isn't too restricted by the dress and fascinated to discover the spiderweb at the bottom stays perfectly spread out.

"How's it look?" Steve asks, turning to Eddie only to find that he'd moved right behind him at some point. He startles, taking a step back and getting his foot caught on the back of the dress. Before he can hit the floor, though, Eddie catches him, arms around his waist and holding him in a dip.

Steve's heart is pounding against his ribs, his breath short as he tightly grips Eddie's jacket collar and tries to ignore Hulyet painfully yanking on his hair. Eddie grins at him and says, "You look enchanting, Stevie. I would have fallen on my knees to worship you if you didn't beat me to the falling part."

Steve snorts and relaxes his grip, sliding his arms around Eddie's neck instead. "How long are you planning to hold me like this?" he asks.

"I could hold you as the world burns to ash around us. Even after we die and have decomposed, our skeletons will still be wrapped around each other, forever locked together."

From anyone else, Steve thinks he would worry about being murdered. But from Eddie, Steve just thinks it's one of the most romantic things he's ever heard, right alongside everything else Eddie has ever said to him. "That sounds perfect," he says, happily smiling into the kiss Eddie gives him.

Plus One~

"Fucking hell, Steve, stop bothering me about this!"

Steve frowns at Dustin, slouching on the couch as he anxiously turns a velvet box over in his hands. Dustin is laid out on the floor with a bowl of cheese puffs, his head resting on Dart's back as the demodog naps. "You're such a supportive brother," Steve says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Dustin scoffs and throws a cheese puff at Steve's head. "I was plenty supportive the first fifteen times! Just fucking give him the ring already," Dustin says, returning the stuck-out tongue that Steve sends him before looking down at his phone and typing something. "Dude, it's Eddie. You could give him a used soda can and he'd give it a fucking pedestal in his room."

Okay, yeah, Dustin has a point. That doesn't make Steve any less nervous, though. He forces himself to take a deep breath, pushing down his anxiety long enough to say, "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Literally, when have I ever been wrong, Steve?"

"Shut up."

Dustin flashes a grin just as Eddie's familiar rhythmic knock sounds against the door right before he opens the door. "By the way, I told Eddie to come over so you'd stop bothering me," Dustin tells him, his grin widening as Eddie saunters into the room.

"All right, gremlin," Eddie says, nudging Dustin with his foot, "get out."

As Dustin practically bolts from the room, Dart right on his heels, Steve decides he's going to make zucchini spaghetti for dinner so Dustin is forced to suffer through vegetables.

"So, whatcha got there, Stevie?" Eddie asks, perching on the couch next to Steve and looking pointedly at the box in his hands.

Well, there's no escaping it now.

Steve takes one more deep breath and opens the box. He pulls out the ring inside and presents it to Eddie. It's smaller than the rings he normally wears, but the sterling silver band is engraved with bat wings and an anatomical heart is carved into the garnet on top. A small, almost imperceptible clasp can be found just under the garnet. "I found it at an antique store with El and Max," Steve explains. He hesitates before carefully pushing the clasp to reveal a compartment just beneath the garnet. "It's one of those poison rings."

Eddie is uncharacteristically silent as he takes the ring, carefully shutting the compartment so he can turn it over in his hands. Once he's fully inspected the band and garnet, he pushes on the clasp and studies the size of the compartment. Finally, he slips the ring onto his left ring finger, his sharp canines coming into full view as he grins. "Yes, of course."

"Uh, yes what?"

"You're proposing, and I'm saying yes," Eddie explains, taking Steve's hand and bringing it to his lips. He kisses Steve's palm before lightly dragging his teeth over it, and Steve thinks he shows incredible character growth by not jerking his hand away.

His brain catches up a few seconds later. "Wait, proposing? This wasn't...I just...we've only been dating for three months?"

Eddie hums softly in agreement, sliding Steve's hand to his cheek and leaning into the touch. "I know," he says, "We've shown incredible restraint so far. Most Munsons get married within weeks of meeting their loves."

Honestly, that doesn't surprise Steve at all. Who could resist the Munson charm? Who could say no to the all-consuming devotion that shows no sign of ever fading? Steve's mouth suddenly feels dry. "Right," he mumbles, gently brushing his thumb over Eddie's cheek, "That, um, that's just a little fast, I think."

Eddie's smile doesn't fade one bit. He just nods, his eyes glowing with understanding and love and Steve's weakening resolve practically crumbles when Eddie says, "That's okay, Stevie. As long as I can see you and be near you, I don't care about anything else. You could put a knife through my heart, and I'd thank you for the chance to get a closer look at your eyes."

Steve...Steve is fucking weak. He abandons any idea of maintaining a distance between them, climbing into Eddie's lap and kissing the cheek he isn't holding. "It's not an engagement ring, but...but consider it an engaged-to-be-engaged ring," he says, the words feeling ridiculous as he speaks them.

But that doesn't matter because Eddie practically lights up. "Is that a promise? That we're engaged to be engaged?" he asks.

"Yeah," Steve says, his voice soft, "Just wait at least three more months before you propose, okay?"

Eddie's grin gets even wider, and he presses a searing kiss to Steve's lips, leaving him breathless and light-headed and absolutely sure Eddie is already planning his proposal.

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #addams family au #addams! Eddie Munson #dustin henderson #el hopper #hulyet is yiddish for howl btw #addams family steddie #addams family romance my beloved #my writing

[kekaki-cupcakes]

Hi! Imma resend my req then cause yep.

Could I pls get Nico with a super rich pretty boy (mortal) that’s like very affectionate and looks like a airhead but just like completely changes when it comes down to business like becomes super serious? And he’s like super big in making Nico blush with lavish and thoughtful gifts or trips to compensate cause he can’t like fight monsters? Feeel free to decline!

Ps: I loved ur Connor stoll x mortal fic!

Hey <333 so this was kinda changed around a bit and also mixed with a request for Nico x Son of Eros from ages ago, so whoever asked for that, here it is!

red roses and ghost flowers---Nico x flirty son of Eros

»»————-　★　————-««

-Nico doesn’t know how to react.

-First of all, touch is a big no no for him, it makes him feel claustrophobic and stuck and there’s a lot of reasons he really doesn’t like that feeling. But then you came along, and suddenly maybe if he’s outside in the open spaces and you run up and wrap your arm around his shoulder, it might just be okay. 

-You just wear the prettiest rings and give him the prettiest rings, that holding hands isn’t the worst thing. Just because of the rings. Definitely. Not because of how your knuckles sit against his the way your thumb rubs against the scars covering his palms. 

-His hands. Holy Hades, you seemed to have this obsession with doing that silly bow and pressing your lips to the back of his hand every time he saw you. 

-Which was a lot. 

-Maybe it was meant to be, or maybe it was because Nico sort of detoured a little to wander past the Eros cabin or pop into the arts and crafts center. Just to see how Annabeth was doing teaching the weaving classes, of course. Not because you were usually in the back making another little thing.

-Nico ended up with a lot of those little things. They filled an entire coffin shaped shelf in his by now, but he couldn’t exactly get rid of them. The skull shaped candle was just too on point, you must’ve found a real skull for comparison, and that was dedication Nico couldn’t just throw away. And then there was a vinyl record of an old band Maria had taken him to with Bianca. However you had found that, it must've taken a lot of time and money. It would be rude to get rid of something like that.

-Of course the bouquets were always chucked out every few days, but only when Nico had touched the soft petals with a smile too much and they’d started to shrivel.

-Nico was still convinced Hazel was the mole, running to find you every time the sunflowers or the red roses or the ghost flowers [He hated to admit that they were really cool] wilted, because then another bunch of flowers would turn up on the doorstep of the Hades cabin with a pink silk holding them together. 

-Even the Mythomagic cards you’d found stayed on the shelf, although Nico already had them. They were from you. It would be rude. And they sort of made him grin a little bit. You paid so much attention, why wouldn’t that make him grin? 

-Especially because, well, you could be paying attention to anyone else. Literally anyone. There were people clawing their way into the sparring classes you went to. Not that they had much of a reason to watch, you spent most of the time holding a sword and then blinking in confusion at the instructor, who’d given up by now. 

-Archery was a whole different story though, and Nico had to admit, he had sort of gone to watch you do that a few times. 

-On one hand, you weren't exactly bad looking, but on the other hand all he could see was Eros laughing cruelly and launching volley after volley of heart shaped arrows into Nico’s limbs in that shadowy place filled with broken statues and pillars. It was safe to say he had a bit to work through, but the fact you still ran up with a grin considering the first time Nico met you, he had a full blown panic attack and then Jason nearly bit you, he figured you couldn’t do much harm. 

-The son of Jupiter still watched your interactions carefully, but Nico had convinced him to tone down the growling part. 

-Then you’d both bonded over the fact that your dads sucked majorly, and now Nico was sort of concerned that Jason might steal his- his… his whatever you were [apart from way too pretty]

-Nico had to admit, you were really good looking. Something about the shininess of your eyes and the way your smile was so sharp had to be some sort of love god trickery, but it made his stomach fill with the souls of the departed and shadows to thicken in the corner. 

-You didn’t even mind when the grass wilted around him and the air got a bit too cold to be normal. 

-One time you even picked him up and just carried Nico princess style to the pavement that couldn’t shrivel and turn brown. That certainly helped the bad feelings inside his head take a break and admire your arms. 

-He figured when you showed up one night in your normal camp clothes and a pink bow tie to take him to the first showing of Scream 6 [Nico liked explaining how many stabs it would actually take to kill the characters], that there really was no back peddling.

-So he took the bouquet of ghost flowers from you and then held both the flowers… and your hand. 

»»————-　★　————-««

#nico di angelo #nico #nico pjo #nico x reader #nico x male!reader #nico di angelo x reader #nico x you #nico di angelo x you #percy Jackson and the olympians #percy jackson #pjo fandom #pjo #heroes of olympus #percy jackon and the olympians #rick riordan

[violetpixiedust]

based on this sinful gif set of joe keery ౨ৎ

making out with older!businessman!steve in his study, straddling his lap as he sits atop his herman miller chair, the mahogany door to the cozy room is locked shut. his facial hair is slightly grown out, longer than usual. dusting across the mature angles of his jaw and upper lip like flecks of bronze and gold, illuminated by the amber light of the emerald desk lamp. you giggle softly as the coarse hairs tickle you when he nuzzles the angled bridge of his sun-kissed nose against the perfume scented crook of your neck, large hands splayed behind your back as he pushes you closer to him. the gritty scent of tobacco and aged whisky envelopes you as he sighs hungrily, intoxicated, before his pearly teeth sink into the silky skin of your racing pulse point. he had been imaging the delicious jump of your heartbeat between his canines all throughout the charity gala he had hosted earlier that night- before he came home to you. all throughout his speeches, various introductions, countless firm hand shakes, one too many toasting’s of champagne. a soprano gasp tears through your bared throat, manicured fingers running up the rogue buttons of his patterned dress shirt, before meeting the smattering of curly chest hair from where it peaks out between his wide open collar, decorated with a gold chain that glints with every breath he takes. steve’s raspy grunt echoes between you two as your acrylic nails rake between the long, glossy strands of his chestnut / silver hair, scratching his scalp idly before playfully tugging on the thick roots at the nape of his neck. his large, calloused hands reach below your pleated skirt, squeezing the petal soft skin of your behind that escapes from the lacy panties you were gifted last week, relishing in your responsive squirm. steve had bought them for you while he was away on business, along with another twenty pieces just like it. baby pink and handmade in italy. you moan melodically, and steve swears it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. beating the endless symphonies he’s had to sit through in his fourty-five years around the sun by a landslide. his muscled forearms are on display, sleeves rolled up below wrinkled elbows. the bracelet he had gifted you for your most recent birthday, a delicate 14k gold piece encrusted with your birthstone, meets the genuine leather strap of his classic cartier watch as he lifts your hand in his, placing a firm kiss to the pulse of your wrist. a searing gentleness. a trembling moan escapes your strawberry chapstick coated lips as one of his long pointer fingers outlines the expensive panty hem that showcases the delightful curve of your bum, tracing the line all the way down to where it hugs just outside of your trembling mound. his slightly chapped lips pull up into a wicked smirk, before they smother your sweet sounds in a bruising kiss. the elder man unconsciously rolls his starchy dress pant covered crotch against your ever slicking heat, almond toned eyes practically rolling back into his skull at the delicious friction. your tongues meet. the tangy taste of lavender honey that emits from your mouth prompts him to sigh longingly, his wedding ring cold against your cheek as his left hand cups your angelic face. you languidly pull away from his dominating lips, a trail of saliva connecting you two as steve moans breathily at the sultry sight, attempting to torturously roll his hips up into yours once more. your plush pout forms a perfect ‘o’ shape much to his carnal longing, letting the soft wetness of your tongue brush the underside of his ring finger, before you enclose your mouth around the thick digit skillfully. you watch with glazed doe eyes as the almond ring of steve’s iris’s disappear within the blown ink of his pupils at your sinful actions. with a sharp ‘pop’ the gold band comes loose, sliding up his finger with the tight force of your warm little mouth, dizzying him with desire as you carelessly drop the offending piece of jewellery atop the imported carpet below you two. forgotten for now. you were only the babysitter after all… :)

#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x reader fluff #steve harrington x innocent!reader #steve harrington headcanon #steve harrington blurb #older!steve #older!steve harrington #old money!steve #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #joe keery #pixie’s works * ੈ✩‧₊˚

[boojangs]

@blackenheartbutterfly this was hard because I absolutely loathe the smell of coffee 😂😂

Enid makes Wednesday a coffee body scrub, because of course she does 🖤🩷

Enid was something of a chemist, if you ever asked her what her hobbies included. She dabbled in all wares of self-care, from lotions, to creams, to any scrubs, even scented candles. Her nose was strong and sensitive, could pick up nuances in her creations with better ease than a bloodhound. She loved when things smelled nice, loved when she could change an entire mood, just by finding the proper scent. When she started rooming with Wednesday that first year, she learned that she smelled of peppermint and old books, metal polish, and a hint of something delightfully smokey. It was her favorite scent, especially since they’d started properly dating. She stole Wednesday’s hoodie as often as she could, sometimes even directly off her girlfriend, whenever she needed to be surrounded by the familiar, comforting scent.

She also learned that Wednesday was absolutely obsessed with coffee.

Enid was fully convinced that if she were to crack Wednesday Addams open, coffee would spill out. She learned how to make Wednesday’s preferred cup at the very beginning of her relationship, so that the antisocial seer could skip one more step in her usual morning routine: black with a dash of cinnamon.

It was after discovering this little fact about her girlfriend that Enid started toying around with the idea of a body scrub, handcrafted and perfectly tailored for her tiny paramour. Thing was her right-hand man in her different efforts, spending weeks trying to perfect the right amount of scent and the proper amount of grit, sure Wednesday would love the extra scrubbing power while in the shower. She’d tried it on herself and tried in on Thing, the deep, earthy aroma finally just the perfect amount of the well-loved brew that Wednesday enjoyed so much.

She flitted off to Jericho for a proper jar, none of her others the proper feel for such a gift, Thing perched on her shoulder as she shifted through the weird parts at Uriah’s Heap, the wolf eventually stumbling upon a skull-shaped mason jaw. Enid squeaked when she found it, quickly snatching it up and ringing out with Connie, the blonde skipping happily down the street to start on her brisk walk back to the academy. She hit the campus, already knowing that Wednesday was with Eugene, the time to collect their latest batch of honey upon the Hummers this time of year.

Enid sprinted up to their dorm and let Thing down onto their spare bed, the wolf disappearing into her closet for her stash of black-hued trimmings, sure to always keep something on hand, for the amount of times she found herself showering her girlfriend with gifts. She prepared everything perfectly, screwing on the lid to her jar and wrapping it in layers of black tissue paper, finishing the gift with a small, black metallic bow. She left it on the edge of her desk for Wednesday’s inevitable return as she got down to her own work, a K-pop playlist blaring in the background.

She heard familiar footsteps after a while, Enid cutting the music and snatching up her gift, keeping it hidden behind her back as she rocked on the balls of her feet, excitedly awaiting the return of her favorite person.

Wednesday sighed as she cracked the door open, weary from so much work out in the shed, her shoulders unfairly tight as she shrugged off her backpack, and looked up, noticing the excitable air about her girlfriend. Her face wrinkled in curiosity as she walked to meet Enid, her lips pursed as she peered up into those pretty blue eyes.

“You are excited,” she blinked at the eager nod, her arms absently folding as she openly surveyed the blonde, still in her uniform, “Have I missed something, querida?”

Enid snorted out a small laugh, shaking her head as she lifted one of her hands to lovingly tug on the corner of Wednesday’s lapel, “No, silly, you haven’t missed anything! I got you something, though,” she brought the gift out from behind her back, and presented the small bundle, “Ta-da!”

Wednesday glanced down at the small gift, her ears tipped red at the unsolicited present before reaching out to accept it, surprised at the weight as it settled in her palm. Her eyes flicked up to Enid, her flush darkening to a scarlet red as she read the happiness on Enid’s face, her heart flustering at how deeply it managed to always affect her.

