#this is a bleak answer i guess
Note
((13. What is the most useful thing?))
The most useful thing... Hmm. It's hard to explain.
During the Willow Trial, I had to avoid getting stabbed by sharp vines? shrapnel? objects? I didn't do very well. Even if I had passed the trial, I would've died from the injuries I sustained anyway. I guess the point is moot though, because I got blown apart by the lightning tribulation right after.
After a certain point - after being stabbed lethally through the abdomen, I realized that I was going to die no matter what. And it was like having icy water poured on me.
I'm not sure how to explain it afterwards. But after that, I stopped getting stabbed even as I ran towards the goal, even as the distance between me and the source of the sharp objects grew smaller and smaller.
It didn't really feel like my reactions were faster. It didn't quite feel completely like I was predicting the shots either.
It's more like I was a small raft in water. And someone drove their large boat at me, but I didn't get hit because the waves it made pushed me aside. It sorta felt like that.
Of course, the Willow retaliated by stabbing me right through the dead center of my chest right afterwards, which seemed to bypass that weird feeling entirely.
But I guess since it did save my life up to that point, it's probably the most useful thing I have, even if I can't really trigger it on my own.
#🌹~ [ left blooming alone ] || ic#🌹~ [ who would inhabit this bleak world alone ] || headcanon#🌹~ [ or give sigh for sigh ] || asks#calestro#// I guess this is semi-anon since it was sent OOC but answered IC-ly XD#safasfda
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The Ink Shop
Description: Desperate for a job, you answer an advertisement not knowing it's a tattoo shop. It's not particularly difficult work, except for one thing: having to deal with Eddie Munson.
Warnings: NSFW, minors DNI or I'll tell your parents, fem reader, thick sexual tension, angst and smut. Fingering.
A/N: I finally wrote it! The teach me fic I've been day dreaming about forever. This will be part one of three, and honestly this is one of the hottest things I've written. If you enjoy it, please comment and reblog, it means the world to me.
8k words
Masterlist Part 2
Screwing your nose up in confusion, you look at the meticulously cut snippet of newspaper neatly attached to your resume with a paperclip. Sure enough, receptionist and administrator wanted for a place called ‘The Ink Shop’.
The outside of the building looks a little bleak, all decked out in black with frosted windows, but the fading lettering above does indeed spell out ‘The Ink Shop’.
Weird. This does not look like a printers.
You smooth down a minor wrinkle in your white shirt and open the door with unsure hands, the bell above ringing out loudly.
Oh.
This is not a printers. This is a tattoo shop.
The thought hadn't even crossed your mind. The noise is a cacophony of buzzing, rock music and loud conversation. Art hangs on every available wall, the wallpaper underneath a royal purple, faded over time. There's frames upon frames of predesigned pieces for people to choose from, and an enormous wooden counter, black and gouged with use, directly in front of the doors.
Taking a confidence boosting breath you march forward, pencil skirt stretching and heels clicking on the black and white linoleum, and stand by the counter. No one seems to have noticed your arrival, and a polite cough is not going to cut it.
“Hello?” Calling out to the shop, a devilishly handsome tattooed man in a ripped band shirt, black jeans and scuffed army boots turns his head. Loose dark curls escape a low bun and swivel with him, framing his animated face. He saunters over to the counter and towers over you, giving you an appraising look.
“You old enough to be in here sweetheart?” He asks, amused, as he points to the sign on the wall that states ‘Strictly Over 21s, no exceptions’.
“Yes?” You're trying to be confident but it comes out as a question, entirely taken aback by the strength of his stare.
“Oh, well then I'm Eddie,” he holds out a hand and you're forced to reach up to shake it, but to your surprise he doesn't let go. The skin is rougher than you thought it would be, and absolutely covered in small tattoos. “What is it today? Let me guess, cover up an ex boyfriend's name? I can help you forget all about him.”
The grin he shoots back is nothing short of predatory. All you can think of is that old childhood song, never smile at a crocodile…
“No, no, I'm here about the job?”
He looks genuinely surprised, taking in your outfit in another flagrant stare.
“Really? You?”
“Yes, me.” You respond, cheeks flushing in annoyance.
“Hey, Mac!” He calls over his shoulder and a big guy with a shaved head lowers his tattoo gun, glancing over at you both. “This girl's after a job?”
Mac stands up slowly and begins to walk over.
“You can let go now princess.”
Staring at Eddie dumbfoundedly, you realise his grip on your hand has softened completely. Whipping your hand away, you flash him a defiant eye. It's ineffective; he merely grins wider and winks at you, poking his tongue out playfully. You see a hint of silver, a tongue piercing.
“Hey there, I'm Mac, the owner.” another handshake, but gentler and brief. You introduce yourself and go to hand him your resume.
A phone rings on the counter and Mac shouts “no!” just as Eddie picks it up.
“Mac’s Roadkill Café, from your grill to ours.” Eddie delivers the line as smooth as silk, never taking his eyes off you. “Yeah, it's Eddie, of course. Oh, I'll tell him. Thanks.”
As Eddie turns to Mac he's given a small but effective slap to the back of the head by Mac.
“What did I tell you, stop answering like that!”
Eddie just grins wider and looks at you again, a fake pout on his full lips.
“You see that? Harassment in the workplace. Wanna kiss it better?”
Mac shuts his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, then turns to face you again.
“Are you immediate start?”
“Er, yeah. I've got my resume, and references here-”
“Listen Miss, if you can read and write, answer a phone, and put up with that-” he says, gesturing a thumb at Eddie, “then you've got the job.”
Thank God, two of those references were your best friend with different names. Stunned, you just nod fast.
“Great. Tomorrow morning. We open at 10am.”
Saying goodbye, you turn to exit, and risk one final glance over your shoulder. Eddie's still at the counter. A disarming wink, and then the door shuts behind you.
********************
So, not exactly what you expected, but a job's a job. After getting a degree, you'd assumed doors would open, but a string of coffee houses later and here you are. You'll take it.