She paced a step away as she unwrapped the hefty gift, her brows furrowing as she uncovered the skull-shaped jar, turning her head back toward Enid in mild confusion. The blonde chuckled and walked over, holding her hand out for the trash before nodding toward the jar.

“Wens, you have to open it,” she teased, and bent down to press a quick kiss to her cheek.

The seer nodded absently and screwed the lid off, the delectable smell of coffee immediately permeating her senses, her lashes fluttering slightly at the lovely aroma. Wednesday turned back to Enid, a silent question pressed into her face that had Enid grinning brightly in response.

“It’s a body scrub! I made it myself. Took forever to get the smell right, I had SO much tweaking to do. I figured you could use it whenever you wanted something different.”

Wednesday nodded, bending her head down to get a proper sniff before dipping her finger into the strange scrub, “Thank you, querida, this was unexpected.”

Enid wriggled her shoulders in excitement, Wednesday wandering back to her girlfriend to properly kiss her in hello and in thanks before closing the lid up tight, and leaving it off in the shower stall for later.

She didn’t miss the way Enid’s face lit up when she escaped the bathroom after her shower that night, her cheeks warm with affection at the thoughtful gift, the smell of coffee permanently ingrained into her skin.

She LOVED it.

#wenclair

[murfeelee]

Critical Role INSP Pt2: C3 (Bells Hells CAS Set)

This set includes 32 recolorable CAS items for TS3, inspired by Campaign 3 of Critical Role: Bells Hells.

Crystals as Hair (HIGH POLY) V3 [BETA]

Cut Crystal as Head ACC V2 (found under Glasses)

Nails as Earrings

Cracked Rock or Glass BODY & FACE Tatts (REQ CmarNYC tatt mod)

DA2 Persuasion Maul as ACC (and Misc Decor)

TSM Blacksmith Vest SLEEVELESS [BETA]

ATS3 Female Beanie as ACC UNISEX (found under Glasses)

CR3 Chetney INSP RTA Tattoo

Danjaley/Dragon Valley Top RETEXTURED

CR3 Dorian INSP Chest Wings ACC (found under Necklaces)

CR3 Dorian INSP Boot Wings ACC (found under Socks)

CR3 Dorian INSP Gradient Cloak ACC (found under Bracelets)

TSM Corset Gathered Dress for Fauns (Frankenmesh) V3b

Deer Ears ACC 3 Tilted (with/without Flower) (found under Earrings)

Flowery Horns Frankenmesh ACC (found under Glasses)

Mitarasi Ankle Flowers ACC for TW3 Succubus Legs (found under Socks)

CR3 Fearne INSP Stave ACC (GLOWS) V2 (found under Rings)

4t3 Shanty Top REDONE SHEER V3

Suspenders Y/AF ACC (SN EP REQUIRED fit/fat morphs) (found under Necklaces)

Sheer Skirt ACC V2 (SN EP REQUIRED fit/fat morphs) (found under Garters)

Hand Veins as BODY Tattoo (REQ CmarNYC tatt mod)

Camkitty/Dragon Valley Pauldron LEFT ONLY as ACC (found under Necklaces)

Mitarasi Wrist Flowers LEFT ONLY as ACC V2 (found under Bracelets)

Gramsims Stylus Hair REDONE V2

EA Peasant Top REDONE V2

Hammer as Hairpin ACC (found under Glasses)

TSM to TS3 Pickaxe as Hairpin ACC (found under Glasses)

NA Bloody Hands as BODY Tatt 1 & 2 (REQ CmarNYC tatt mod)

FLAWS: The items marked as [BETA] have visible flaws (higher than my normal level of flaws, yes, shaddup) that I couldn't figure out how to fix or got too fed up to bother with anymore. Feel free to fix them or ditch them. Sorry I suck!

Enjoy!

Download set (package files) : Mediafire | Simfileshare

Descriptions & preview pics under the cut:

For in-game pics of most of this stuff, just consult my sims 3 Critical Role tag. All of it is pretty self explanatory, but I wanted to explain one thing or two, and point out exactly what FLAWS are present:

ASHTON

The Crystal Hair [BETA] was one of the hardest pieces of CC I've ever messed around with.

FLAWS: The mesh sits HELLA awkward on the head, and the clipping/floating through the skull in some areas is bad on some head shapes. Also, a weird texture glitch on the skull might randomly pop up in CAS, not Live Mode, and IDKY. *sigh* This is what I get for trying something different.

The Cut Crystal as Head ACC & DA2 Persuasion Maul as ACC (and Misc Decor) all have recolorable variations with a clear & opaque texture. The Nails as Earrings are self explanatory. The Cracked Rock or Glass BODY & FACE Tatts as usual REQUIRE CmarNYC's tatt mod at MTS.

CHETNEY

I made the ATS3 Female Beanie Unisex and tweaked the textures a bit. The CR3 Chetney INSP RTA Tattoo is a regular EA tattoo.

FLAWS: For the life of me, I CANNOT fix the janky bone joints under the armpits on the Blacksmith Outfit. So...avert your eyes (or just use the regular Blacksmith Outfit with the sleeves). U_U

DORIAN

I was surprised by how well the Chest & Boot Wing ACCs came out, considering those were my own meshes (for once).

For the Dragon Valley Top I just retextured Danjaley's edit by tweaking the RGBY mask a bit. It's not great, but oh well. Neither is the Cape Accessory.

FEARNE

The Horns ACC is a mashup of X X X. The Stave ACC is a mashup of X X and I made the acorn glow with the ghost/plumbbot shader. IIRC the Horns and Ears ACCs have different sliders, one for the Hat Slider and one for Glasses sliders, but if I didn't do that...oops?

The Faun Outfit is a frankenmesh of the TSM corset dress @aprilrainsimblr converted and the TW3 Succubus outfit converted here. I added a few different RGB control variations as I was playing around with different options.

IMOGEN

I took the Shanty Top converted here and lowered the vest mesh as it sat too high on sims' waists, lightened the too-dark Multiplier, and made the sleeves sheer. The Suspenders and Skirt both REQUIRE the SN EP for the fat/fit morphs.

LAUDNA

I made @natalia-auditore's different accessory Bloody Hands as Body Tatts that REQUIRE CmarNYC's tatt mod at MTS, to reduce the amount of layered ACCs that cause texture blurring.

The Stylus Hair is an edit I did of Gramsims' Stylus hair (X), to add Laudna's signature white streak, fix the joints, and lower the polys a bit (it's still high though). (I used a hairline makeup for the baby hairs--IDER which one.) The Top is an edit from one of EA's, tweaking the waist mesh and changing the RBGY mask & overlays. I couldn't decide if I liked the Hammer or Pickaxe ACC, so I just threw in both.

Oryn

The Left Pauldron ACC is just the left side separated from the Dragon Valley top (Camkitty's mesh edit made my life easier), same with the Mitrasi Wrist Flower ACC.

___________________________________

And that's that!

Enjoy!

Download set (package files) : Mediafire | Simfileshare

#sims 3 cc #sims 3 conversion #sims 3 critical role #sims 3 clothes #sims 3 accessory #sims 3 tattoos #sims 3 hair #sims 3 fantasy

[kurokoros]

into open flames | (s.h.)

Rated: M (future smut, descriptions of blood/injury)

Words: 15.2K

Pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

Summary: There’s a storm raging, winds howling and snow beating against the cabin walls. Outside a monster shrieks his name in an awful and warbled voice that sounds like you. And it shouldn’t be awkward, Steve thinks. It’s not the first time he’s seen you naked.

You and Steve are almost something. Almost lovers. And it feels almost like hell; almost romantic.

OR: A blackout snowstorm and a monster force you and Steve to take shelter in Hopper’s old cabin. From there, everything starts slotting into place.

AN: oops! this took longer to write than expected and now it’s being posted in three parts because I didn’t have it in me to try and write another 10K+ before posting. the third part will include smut!

Warnings: horror elements (the monster is modeled after the official illustration of the “bagman” from dnd). descriptions of blood and gore. non-sexual nudity. reader implied to be shorter than steve. reader is a hopper but there’s no mention of blood relation. cop!steve but it’s for monster hunting reasons. S3 and S4 never happened in this universe alteration, but upside down shenanigans have still been happening post-S2

Chapters: Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Steve’s head is throbbing.

That’s the first thing he registers. Consciousness creeps over him slowly. Languid. The ringing in his ears drags him back. It’s dark and his head feels swollen and ready to pop under the pressure thrumming through his skull. Stuffed with cotton. Or shoved too deep underwater. Not a hangover, he knows that much. He’s had enough to know the difference. Wherever he is, it’s cold and wet. The exposed parts of his skin feel damp under burning numbness. And he hurts. The pressure beneath his skull. The right side of his chest and arm burn. His hands sting.

Beneath the ringing in his ears there’s something else, something muffled. Icey fingers touch his cheek.

Slowly, his head lolls to the side. His eyes are closed, he realizes belatedly. It takes more effort than it should to get them to open, his eyelids sticky like glue. When they do open, he can’t see anything. For a horrifying second, he thinks he’s been struck blind. Then, his vision starts to readjust. Acclimating to the darkness.

Everything is a hazy shade of blue.

For a second, he’s back in high school. Sprawled across the Byers’ couch after getting the shit beaten out of him by Billy Hargrove. Bloody. Mottled black and blue bruises spattered across his face and chest like a sick watercolor painting, the colors all blending together. It hurt to move. Hurt to breathe. Something in his chest rattled whenever he did. His ears wouldn’t stop ringing. The queasy feeling in his stomach only got worse as shapes and shadows moved around the room, voices shouting over each other until the bile surged up his throat and he vomited all over the Byers’ floor.

A concussion.

There’s a shadow leaning over him, and he thinks of you, stroking back his hair and whispering to him that night, telling him everything would be okay. That he was okay. Now, he can’t make out the words.

A sluggish blink and suddenly everything looks sharper.

The sky is black. So black, he can’t see the stars behind the clouds rolling overhead. Only a sliver of the moon peeks through, waning, but enough to dimly light the space where he’s lying. Steve’s head lolls sideways. His cheek presses against ice. Snow. There’s snow surrounding him. Turned blue in the shadow of a distant light. And trees. The shape of them is silhouetted and dark. Spindly oak trees. Branches bare and snapped off in some places. Blood in the snow. Smeared across one of the trees in a color that’s almost black. Streaked across the sleeve of a jacket he distantly realizes is his.

There’s a gun in his hand.

The shadow leans over him again.

It takes another second for the pieces to snap back into place.

His fingers clench. He lunges. Pain ripples through his shoulder as he wrenches around in the snow, gun in his hand, aimed in a brutal swing towards the figure hovering over his chest. Milky eyes. No face. Too long limbs. Too tight skin. Claws. Claws. Claws.

Steve doesn’t brain the creature like he hopes to. His arm is forced back into the snow by a solid grip on his wrist. The push and pull tears at the lacerations on his right arm. A pained hiss slips from between his teeth; the gun slips from between his numb fingers. Hands hold him down. Hot breath washes over his face and he thinks of that trilling, gurgling growl he hears in his nightmares. Panic, white-hot and sharp, digs into the spaces between his ribs and rips at his insides.

Before he can swing again, the pressure on his arm releases. Hands grab his face and wrench his head to the side.

“Shh,” a familiar voice whispers. “Shh, Steve, it’s me. It’s me. You’re okay. You’re okay.” The words come out in a rush, strung together frantically. It sounds like white noise until the ringing fades.

The shadow over him takes physical form. Wild eyes. Frazzled hair. A pretty face that haunts his waking hours. Just as pretty as he last saw this morning.

Your name tumbles from his lips, slurred around a numb tongue and a mouthful of blood.

Your hands are shaking where they’re pressed to his cheeks. Cold. Afraid. Both. When clarity sinks into his hazel eyes, you smile, but it’s strained. Your bottom lip wobbles. Your eyes are bloodshot and puffy. Your face is wet. “It’s me,” you tell him again. “It’s just me.” One of your knees nudges against the side of his chest and he groans as it sends pain shooting along his ribs. “I’m sorry. Please, you have to—you have to stay quiet. Okay? You’re okay.”

One of your hands slides from his cheek down to his chest, slipping under his open jacket to rest over his rapidly beating heart. Your palm rubs against the fabric of his uniform shirt, your thumb sweeping back and forth idly until his pulse starts to slow.

You’re alive. It slams into his chest with the gentle touch of your hand, your open palm on his heart. Fuck, you’re alive. A strange, shuddering breath rattles in his chest and claws out of his mouth around the sudden tightness in his throat. The lingering panic from when he couldn’t find you seeps from his muscles and leaves him lying there limply underneath you as one of your hands sweeps the damp hair away from his forehead. His eyes flutter shut. Just for a moment. Until he remembers where he is. Remembers the thing that attacked him. A monster.

A tree branch snaps. Your red and swollen eyes wrench away from his to scan the shadowy spaces between the spindly trees. Nothing calls out to you or Steve from the darkness.

“What happened?” Steve asks around a cottony mouth. He shifts his weight until he can sit up on his elbows, hissing as his shoulder burns in protest. The hand on his chest tries to ease him back down. He doesn’t let you. With his good arm, he grasps just above your elbow, needing to feel you under his hands. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” you cut him off. Cold fingers stroke down his cheek to cup his jaw and force him to meet your eyes. “I’m fine. I don’t—I don’t know what happened. I was coming back from the cabin and it was just there. I thought—I heard someone. I thought it was a kid or something, but…” Briefly, you trail off, gaze far away before you squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head. “And I ran. It followed me, and I couldn’t—I tried to go back to the road. I left the radio in the car. I thought if I could get there and call you, maybe…”

There’s a tightness in his chest that won’t loosen. “It didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” you’re quick to reassure him, “no, Steve, I’m fine. Look at me. I’m okay.” His hand strokes down your arm from elbow to wrist, grounding you both as he does what you say and looks at you. His eyes dart around wildly, unfocused, but desperate to make sure you’re really okay.

“There was a space down by the creek,” you tell him as he looks you over carefully. His good hand drops down to your waist, automatically burrowing under your jacket to hold you closer. “It must have been somewhere a deer was nesting. I hid there for a while. It couldn’t find me.” You wet you lips, rushing through your explanation without allowing him time to question any of it. “I came out when I heard the gunshot.”

Steve squeezes your side gently, fingers digging into your sweater enough for you to feel the heat of his hand. “Jesus Christ.” He breathes through his nose, closing his eyes tightly as his head throbs. “Tommy Mulligan thought he saw a wild man in the woods last night,” he says when you brush his hair away from his face again. “And I—I thought I heard you screaming last night.”

It’s a quiet admission, one he doesn’t mean to make. He hates telling you about his nightmares. The panic attacks. The headaches that won’t go away. They make you worry. The concern that pinches the space between your brows makes guilt swirl in his stomach. Vulnerability still doesn’t come easy to him, even with you.

Steve swallows his pride. “I thought it…” he trails off, but you already know. He thought it was a nightmare. One where he saw you disappear in front of him while he couldn’t do shit to protect you. When he has night terrors like that, he never comes out of them quickly. They linger. Itch at his skin until the soft murmur of your voice and gentle hands manage to soothe the raw nerves once more, like a balm. “But, Will heard it, too. I didn’t. I didn’t want to—”

Scare you. Watch that faraway look cloud over your eyes as you were sucked back into something horrible, lost in your own head. Didn’t want to believe it, because that would make it real, and fuck Steve’s tired of all of this. He’s so damn tired of watching everything fall apart—watching you fall apart.

You chew your bottom lip. “The gates?”

Steve closes his eyes. “Closed,” he says. “They’re still closed. Owens said they haven’t been active in months.” Which means a new gate. Or maybe this thing has been living in Hawkins for years without any of them noticing. Hiding. Watching.

The thought makes him sick.

You’re still chewing on your bottom lip when he looks at you again. Like he feared, that faraway look is back in your eyes, panic at the edges of your pupils, like you’re remembering something awful. “It can throw its voice,” you blurt before Steve can ask you what’s wrong.

He blinks. A wrinkle forms between his eyebrows. “What?”

His voice rouses you from the confines of your own head. Your eyes snap up to meet his. “You know in some cartoons? Like, like old episodes of Scooby Doo? You remember—you remember when we used to watch them?” you ask, the beginning of a ramble on the tip of your tongue. “Some characters could throw their voices. Or, or ventriloquists, I guess.” Steve isn’t following, you can tell by the confused tilt of his head, and you force yourself to take a breath and gather yourself. When you speak again, you sound more sure. “It can make it sound like it’s somewhere it isn’t,” you explain, as simple as you can. “When I was… hiding, it sounded like it was everywhere at the same time. It would be in front of me, then behind me the next second. Or, or close and then further away. Like it was trying to make me think it was somewhere it wasn’t. Or trying to disorient me.”

It felt like it was screwing with you. Taunting you for reasons you couldn’t understand. It didn’t feel like you were being hunted, not in the same way as the Demogorgon made you feel, or that pack of monstrous, canine-like creatures. Stalked, but not hunted.

“Son of a bitch,” Steve says under his breath. “That’s how it got me. Thought there was a second one coming from the side.” With your help, he sits up fully, grabbing his gun from where it sunk into the snow and pulling his wounded arm close to his chest.

The blood oozing from his open wounds makes your stomach churn. The flashlight, half-buried beneath mounting flakes illuminates the area just enough for you to see the gore staining the fresh snow.

“It’s smart,” you say, forcing your eyes away from the bloodstains. “It got me to leave the path because I thought I heard someone crying. Like a little kid. And all I could think was—”

“Will,” he finishes for you.

“Yeah,” you agree, voice small. “Like it, like it knew that I’d stop because of that. And it, it could have just attacked me. It probably could have killed me before I even knew it was there. I didn’t have anything to protect me. But it didn’t. It was trying to lure me somewhere and ambush me, or something. I don’t—” Don’t know. Don’t want to know. Don’t understand.

He sighs. “The Mulligans said it ran away when they fired a warning shot.”

“Right.” You wet your lips. “And you must have scared it, too. It knocked you out. It could have killed you while you were unconscious if it wanted food, or just wanted to hunt. So, why didn’t it?”

He doesn’t have an answer for you, and the silence blanketing the woods is unnerving. Wind whistles through the trees, growing shrill, and you shiver as the cold air wraps around you, blowing your hair into your face.

“We can’t stay here,” you tell Steve, lowering your voice and leaning closer to him, for comfort or warmth, he isn’t sure. “I don’t know how well it can hear, and we can’t stay out here all night. The snow is already getting worse.”

A blizzard is what your dad called it. Unlike any storm Hawkins has seen in years. The kind you can’t survive outdoors. Enough snow that he and Joyce couldn’t risk driving home. Enough to bury you and Steve in the woods until spring thaws your frostbitten skin, or the animals find you.

He makes a face like he knows what you’re thinking. “You know how to get to the road from here?”

You nod. “But it’s not close. A mile walk. Maybe more than that.” You try to do the calculations in your head, but between your cold fingers and the exhaustion pulling at your weary muscles, you can’t figure out exactly where you are. “I don’t… I don’t know how far out we are right now. The cabin’s closer. And you… Steve, you’re hurt,” you tell him, finally acknowledging the gore splattered across the snow, his sleeve, the trees. Thick and red and still leaking down from a gruesome wound on his arm.

“We can’t call for help from the cabin,” he tries to argue.

“We can’t call from the car, either,” you snap. “We’d have to go back to the trailer.”

He groans. “And if it follows us, we’d lead it right to the kids. Fuck.”

There’s a part of him that wants to risk going to the car and getting the hell out of here, but it’s gone before he can dwell on it. He won’t risk the kids’ safety. And you’re cold. And his shoulder is still bleeding sluggishly.

You look at him like you’d follow him anywhere, and he won’t risk you.

“Fuck,” he says again.

It’s a long hike to the cabin. Normally a twenty-minute walk, the growing storm makes it hard to see. The snow is thick. Neither of you can see more than two dozen feet ahead, and with the snow up to your knees in places, it isn’t easy to cut between the trees.

Blood drips down Steve’s sleeve onto the snow, leaving a faint trail behind you that you pray is lost under the snow and wind. He’s leaning against you heavily, one of his arms wrapped around your shoulders and keeping you pressed up against his side. The gun in his hand is cocked and ready, the safety clicked off. It isn’t safe, and it goes against everything he’s been taught, but if that thing comes back, he’s not letting it touch you.

The forest is quiet until suddenly it isn’t.

Far off to the North, a creature bays. Howling and screeching over the wind, he can’t make out the words it says, but you shrink into his side. Both of your steps come to a halt.

Another call comes from the direction you came from, echoing the first.

Like you said, the calls seem to circle the two of you, and Steve swears under his breath, unable to pinpoint where they’re coming from. His grip around you tightens, and he drags you forward on long legs that have you struggling to keep up. The two of you stumble through the snow, steps hurried even as the snow grabs hold of your legs and sucks you in, unwilling to let go.

You don’t make it more than a dozen feet before a sound like lightning rips through the woods, a loud crack that makes his heart jump into his throat. A tree branch snapping in two.

Steve pulls you tight to his chest and drags you to the nearest tree, your back flush to his front. Bark from the tree behind him scrapes against his shoulders through his jacket as he presses closer to the large oak tree, one with a trunk large enough to span the width of his shoulders. The gun is heavy in his right hand, his finger already hovering over the trigger as another branch snaps in the distance. Both of your hands clutch at the arm braced over your collarbone, your fingers digging into his forearm as snow crunches somewhere behind you, barely audible beneath the wind. He squeezes your shoulder, grounding you both as the footsteps grow closer.

A shadow moves across the snow, barely visible in the faint moonlight streaking between the trees.

There are sixteen bullets left in the magazine. This morning, when he counted them, there were seventeen. It only took a single shot to scare the damn thing off before. That might not be enough this time. Fuck, they should have gone for the car. At least you would have gotten a head start. A way out. Steve, he can hold it back for a while, maybe even kill it, if he gets lucky. But you? You’re unarmed. And if this thing follows you straight to the cabin, then what? You wait there, stranded? Trapped inside until it gets bored, or it gives up? Or the door gives in?, a nasty part of his brain offers.

“Hello?”

The taste of iron coats his tongue with every shuddering breath he takes, his cheek split open where he bit down when the monster knocked him to the ground. The cold air stings his lungs. Blood roars in his ears, so loud he thinks it’s that thing at first, growling and clicking like other monsters from the other side of reality. Red drips down his arm, blood soaking his mangled sleeve, and Steve wonders if the creature stalking them can smell it. If it knows exactly where they are and it’s just toying with them.

“Steve?”

His grip on the gun falters.

It’s using your voice again. The creature cries out his name, a tremor to its tone, like it’s going to cry. He’s heard that same tone in your own voice: in his nightmares and in his memory.

You shake in his arms, a testament to just how fucking petrified you are after what you’ve been through today. Steve’s seen you stare down monsters before with no regard for your own life. He’s never seen you timid like this, and it only makes him angrier.

Maybe he can surprise it. It’s behind him. Somewhere to the right. If he’s fast enough, he can get a handful of shots off before it even knows you and Steve are there. He’d have to get lucky with the angle, though. And he might not be able to see it through the snow.

He’s about to slip out from behind you when you let go of his arm and place your hand over his on the gun, stilling him before he can raise it. You don’t dare say a word, even as the creature wanders through the trees, calling out in a voice it stole from you.

You hold him there, keeping the gun pointed at the ground and him pressed against your back as the monster’s cries fade into the distance.

Neither of you move for a while.

By the time the cabin comes into view, there are black spots in Steve’s vision.

His grip hasn’t loosened on the gun since that thing almost caught them. And he hasn’t let go of you, either. Left arm looped around your shoulder. Your right slung around his waist, letting him lean some of his weight onto you. His legs are fine, but he still feels sluggish. Waves of dizziness wash over him at random moments, infrequent, but still somewhat alarming. At first, you’d let him be, trusting him to keep himself upright, but after the third time he started to sway you slipped your arm around him and haven’t let go since.

Pressed against him like this, Steve can feel every shiver that wracks your body. They’ve been getting worse in the time the two of you have been walking. The clothes you wore today are already soaked through and stiff with frost and a thin sheen of ice. There’s ice in your hair, too, where the fresh torrent of snow is starting to layer and melt. It’s starting to make him nervous, if he’s being honest. With the temperature dropping and the storm getting worse, he’s worried about hypothermia setting in.

You seem to be doing all right, for now, but he needs to warm you up.

The porch stairs are climbed in a pair of unsteady steps. Steve leans more of his weight onto you than he’d like, an old injury to his knee starting to ache with the cold, but you only squeeze your arm around him tighter.

With your free hand, you fumble with the door. It takes a few tries for you to get a grasp on the knob and jiggle it open, your hands have started shaking so badly. As quick as you get it open, your hand retreats back into your sleeve, a vain attempt to shield your fingers from the cold.

He kicks the door open with his foot. It doesn’t open more than a crack. It’s dark inside. The lights are off, and he can’t remember if you mentioned there being any power or not. Regardless, it’s safe. Safer than being outside, anyway.

Gently, he shifts his arm from around your shoulders, pressing his hand to your lower back and nudging you forward. You glance up at him, searching his face, and you must find whatever you’re looking for, because you slip through the crack in the door without a word.

Steve only places his handgun back into its holster after you disappear into the darkened room.

Before he follows you, Steve turns half-way around, glancing across the short yard towards the edge of the tree line from where you came. For a moment, he waits, listening for cries or calls of his name coming from the woods. Nothing. It’s silent. The snow is too thick to see more than a dozen feet away.

There’s an itch under his skin. A crawling feeling, like he’s being watched. If the monster is out there, stalking them, it keeps its distance for now. He can only hope that lasts.

“Steve?”

He flinches. He only turns when he realizes the call came from behind him. You’re standing in the doorway, arms wrapped around yourself as you wait for him to follow you inside. You look small, shivering there in one of his old jackets, with your hands tucked into the sleeves and your hair a mess from the wind and snow.

Casting one last look over his shoulder, Steve follows you inside. He kicks the door shut again, pressing his back against the wood to keep it closed. The two of you are plunged into darkness. Neither of you move for a moment, listening to the sound of each other’s breathing. You’re not even two feet from him, but you’re only a silhouette in the shadows. Intangible. Like he could reach to touch you, but pass right through. Close enough for him to smell the last lingering wisps of your perfume, fruity or floral, he can’t quite tell. But it’s you. It’s home.

Eventually, he forces himself to turn the deadbolt on the door. Tries not to think about how easy it would be to break it down anyway.

“Where’s your lighter?” you ask as Steve reaches for the flashlight on his belt. The beam is weak, and it flickers, but he keeps it aimed at the floor anyway.

The question makes his brows furrow, a frown tugging at his mouth. “What?”

You sigh, a note of frustration creeping in, perhaps unfairly. “Your lighter,” you repeat, a little louder, taking a half-step closer to him. “The power’s out. I—I don’t think anything really works here anymore. There’s no heat or water, so we need to, we need to light the fireplace or we’re just going to end up freezing in here.” You stumble over the explanation, still trembling even without the wind beating down on you.

The slight slur to your words makes his frown deepen.

You mistake his silence for concern over something else. “And don’t bullshit me. I know you still smoke sometimes when you’re stressed. I can smell it on you when you come to bed after.” You sniff, shuffling from one foot to the other, wincing at the pins and needles stabbing at your feet, the numbness starting to catch up to you now that you’re inside and have a moment to breathe. “So, where’s your lighter?”

“Left pocket,” he admits, a little ashamed that you know he still keeps it on him. He’s been trying to stop, for you. Thought he did, for a while, until all of this shit started up again last summer.

There’s no disappointment in your tone though, only impatience. “Jacket?”

“Yeah.”

Your hand peeks from your sleeve and slips into his pocket without a word. The lighter is buried deep, and your fingers are numb, and for several frustrating seconds you can’t find it until Steve lifts his arm and places his hand on your side, holding you together with a single touch. It takes another second for your hands to stop shaking long enough for you to wrap your fingers around the piece of metal. Steve’s thumb moves over your jacket in slow strokes until you step back again, the lighter clenched in your fist.

You’re slower to move entirely out of his space.

Though you were here only hours ago, the layout of the room is unfamiliar. Dark, save for the weak flicker of the flashlight in Steve’s hand, there are strange shadows cast along the walls. Furniture is distorted. Elongated. Twisted into hunched figures with gangly limbs and gnarled claws. At once, you feel like a child again. Scared of the dark and what lurks there.

Except, you already know the answer to that. And the real monsters, not the ones that used to hide under the bed, are more horrific than anything you could have imagined.

You take a few shuffling steps into the living room, dragging your feet to feel for the furniture. The fireplace is on the far wall. You can’t remember what lies between.

As you cross the room, Steve turns around and starts sliding the locks into place. Three, besides the deadbolt. Each snap into place with a loud click that makes your breath catch and your heart seize.

Dim light illuminates the room. The coffee table is inches from your shin.

“Hey?” Steve calls across the room. You can’t see him behind the flashlight beam. He lowers the light, crossing the distance to you in a few long strides. He wets his lips before dipping his chin to speak softly into your ear. “Stay here, okay?” he asks, reaching out to take your elbow into his hand, squeezing gently. “I’m going to go check the backdoor. Make sure everything’s locked up tight.”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth, worrying it. “We need to look at your arm,” you remind him, glancing down at the mess of dark blood and torn skin hidden beneath his ripped clothes. The sight makes your eyes itchy and wet, and you have to blink back the tears threatening to spill over.

“After,” Steve says, squeezing your arm. “It won’t take long.” He keeps a firm grip on your elbow until you nod, and even then, he’s reluctant to leave you standing here alone. His palm slips an inch down your arm, his grip loosening as he starts to pull away, but then he stops. Before you can ask what’s wrong, he presses his lips to your temple, lingering with his eyes squeezed shut until he hears you take a slow, shallow breath and your shoulders relax. “I’ll be right back.”

Both of you feel colder after he takes a step back.

He leaves the flashlight on the coffee table. The weak beam flickers in and out. By now, the battery is nearly drained, and the only replacements are crammed into the glovebox of Hopper’s truck. Still, it’s just enough to keep you from being plunged into the darkness completely. A welcome respite until the fire is lit.

His chest tightens when he crosses the room. The flashlight is just enough to let him see your figure against the shadows on the walls. It’s not until he rounds a wall that you’re out of sight, leaving an open pit in his stomach. Beneath the creaking floorboards, the cabin is too quiet. Too still. It’s unnerving. He moves quickly through the small space, uncaring of the way he slams his knees and shins into furniture in the dark. The noise helps. In the living room, it reminds you that he’s still here. Out of sight, but here. For Steve, the bang of his knees colliding with a half-collapsed table drowns out the faint ringing in his ears.

In the darkness, his hands fumble for the door. Fingers crawl blindly across the wall, catching on slivers and cracks in the wood until he finds the weathered door. It takes a moment of groping to find the knob and twist. The door doesn’t budge. Steve throws his weight against it, his good shoulder banging against the solid wood. It stays firmly shut. Again, his hand wanders over the wall near the door, fingers running over one, two, three more locks running along the height of the doorway. He loops his fingers around each chain one by one, yanking on them roughly to be sure the metal won’t give.

They don’t, and he only hopes that fucking thing in the woods isn’t smart enough to open them from outside.

It takes more stumbling through the dark and stubbing his fingers against walls and cabinets to find the windows. Like the door, they’re all locked tightly. Curtains are pulled shut over most of them, keeping anyone from looking outside—or looking in. He doesn’t know if that thing can see. Its eyes were pale, milky white, like his grandfather’s were after the cataracts got so bad he couldn’t see anything anymore. He doesn’t know if it, like the Demogorgon, doesn’t need to see. If it can track them down in other ways. Hearing. It can mimic voices, so it has to hear well enough.

Or smell, he thinks with a grimace, shoulder aching and blood dripping down his arm.

Stomach churning, he leaves the curtains closed. He leaves the backroom quickly, checking the bedrooms and closing the curtains there as well, casting glances at you as he moves from room to room. You stay crouched by the unlit fireplace, barely moving.

When Steve steps back into the living room to close the curtains there, he realizes you’re trembling. Your hands, mostly, the tremors vibrating along your arms until your entire body is quivering.

“Come on,” you murmur around teeth that are starting to chatter, thumb scraping against the flint. The lighter clicks, sparking, but the flame doesn’t catch. The next flick of your thumb ends the same. Your hands are too shaky. Too numb. “Come on. Fuck. Come on. Please.” There’s a sharp pressure behind your eyes and in your throat, frustration choking you until you can’t breathe right. You ignore the stinging in your eyes, continuing to drag your finger against the spark wheel desperately.

Steve’s footsteps are loud, the wood floors still creaking underfoot, but you barely notice him there until he lowers himself to one knee beside you. His right hand sweeps up your back, smoothing over your damp jacket. You gasp, stiffening under his touch until his knee knocks against yours, familiar and firm. He leaves his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, the heat from his palm sinking into you through the layers of your clothes. The warmth almost makes you whimper.

“Hey,” he starts, voice low against your ear. The hand that isn’t anchored to your back reaches towards the lighter you’re still trying to start. “Let me—”

“I’ve got it.” It comes out in a rush, barely audible. Your hands are shaking worse, and you don’t spare him a look, forcing yourself to concentrate.

He sighs, rubbing your back gently. “Seriously, come on. Just let me—”

“I’ve got it, Steve,” you snap at him, pinning him with a harsh look before your stare returns to the unlit logs. Expression almost manic, there’s nothing you can do to hide the raw panic in your gaze. All of your bravado seems to have melted away in the long minutes he left you alone, rationality giving way to fear. You’ve been doing so, so well holding yourself together so far, but the cracks in your façade are starting to spread. One more chip in the glass and you might just splinter apart. Shatter.