It's 9:30 am, and you stand outside, wondering whether or not to try the door. Keen, but not too keen. It's a line you're trying to toe without much experience, especially with an establishment like this.
A pretty woman with an undercut and a butterfly neck tattoo stirs you out of your calculations.
“Hey, I'm Chloe. You're the new girl, right? Eddie bet you'd be early.”
Blushing at the entirely accurate first impression, you try to stop your nose scrunching in distaste. As if reading your mind, Chloe chuckles.
“Ah, don't worry about him, he's an idiot. Come on, I'll show you the ropes.”
Chloe is the piercer that basically rents a place in the shop, where she's been for around three years, she explains. There's also Julio, who does more realistic tattoo work, and Miranda who works part time.
Chloe turns out to be warm and welcoming, showing you how they book clients in, how to take payments, and the phone note system. It's straightforward work, stuff you'll master in no time. In fact, you feel comfortable enough by 10 am to sit at the counter on your own.
Mac arrives on time, giving you a quick check in and taking down all your information on a yellow legal pad.
“Do you not have a computer in here?” you ask, genuinely puzzled.
“Oh no, not yet. I don't know how to work those things, Miss.” Mac chuckles, and gets to his station to prepare for his first client.
At 10:45 am Eddie walks through the door as if he owns the place.
Your eyes widen at his brazen lateness, but no one seems to bat an eyelid. It boils your blood; to be that disrespectful and clearly not care. How could someone act like that?
“Hey princess, didn't think you'd come back,” he smiles, reaching for your hand.
Oh I'm not falling for that again.
You pull your hand into your lap, expecting trickery from him. A smug grin smears across his face at the gesture, as if he knew you'd do that. It makes you even more annoyed.
“Eddie, the book says you start,” you say, flicking through the tome in front of you, “ah, at 10 am today.”
“It's walk-in Wednesday sweetheart. There's no one here.”
He's got a point. Chloe had explained the tattoo artists work a shift of Wednesdays, someone is always available for walk-ins for small and pre designed pieces. Today is Eddie's turn, and he's right, no one is here.
“Well, there could have been,” you snark back, folding your arms.
He crosses into the shop, pushing the little gate open and stands next to you, arms crossed. The height you had is now lost, forcing you to look up at him.
“As far as I know, you ain't the boss of me. I suggest taking the stick out of your ass before you come here.”
Mouth falling open in outrage, you move to reply but he's already turned away.
“Oh, and princess, there ain't a dress code.”
He's gone, disappearing upstairs. Blushing crimson, you cross your arms as if you can hide the conservative outfit you're wearing.
You're beginning to see why Mac asked if you could put up with Eddie.
********************
Halfway through the day, you realise just why Mac puts up with Eddie.
“Hey! Seeing if I can book with Eddie?”
“Any appointments with Eddie?”
“Just checking to see if Eddie had any cancellations?”
It seems most calls are about him. As you check his schedule, it's not only fully booked for the next 6 months, they've even started a waiting list at the back.
“Any walk-ins?”
The words next to your ear make you jump bodily, almost losing your place on your chair in alarm.
“You scared me! No, I would have said,” turning to him, you're sucked into those deep brown eyes once again. “Why do you do walk-in Wednesdays if you're so… so popular?”
Eddie flashes a smile at you, full of self importance. “I don't know sweetheart, Van Gogh wasn't made to doodle!” Shouting the last part at the back of Mac's head, he turns to you. “We just divided the shifts, so it was fair, that's all. Why, want a tattoo?”
You roll your eyes. “No, I was just wondering.”
“Do you have any, princess?”
“Not that it's any of your business, but no, I don't.”
The laugh that rips from Eddie's chest is hearty and full of amusement.
“You work in a tattoo shop and you don't have any? That's practically blasphemy!”
The little bell above the door rings, and a nervous guy looks around before walking in. Before you see what he wants, you shout to Eddie's retreating back.
“Van Gogh was only famous after he died, you know!”
It's a little later on in the day; you've done a stock take, ordered more ink, and neatened up the consent sheets three times. The phone hasn't rung in a while, and you're bored out of your mind.
Chloe walks over, coat in her hand.
“Hey, how you getting on?”
“I'm good, just bored.”
She laughs, “it's not always this quiet, mid week and all. Mac's done for the day, and I'm heading off. You gonna be OK?”
You glance over to Eddie, who to your surprise is tattooing his own fingers.
“What, with the untrained monkey? I'll live.”
She laughs harder at that, “he's not so bad, once you get to know him.” Lowering her voice, she whispers, “he's good at some things, you know.” The conspiratorial wink fills in what she isn't saying. Cheeks flushed, you gawp at Eddie and back at Chloe.
“Huh? W-what, are you like, an item?” You ask, entirely thrown.
“Oh no, he's not exactly boyfriend material. It was just one night, but bloody hell. Anyway, it's not like that anymore, we're just friends now. Maybe you two should just, you know.”
A blush floods your face, almost reaching the roots of your hair. “I don't- I don't, do that.”
“I'm just saying, it's an option. It'd stop the bickering at least. I can sense the tension from all the way over there.”
Without a further word, she leaves you sitting on your stool, trying to remember how to breathe.
Right, let's just play nice.
Walking over to his station, you try to glimpse what he's tattooing.
“I thought Van Gogh wasn't made to doodle” you quip, trying to keep it light.
“This is different” he responds, not looking up at you.
“You know, that's a waste of a needle.”
Eddie turns the machine off and rolls his eyes at you.
“Who made you Princess of the Needles, hmmm?”
“Mac did actually, when he asked me to check the stock,” you reply hotly, folding your arms. Stopping for a second, you take a breath. Play nice, you're supposed to be playing nice.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to-”
Eddie turns the machine back on and continues with his impromptu tattoo.
“Can't you just be… professional?” You ask over the buzzing.