And it makes his heart sink into the pit of his stomach to think about. Because you were alone. For hours, you were alone in the woods. And you were scared. Exhaustion is clear in the way you’re curled into yourself, shivering and weary. Seeing you like this scares him. You’ve always been a rock. Always kept him grounded when he needed it. And he would do anything to make you feel safe. Anything. He’d burn this world to the ground if that’s what it took.

“Hey,” he says softly, practically cooing as he reaches out and tilts your chin towards him, coaxing you to look at him again. Your eyes slide right past his face, dropping lower to the blood soaked into his sleeve. The gray fabric is stained from shoulder to elbow, darker around the edges and in tatters where sharp claws sliced through. He presses his fingers into your jaw a little harder, squeezing gently until you finally meet his eyes. “I’m okay. You’re okay. All right?” He chews the inside of his cheek, thumb idly sweeping across your jaw. “I’m not… I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. Okay? We just have to get the fire started and wait it out, remember? We just need to wait it out.”

Your fingers are wrapped around his lighter so tightly that the metal is digging into your palm, leaving harsh lines. It takes several long seconds for his words to sink in, but the soothing motion of his thumb across your jaw makes the tension in your frame release. Eventually, you nod, your eyes squeezing shut briefly.

His fingers leave your chin. Slowly, he lowers his hand to hover over yours, his fingertips grazing your knuckles. “Can I?” he asks, gesturing to the lighter still clenched in your fist.

You nod again. “Yeah,” you say, voice cracking at the end. You wet your lips and try again. “Yes. Sorry.”

Steve hushes you as you start to murmur apologies under your breath. You’re still trembling, and he slips his palm around your wrist, thumb rubbing circles over the thin skin covering your rapid pulse. The two of you sit like that for a minute, until your iron grip starts to loosen and you fall quiet again. Slowly, his big hand slides down, engulfing yours as he pries your fingers away from the metal, careful with your stiff digits.

“Fuck, honey,” he says as your grip slackens enough for the lighter to slip to the floor with a clatter. Neither of you move to pick it up and light the fire. Instead, Steve wraps his hand around yours, his thumb rubbing over the bumps of your knuckles. Lips downturned, his brows knit together. “Your hands are freezing.”

The heat that envelops your fingers makes you shudder. Too hot. Too much. Too fast. A sound akin to a whimper slips out on your exhale, shaky and painfully soft.

“Does that hurt?” He loosens his grip slightly, thumb still working circles into your knuckles. Alarm buzzes through him at the iciness where your skin meets his. The drastic difference opens a pit in his stomach. Your hands have always been colder than his, but never like this. This isn’t your chilly toes bumping playfully against his legs at night to startle him into a yelp. This cold is bone deep, the kind that burns when they start to thaw, stiff and painful to the touch.

You grimace as he starts to uncurl your fingers more. There’s a sob crawling up the back of your throat at the sharp, stabbing pain in your hands, but you swallow it down before it can slip from between your teeth. “A little,” you admit, downplaying as much as he’ll let you get away with. Unable to stop yourself, your gaze slips down to the blood and torn fabric and torn skin—

“I left my gloves on the counter,” you tell him sheepishly, offering a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. Tone more bitter than you mean it to be, you add, “Guess I should have been more careful, huh?”

Steve doesn’t say anything, just lifts your hand to his mouth and presses his lips to your knuckles, trying to soothe the ache spreading through your fingers as warmth slowly seeps back into them. For a while, he leaves his lips there, parted slightly as he breathes through his mouth. His thumb never stops moving, and the friction helps, even as the burning grows intense. Pins and needles stab at your flesh, and you bite your bottom lip to distract from the sharp aches.

Eventually, his grip loosens. Reluctantly, he pulls your hand from his lips. “Better?” he asks, lowering your linked hands to your thigh before slipping his fingers out from between yours. His grip shifts to your leg, squeezing gently. The fabric is stiff and cold under his palm, and he flinches away instinctively.

“I fell,” you admit when his eyes jump back to yours in horror, though it takes longer than it should for you to realize why he’s so concerned. “I thought the creek was frozen over, but the ice wasn’t thick enough.”

For a moment, he’s quiet. Then, he manages to choke out a soft, “When?” Careful to keep his tone even.

“I don’t—a couple hours, maybe?” Your brows pinch together in confusion. “I’m not sure. A while ago, I guess. I can’t really feel it, so I just—I… forgot.”

Forgot. You forgot that you fell into water. Forgot that you’ve been wearing freezing clothes for hours.

Hypothermic, he realizes with a jolt. You’re hypothermic. It takes a second for his thoughts to unscramble, for him to swallow back the initial surge of panic that rises up in his chest at the new information. You seemed so level-headed before that he didn’t even notice the stiffness of your jeans or the patches of ice clinging to your clothes and hair, his head still foggy from being slammed against the ground before you found him. Bitterly, he berates himself for not seeing it before. The signs are right there. Steve doesn’t take his eyes off your face, taking in the discolored hue of your lips and the slow way you’re blinking, the more noticeable slur to the way you’re speaking.

Your eyes widen. Alarm twists your expression as you come to the same conclusion as him moments later than you should. “Steve…”

“Okay,” he says. Nervously, his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Slowly, he lowers his hand again, hovering over your thigh briefly before he reaches for the lighter on the floor instead. Fire. He needs to light the damn fire. “It’s okay. Just let me…”

Where you fumbled with the lighter, Steve catches the flame first try. Logs are already piled in the fireplace from the cabin was still occupied, and there are more stacked in the corner from last summer, when Hopper coerced Steve and Jonathan into helping him chop down one of the old oaks nearby. It was Fourth of July weekend and Steve left with blisters on his hands and a bone-deep ache in his arms. There’s enough wood to survive the winter, more than enough to last for a few days out here, if you need to. Hopefully, it won’t come to that.

The kindling is still dry, thankfully. The flames spread quickly, the logs catching fire one after another until they’re burning steadily. He’ll have to keep an eye on it, make sure the flames don’t burn too low or burn out.

“There.” He clears his throat, sliding the lighter back into his pocket. The firelight casts a warm glow through the room, and for the first time tonight he gets a good look at you. In the light, the faint discoloration of your lips and skin is more prominent, and he can see how badly you’re trembling in your soaked clothes. “How’s that? Fire starting to help at all?” he asks, even though he knows it’s too early for your frozen limbs to thaw.

His heart sinks when you only give him a weak smile in return.

“Come on.” Steve taps your thigh, hooking one hand under your leg and tugging until your confusion melts into realization. Limbs stiff and numb, it takes a minute for you to stand like he wants, and once you’re on your feet you sway unsteadily, knees weak from being crouched in the same position for so long. He keeps you steady with his hand on your thigh, grip tight over an icy patch on your jeans. “We need to get you out of this,” he says, looking up at you as you place your hands on his shoulders delicately, a frown pulling at your pretty mouth.

“Your arm,” you start to argue, glancing at the sluggishly growing stain on his right sleeve.

“Can wait,” he tells you, firm. Your brows knit together, your lips pursing. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re freezing.” He sends you a pointed look as a shiver wracks your body, and you avert your gaze. “Your clothes are soaked,” he continues, rubbing his thumb back and forth against your inner thigh. “Baby, if we don’t warm you up…” He shakes his head. “And you were out there for hours. We need to get you out of these clothes. I’m not—I’m not gonna argue about this.”

You chew your bottom lip. “You’re bleeding,” you try anyway, fingers curling into his sleeve above the top laceration.

“I don’t care.” He squeezes your leg, pinning you with the most serious look you’ve ever seen. “Just… let me take care of you, okay? Will you please just let me take care of you first?” His eyes search yours. He finds them melancholy and heavy with guilt, and he hates that look more than anything. “And, this?” He shrugs his bad shoulder. “Doesn’t even hurt. Not even a little bit.”

“Liar,” you call him, just like you did this morning. And you’re right to. His shoulder is still throbbing, and the amount of blood soaked into his clothes is concerning, but he needs to take care of you first. Needs to make sure you’re going to be okay.

“I’m serious. It barely scratched me.” Besides, Steve’s suffered worse than a couple of cuts on his arm.

You’re still looking at him like you want to put up a fight, but it’s not long before you come to the conclusion that you’ll be no good to him like this—barely able to feel your fingers and toes, shaking so badly you couldn’t even light the fire without help.

“Okay,” you relent, giving in to the concern in his eyes and the gentle touch of his hand on your leg.

“Okay?”

You sniff, nodding. “Yeah.”

“All right.”

Steve lets you rest more of your weight on his shoulders as he shifts to a more comfortable position, his knees already starting to sting. Both of his hands slide up and down the outside of your thighs, soothing you more than trying to warm you up at this point. Friction won’t help anymore. Even if the ice melts, your clothes are still drenched. Staying in wet clothes will only make you sick, and that’s assuming you aren’t already, because it’s cold outside. Colder than cold, really, different from the kind of cold that November brings. This time of January, it’s the kind of cold that hurts when you breathe in too deep.

He squeezes your knee once before sliding his hand down your calf to where your pants are tucked into the top of your boot. It’s quick work, undoing the laces enough so that he can slip your shoes off without jostling you too much. You don’t make a sound as he keeps you balanced, chucking the shoes somewhere behind you without taking his eyes off your legs. He grimaces when he sees your socks are soaked through.

Soaked, but not frozen. It’s barely a respite, all things considered, but it’s better than the alternative, he supposes, already rolling the first damp sock down over the heel of your foot.

“Can you feel that?” he asks, glancing up as he runs his thumb over the top of your foot.

“Yeah.”

He lowers your foot to the floor, reaching for the other. “Both of them?”

This time you only nod.

Your fuzzy, purple socks join the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and he grimaces when he sees the wet patches near the hem of your jacket. “This, too, honey,” he says, tugging at the edge.

Again, all you do is nod, too cold or too miserable or too tired to put up any more of a fight for the time being. One of your hands leaves his arms as you start to shrug the coat from your shoulders, movements stiff and slow. Steve helps you from his spot on the floor, tugging on the sleeve to help slip it off. The second arm comes faster, and soon the jacket is laying in a heap on the floor behind you.

The palm of Steve’s hand runs along your thigh over the wet, frozen patches there. You stiffen briefly as his fingers slide to the button of your jeans, and when you look down you find his eyes already on you, searching your expression for permission to keep going. It’s going to hurt, sliding the wet denim off your legs, and he doesn’t want to push too hard too fast.

And your pulse shouldn’t jump the way it does, seeing him on his knees in front of you, thick fingers fiddling with the button on your jeans. Not when you’re borderline hypothermic and the wound on his arm is still bleeding sluggishly. Not when there’s something out there in the woods stalking you both. But you’re still foggy from the cold, and it’s impossible not to think about the last time he was on his knees for you like this, big hands grabbing at your thighs and mouth hot on your skin, moans muffled behind the palm of your hand as he had you pressed back against a door.

A muscle in his jaw twitches, and you wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.

“Still doing okay? Do you want me to…” He swallows his tongue before he can ask if you want him to stop. You both know that right now he can’t. It’ll only make things harder.

“I’m okay.” You loosen your grip on one of his shoulders, finding the curve of his jaw instead and pressing the tips of your fingers to his cheek. You offer him a muted half-smile that only makes him feel worse and brush the hair from his face, hand stroking back the damp strands before falling back to his shoulder. “You can keep going.”

He wets his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, all right. Let me just…”

The button pops open with a deft move of his thumb and finger, easy in a way that only comes with familiarity. The click of your zipper sliding down is loud beneath the crackle of firewood, and it sends a shiver up your spine that you tell yourself is from the cold and nothing else.

Your fingernails bite into Steve’s shoulders as he loops his fingers around the waistband of your jeans and starts to tug them down. The material is soaked through and stiff, half-frozen where you slipped and went through the ice, damp everywhere else from the snow, and it’s a slow process, working the fabric down around your hips and thighs. Each inch might as well be a mile. He’s gentle as he rolls the waistband down, as gentle as he can be, anyway. At first, it isn’t bad. The fabric is stiff, sure, but being inside where it’s warmer has helped to soften the denim some. It’s worse on your right side. Where the left side slides down without too much trouble, the right sticks to your leg high on your thigh. Gentle pressure doesn’t inch the fabric loose, and his stomach drops when he sees the discolored skin peeking out from beneath.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he murmurs, the only warning he gives you before pulling harder.

You flinch and cry out when he has to peel your jeans away from your skin. It makes an awful, ripping noise, like it’s fused to your leg, and you nearly bite clear through your bottom lip in an effort not to scream. The slick sound of your skin peeling away from the fabric makes his stomach churn, and Steve slides his hand up your leg to your hip, squeezing gently as you let out a shuddering breath that dissolves into a wet sob.

He winces at every muffled whimper that slips between your lips, hating that he’s the one hurting you right now. Steve isn’t so self-loathing anymore to blame himself, but it still feels like he’s being sucker punched in the chest each time you cry out. When you do, he murmurs apologies. Reassurances. Nonsensical strings of words that he wishes made it hurt less. And maybe they do. You start to relax into his hold the more he talks, flinching and hiccupping less as he gets the fabric down to your knees. They slide down easier then, clinging less in the spots that are wet, not as tightly plastered to your calves where they were covered by your boots.

“How bad is it?” you ask, after he’s worked your jeans down to your ankles and helped you step out of the soaked denim. Your voice crackles over the words, wet and thick.

Steve stays on his knees in front of you, letting your shaking hands grip his shoulders too tight, your fingers digging in too close to the open wound on his arm. One of his big hands strokes up your leg from knee to hip, rubbing gently at the raw patches of skin. There are welts decorating your right leg, ruddy and dark like fresh bruises. Or burns. The sight of them makes him sick, but they aren’t nearly as bad as they could be, all things considered. Your left is relatively okay. You must have landed on your side when you fell.

You inhale sharply as he lingers over one for too long, and he whispers an apology that’s almost lost under the crackle of fire wood.

“Could be worse,” he tells you honestly. “It’s not pretty. And it’s gonna hurt like a bitch for a couple of days, but I don’t think we’ll have to amputate.”

You giggle. It’s startled and wet, but it’s a laugh, and he’ll take it.

His lips quirk upwards at the corners, and he almost leans in to kiss your hip, but stops himself, afraid to aggravate the sores on your legs any further.

“That’s probably for the best,” you say, easing your grip on his arms when he rubs circles into your hip with his thumb. There’s a touch of humor in your voice that makes the tension in his shoulders loosen. “I think you’d pass out if you had to cut my leg off. Then, we’d both be fucked.”

“You think I can’t handle a little blood?” he asks, scoffing. “I think my track record might prove otherwise.” Because he’s fought monsters before. Dozens of them. And they’ve ripped him to pieces before, but he’s always gotten right back up and kept swinging.

It would be different if it was you, though. Steve knows that. And you know it, too. The sight of your blood on Steve’s hands would make him sick. The idea of hurting you like that, even if it were necessary, makes him want to vomit.

He clears his throat and scrubs the thought away. His palm brushes against the welts forming on your leg again, careful not to hurt you. “Want me to look for something for these?” There might be some antibiotic ointment somewhere in here, but the best thing you can do for an ice burn is soak it in warm water, and that’s not going to be possible for a while unless one of you risks going outside to gather snow.

You follow a similar train of thought, more lucid now that the fire is warming you, and shake your head slowly. “No,” you say as he stands.

His breath hitches as sharp pain ripples through his right arm, and you frown up at him. Steve keeps his hands on your hips, his fingers slipping under the hem of your sweater so he can feel your skin. Clammy and covered in goosebumps, but solid and alive under his touch, growing warm. You press your hand to his chest, just beneath the lacerations splitting open his shirt.

“Sit,” you tell him, gently pushing him away from you towards the couch.

He wets his lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

Steve cradles his injured arm to his side as he skirts around the coffee table, careful not to bang his shins against it this time. With his lingering adrenaline fading to nothing, the tenderness in his side is coming back in full force. Gingerly, he lowers himself onto the raggedy old couch, leans his head against the back, and watches you, backlit by the fire, as you gather your things.

You fold your jacket and leave it in a pile with your socks and shoes. The jeans you leave in a heap on the floor, too soaked to do much else with right now. Absentmindedly, your fingers brush against one of the welts resting high on your right leg, the same one Steve caressed. It must sting, because your hand flinches away and you wrap your arms around your torso instead, fingers clenched in the thick, knitted fabric. Feeling his gaze on you, you look up, silhouetted in shadows so he can’t see your expression.

Without a word, you come back to him.

The sweater you’re still wearing is damp instead of drenched, but you’re still shivering as you help him out of his own clothes, working in silence as you watch him with worried eyes, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, biting it raw as you get a better look at the extent of the damage. His jacket and uniform top are ripped across the shoulder and soaked through with blood, beyond repair. You could try sewing the gashes shut, but you’d never be able to fully wash out the stains, an ugly reminder of tonight.

Steve is able to shrug the jacket off on his own, working the zipper down with his good arm and wriggling to slip the sleeve down his shoulder. The right sleeve is harder, and he winces as he bends his injured arm, expression screwing up in a way that has you reaching out to smooth a hand through his hair. Your palm comes to rest on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing back and forth. He leans into your touch, eyelids fluttering shut briefly before he finally wrenches the heavy jacket from his arm.

He tosses it to the other end of the couch and wonders if he should burn it to mask the scent of blood.

The button up is harder. The blood makes the fabric stick to his skin, and he struggles with the buttons until you brush his fingers aside and replace them with your own. Nimbly, you pop them open, hands beginning to shake less as the numbness and pain retreat. He doesn’t complain, sighing and sinking back further against the couch, watching you through half-lidded eyes as your hand moves down his chest.

Once his shirt is hanging open, you pause, chewing your lip as you try to decide what to do next.

You wish you had a pair of scissors. Something to cut through his shirt and make it easier to remove. Less painful to remove. But you aren’t sure if there’s one left in the cabin, and you aren’t willing to leave him alone for long to look. With his jacket gone you can see just how much blood he’s already lost, and your stomach twists sickly at the red stains covering most of his right arm and the side of his chest.

Steve is patient, watching as your brows pinch together and your lips turn down. Your hand is on his chest, pressed to the lower part of his ribs where you can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, reassuring you that he’s alive.

Slowly, your palm slides upwards, moving closer to the bloody gashes resting higher on his chest. You lower yourself onto the couch next to him, your knees pressed up against his right thigh. You’re half-sitting on the arm of the couch, leaning forward to get a better look at the mangled part of his arm without pressing up against him.

“What do you think, doc?” he asks, letting your touch move over his arm even though it hurts like a bitch. “Am I gonna lose the arm?”

He’s hoping for another smile, maybe even a laugh, if he’s lucky, but you only frown, brows pinched together. “I have to get your shirt off, Steve.”

There’s an apology beneath the statement, and he sighs, leaning into you more as you play with the hair at the nape of his neck in an effort to make him relax. “Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Do what you gotta do.”

“It’ll hurt,” you warn him, your free hand skimming the thin slices in his shirt, careful not to apply any pressure. “Some of the blood is dry. Or, frozen. It’s not going to come off nicely.”

Steve thinks of the way he had to peel the jeans from your legs, how the tearing sound made him want to puke.

“Like ripping off a really fucking big band aid,” he mutters.

You nod, stroking his hair away from his face. “Yeah. A really fucking big band aid.”

“Awesome,” he says. “Let’s get this over with.”

Where Steve had been hesitant to work your jeans down your legs, you’re more certain in your actions as you grab the right side of his open shirt and pull the ripped strips of fabric away from his wounds. It’s not that you have less reservations about hurting him, you’ve simply been doing this for years, patching him up after every stupid fight he got into during high school, taking care of him after monsters would ravage Hawkins once per year, ruthless in your need to keep him alive.

“Son of a—fuck!” he groans, eyes screwing shut as he clenches his teeth so hard that they rattle, his jaw aching under the pressure. Whispered apologies soothe the hurt, but he can’t make out the words behind the burning sensation on his chest and the dull ringing in his ears.

Barely allowing him a break, you’re quick to turn your attention to the deeper cuts on his arm. The pale blue fabric is bunched sideways until it starts to pull on the wound, the fibers sticking to the raw, fleshy edges of the lacerations. Clots pull and crack, bleeding freely again as you start to dislodge the soiled remains of his shirt. Steve’s hands are clenched into fists at his side, white-knuckled and shaking with the effort to keep still.

He hisses in surprise when the blue fabric peels away from the top cut on his arm, the shallowest of the three. All are still bleeding, but it’s sluggish now, even as the clots and scabs start to come loose with the fibers you pull free. He isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not—if he was bleeding more, maybe this would hurt less.

One by one, you unstick his shirt from his arm, and once the remains of his shirt pull away from the blood crusting under the open wound on his bicep, you yank the soiled fabric down to his elbow, shoving it further to his wrist, and then off before you toss it onto the floor.

He’s breathing heavily through his nose when you glance at his face. A thin sheen of sweat mats his hair to his forehead, and you brush the unruly strands back, leaning down to press your lips to his temple.

The tips of your fingers brush against the skin above his elbow before sliding upwards, though you stop shy of the lacerations. There are three of them. Shallow across his chest; deeper through the flesh of his arm. The cuts across his pec have stopped bleeding again already, beginning to clot and crust over into thick, itchy scabs. His skin is a mess of flaking, frozen blood, smeared across his chest and arm in a way that looks like one big open wound. The warm air and sticky feeling make him wince.

“Oh, Steve,” you murmur, thumb brushing the underside of one of the cuts. Your finger comes away red and wet when you pull back. The somber, guilty lilt of your voice makes his jaw clench harder, but he keeps his mouth shut as you examine the wound the monster left behind.

None of this is your fault, and he’ll make sure you know that later, but you don’t need reassurance from him while he’s still bleeding and his head is throbbing from being cracked against the ground.

There’s a joke on the tip of his tongue when he gets his breathing back under control, something to lighten the mood, even just a little. His head feels foggy as he peels his eyes open, looking at you. As if you can feel his gaze, you lift your head. Your eyes meet his, and they’re red and watery, and whatever he was about to say gets stuck in his throat.

“These need stitches,” you tell him, grasping his bicep under the cuts. “I don’t… I don’t think they’re too bad, but just to be safe. In case…” In case it comes back, you think, but don’t say out loud. In case you have to run. In case you have to fight. “We’ll need to get you checked out by a doctor.”

Steve nods. Your sweater is bunched up under his hand, his palm pressed to the small of your back, but he doesn’t remember grabbing you. He doesn’t know who he’s trying to ground, you or him. “Coyote?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Bear,” you decide after several seconds of thinking. “We went for a walk before the snowstorm and didn’t see it until it was too late. It ran off after you took a shot at it.”

He leans his head back against the couch. “As close to the truth as possible, huh?” The smile he sends you is wry, and you offer one of your own, but it’s damp and wobbles at the edges. Steve rubs his hand against your lower back. “I’m okay, honey.”

“You’re not,” you correct him immediately, a little bite to your tone. “I’ll get the first aid kit. We left one in the bathroom.”

Without another word, you slip from Steve’s hold and get off of the couch, careful to avoid his eyes as you grab the flashlight off the coffee table. The floor creaks under your bare feet as you hurry from the room before he can call out to you, trying not to run as you b-line towards the tiny bathroom.

As soon as you step into the room, you click the flashlight on, shutting the door with your back and fumbling for the knob to lock the door behind you. The flashlight beam is even weaker than it was before, the flickering growing more frequent. Ignoring the erratic flickers, you shove away from the door and set the flashlight on the edge of the sink.

“Come on, come on,” you murmur to yourself, throwing open drawers and the medicine cabinet doors in search of the damn kit. It should have been in the cabinet. That’s where you left it last summer after—and you haven’t touched it since. It should still be here.

You slam one of the drawers closed.

The flashlight clatters to the ground and goes dark.

Throat tight, you lean over the sink, breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. Your pulse quickens. Blood is sticky between your fingers, your hands shaking so badly that you have to grip the edge of the sink so tightly that the porcelain digs into your palms until they hurt. It’s too dark. Too dark to see anything but shapes and shadows in the mirror. Behind you, a figure moves, looming over you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Try to breathe the way your dad taught you.

You’d kept your explanation to Steve short. Five hours is too much to condense into a single sentence. Though, you hadn’t lied, mostly. You ran. You hid. That’s it. That’s the simplest way to put it, because thinking about the details has bile tickling at the back of your mouth. Acid burns your throat, acrid and choking. You lean over the sink and try not to gag.

That thing had chased you through the woods for what seemed like hours, driving you deeper into the woods until you weren’t sure where you were anymore. You couldn’t find the road. Or the cabin. For hours, it seemed like you were just running in circles. Lost. Terrified.

And then it caught you.

You fell into the creek. You fell, and your hip smashed through the layer of ice covering the running water. The cold knocked the breath out of your lungs. In the next blink, it was on top of you. Those sightless, milky eyes bored into yours. The matted hair around its face hung vertically. The wiry, greasy ends tickled your cheek. It crouched over your body, gangly limps jutting out, spiderlike, elbows and knees sharp and skin pulled taut.

“Hello?” it called to you in your own voice.

Clawed fingers reached out and you squeezed your eyes shut, unable to stop the sob ripping from your throat or the tears leaking down your face. You flinched as a lone claw delicately slid down your cheek. A sick imitation of a caress.

“Hello? Steve?”

“Please,” you choked out.

And it repeated “please” and cocked its head to the side, asked, “Cold?” in Steve’s voice.

You only sobbed again.

For what felt like hours, you laid there, that thing leaning over you, repeating words back to you in your voice—in Steve’s voice. What made you sickest was when it said words you hadn’t said, still using your voice. No longer just mimicking.

And then it cocked its head to the other side. Once more, it ran a spindly finger down the side of your face. You closed your eyes tight enough to see spots, and when you opened them again it was gone.

The flashlight flickers on.

There’s nothing in the mirror behind you.

When you come back to the living room, you’re carrying the first aid kit, a pile of old towels, and a bottle of rum. Without a word, you plop down onto the coffee table across from Steve, your knee knocking gently against his. He doesn’t mention how long you were gone, or the redness of your eyes.

He eyes the bottle as you flick open the locks holding the old, plastic first aid kit shut. “Your old man’s gonna be pissed that the rum’s gone,” he says, squinting to read the label in the firelight and whistling when he recognizes the brand. “Damn, this is the good stuff. He’ll have a conniption or some shit. Jesus.”

“Let him,” you say, glancing up from the contents of the kit to meet his eyes. “We’ll get him something nice for the wedding.”

The edge of his mouth quirks upwards, but it’s weak. Now that you’re finally getting a chance to really look at him, you can see the exhaustion dragging down his features. His smile isn’t there, and his eyes are half-lidded. His focus keeps drifting when he isn’t talking, and you aren’t sure if you should be more worried about the blood loss or the probable concussion.

Queasy with the thought, you turn back to the first aid kit, biting your lip as you examine the meager supplies left over from whenever you last stocked it. It must have been sometime last summer, before the gate was breached. You patched Steve up that time, too. A bloody gash on the outside of his leg. And Lucas had a cut above his brow that wouldn’t stop bleeding no matter how long Max kept pressure on it. All that’s left now is a roll of gauze, half a bottle of peroxide, and an old suture kit you kept, just in case.

It’s not much, but you’ll have to make it work.

“Drink,” you say, pressing the rum into his hands.

Steve doesn’t argue. With a twist, he pops the glass stopper out of the top and brings the bottle to his lips, face screwing up as he swallows a mouthful of the amber liquid. It burns on the way down, taste distorted by the blood in his mouth. He takes another swig as you lay towels and your suture kit on the arm of the couch, the peroxide in your hand.

“Stay still for me,” you tell him.

There’s no good way to reach the lacerations on Steve’s shoulder and the top of his chest, so without hesitation, you swing one leg over his lap. He tenses when you straddle him, grasping your waist with one big hand to steady you as you settle on top of him. The heat of his hand sinks into your skin through your clothes and you can’t help the content sigh that accompanies his touch.

The bottle almost slips out of his grip as you pour peroxide on one of the towels and press the cloth to the cuts on his chest. “Fuck,” he hisses, squeezing his eyes shut as you dab at the cuts, cleaning the dried blood off his skin. “Christ. Easier said than done. A little warning next time?”

You ignore him, wiping his skin clean with as gentle a touch as you can manage right now.

The two of you slip into a mindless rhythm, quiet as you clean him up with one hand, the other pressing a towel to the deeper wounds on his shoulder, hoping to stop the bleeding. Steve’s breathing becomes labored as you work, pained noises and curses muttered into the dimly lit room. You don’t do more than clean his skin and tape gauze over the shallow claw marks splitting open his skin.

A muscle in Steve’s jaw jumps as the space between you continues to shrink, your hips flush with his, and it’s impossible not to notice how close you are, how good your weight feels on top of him. His grip on you tightens as your ministrations shift to his shoulder, his fingers digging into your side over your sweater until he craves contact enough to slip his hand under your clothes.

You’re gentle as you clean his wounds. As gentle as you can be, anyway. Once the blood is cleaned away from the wounds on his arm, you pause, one hand hovering over the suture kit as you bite your lip, worrying it raw. They need stitches. Desperately. Cleaned, they don’t look quite as bad as when his arm was a mess of blood and tissue, but now you can see just how deep they go, how long they are. Each cut is at least four inches long, probably longer. They aren’t as deep as you feared, but they need more than gauze and peroxide.

“How many?” he asks as your fingers trace the underside of one of the gashes. He pulls you tighter to his chest with the hand on your back as you look at him. “Stitches.” He wets his lips after clarifying. “How many stitches?”

Your hand wraps loosely around his bicep. “The cuts are pretty long, Steve,” you admit, lips downturned.

“Just tell me how many, honey.”

For several seconds, you’re silent, thumb rubbing against the inside of his arm soothingly. “Maybe twenty, twenty-five for each, to be safe,” you tell him. “You’ll have to get them redone as soon as we can get you to a hospital. Right now, I’m more worried about the bleeding than an infection.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding in understanding. He pulls his arm from your grasp as he raises the rum bottle to his lips and takes another long drink, then sets the bottle on the side table. “Yeah, okay—okay. Let’s, let’s get it over with.”

Your hands shake as you thread the medical suture through the end of the needle. Steve leans his head back against the couch, his eyes closed as he waits for you to start. His hand is twisted in your sweater again, gripping the damp fabric tightly to keep himself grounded to you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

The first stitch is rough. He groans, long and low as you push the needle into his skin and pull it through to the other side. You keep your weight settled over his hips, holding him in place on the couch as he fights not to thrash against the white-hot, burning sensation lacing across his upper arm. You work quickly, tying off the thread and cutting it carefully.

Neither of you speak for a long time, the silence broken by the popping firewood and the hisses and groans that slip between Steve’s teeth as you stitch him shut, pausing every few minutes to wipe away the blood sluggishly leaking from his wounds.

Twenty-five. That’s how many stitches it takes to sew the first gash shut. Not professional by any means, but prettier than he could have done himself. There’s a fine layer of sweat covering him by the time you pause to look over your work, and his hair is matted to his forehead. You run your fingers through the strands, pushing them away from his eyes before letting your knuckles graze his cheek.

Steve breathes out, a shaky sound.

You make it halfway through the second gash before Steve speaks.

“You still have the car keys, right?”

You glance up, meeting his half-lidded gaze as you tie off a stitch. “Yeah. Why?”

The tips of his fingers press into your back subconsciously, holding you tighter to him. The weight of what he wants to say lays heavy on his chest, making it impossible to breathe. When he doesn’t answer, you look at him again, needle in hand and blood staining the skin around your fingernails.

“Listen,” he starts, hand dropping to your hip, “if that thing comes back—”

You tense over his lap, fingers digging into his arm below his open wounds. “No,” you shut him down.

Steve shakes his head, continuing as if you didn’t speak. “I want you to run.”

“Absolutely not,” you’re quick to argue. “I’m not—I’m not just going to leave you.”

He presses his palm to the base of your spine, keeping you close when you start to pull back. “No one’s leaving anybody.” He says it like it’s a promise, staring back at you with those big, hazel eyes. Sincere. Sober and exhausted, all the alcohol has done is loosen his tongue a little. He’s been mulling over this since he heard you crying in the bathroom, sobs muffled behind the door. “Look, if it gets inside… I want you to run for the car, okay? Just run. I’ll be right there behind you, yeah? I’ll be right behind you.”

“No, you won’t,” you say, bitterness creeping into your tone. Because you know him. You know Steve better than you know yourself, and he’s an idiot with too big a heart and too little self-preservation. Because he doesn’t care what happens to him so long as everyone else makes it out alive, but you do. If Steve thought he could give you the chance to run—to stay behind and ensure you stay safe, you know he’d take it.

The bite in those three words makes him wince, but he pushes ahead anyway. “Get to the Byers’ new place. Your dad’s practically got an artillery in the shed. You’ll—you’ll have to protect the kids. Please, can you just—can you do that?”

The needle slips from between your fingers.

You reach up, cup Steve’s face in your bloodstained hands and force him to look at you. “I’m not going anywhere without you,” you tell him firmly, breaking midway through. You swallow back the lump in your throat, forced to speak around the tightness there. “If you think I am, then maybe you really are an idiot. Now shut up and let me work.”

You’re harsher than you mean to be, and you turn back to Steve’s arm before he can see the wetness gathered along your lash-line. The needle dangles against his bicep, but your hands are shaking too much to add another suture so soon, so you busy yourself by wetting a towel and dabbing at the fresh blood leaking around the wounds.

Steve taps an unrecognizable pattern against your spine, stroking over the small of your back like an apology.

It’s another minute before you grab the needle again. Neither of you speaks as you continue to sew him up; you stop whispering reassurances between sutures.

After you cut the last stitch, you dip your chin and press your lips to the top of his shoulder.