“Can't you just relax for a second? No ones here. Fuck, you need to get laid.”
Mouth dropping open in shock, you grab your bag and stomp out of the store, anger fuelling every step.
********************
Right, be calm, put together. You've dealt with worse people.
It's true. At the coffee shop you had on edge caffeine addicts shout in your face almost on a daily basis, but none of them got under your skin like Eddie did. Then again, none of them had spat truths like venom in your face.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Taking the leap, you walk into the shop, coffees and a tray of donuts in hand; a small peace offering. To your surprise, he is already at his station, sorting through ink pots.
You make quick work of handing out coffee and donuts to everyone, until you reach his side. There's plastic wrap around one of his fingers, you assume from his little tattoo session yesterday. It only serves to remind you of how tetchy you were.
“Morning Eddie.”
“So you came back. Tough little princess ain't ya? Remove the stick from your ass yet?” The grin he flashes you is wide but there's a bite to his words.
He's trying to rile you up, but you ignore it, thrusting a coffee at him.
“I'll be nice if you will.”
Tension laces the air as he stares at your outstretched hand, but he takes the coffee.
“I'm sorry Eddie.”
Opening the box of donuts, you gesture for him to take one. He does, stuffing half of it into his mouth.
“What about you?” you ask.
“Huh?” He mumbles through a mouthful of crumbs.
“Are you sorry…?”
“What for?”
Setting your jaw, your hand is about two seconds from slapping the shit out of him, but you need the money. So, you huff and walk away.
“What did I do?” He huffs, shouting it to the shop.
“You should just say sorry, you've clearly upset her.” Chloe calls over to him, a slight smile on her face.
“Yeah, how do you know?”
“You upset everyone Eddie.” She laughs, and stands to greet her first client.
It's a tense kind of day, with neither you nor Eddie backing down, only speaking to each other if absolutely necessary. By the time everyone's left it's just you and him again.
He's finishing up with a client, telling them about aftercare as they gush about their new ink. It's difficult to deny, the guy is talented. This phoenix tattoo looks like it's popping right off of the skin, the flames so bright and detailed you could swear you saw them move.
Once they've left, there's an awkward pause. Eddie breaks the silence first.
“Listen, I'm sorry sweetheart. I shouldn't have been rude to you. So I'll make you a deal. I'll give you a tattoo, for free, and we ask each other questions, get to know each other. What do you say?”
Smiling in spite of yourself, you turn to face him. “And why would I want a tattoo?”
He visibly relaxes at your grin, and flashes one of his own. “Come on, I'm the best. I promise I'll be gentle.”
“We close at six, so it'll have to wait.”
Eddie looks at the clock, and bobs his head with each tick. Twenty seconds later he turns to you, eyebrows raised.
“Fine, I suppose it is a bit silly to work in a tattoo shop with no ink.”
He punches the air with glee, forcing you to smile despite your better judgement.
“Well then, what are you thinking, got any ideas in mind?”
“I want a heart on my hip” he groans, putting his face in his hands, “hang on, before you judge, I want one like this.”
Pulling a book from your bag, you turn to the page neatly bookmarked. It's an anatomical heart from a textbook you own, a line and dot drawing.
“Oh.” Eddie's eyes light up, “that's pretty metal, actually. So, you just happen to have this on you?”
“No, I've been thinking about it for a while. It's… not what people would expect. And when I got the job here, I was working up the courage to get it. Carrying around the book was a promise to myself, I think.”
He busies himself with getting a stencil ready, the drawing supplied speeding up the process.
“Right, climb on up princess, show me where you want it.”
Blushing, you unzip your skirt at the back and roll it down slightly, shifting your blouse up high. The smile Eddie gives you is salacious, but he doesn't say a word.
“Right here?” Softly his fingertips graze you, making you jump. That simple act crackles over your skin in an electricity unknown to you.
“Y-yes,” you practically whisper it, face crimson.
“So, questions. Can I go first?”
“Sure” you nod, feeling vulnerable flashing this much skin.
“OK,” he starts, pressing the stencil down, “I'll start with an easy one. How old are you?”
“23.”
He nods, prepping the needle, “your turn princess.”
“How old are you?”
“Ah, copycat,” he grins, testing the gun, the sudden noise making you jump, “I'm 30 sweetheart. I know, I look younger.”
Act younger is more like it.
“I'm gonna start, you still alright?”
“Uh huh.”
“Atta girl. It'll feel like a scratch.”
He leans forward as his words burn your insides. Atta girl? Part of you wanted to tell him you're not a fucking horse, but another, deeper, part keens at the praise, kicking it's feet and twirling its hair like some dizzy schoolgirl.
The needle touches and you jump, but it's fine. It's easy. If anything, it's rather nice? You gasp at the feeling, your feet wiggling.
“Right, next question. Why here, why this job?”
The gun is moving across your skin, consuming all rational thought. You could lie, but a part of you feels like he'd know somehow.
“I thought it was a printers shop, or a copy place.”
He laughs briefly, but continues to focus on your new ink.
“I knew it. Pretty, innocent thing like you, wandering into this den of depravity? Too good to be true.”
Glazing over his comment, you think of a question to ask.
“How did you start working here?”
Eddie scoffs and turns off his machine for a moment, “you need to get creative, stop using my questions.”
“I really want to know!” You say, meeting his derisory look.
“Fine, quid pro quo and all that shit. Been here seven years. I begged. I begged Mac for an apprenticeship everyday for a week. He gave in, and here I am. Ask something else, that was boring.”
You wrack your brains, trying to think of something original, far too aware of the steadying hand that he's pushing onto your abdomen.
“What band is that?”
It's the only thing that pops into your mind. He follows your eye line to his t-shirt.
“Oh this? This is my band, Corroded Coffin. You should come see us sometime.”
“Oh, what do you play?”
His face lights up, “I sing, and play guitar. That's why my fingers are so rough-” he holds one up, covered in black latex, “-oh yeah, gloves.”