He draws you into his chest, ignoring the way his arm protests the movement, the stitches pulling awkwardly as his muscles flex beneath the thread.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against his neck, muffled, but close enough for him to hear.  It’s a tight squeeze, an awkward angle, but you manage to wrap your arms around his back, pressing to him like a second skin. “Fuck, Steve, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” Yelled at him. Called him an idiot. Dragged him into this bullshit because you messed up and couldn’t handle it yourself. He never should have been out here in the first place.

And he knows you so well. Well enough to know the way your thoughts are spiraling as fear and exhaustion sink deep into your bones. “Hey, hey, hey,” he says, hand sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck, thumb pressed to your pulse. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t… don’t blame yourself, okay?” And God he wishes he was better with words. If he was, maybe he could do something other than sit here and hold you as you shake in his arms.

Your fingers curl against his back, searching for something to hold onto, but only finding skin.

“If I had just stayed home—”

“Don’t.”

“—and you got hurt because of me.”

His grip shifts to your jaw. Gently, he pulls you away from the curve of his neck, his hand on your chin coaxing you to look at him as he sweeps his thumb across your cheek. Your eyes are puffy, red and watery, and it breaks his heart. “This thing was already here, remember? Last night, I heard it. So did Will. And so did the Mulligans. It was already here,” he tells you again. “And it was hunting, or whatever the hell it’s out there doing. And we would have had to handle it anyway, like we always do. We just caught on a little faster this time.”

“Steve,” you say softly.

He slides his hand around to the back of your neck and pulls you down for a chaste kiss before you can say anything else. It doesn’t last for more than a moment. Just long enough to steal the words from your lips, the warm press of his mouth on yours a reminder that he’s here. That he’s alive. Your arms come unstuck from behind him, and your hands cup his cheeks as he pulls away, reluctant to let him go too far.

“I thought you were dead,” you murmur as he leans his forehead against yours. “I heard the gunshot, and I ran and… and you were just lying there. And there was blood everywhere. And you weren’t… you weren’t moving, Steve. You weren’t moving. I thought you weren’t—I thought—”

His mouth slots against yours once more, lingering longer, a little harder. His crooked nose bumps against yours, and it tastes like iron and salt as his mouth moves against your own, your lips parting under his like muscle memory. Ignoring the burn in his shoulder, Steve crushes you against his chest, holding you close and hoping you can feel his heart beating in time with yours.

The fire crackles and snaps, and you watch as the new logs Steve placed into the hearth are consumed by the flames. The heat radiating from the fireplace warms your skin, but your sweater is still damp. The wet fabric is heavy on your frame, clinging in strange spots, and you haven’t stopped fidgeting uncomfortably since you finished the stitches in Steve’s arm, but you haven’t been able to will yourself to strip off the last of your clothes. Keeping them on will only make you sick, you know that, but the thought is shoved to the back of your mind as you stare into the flames, entranced.

Neither of you can make sense of the time.

Steve’s watch must have come loose in the snow, and you’ve never been inclined to wear one, so it was impossible to tell how late it was by the time you and Steve finally disentangled yourselves from each other. There was a bottle of pain medication in the first aid kit, and Steve swallowed two of them dry after you pressed the bottle into his hand. At some point, you started shivering again, far enough from the fire that your sweater refused to dry, and Steve gently slid you from his lap with a hand on your hip, nudging you towards the fireplace to warm up as he muttered about finding blankets for the two of you. It didn’t escape you how pale he looked, dark circles like bruises under his eyes, a clammy sheen to his skin.

You hadn’t realized just how physically exhausted you were until you stood and swayed on your feet. It couldn’t be any later than eight, maybe nine, by the time you finished closing the wound on Steve’s arm. Between mopping up the blood and forcing your hands to stop shaking after each suture, the process lasted longer than it should have.

There’s still blood crusted under and around your fingernails, dry and flaking off as you pick at the blotchy, ruddy stains. Each time you close your eyes you see teeth and gangly, grotesque limbs, sightless eyes staring down at you, your own voice calling out from a mouth that isn’t yours.

Outside, the wind shrieks, a shrill cry that you swear sounds like Steve’s name.

Shaking your head, you will the thought away. You shift your weight from one leg to the other as the cold registers again.

Your fingers tremble as you grasp the hem of your sweater and peel the thick fabric over your head. It squelches. Droplets splatter down your chest and back as your grip wrings water from the material. The sweater lands in a wet heap on the floor, and you wince at the loud, slick sound, more wet than damp like you thought it was.

With shaky, frozen fingers you fumble with the clasp of your bra for several seconds before you’re able to shrug the equally damp fabric down your arms. Immediately, the chilly air descends on your now bare skin. Goosebumps erupt across your chest, and you bite your lip to stifle a breathy whimper.

Steve hears you over the crackle of the fireplace. Glancing up from the makeshift nest of blankets he’s piled together, he can’t help the way his head snaps back up for a second look. Cold and shivering, you’re standing by the clothes rack he managed to dig out from one of the closets, angled in a way that leaves you in shadow, the silhouette of your bare breasts illuminated in the firelight. His breath catches, his heart lurching into his throat as your fingers slide over your hips and slip beneath the hem of your panties, dragging them down an inch.

“Don’t,” he says, louder and sharper than he means to. Gasping, your head snaps towards him, eyes wide. Steve clears his throat, looking away. “Don’t. If they’re dry, you should keep them on. You’ll be warmer that way.” The subtle innuendo makes him wince, but from the corner of his eye he sees your hands leave your panties, watches as your arms come up to cover your breasts instead.

You wet your lips. “Right.”

You glance at the fire again, arms crossed over your chest, the flames warming your bare skin and finally chasing away the chill that seeped into your bones and took root inside you, like you’d never know heat again. With your head turned to the side, you don’t see Steve’s eyes wander back to you, unable to help himself, but you can feel the weight of them tracing over your frame. Fire licks across your spine, and it has nothing to do with the flames in front of you.

This shouldn’t be awkward, Steve thinks. It’s not the first time he’s seen you naked. Not even close. But this feels different. Intimate. Vulnerable. It’s not a clash of teeth and tongues, his hands grabbing your ass and hoisting you up against the nearest wall as you yank at his belt with impatient fingers because the world might as well be ending and you need to feel each other closer, at least once more, just in case. It’s not a tipsy kiss at a party neither of you want to be at, with his fingers slipping under your skirt as he bends you over a bathroom counter. Different from the risky quickies you’ve had in the front seat of his car, both of you pent up and desperate for release, your panties hooked to the side and his pants shoved down just enough for your hand to wrap around his cock.

Steve has seen you naked. He’s fucked you senseless, more than once. This is softer, somehow. Sweeter. No frantic hands. No desperation. In any other situation, it would be almost romantic.

Standing from his spot knelt next to the pile of blankets, Steve keeps his gaze firmly on the floor as he tugs at his belt, quickly slipping out of his wet and stained pants. His hands still as the floor creaks under your steps, his head tilting towards you as he sees you out of the corner of his eye.

Your arms are still crossed over your chest, loose enough for him to see the swell of your breasts. This close, he can see you’re wearing those lacy, royal blue panties that he likes. “Come warm me up?” you ask like you did last night, but there’s an implication there that wasn’t before. You want to forget tonight. You want to forget all of it, and Steve has always been good at making your thoughts grow quiet.

You’re close enough to touch. And he thinks about laying you out on the blankets, covering your body with his own and kissing you senseless until you’re moaning and writhing underneath him—your breathy cries sinking into him and drowning out the horrific screams still echoing in his head. You’d let him. There’s a look in your eyes, heady and dark, that tugs at the pit of his stomach and makes his skin feel hot.

Beneath that is something haunted.

Steve dips his chin and presses his lips to your temple instead.

“Come here, honey,” he murmurs against your skin. You shiver, eyes squeezing shut as he wraps his arm around your lower back, pulling you against him.

It isn’t long before the two of you make your way down against the blankets, burying beneath thick quilts and fuzzy throw blankets left behind during a hasty move. Steve kisses you again, soft and sweet, and you sigh into his mouth as his chest presses to yours, skin against skin. Just once, and then you slot into place against his side, head tucked under his chin and an arm slung over his stomach, your fingers sprawled beneath his navel.

You both lie there for a while, listening to the storm rage outside. You’re quick to drift, hours of being lost in the woods and hunted down leaving you unable to keep your eyes open once you’re pressed safe and warm to Steve’s side.

The rhythmic puffs of your breaths tickle his chest as Steve runs his hand along the curve of your hip and waist, pacifying himself as much as it soothes you. Exhaustion hits him hard, the last twenty-four hours catching up to him as your cold toes press against his legs. And for a moment he can pretend he’s home, with you.

There’s a tap against the window. Innocuous, but loud enough to rouse him from a doze.

“Steve?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, muffled and far-off, distorted even though you’re so close. He hums instead of answering, head lolling towards yours. You shift closer to him, your lips pressing against the dip of his collarbone. A content sigh heaves from your lungs.

“Steve?” you whisper again. Your mouth doesn’t move.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #stranger things #steve harrington #st fic #stranger things fic #fic: into open flames

[roguehongsami]

Forever Angel.

pairing/s: outlaw!yeosang x fem!fugitive

genre/s: crime, suggestive, au

synopsis: as you're hiking roadside, yeosang decides to give you a ride only to realise you don't have any idea where you're going. he takes you in, but the rest of the members are apprehensive of your presence.

content: domestic violence (insinuated), gun violence, prison break.

word count: 3k

author's note: not my proudest work lol. been in my drafts since 2 dec & just wanted it out. xoxo.

* DISCLAIMER: THIS IS FICTIONAL. IT IS NOT A REPRESENTATION OF KANG YEOSANG'S CHARACTER, PERSONALITY OR BEHAVIOUR. THIS IS SOLELY FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES. *

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ lana del rey // angels forever

Y/N had been walking under the sun for a good two hours. With the clothes on her back and leather jacket held over her shoulder, the only thing that created a buffer between her eyes and the sun was her Tom Mix hat. It was only a matter of time until the soles of her boots melted off, and she was barefoot and begging for an end.

She needed to find shelter before sundown.

A rundown car sped past her, exhaust fumes lingering in the air as it disappeared into the distance. Her brain pounded violently against her skull, a few heat blisters materialising on her body in response to the raised temperatures. The sound of exhaust pipes rumbling, polluting the air, neared.

A black Harley fat bob halted beside her as she slowed in her tracks. The owner's hair was tucked behind his ears, some strands cascading down the sides of his face. A pink heart-shaped birthmark, right by his eye, that called for attention. Sunglasses covered his eyes. He looked like an easy rider. Those weren't common in this part of the province anymore.

He pulled his dimmers over his head, taking in Y/N's figure before speaking. "Need a lift, pretty lady?"

Hand on her hip with her hat shielding most of her face, she uttered, "You offering?"

"Only if you tell me your name, sweetheart. Take off that hat so I can see your pretty face." he flashed his pearly-whites.

She brought her hat down beside her body, revealing two large and nasty bruises on her jaw and under her eye, her bottom lip cut. "It's Y/N."

He grimaced at the sight, at a loss for words. Not wanting to press for news that did not concern him, he instructed her to hop on. She positioned herself behind him on the seater, her hat and jacket nestled between their bodies. Her arms snaked around his torso before he revved the motorcycle and rode off.

The pair stopped by a roadside biker bar named Tripp's Saloon. Very old western, inside and out. A few cars and a variation of Harleys parked out front. The air conditioned interior served as the perfect escape for Y/N. Seated at a booth in the far back corner, Yeosang ordered them food, and not so long after, the waitress was back with their plates.

Being in the sun that long can work up an appetite.

"Tell me, where you headed?" Yeosang popped a fry into his mouth.

Y/N took a swig of her beer. "I haven't really thought it out honestly. I just took myself and went on. A fresh start anywhere would be nice."

Dumbfounded, his eyebrow arched. "So you journeyed into the sun with nothing but the clothes on your back and wishful thinking?"

She shrugged nonchalantly, now downing her fries and onion rings. Her demeanour was relaxed. She had finally cooled down. Any more time in the sun would've resulted in dire consequences.

He motioned gestured at her face with his chin. "And those bruises? They got some' to do with your fresh start?"

He watched as her body tensed up. She took a serviette from the holder, and as she swiped it across her lips, her head hung low. His gaze was fixed on her, awaiting an explanation for her injuries.

"Maybe." she quipped. "He's the sheriff, so nobody ever bat an eye. Would've snuffed me out eventually, so I had to get out."

They dined in silence for the remainder of their meal. Yeosang paid the bill and they were soon back on the road. The sun had took its leave, with millions of twinkling stars taking up space in the black sky. A cool wind blew, the temperatures much kinder than before.

Her head rested on Yeosang's back, taking in the fast-passing view of the endless desert and sparse cacti. The motorcycle begun slowing as Yeosang yielded in front of a cabin. Dried russian thistle dancing on the barren land, the greener kind still rooted in the earth. A black van parked out front along with another fat bob. No sign of life for kilometres, just this cabin isolated from civilization.

The Harley's engine died as Yeosang stepped off. With Y/N's jacket and hat in one hand, he held out his other hand. She took it, reluctantly so, and brought her leg over the motorcycle as they walked toward the entrance. The porch floorboards creaked under their weight. Yeosang knocked in what was presumably morse code. The door opened and they were greeted by a 6'0 tall man with a broad build.

In his baritone, he spoke, "We're bringing alley cats to our hideout now?"

Yeosang pushed Mingi in the chest, causing him to stumble back. He walked past him with Y/N still in hand. "Eat shit." he spat.

Mingi locked the door and followed the pair into the living room. There, the other members were seated and chatting amongst themselves. When their eyes landed on Y/N, all hastily stood at attention. Perplexed, feeling as though they had been infiltrated. A man who stood at 5'7 approached them, finger pointing at her.

"Who is she?" Hongjoong sneered. "Are you trying to get us caught?"

She stood behind Yeosang, feeling like an intruder who had been cornered. Her elevated heart rate made the constant thumping fill up her ears. Her senses were dulled by fear.

Yeosang raised his arm to put distance between himself and Hongjoong. "She's good people, Hongjoong. She just needs shelter."

The others closed in, as they circled around Yeosang and Y/N. He pulled her into a hug, trying to keep her away from the others. He knew bringing her over was risky, but guilt would eat away at his conscious if he did not at least try to lend a helping hand.

Jongho pointed an accusatory finger. "Did she have nowhere else to go?"

"Does she not have a home, or is she a stray?" San chimed, tone laced with disdain.

Y/N escaped the hug, body turned toward San. Her eyes welled as she spoke with a tearful sob. "I can't go back there." she pulled her shirt up to expose her stomach. "I'd get sent to my next life. Please..." she pleaded.

Her torso was covered in bruises, some old and some fresh. The room fell silent, the guys all looking at her injuries. She pulled her shirt back down. Her eyes danced between the crew, taking in all of their shocked expressions.

"Just for the night, I'll be out of your hair by dawn." she spoke firmly.

[ . . . ]

Sleep could not find her. With Yeosang sound asleep beside her, she was unable to relax. Just stared at the ceiling. She hustled out of bed and rummaged through the inside pockets of her jacket. Bringing forth a cigarette and lighter. She found herself seated outside on the porch bench.

As she blew smoke from her mouth, the flavour of tobacco still remained. Her nerves slowly relaxed. The sight of the stars, and the midnight breeze had put her at ease. That pit in her stomach was doing away with itself. She couldn't recall the last time she was this placid. The usual noise in her head had abated. Accustomed to being ruled by fear and suffering. It started off so inconspicuously and before she knew it...

That had been her life for a little over a year.

The floorboards creaked when Yeosang stood by the bench, towering over her as he interrupted her daydreaming. She took another pull of her cigarette before looking up at him. He stood idly.

"So worried about getting killed yet here you are, doing it to yourself." Yeosang spoke bluntly.

Y/N chuckled before taking another pull. "Old habits die hard." she exhaled the smoke.

"When'd you start?"

"High school. I'd gather about ten years now, never looked back."

He stuck his hand out, gesturing her to hand over the cancer stick. She obliged. "That's one nasty habit, I'll tell you that." he threw it down and put it out with his bare foot. "You weren't in bed when I woke."

She sighed as she leaned back. "I've been skittish for so long that sleep don't come easy anymore."

"If you're worried about shelter, I made the others understand your situation. You're staying with us now."

"And I thank you for it." she gave him a small smile. "A year of being a punching bag will unnerve you in ways you can't imagine."

Yeosang stood up, sticking his hand out for Y/N to take. They went back into the cabin, locking the door before proceeding to the bedroom. Laying in bed with no sheets because of the sweltering heat. Facing each other, the sound of their breathing filling the atmosphere. His hand brushed over her face, cupping her cheek. He inched forward, lips locking with hers.

She had not felt this way in so long, as fireworks erupted in her stomach.

As the kiss intensified, their actions grew more aggressive. She winced when a sharp pain from the bruise on her jaw. He apologized and eased his hold. His hand ventured down her hips and between her thighs. Their kisses grew sloppy.

Yeosang got up out of bed to remove his sweats, as Y/N pulled off her underwear. He positioned himself between her legs, bringing her legs up to his waist, making her wince from the pang in her abdominal muscles.