After you both share a chuckle, there's a breath of quiet between you, except for the sound of the tattoo gun.
“My turn,” he says, smiling at your hip, “I gotta know, are you a virgin?”
It's a miracle that he's as responsive as he is, since the question knocks you sideways. You sit up in shock, but he's already moved the needle off and away.
“You can't just ask that, it's… it's rude!” you splutter, face glowing red.
There's no trace of apology on his face. In fact, his grin only widens with your reply.
“I thought so. Don't worry, I'm not gonna tease you about it.”
Laying back down, you try to think of something to say, but it just doesn't arrive. He can read you like an open book and it's deeply unsettling, not to mention embarrassing.
“Your turn princess.”
“I don't want to play anymore.”
“Oh come on, I'm being nice! Ask me something.”
“Fine. What was your last wet dream about?”
To your dismay, he smiles yet again.
“You, sweetheart.”
Huffing, you cross your arms in annoyance. “Fine, don't answer.”
He's focusing on your tattoo, tongue poking out in concentration, “I'm nearly done, then you can go back to hating me.”
“I don't hate you. I've never hated anyone,” you respond in truth. Eddie's eyebrows raise, but he remains focused.
“Really? You must have had a much better childhood than mine.”
It's quiet for a bit. You're not sure how to respond to that, feeling the cloud of his memory hanging thickly in the air between you.
“All done.”
“Huh?”
He chuckles and points at your new ink, “take a look.”
It's beautiful. All line and dot work, like it was pulled from the book itself and glued to your hip.
“It's amazing Eddie. Thank you.”
The grin he shoots you is warm as he wraps your new ink and then removes his gloves. “No problem. I'll lock up, the sheets on aftercare are right there. But you knew that.”
Smiling affectionately, you take one and stand up, hovering for a second.
“Eddie what do I owe-”
“-not a damn thing. See you in the morning, princess.”
********************
The next few days were much more pleasant. Eddie was flirty, yes, but he seemed to understand when to stop. You had been nicer to him, biting back on the comments when you could. There was a rhythm to it, a constant dance of him flustering you and you annoying him.
Things really felt like they were falling into place. Until Eddie decided to cross the line.
Walk in Wednesday again, and the shop was dead. Julio was on shift, sitting in the back having a nap.
“Hey Mac, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, what is it Miss?”
“Well, how do people know about our Wednesdays?”
“Mostly word of mouth. We handed out flyers before, but it didn't really pick up. Honestly, I'm thinking of scrapping it.” He shrugs, taking a sip of coffee.
“Before you do, I have an idea. I can design some flyers, get them out to the coffee shop I used to work at. It's by campus, I'm sure a few students would jump at the chance. You could offer a student discount, get them in the door?” You stare at him wide eyed, hoping he likes the idea. The little speech was one you'd practised about fourteen times before actually saying it to him.
He stares at you for a moment, then smiles. “You know, that's a good idea. I like it. Tell you what, you make it a success and I'll give you a raise.”
“Oh, thank you! I'll get on it.” You beam, and start planning the flyer.
Ten minutes later you have your head down, your attention entirely on the paper in front of you. The noisy shop was purely a background soundtrack, including the approaching footsteps. Then, there's a whisper, directly in your ear.
“What you up to, princess?”
“Fuck!”
You scream it out and jump so high you fall off your stool. Eddie's in bits, laughing so hard he's clutching his stomach.
“I'm sorry I didn't mean to,” he says, looking the least sorry you've ever seen a person look.
Clambering off the floor to berate him, your mouth flops open when you hear a rip. As you desperately turn your head to look down, you see where your pencil skirt has torn right next to the seam nearly up to your ass.
“Fuck's sake Eddie! What the hell am I gonna do!”
Hands shaking, you clench your jaw in panic, trying to frantically come up with a way to rectify it. Eddie holds his hands up to you as if he were approaching a wild animal.
“Just calm down princess, it's only a skirt.”
Pouting, you hit him on the arm.
“It's not just a skirt! I can't work like this, how can I go home and change, I won't be able to fix it and-”
Eddie smiles and holds one of your hands.
“It's gonna be OK, we can sort something out. You seriously need to chill, have a big O or something.” He chuckles, clearly meaning for it to be a joke, but it's hitting too close to home.
It's never happened for you. You've kissed guys, sure, but whenever they reach into your pants, it's either uncomfortable or downright painful. Even your own desperate fumblings haven't got you there. Most of the time you just feel stupid and awkward trying to touch yourself. So, you'd given up, thinking you're broken. That it'll never happen for you.
Tears well immediately in your eyes. He knows he fucked up, it's written all over his face. As he opens his mouth to speak you rip your hand from his grasp and run to the restroom sobbing.
It's stupid, it's so stupid. You know that, but the tears won't stop falling, face hot and scrunched as you sit on the closed toilet seat with your head in your hands. Your breath is heavy, gulping and wet; you dimly wonder if you can just stay here until the shop closes.
There's a gentle knock on the door.
“Sweetheart, can I come in?” It's Eddie, voice softer than you've ever heard it.
“Go away” you manage. It's shaky and pathetic sounding, but it's out there.
“I'm not going anywhere. Talk to me, you'll feel better, I promise.”
He tries the door, turning the handle before you get a chance to lock it. Jumping upright, you go to push him away but he grabs your wrist and pulls you into him. His embrace takes away that edge and pretty soon you're just sobbing into his chest.
As he strokes the back of your head, he makes shushing noises, his other arm wrapped tight around your shoulders. You're not sure how long you stay like that, in the warmth of his hold, his body pressed against yours. The tenderness calms you down until your tears stop, but he doesn't pull away.
After a while, he whispers, “feel a little better?”
“Y-yeah,” you say, voice returning to itself.
Only then does he release you, rubbing a thumb under your eye to wipe moisture away.
“I didn't mean to hurt you. You wanna go somewhere and talk about it?”
“I- I've never- I don't talk about- I-” you shake your head as if to clear it. A part of you wants to hit him, to shout at him, but his gaze is so concerned that you agree. Your shoulders slump, losing a bit of tension. “OK.”
Smiling at you, he whips his flannel shirt off, leaving him in a white vest, and ties it around your waist.
“For your modesty. Come with me.”
Puzzled, you follow him out of the bathroom and back into the shop where Mac is sitting looking worried.
“What's going-”
Eddie interrupts, “emergency late lunch needed, alright? Can you cancel my 3 o clock?”
Mac seems confused, but looks at Eddie's earnest face, and your emotional one, and nods.
“Not a problem.”
“Thanks, man.”
Before you can ask where you're going, he pulls you from the shop by the arm and across the street into a dimly lit bar, depositing you in the nearest booth.
“I'll be right back.”
If he's uncomfortable by his appearance, he doesn't show it. The way he strides up to the bar, it's as if he owns the place. It's remarkable, the sheer confidence he embodies like a second skin.
“Hey, John!” He hollers, knuckles knocking on the wood of the bar.
John appears, a gruff, stocky guy with a buzz cut and a sour face.
“What the fuck are you doing here.”
“Oh come on, you know you missed me.”
John's face screws into something akin to a smile. “What do you want, you little shit.”
“I love it when you talk dirty,” Eddie grins and winks, “two beers please.”
A grunt and a nod, and John puts the beers down on the bar. As Eddie reaches for his wallet John waves a hand in dismissal.
“Put that away boy, your money ain't good here. Besides, your lady friend looks like she needs it.”
You flush and tear your eyes away, embarrassed. Eddie walks back over and puts a beer in front of you.
“Eddie, we're still working I-”
“It's one beer. It's alright.”
You shrug and take a sip, nodding at the bartender, “he knows I'm upset, do I look a mess?”
Shaking his head so hard it releases some of his wayward waves from their confines, he tips his beer at you, before he takes a long chug.
“No,” he says enthusiastically, “you look just as pretty as you always do.”
Scoffing, you turn your eyes downward. Eddie ignores your response, instead pressing on what happened earlier.
“Sorry again,” he says, sounding genuinely distressed, "I don't want to see anyone hurt from something I said, least of all you.”
Meeting his gaze, you smile incredulously. “Oh? And why me?”
“Come on, don't make me say it.”
Staring at him, you fold your arms in an act of defiance. He rolls his eyes and looks at you.
“I like you. You're uptight, and mean to me, and a little conceited, but I like you. I don't want you to hurt. Can we just be friends? I'm a pretty good listener, you know? I can help.”
Heat floods your insides. Eyes scanning him for any sign of a joke, you come up empty.
‘I'm not conceited,” you counter weakly, clinging on to the familiar push and pull.
“And I'm the Easter bunny.”
Giggling, you take another sip of beer.
“Come on, friends? Talk to me.”
Sighing deeply, you fix your gaze at the table, forefinger tracing patterns in the condensation from your drink. “Promise not to laugh?”
“I promise.”
You can't tell how genuine he's being, as you don't dare look at his face, nerves controlling your every limb. His voice seems honest enough.
“I- I have a problem, something I can't physically do. You reminded me of it. It's not your fault.” Shrugging in an attempt to make this look less serious than it is for you, you take a pull out of your beer bottle once more.
“Wait, are you saying…” he chuckles a little in disbelief, “have you never… had an orgasm before?”
“Eddie, be quiet!” You urgently whisper, looking around the bar.
“No one's listening sweetheart, no spies in here,” he says in a low tone, hand reaching out to grasp yours. Your first instinct is to shake his hand away but he holds firm, rough fingertips rubbing against your knuckles.
“Eddie, I'm broken,” you whimper, voice breaking, “I can't do it.”
“Oh sweetheart,” he responds, chock full of emotion, “you're not broken. You are perfect.”
Pulling your hand away, you keep your eyes away from his, unwilling to meet that burning gaze of his. Unwilling to lose yourself in those sultry dark eyes.
“I can't do it. Anytime some guy tries, it hurts. I've given up to be honest. I just wasn't made for it.”
He laughs again, dragging his hand over his face.
“Fuck, sweetheart, the problem ain't you. Have you- have you tried, fixing it, on your own?” The last part is a whisper, you assume to protect your feelings.
“Yeah, but I just feel stupid and awkward. I don't know.”
There's a little silence between you as you both dwell in the suffocating fog of your confession, neither of you willing to clear it.
“Listen, this may be way out of your comfort zone, but I'm saying it anyway. If you don't like it, we'll forget it, and I won't mention it again.”
Finally looking at him, at the vulnerability on his face, you nod, not trusting your voice.
“I can… maybe I can help you. Show you you're not broken? As a favour between friends.”
You laugh mirthlessly and finish your beer. “That's a little more than a favour, Eddie.”
“We can keep it professional.”
You stare at him wide eyed. His messy hair and dark glittering eyes. At the way he slumps in his seat like a king or a delinquent, you can't decide which. At his taunt frame, the tattoos spackling every available inch of his skin. Your eyebrows raise of their own accord.
“Professional? You?”
“Yeah, me! I can do it, you know. I could make you come.”
A shiver forces its merry way down your spine at his words.
“You're really confident.”
“You haven't seen what I can do.”
Blushing hard, you attempt to control yourself. “Look, if we're going to do this, I need you to promise some things.”
“Ah, of course, you would have rules,” he grins, as he leans back and spreads in his seat, “continue.”
Searching your mind for a moment, you try to glean what you need.
“First of all, we need to be discreet, and professional at all times, clear?”
“As crystal,” he grins wolfishly, “anything else?”
“Yeah- I think,” you wrack your brains, trying to come up with something that would make this less intimate. Anything. But the roguish nature of his presence makes it hard to even think of a thing. Finally, your eyes widen at the idea that suddenly crosses your mind.