"Switch." her voice low.

As she hovered over him, she leaned in to catch his lips. He positioned himself upright, his arms around her waist. She lowered herself, slowly fitting him. He pulled the sweatshirt that he lent her over her head, exposed her torso and chest. His vest was the last item to be discarded.

Afraid her moans were growing louder, she bit down on her lower lip. One or two escaped but nothing serious. The floorboards creaked and the bed frame squeaked. She went in for a deep kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth.

A light knock on the door startled them, halting all their actions. "A bit louder, please. I can't hear you." Wooyoung said sarcastically.

They broke into fits of giggles, continuing as they were. Calling it a night, Yeosang laid Y/N back down and grabbed the tissues on the bedside to clean her up. He cocooned her in his arms, their bodies tangled with one another.

"That should tire you." he joked.

It had been some days since her arrival. By 9:15, she was wide awake and well rested. She was alone in bed, Yeosang had already started his day hours prior. Before joining the guys, she made the bed and picked up her clothes off the floor. Curtains open to let in some sunshine.

When she finished showering, she rummaged through Yeosang's drawer to find clothes to wear. A white sweatshirt and grey sweatpants sufficed. She stood before the small mirror hanging on the door. Taking in her mildy deformed face, her fingers brushed the bruise under her eye. The swelling was gone, only discolouration remained. The cut on her lip was far from healing.

The guys were gathered in the living room, watching the television. A news broadcast came on, a picture of a police officer was shown right beside the news anchor.

"The body of thirty-two year old Sheriff Max Hynes was discovered this morning in his home by one of his deputies. He was bludgeoned to death with a golf club. The Riverton police department says that they have already identified a possible suspect."

The camera cut to one of the detectives working the case.

"We've interviewed several community members and gathered all the evidence that we could. As of now, we've identified Y/N Reeves as our primary suspect." a picture of Y/N was shown. "We believe she may be on the run. Possibly armed and dangerous. Anyone who sees her, please call your local police department."

Y/N's criminal status was about to complicate their entire operation.

The floorboards creaked as Y/N approached the living room, standing inches away from the couch. They all turned to look at her. She saw the broadcast. She knew she had been caught. Her demeanour was relaxed as her eyes remained glued to the television. Her face wore an emotionless expression.

She rued nothing.

Seonghwa circled the couch and squeezed Y/N's arms. "You realise you're being here compromises us? Huh, answer me!" he yelled from the top of his voice.

Yeosang cut between them and pushed Y/N behind him. "She probably has an explanation, Hwa. Back off!"

Yunho towered over Yeosang, catching Y/N gaze. "With everyone on the lookout for your girlfriend, our cover will be blown if they find her. She needs to leave."

"She ain't going nowhere!" Yeosang bit back. He turned to face her. "Y/N, you said you ran away. What really happened back there?"

"I fled after I clubbed him upright the head. His time was comin', I just sped it up." she spoke coldly. "I was a good woman until I met him."

"Why didn't you just report him in a different district?" Mingi asked.

She turned her head to Mingi who was seated on the couch. "I did. He broke my arm." she lifted her left arm, revealing a healed stitch scar running along her inner forearm. "Said it was nobody's business what went on between us. And you know pigs always look out for their own, they called him as soon as I mentioned his name."

Yeosang waved his arms around, calling for the conversation to end. "Enough. Y'all got your explanation, she's staying."

Hongjoong stood before Yeosang, face stern and lips pressed into a hard line. "You better pray the cops don't come knocking on our door, or it's your head, Kang."

[ . . . ]

The remainder of the day was fairly mundane. While she was sat on the couch before the television, the guys were huddled around the dining table. They spoke in hushed tones whilst they assembled and dismantled mechanical parts. She paid them no mind.

It was dark out. While Yunho and Wooyoung packed away their contraptions, particularly careful with the hourglass artifact, Mingi prepped their dinner. The lot gathered in the living room as they watched the television.

In the distance, the faint wailing of sirens could be heard. The sirens got louder as the squad cars neared. They knew. Everyone scattered as they gathered all their belongings. Making haste to the van, the squad cars closed in as they blocked the van's path.

As Y/N was about to get in, an officer shot at her. The bullet tore into her thigh. She fell to the ground, soil getting in her eyes. Yeosang climbed out to help her but Jongho reeled him back in. The officers ran toward her. As they approached the van, a dim white light shone from inside. When the officers opened the door, all eight men were gone.

With Y/N apprehended, she was admitted into a hospital to treat her wound. Waking up after surgery the next day, she found herself handcuffed to her bed. In the corner of her room sat a detective who was working her case. He grilled her for a few minutes but he didn't get the answers he was looking for.

The detective handed her a picture of the eight men from before. "Just give us Ateez and we'll drop your murder charge."

"For the last time, suit; I don't know who they are." she struggled while handcuffed to the bed. "They took me in after I ran away."

The detective took the photo and said as he walked out the hospital room. "Guess I'll be seeing you in court."

O N E M O N T H L A T E R

Leaving the cafeteria and making her way up the stairs to her cell. Limping, with a crutch to support her. Her trial was swift. She told her truth. Expressing no remorse, she vowed in courtroom full of witnesses that she'd remake said decision should a man ever raise his hand again.

So silent she could hear her heart pumping blood. She laid facing the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come. A commotion broke out in the lower floor as gunshots could be heard. She was quick on her feet as she stood behind the metal bars.

All she saw were guards running in one direction, some plummeting to the floor in their tracks. A posse of masked men ran rampant on each floor. The guard in front of her cell shot a few times before falling to the ground, a wound between his eyes releasing blood. She distanced herself, tripping on her feet and landing on her backside.

One man stopped in front of her cell, a rifle pressed to his chest. She crawled further back with pain shooting in the wound in her thigh. She sat against the wall, shielding herself. The man pointed his firearm at the lock, releasing two shots before the bars opened.

He entered the cell and kneeled before her, pulling his mask over his head. "Y/N?" his husky voice called to her.

She pulled her arms down and her jaw slacked. "Yeosang?"

"Your bruises are all gone." he smiled as he stroked her cheek.

"And I sleep better now." she nodded. "What was that white light in the van? The cops asked me about you lot, why'd they call you 'Ateez'? I have so many questions."

Another one of the masked men stood by the entrance of her cell. He pulled his mask up. Before speaking, he fired a few shots in the direction he came from.

"If you two lovebirds are done with your reunion, we need to leave." Hongjoong announced as he fired more shots. "They're sending back-up."

Yeosang stood as he brought Y/N up with him. "I'll answer all your questions but first, let's get you out. You shouldn't have been here in the first place."

#ateez #kang yeosang #yeosang fluff #roguehongsami

[triplesilverstar]

Bar lights don't help

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Pairing: Vash X F!Reader

CW: Canon Typical Violence, mentions of injury, blood and injury, pining, drinking, you’re both idiots

Word count: 2.1K 

A/N: Chapter One of Thoughts lost in the sand. A series of one shots set between "An idiot walking in the desert" & "The Idiot is still walking in the desert " Where we see Snipes ignoring her feelings and Vash coming to realize his are a little more than just being friends.

You smiled from your seat at the bar back against the wall watching the revelry as it unfolded, a foot resting on the high chair next to you. The town had a good reason to celebrate an attempted robbery of their bank that afternoon stopped without a single injury.

Well no injuries to the townsfolk, the bandits had a few pretty bruises in shades of blue and purple painting their faces and more than a few of those bruises were very much rifle butt plate shaped. Yet the town itself hadn’t been too worried about the condition of those who had tried to rob them of everything they had. 

The attempted hold-up halted all because the bus you had been planning to take was late, which also meant Vash was around. Your tall red clad shadow that you just couldn’t seem to shake, still following you from place to place. While neither one of you had yet to say it, you had made the transition from sort of traveling companions to friends some time ago. The days of finding him an annoying shadow you couldn’t shake were long gone, even if you still had slightly different views on how to make money. 

So when the bandits rolled into town shooting at random from their car you and Vash just looked at one another, shrugged your shoulders, and split apart. Clearly, these morons knew the place as in no time the bank door was open and they were walking out laded with stolen goods. So Vash played the fool and popped the car tire as they tried to load the money bags in the vehicle making small talk and trying to seem unassuming, while you started from the other side and in their confusion over the burst rubber started slamming them with your rifle as a club. 

It had been over in minutes. 

And the town had been dead set on not letting the two of you leave that afternoon after that little showdown was dealt with, intent on having a party which resulted in both you and Vash being given free rooms for the night at the hotel and dragged to what the locals called the best bar in town. 

It was the only bar and stuffed with more food than you’d be able to finish and the townsfolk were dead set on stuffing you and Vash till you were ready to burst. Or at least they were trying with you, ignoring all the comments about how you couldn’t eat anymore at least until the old woman running the bar stepped in to be your defense. 

Vash had been happy stuffing his face and then the taps at the bar were opened, and Vash went from those shy little grins to a laughing fool. Cheering with the townsfolk and raising his mug of beer in the air before being dragged to the dance floor. Time and time again, pretty girl to pretty girl. 

The first chance you had, you bolted for the wall well aware if you tried to leave you’d just be dragged back into the party. Your earlier attempt halted in a similar manner and there was an itch building at the back of your skull because of it. 

A few short months ago you wouldn’t have cared and slipped out anyway, hiding on a rooftop somewhere to watch the stars. Now though? Now even if you had tried to run a part of you stuck around because Vash himself had made you see something. “I don’t stick around for me, I stick around for them. They aren’t like you and me Snipes, so if they feel they need to celebrate, who am I to refuse them.” 

You’d groused back that it was just an excuse for him to get a few cheap beers which made him rub the back of his head in that stupid sheepish manner. And yet his words had made you change your tune, the ring of truth you wanted to ignore kept whispering in your ears. Sure you still weren’t drinking anything more than a single beer if you even had that, and still scowled to an extent at those that tried a little too hard to pull you into activities you didn’t want to participate in. Yet at the end of it all and putting your own discomfort for solitude aside you were sticking around, and while Vash still sent you looks of exasperation while you hid at the edge of the party you were still there. Because it wasn’t about you. It was about them. 

“Hey, there little lady” pulled from your musings as one of the men, probably no older than twenty leaned on the bar beside you. “How about you come join me for a dance?” A soft chuckle leaves you, as you sip from your water flicking your eyes at the man standing beside you. Another reaction that would have been rather different a few months back when you would have sent him a scowl to send the devil himself running. 

“Sorry friend. Just have two left feet.” A gentle refusal and the boy with his flaxen hair just shrugs and heads back towards the center of the bar back into the fray of the party. 

Rolling your shoulders and looking back at the bar you take a longer drink, sighing and running a hand down your face. You’d never understand your own appeal, you were covered in sweat and grime from the heat of the day and the brief interlude of fighting. “Aw Snipes, there is a heart under all that cool disinterest.” 

“Funny, real funny Vash.” You snort, rolling your eyes as his long lean body drapes across the bar beside you spreading one of his arms along the smooth surface. “I thought you figured out I had a heart a while ago, especially when you held my hand for those two stupid days.” 

“Not gonna let that one go are ya?” Turning your attention fully to Vash you roll your eyes again, watching him swallow the last of his mug. He’s somehow found a tie and has it wrapped around his head, keeping the scruff of his longer hair out of his eyes, a knot at the temple, and the length of the tie hanging along his face. Seeming casting a shadow along his facial features as the light from the bar reflects above him, making him seem a little more ominous than usual.  

“You had your chance to cut Stamp, it’s your own fault for sticking around. I’m gonna keep that ammo in my pocket till I have to use it.” Laughing as you signal for the bartender, watching the gray-haired matron nod her gaze flicking to Vash’s empty mug as well. A tap of your finger and another nod as she pours your partner another beer and brings the jug of water with her for you. 

“But then who would I have such fun adventures with?” Smirking with a blush painting his cheeks as his head is thrown back that image from seconds earlier gone, a clear indication he’s starting to feel the amount of booze he’s no doubt had. Oh well, his hangover tomorrow won’t be your problem. “Besides, maybe I like you having some dirt on me.” 

Something about the way his voice rings in the air makes you look at him a little harder, and your heart shudders in your chest. He isn’t just leaning against the bar, he’s perched so part of his body is on the chair your foot is pressed against. His long legs crossed over one another and the fabric tight showing the muscle of those strong thighs. The baggy crimson of his coat hangs with gravity to highlight just how much of his figure is hidden from sight within the bulk of it, the turtleneck taut across the expanse of his chest. 

The pink tinge on his cheekbones and the way his sunglasses have slipped lower on his nose allow you to see more of his face normally hidden behind the orange lens, making his blue eyes seem even brighter. Like two ocean pools, and it makes you yearn for something that you can’t find in this desert world. Your mouth suddenly feels as dry as the dunes just past the edge of town, something is swimming in those blue depths as the corner of his mouth lifts, parting his lips. Your shoulders begin to tense and your heart starts to race faster the longer he has you caught in those brilliant eyes. 

Only to close it as someone calls out to him, breaking the moment. A light sheen of sweat breaks out between your shoulder blades which you’ll swear to the universe is because of the beaming overhead lantern light cast across you. You’ll blame the thundering in your head on the sound of those dancing around you, and not the muscle in your chest beating a far faster tempo than it should have from that single gaze. 

No. 

None of what you feel as your body goes numb is because you’ve realized you're sexually attracted to one Humanoid Typhoon.

One Humanoid Typhoon that you just happen to be traveling with, that you had been actively hunting to cash in his bounty. 

No. 

It’s all because of the liveliness of the town around you because you can’t, won’t, refuse to believe you could feel anything more than companionship for someone as wholesome as Vash. Swallowing the last of your water and making an excuse to slip outside, hoping the cold dry air will make your body calm down and there must be something showing on your face as those still sober at the door make no attempt this time to stop your attempt to leave. 

Not that they could have now that you wanted out back into the open space. 

The moment the chill air hits you, you hold off from fastening your jacket, taking a few steps farther out before stopping and lifting your head to the sky. A long breath and counting to four as you inhale letting the crispness seep into your ribs, another count of four before you let it out just as slowly. Watching the small cloud form and rise from your lips before disappearing into the air around you. 

Dragging a hand down your face, feeling the heat rising from under your palm before digging your fingers along your hair and shaking it like mad. You are not growing attracted to Vash. 

You can’t. 

It’s just a recipe for disaster. You might look like you’re in the prime of your life, but you’re old. Old enough to be at least his grandmother and it’s not right to let whatever affection you might feel for him start to grow. No. You need to shove it down and just continue to think of him as your friend. It’s all you can feel for him, the same amount of affection as if he’s a friend. 

You only have so much time before he figures out you aren’t exactly human, just like so many other people you’ve met over the years. While the physical scars are long gone, healed by your unique biology, the mental and emotional ones not so much. 

Time has never been your friend. 

Just like how you only manage to keep friends for a short amount of time. No one wants to be friends with a monster hidden behind a moniker you hate because your real one is never said, because it hurts less to be called a monster when no one knows your name. A facade to trick your mind. 

Dragging your fingers from your hair and dropping your chin to your chest, watching the smallest dance of sand upon the wind as it blows across the top of your boots. You just need to enjoy the companionship while you can before you have to go your separate ways. 

Again. 

The burning in your chest finally starts to ease and you roll your shoulders feeling the crack of a few vertebrates in your spine before turning towards the bar, glad the hotel was next to it as you took measured steps back. All while trying to shove thoughts of Vash out of your head. 

And the look you had seen in his eyes. A look you’ll have a long time trying to push out of your thoughts because you could have gotten used to someone looking at you like you mattered. 

Kicking the sand as you walk, unaware of those same blue eyes watching you from the window of the bar trying to come to terms with his own growing feelings towards you.

Back to Masterlist for the series

#vash the stampede x reader #vash the stampede #trigun stampede #trigun #twink writes #Bullets Bandits Ghosts & Typhoons #tristamp #vash x reader #vash x you

[mumblelard]

saturday robot sushi with fallie for his twenty-first birthday was fun. i always forget to take pictures when i am hanging out with my kids. warabi mochi for the win

saturday night halloween party with mostly mature married couples was mostly a big old dud. no shade, no lemonade

yesterday was a rainy, foggy, overcast softpants to shower to softpants sunday. ssss

i'm looking forward to tonight. i think there will be lots of beggars; the kids are ready to let loose. i hope they have lots of fun and do a little damage too.

i still haven't decided what my halloween treat is going to be. gas station tall boy or another bag of nerds candy corn?

happy halloween imaginary constructs! see you on the other side

#pumpkin vivisection season #skull shaped ring pops #warabi mochi #happy birthday fallie #william tecumseh sherman #ceramic demon pig #beggars night #foggyweather #when he paused at the end of a joke #i was there for some of the beginning most of the middle and all of the end #it's the end of the world as we know it #end of messages

[imsparky2002]

Monstrous AU - Proposals

Marinette x Adrien x Luka x Kagami

Who Proposed?: Adrien

Proposal: While on a trip to Kagami's home country, he took them to a place nearby a river where dragons usually profess their love for one another. He showed them dolls he made which had blood diamond rings in the hands.