“Final rule. No kissing.”
He pouts, looking at your chest and back up, “no kissing anywhere?”
“N-no, no kissing on the mouth.”
Grin returning, he winks at you, a gesture that flips your stomach inside out.
“Kinky. Alright, deal,” he leans forward to give his hand to yours. A hand covered in ink and calluses. Roughness and tenderness.
You shake it.
********************
For the next couple of days, your little arrangement isn't brought up. A wild thought hammers itself into your mind; either he wasn't serious, or you imagined it.
Those theories are put to bed on day three.
After you let Mac know about the flyers and the bonus poster you designed, you sit back and enjoy the praise given to you. It's funny, the feeling of being told a job has been well done makes you happier than you care to admit.
Eddie turns up at the counter, whistling through his teeth. “Sweet looking flyers, how'd you swing those?”
“I designed them. I've got a degree in design and marketing, if you didn't know,” you sniff, rearranging the stationary on the counter to avoid his eyes.
“Maybe you could help me design some for my band. These look pretty metal.” He says, picking one up and looking at it closely.
“Maybe.”
Eddie leans in close, so close you feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.
“If you're still up for our arrangement, I'm free tonight.”
Heat immediately flushes your face. Ignoring him entirely, you write your address and a time on a notepad, and thrust the paper into his hands.
“Covert, I like it. See you then princess.”
By the time 9pm rolls around you're a jittery mass of nerves, having changed clothes no less than four times, tidied your apartment, changed the bedsheets and paced so much you're surprised there's not a groove in the floorboards.
In the end you'd decided on a baggy band t-shirt and your sleep shorts. It was a rational calculation to make Eddie think you're just wearing what you usually would at home and therefore show you're not nervous. I mean, you are wearing what you'd usually wear at home. He didn't need to know about how long it took you to reach that decision.
The sound of the intercom buzzing sends your pulse into overdrive. Pressing the button, you let out a strangled “Hello?”
“Hey princess.”
“Come on up.”
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck…
A soft knock at the door and you count to five, trying to remember how to breathe. When you open the door, you're stunned. He's leaning on the doorframe in a fucking button up shirt. It's black, and clings to him deliciously. His hair looks a little damp, loose around his shoulders, and his aftershave is making you feel dizzy.
“Oh, you didn't need- I mean-” you point at his shirt, and he looks down and chuckles.
“Just came from band practice. Took a shower, and this was clean,” he shrugs and shoulders into your apartment. “Nice place. Where's all your stuff?”
You look around at your sparse apartment. Everything in order, down to the fresh flowers on your tiny dining table.
“This is all my stuff,” you say, confused, “I don't like clutter.”
He chuckles, walking over to you. “No wonder I annoy you. I am clutter.”
He's close now, close enough so that you have to look up to see his face. His rough fingers ghost your arm, sending a wave of goosebumps over your skin.
“Nice seeing you in something casual. L7, right?” He asks, pointing at the t-shirt.
“Yeah, you know who they are?”
“I'm surprised you do. Thought you'd be a Mariah Carey kinda girl.”
You scrunch your face in distaste. “No, not at all. You don't know everything about me.”
He leans in, warm breath a whisper in your ear. “I know some things about you.”
Squirming hotly, you lead him to your room before you lose your nerve.
“So, the princess's bedchamber. It's nice,” he remarks, flopping down on the bed as if it were his own.
“Take your boots off,” you snip, folding your arms.
“Ah, there she is.” He smiles, but does as instructed. Once more he's laying back into your scattered pillows looking perfectly at ease. You, on the other hand, stand there, spine a vertical rod as you stare back at him.
“Come on then, sit down.”
Nervously you sit at the foot of the bed with your legs crossed.
“Now princess, what do you do when you touch yourself?”
Blushing furiously, you stammer out, “what, do you expect me to like, show you?”
He chuckles, diffusing some of the tension. “As much as I'd like that, I don't think you're ready for that kinda shit. Just tell me, what's your thought process?”
Staring at him for a little too long, you open your mouth and close it again. He rolls his eyes.
“Look, if you want me to help I'll help, but you gotta give me something here.” He looks as if he's about to get up and leave; your arm shoots out on its own accord, grabbing his leg to stop him.
“Sorry, sorry. I just, I've never spoken about this kinda stuff. I don't know about any process, I just… reach down and fiddle around?” You blush even more.
“So you don't like, watch anything? Or read anything?” He looks a little amused.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Porn, sweetheart.”
It's so blunt that you jump a little. “Oh no, I've never, oh no no.”
“Christ,” he whispers, “right, you can like, set the mood. Look at something to turn you on? It'd probably help you feel less awkward.”
“Oh. Right.”
“And do you ever just like, slouch? I feel like I'm back at school looking at ya.”
“Huh?”
“Just, come here.” He pats the little space between his spread legs and you hesitate for a second before you crawl over to him.
“How do you want me to sit, like cross legged or-”
He grabs your hips and spins you, forcing your back into his crotch.
“Stop trying to control every little thing,” he says in a hard tone, one you're too embarrassed to admit makes your insides tingle. Softer, he continues. “Look, if you're ever gonna get there you need to relax, stop trying to control it, and stop overthinking.”
“Great, all of the things I'm shit at.”
His laugh is loud, it vibrates into your spine. “I'll help you, OK? You trust me?”
“In a very limited sense of the word, yeah.”
“Lemme rephrase. You still OK to do this?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Just relax.”
You're not sure what you are expecting, but it certainly isn't his hands winding into your hair, fingertips rubbing softly at your scalp. It shoots tingles down your spine, your entire head feeling fuzzy and warm.
You stifle a whimper, biting your lip. His fingers stop.
“If you want to make noises, you can. Tells me I'm doing a good job. That goes for everything else too, alright?”
“Alright.” You whisper.
“You comfortable?”
“Yeah it's just- well-”
“Tell me.”