Alya x Nino

Who Proposed?: Alya

Proposal: During a thunderstorm, while at his parents' lab, Alya proposed to him. When he said "I do!", there was a strike of lightning.

Kim x Ondine

Who Proposed?: Kim

Proposal: He took her an area near Loch Ness, during a sunset. The ring had an oysterl pearl from her father's ocean inside of it. He also gave her a special love bite which marked her as a mate.

Mylene x Ivan

Who Proposed?: Mylene

Proposal: They were at Ivan's home in the mountains, overlooking the whole snowy expanse, and she made a special flower crown with heliotrope(eternal love), chrysanthemums (happiness) and calla lilies (marriage). Afterwards, she pulled the ring out, and he was not ashamed to say he teared up while saying "yes".

Juleka x Rose

Who Proposed?: Rose

Proposal:Juleka was invited to a show by "Raggedy Rosie". It was a Corpse-Bride style song, with some cutesy elements thrown in, professing her adoration and trust in the vampire. Then she popped the question, to which Juleka gladly accepted.

Nathaniel x Marc

Who Proposed?: Marc

Proposal: He took Nathaniel to his favorite cathedral to perch on in all of Paris. The ring had several little drawings to symbolize the artistic skills of the gargoyle. Then he flew his fiancee all around the city.

Zoe x Cosette

Who Proposed?: Cosette

Proposal: They created a maze for Zoe to go through, containing recreations of all the sweet, sentimental, and hilarious little moments from their relationship. When the mummy finished the maze, it pulled out a ring containing a gem in the shape of a blue scarab.

Aurore x Mireille

Who Proposed?: Aurore

Proposal: Aurore used a ring with a special gem from her planet. Her and Mireille were on her spaceship, overlooking the land. The alien actually stood up on her tippy toes, as is custom on her planet for proposing.

Denise x Simon

Who Proposed?: Denise

Proposal: During a trip to Greece, they found a historical site that was important to cyclopses and popped the question. The ring was forged by a cyclops, to make sure it didn't break or get dirty over time.

Jean x Austin

Who Proposed?: Jean

Proposal: He proposed to the reaper on a gondola ride, after performing a rocking concert with ballads created just for him. The ring has a skull engraved onto it with a mask over one side of the face.

I want to thank Weeby for helping me make the proposals, and I'll be doing one for Ghoul Squad as well. Make sure to reply, reblog, post and ask for more. @artzychic27 @msweebyness

#monster au #monster #monstrous au #monstrous #school for monster #proposal #future #miraculous ladybug #miraculous

[blessyourhondahurley]

Keep Me Fed All Year

Dean has a small crisis of faith at a fall festival.

Suptober prompt: Maze/Maize Flufftober prompt: Wearing Each Other's Clothes Fictober prompt: “I chose you.” Inktober prompt: Gargoyle

(Read on AO3)

Summer in Kansas was over, there was no debating that. A late-September frost had hustled in all of the usual seasonal accoutrements: sweaters and scarves, changing leaves, pumpkin spice everything, and signs on every corner in town for–

“What on earth is a 'maize maze'?”

His angel wasn't fully an angel any more, but he could still look mighty smitey when he didn't grok a piece of pop culture. Dean chuckled and reached across the Impala's bench seat for Cas's hand.

“It's a 'family fun' kinda deal, babe. Farmer carves a bunch of twisty paths in his cornfield and charges folks top dollar to tramp around in there and get lost.”

Cas's furrowed brow did not clear at this explanation. “And where is the fun part of that?”

“Most times there's other attractions. The farmer's wife sells some cookies, his kids run a few little games. It's cute.” He realized just a moment too late that those last two words had determined his Saturday plans. Cas was a sucker for things that were cute. The collection of baby animal figurines on the shelf above his side of the bed was testament to that. As if on cue...

“Can we go?”

“'Course, sunshine. Anything you want.”

~~~~~

Which is how Dean finds himself handing over a twenty to a gangly pre-teen in a gargoyle costume. The kid folds the bill in half, then in half again, working with the exaggerated focus only an eleven-year-old with his very first grown-up job can muster, and drops it neatly in the slot on top of the metal box in front of him.

“Welcome to the Johnson family harvest festival corn maze is straight ahead maps are here on the table hay ride line forms next to the barn hot apple cider donuts come out of the fryer every fifteen minutes please enjoy your stay thank you for coming!!” He punctuates his spiel with a fast inhale, like the whole speech takes exactly one lung full of air to produce.

Dean nods and grabs a map, shoving it into his back pocket for emergency reference only. He ambles over to the cornstalk-bedecked entrance gate where his husband is waiting. Cas is wearing a navy blue Carhartt jacket that used to be Dean's. It looks about a million times better on him than it ever did on Dean. There's a soft gray knit cap on his head, and a matching scarf around his neck. (Cas gets chilled easily now that he's 90% human, so Dean always makes sure to wrap him up nice and snug whenever they go out.)

Dean's wearing his husband's cardigan, a favor returned after Cas saw the hungry look in Dean's eyes when Cas had tried on his Carhartt. The sweater's thick and warm, but it's definitely not Dean's usual lumberjack-meets-bounty-hunter vibe, so it's making him feel a little itchy.

A lot about this moment is making him itchy, actually. He's standing next to a cheerful scarecrow that’s holding an IT'S FALL Y'ALL sign. He's dressed like Mr. Rogers and he's probably gonna go on a hay ride in a few minutes. The man-shaped being next to him is wearing his mom's wedding ring, a ring that Dean pushed onto his finger in front of a raggedy band of their nearest and dearest, promising to love him always in this world and all others. All around him he sees happy families engaging in wholesome fun and there's a skull-filling siren blaring in his brain. This is not for you, it screams. These things are not for you.

Suddenly he's about three seconds from a panic attack. His heart starts trying to punch its way through his rib cage, and he's envying that eleven-year-old his lungs full of air. His eyes dart as he tries to scope out a quiet place to hide while he rides this shit out.

“It's okay to enjoy this,” Cas whispers in his ear. “You're allowed to be here.”

Dean's heart rate immediately slows, the panic ebbing as his husband takes his hand. Grateful tears spring to his eyes and Cas brushes them away with chilly fingers.

“Damn, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs, turning to bury his face in the crook of Cas's neck. “How do you always know when I'm freaking out?”

“Still 10% angel, remember? Besides, I know you inside and out, beloved. You still don't think you deserve to be saved.”

Dean huffs a watery laugh into the collar of Cas's jacket.

“Don't deserve to be this happy,” he agrees. “Don't deserve you.”

“Well, who knows what either of us deserves,” the angel says with a soft laugh as he leans his head sideways against Dean's. “But this is what we have. I chose you. You chose me. We're here and it's a beautiful day and I love you. So let's go inside. Did I hear that boy say something about donuts?”

Dean's tears come faster after that, and he drops Cas's hands to wrap both arms tight around his love. He's gonna need a minute here, but once he's calmed down a little they are going to eat themselves sick on apple cider donuts and get lost in a goddamn cornfield and Dean is so fucking happy he's afraid he might burst.

(Title from Harvest Festival by XTC)

Continued here...

#suptober22 #flufftober2022 #fictober22 #destiel #destiel fluff #day 01 #supernatural

[samuelroukin]

I have a gift for you (it's the equivalent of poisoned chocolates)!

It's not like Soap expects Ghost to walk up to the pub covered in gold chains or something.

Even if he wasn't the spooky bastard he is, Soap's been in long enough to know there's no one universal way soldiers finally dress up when they're let loose onto the populace, and that you can't guess from how they are in the field. It's always the ones you least expect that turn up in Hawaiian shirts open to their navel. And the ones you'd think in more layers than a nun.

So it's not the lack of jewelry that surprises him, even if he knows Ghost well enough to know he's not the type to judge a man that wears a ring or six, like Soap and Gaz on a good day. He'd have figured Ghost to be like Price, wearing not a damn bit of flash and closer to someone's Grandad and getting eyes anyway. Ghost is surprisingly low-key for such a huge fucker. Smart enough to not wear all black, just muted colors and old faded-in-the-wash hoodies that won't draw any attention at all, camouflaging his size. But, Soap notices the chain.

It's dark, and thin, not meant to be seen. Probably would have escaped notice, if Soap didn't make it a habit to notice any and all things Ghost. Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is… fucked if he knows. A pattern, certainly. Ghost always wears a chain with something on it in his civvies. Low and close to his heart, from the lump under his layers. Not just his dogtags, clearly.

He finds out what it is the hard way, some drunk starting something and needing putting down. Ghost doesn't break a sweat, but the movement's enough. It pops out. No wonder he doesn't wear it in the field.

It's a ring, but Soap doesn't know what kind. Not a woman's ring, the size and shape and design is off, but it's no regiment token either. He wants, very badly, to get his hands on it. If only he didn't think Ghost would cut them off. But it nags at him, and he's looking at the thin, secret line of the chain on the small sliver of Ghost's neck he can see between the facemask and the Henley at the pub when the glass goes flying.

Not his fault, for once, and Gaz is on him in an instant, praising his thick fucking skull. Price and Ghost blink out of his sight and then back in, meaning he's probably concussed. And at an angle; it suddenly dawns on him Gaz has put him on his back and he huffs a laugh at that that makes all their eyes go tight and worried.

Ghost leans forward, over him, and the ring slips out. Soap's eyes get pulled to it, like a hypnotist's token.

"Why do you have it if it doesn't fit you?" he says without thinking, because there's no way it does, not on those massive fucking hands. "Doesn't belong to me," Ghost barks, eyes stricken like he answered just as mindlessly, and vanishes. Soap flails, trying to chase after him and finding himself pinned by Gaz who looks half worried and half intrigued, and by Price who looks gutted.

"Fuck, fuck, I should-"

"You should fucking forget about this," Price says, steely.

"But I need to apologize-"

"If you do, he will kill you," Price answers, "just don't ever speak of it again, alright?" He almost sounds sorry. And Soap well. Soap tries.

(Yes it IS a claddagh ring because I grow ever fonder of North!Irish!Roach)

OUGH noooo 😢 i love how soap is paying so much attention to him that he can't help but notice, and then speaking up without thinking it might not be his to ask about. the pain there, from both sides, is so evident :(

#meduseld #asks

[rainbowolfe]

Purged Bosses

Purged Witnesses | Purged Bishops

Bit of analysis, mostly notes to have and hold for future theories.

I can say with 75% confidence, that what's happening when the Bishop's followers transform is that they're being possessed by demons. But while Lamb's followers go back to normal afterward, the demons in the Bishop's followers are instead claiming those bodies as their own, and the original follower is lost. Just like when summoning Aym and Baal. Hence why defeating them results in a unique creature popping out.

Observation I don't know where to place: When bosses are defeated, they come out of their transformed state dissenting, do a little flip, and they're normal people again.

For most of them, the "Eldritch" teeth become normal teeth (relative to them) and any eggs they had on them become something else. Many of them also gain skeletons or skulls hanging off of them. Skeletons seem to be who they were, while skulls were their victims.

Amdusias

The spitworm sitting on their head and back become trapped souls. It gains an extra set of horns that resemble the Dropper's. It also has skulls hidden amongst its fur/leaves, but three skulls (2 teeth) are impaled on its horns. Amudasias summons a reverse cross before it charges. Eyes become black with red cross-irises.

Valefar

Main horns become larger (doe to stag), more X's in the twine. Inside mouth becomes stuck/gooey. Two skulls, one skeleton, all 2-teeth. Symbol on forehead becomes additional eye. Eyes remain black and red. Amudasias summons reverse cross before x-shaped fireball attack and a double-circle (with 8 dots) before ring of fire attack. That second symbol is different from regular Valefar. Valefar is potentially someone who turned on his own.

Barbatos

Horns become larger and red, three of which have trapped souls in them. These souls have arms and hands w/ three fingers. Head is less veiny/egg-like, more pruney like Leshy's. Keeps Eldritch teeth. Two skulls (2-teeth) hidden among its body. Black tears imply a godly being. Desperation phase, forms an X w/ its ground attack.

Gusion

Has actual teeth now. Gains an extra eye and leg on the same side. Loses its forehead mark and its nose becomes... longer? More of a gash. Double-cross stuck into its head becomes single cross with victim tied to it. Keeps black and red eyes. The extra eye and leg are on the side with the branch. Branch may be a rune in disguise. Black smoke comes from its mouth. Gusion seems to be an odd transition between Darkwood and Anura.

Eligos

Leaf things on its head become upright horns. The horns have twine on them, but no clear symbol. MAYBE the "closed eye" from Clauneck's rocks. Wings are bigger but now ragged. Same eyes. Marks on its cheeks are now horizontal, the tally marks become angled dashes and Xs. Stitches (?) splitting it's head in half. The bubbles in its tummy becomes trapped souls, which means those flies are trapped souls.

Zepar

Something has happened to its eyes XD Upgraded from four sticks to seven and a gooey pile of souls to carry around. All the skeletons are single-toothed*, and the ones on crosses (three single, two double) are being properly crucified. The cross-less sticks are interesting, implied mortals. Maybe vessels? Again with the X-formation for attacks. Zepar also wheezes black smoke. The crucifixion-pose would imply that these beings were either willingly or wrongfully sacrificed. Four legs. Manifestation of the beings on the cross-less sticks?

It's interesting that the bosses of Darkwood use runes/sigils to summon their curse attacks, while the bosses of Anura and onwards don't. Curses from within VS borrowed curses maybe?

Saleos

The center cross gains an X wrapped around it; the other pieces of wood stabbed into it look like moons or sickles. Also spikes and double-spikes. Balding from the bottom-up. Only one single-toothed skull. Eyes are completely red, but turn white at times. Leaks black smoke.

Haborym

There isn't a single octopus in Anchordeep, and yet. Haborym has octopus tentacles. The jellyfish have a particular look to their tentacles compared to the ones found on Kallamar. What Haborym has resembles neither of those two. It's also three creatures sewn together, the same three creatures whose skeletons are tied to this things horns. And by horns I mean ribs. See how the edges of it are frayed and torn? Each of these pieces were torn from the middle of something. It also has unique eyes; black sclera and round, yellow irises. The black tears imply godly origin. It loses the mark on its forehead and gains a mouth. Eyes become red and swirly when charging up its fire(?) attack.

Why is one pupil different? What does it mean to be tied to a beasts teeth/ribs/bones? Eaten? Some type of punishment?

Baalzebub

When the eyes look like this, is it injured or is it just dilated? It's leafy covering now gone, means I'm looking at skin flaps hanging loose like slices of meat. Two red eyes, one yellow. It's wooden horns become bone antlers. And restrained spread-eagle (OR IN AN X!!) is a skeleton w/ one tooth. This one's very interesting. On normal Baalzebub, there's a reverse star in place of the skeleton. Maybe Baalzebub is the one who flipped the star. Or maybe he was sacrificed by the ones who flipped it, and became this as a result.

There's something about Anchordeep that seems very important to where things went wrong. Not just for the Bishops, but for the couple generations of gods before them. Whether they were naturally-spawned into this world as a godly being with a set purpose, or a regular mortal who ascended through luck and sheer force of will. (or nepotism)

Anura has the weird amalgamation that is Eligos, but Haborym is literally three beings stitched together. And ALL the enemies and bosses of Spider Silk are different beings stitched together. Why is that?

Focalor

Awful thing. It has eggs for eyes. Reminds me of the weird, eye-shaped stones in Silk Cradle filled with eggs. In the webbing on its horns is two bodies trapped in silk and one skull. All single-toothed. Focalor is also something that is three beings combined. Blue head, purple body, red butt. The middle one is in-place of a reverse star. It's esophagus seems to be hanging out of it's mouth, signifying an inability to speak? Or it's someone's guts it didn't finish eating.

It also has those strange orbs on its belly. These orbs on Zepar become trapped souls. The butt is a tooth or a rib, so that must be their victim.

Vephar

This one has so many lighting and particle effects it's actually difficult to look at XD This thing is barely hanging on to its un-life. It's eyes are different and its antennae look like leaves and are being held down by webbing. On its back is specifically the trapped souls you see in Anura (many frogs), more off-putting eyes, the spitworms from Darkwood, and those strange orbs.

Vephar seems to be some sort of host. To parasites? To other gods? As you fight them, pieces of their body break off and become other monsters. The strange orbs become red spiders w/ a triangle in their webbing, the part with spitworms becomes egg-laying spiders (minus the eggs), the part frog souls becomes scorpions.

So what part is actually Vephar? The messed up head with frog and fly souls stuck to it.

Hauras

Oddly crab-like face. Riddled with horns and antlers and branches. It's wearing a ragged, black cloak that covers most of it's body. It's mouth-like claws now seem toothless, like they broke off or someone ripped them out. It's tail seems to be made of more trapped souls. Worm souls is very likely. Has the same amount of eyes, but they've been replaced with.... with the creatures/spirits in the lighthouse before you light the fire?

Uses the poison balls and the fire balls.

#cult of the lamb #cotl #long post #cotl theory