“I think it's your shirt buttons, they're digging into my back a bit,” you admit, feeling the sharp points down your spine.
“Easily fixed.” He taps your arm and you lean forward. Some rustling, and he throws his shirt to the foot of your bed.
“Now just chill sweetheart.”
His fingers begin rubbing at you again, thumbs sinking low to pop at the bubbles in your neck.
“Fuck, that's really nice.”
He hums appreciatively, working his hands lower and dropping them to your shoulders. The massaging continues, and you feel yourself melting, your body moulding into his. Your legs, once ramrod straight, have bent a little and parted of their own accord, the muscles loosening. Even your breathing has slowed.
“That's better, atta girl,” he says and you whine at the words, a little pathetic mewling sound that tumbles past your lips.
“Oh, you like that, don't you?” The smile is evident in his voice, a smug tone smeared liberally across each word.
“You, you're so-” you begin, but his hand drags across the front of your shirt, just over the tops of your breasts.
“I'm so what?” He whispers in your ear.
“So, so arrogant,” you huff. He laughs, a husky chuckle, and dances the tips of his fingers over your clothed nipple. Gasping, you grasp at his thighs either side of you.
“Yeah? What else am I?” He says, nibbling at your earlobe.
“You- you're cocky, and- and self assured- Oh God!”
Rudely interrupted by him tweaking your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, you swear, back arching off of him for a moment.
“You know,” he says in a gravelly tone directly in your ear, “those are pretty much the same thing.”
“You drive me crazy,” you huff, squirming a little against him as his hands explore your chest over your shirt.
“Good crazy or bad crazy?” He smiles, then bites softly at your neck.
“I- I haven't decided yet.”
“Good. I can say the same about you,” he admits, his hands trailing lower, pulling your shirt up so he can stroke at your bare sides. The touch of fingertips on your skin sends a river of sensations through you that run deep into your core.
“Are you going to- what are you doing, exactly?” You breathe, starting to move against him.
“I'm warming you up sweetheart. Why, don't you like it?”
Genuinely curious, you try to ask what you want to know without using the words.
“N- no, I do. Do you have to, erm, get warmed up? When you, you know.”
He lets out a little huff of a laugh. “Guys are a little less… complicated, than girls. For the most part.”
“Oh. OK, so you can just. I mean, you just, get excited?” Your breathing becomes more ragged when the tip of his thumb grazes the underside of your breast.
“Sweetheart, I got hard seeing you in these little shorts.” Running a finger down your stomach, he lightly pings the elastic of your sleep shorts as if to accentuate his point.
“Really?”
There's no denying it when he moves his hips up and you feel his solid bulge press into the small of your back.
“Really. Can I take this off?” He asks, twisting the hem of your shirt in one hand.
“Yeah.” It's a whisper. You're a little scared of being bare chested, but not having to see his face helps. Plus, he's wound you up so much you're on the verge of begging for his touches, pleading for more.
He guides your top up, up, up, revealing you slowly. Coaxing it over your head, you move your arms up so he can remove it. It ends up in a heap on top of his shirt. One tattooed arm wraps around your waist, pulling you toward him more, his hardness pushing against your ass.
His breathing is unsteady as he grinds his hips, pushing onto you further. Gasping, your fingers are vices, firmly attached to his thighs in a vain attempt to anchor you.
Suddenly his hand is winding into your hair, tugging your head aside so he can run a fat tongue across your neck. You shudder at the sensation, feeling the hard ball of his tongue piercing against your throat When he takes his pillowy lips and sucks at the spot between your neck and shoulder a moan slips out. Grunting in approval, his hands are on your bare tits, fingers pinching at your hardened nipples.
“Holy hell!”
He laughs, running rough fingers down your body, circling your new ink, then dipping down past your waistband. Those tattooed fingers barely brush your pubic hair, teasing you, then glide back up to your stomach.
“Eddie, please.”
Your voice is small, not your own. Eddie groans low in your ear, rubbing his length into the fat of your ass.
“Fuck, princess, I like you saying my name like that. You want me to touch you right here?” he says, pressing down hard over your clothed clit.
The sheer relief of having his touch where you need it gets you close to tears; a gulping shudder of a sob rips from deep in your chest.
“See, you're not broken, sweetheart. Can I take these off?”
Shaking, you hook your fingers into your sleep shorts and pull them down your legs, air hitting your most intimate area. Eddie huffs in your ear, his inked hands rubbing up the insides of your thighs.
“You're so fuckin’ sexy.”
Before you can retort, his fingers dip down to your entrance, gathering your slick. You can hear how wet you are, but it's not in you to think about it. You can't think, only feel.
When his fingers run up and start rubbing circles into your clit, your response is visceral. Bucking up, you chase the feeling, searching for even more.
“I'm gonna slip a finger in, alright princess?”
You nod, waiting for the pain, wincing before it even starts.
“It's OK, you're fine, you gotta relax baby.” He strokes your stomach with his free hand, pressing kisses to your temple.
The tip of his finger breaches you, and the pain doesn't come. Your soaking wet cunt invites him in, warm and pulsing with arousal. He slips it into the hilt, his palm pressing into your clit, and your moan is long and loud. It's never felt like this. Never has it stoked a fire in your gut, bubbled your insides like pop rocks and Coke, turned you into a writhing mess.
He fucks his finger into you, slipping a second in to join the first, and you move your hips, chasing the building tightness in your belly. Each thrust of his hand has you bucking, and in turn rubbing against his member trapped within its denim prison.
“That's it, good fuckin’ girl.” His voice is strained, as if he's trying hard not to lose control.
“Eddie, oh fuck, f-feels so- good, yes, please, please-”
You're not sure what you're begging for, and Eddie doesn't seem to be in any state to ask, but it doesn't matter. His fingers fuck into you in earnest, stroking hard against some spot inside that has you babbling and quivering around him.
“God, you're so tight, this little cunts gonna drive me crazy. So wet and perfect, Jesus Christ.”
The feeling seems too much and not enough, and it grows higher and higher, flooding your body with a pleasure so intense you're sure you black out. The only thing you're aware of is your voice screaming out his name as your body thrusts wildly into his grip. Finally, it dissipates, your body melting against his form, sweating and spent.
You take a breath, and another, trying to gather your wits enough to speak. Eddie speaks first.
“So sweetheart, everything you dreamed it would be?” He asks as he strokes your hair.
“Better. Fuck, Eddie. Thank you.”
“Anytime. Seriously. Any. Time. Day, night, weekends, holidays-”
You giggle, slapping his thigh, and sit up, grabbing your discarded shirt to cover up.
“Sorry, that was probably a little er, frustrating for you.” You say as you glance at his bare torso, drinking in the sight with your eyes for the first time. He's lean, but ripped, a faint sheen of sweating making his tattoos glisten in the low light.
“What do you mean sweetheart?”
“Well, doing that, not getting anything in return...”
He chuckles lightly, “Oh I wouldn't say that,” he glances down, gesturing to his jeans, “full disclosure, I came in my pants.”
“Really?” your eyes widen, staring at him with disbelief.
“I ain't lying. Wanna check?” He waggles his eyebrows at you, making you laugh again.
“You seem better already. Right, I better go.”
Shoulders deflating, you pout, “I suppose you better.”
“Hey don't look at me like that. I hoped that helped. Sleep tight, drink some water. I'll see you tomorrow princess.”
And just like that, he leaves. Of course he leaves, it was just a deal you struck, nothing more. A favour. you wipe stray tears from your eyes and try not to focus on the sound of the front door shutting.
As you collapse on the bed, exhausted, you think about his hands, his words. There's something screaming inside, telling you you're playing with fire, but as you drift off you can't find it in you to mind.
Taglist
@liminalpebble @eddies-puppet @rip-quizilla @micheledawn1975 @vanilla-demon @millercontracting @roanniom @josephquinnsfreckles @leelei1980 @mrsjellymunson @usedtobecooler @eddiesprincess86 @ali-r3n @choke-me-eddie @littlebebebunny @big-ope-vibes
#ms gexy writes#eddie munson smut#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson fanfic#eddie x you#tattoo artist eddie munson#tattoo artist!eddie#teach me/show me Eddie#eddie my beloved#eddie x fem reader
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Unspoken Apologies
Summary: You are in the hospital and you confess to Bucky the pain you felt during the relationship, but Bucky doesn't deny his true feelings toward you
A/N: I GOT 100 FOLLOWERS OMG TY GUYS SO MUCH!!
Part 1 Part 2
Y/N lay in a sterile hospital room, her body weakened by the torture she had gone through. The doctors had delivered the devastating news that the torture you went through had caused severe damage internally. They had said she wouldn't make it. It was a bleak reality that Y/N was struggling to accept, but there was one person who refused to give up hope - Bucky Barnes.
Bucky paced back and forth outside the room, his heart heavy with worry. He had never seen Y/N so fragile, so vulnerable. The thought of losing her was unbearable. He blamed himself for not being there sooner, for not being there when she needed him the most.
A soft knock on the door interrupted Bucky's restless pacing. Y/N's weak voice called out, "Come in, Bucky."
He entered cautiously, his eyes brimming with concern. Seeing her lying in the hospital bed, her breathing slower and her body more pale, tore at his soul. Bucky had always admired Y/N's strength and resilience, and now it seemed to be slipping away.
Y/N managed a weak smile. "It's so funny, isn't it?" she said softly, her voice filled with a mix of sadness and amusement. "All of this started because I overheard you in the bar, calling me clingy. I tried avoiding you and I wanted you to say 'Hey I miss your clinginess' " you pause holding back tears "but you never did".
Bucky's heart sank as he remembered that conversation. It had been a misunderstanding. He was just stressed and found you as an excuse for his problems. He wanted to apologize, to tell Y/N how wrong he had been, but his words caught in his throat.
"Y/N," he began, his voice choked with emotion. But before he could say anything else, she continued.
"I've always felt like I burdened you, like I was too much for you to handle, and this situation proved my point" Y/N confessed, tears welling up in her eyes. "I guess I just wanted to hear it from you. Am I really a burden to you, Bucky?"
Bucky's silence spoke volumes, and Y/N's heart shattered into a million pieces. The truth was revealed without words, and it was more painful than she could have ever imagined.
Tears streamed down Y/N's face as she clutched her chest, struggling to breathe. Bucky rushed to her side, taking her hand in his, but it was too late. The doctors rushed in, their urgent voices fading into the background as Y/N slipped away.
Bucky knelt beside the lifeless body of the person he loved, overwhelmed with grief and regret. He had allowed his fear and pride to cloud his judgment, to push Y/N away when all she needed was his reassurance.
In that heartbreaking moment, Bucky made a promise to himself. He would carry the weight of his mistakes and regrets for the rest of his life. He would never forget the sound of Y/N's voice, filled with hurt and longing, nor the look of desperation in her eyes as she questioned her own worth.
As Bucky emerged from Y/N's hospital room, his face etched with anguish, he found himself face-to-face with Sam Wilson, who had been anxiously waiting outside.
Sam's eyes widened at the sight of Bucky's devastated expression. "Bucky, what happened?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.
Bucky's voice trembled as he tried to find the right words. "It's... it's my fault, Sam," he finally managed to say, his voice filled with regret. "Y/N... she overheard a conversation we had, and I never got the chance to make things right, to tell her how sorry I was. And now... now she's gone."
Sam's expression softened as he realized the weight of Bucky's remorse. "What did she hear, Bucky?" he pressed gently, knowing that the answer would reveal the depth of the pain caused.
Bucky's voice cracked as he spoke. "She heard me call her clingy, Sam," he admitted, his voice filled with self-condemnation. "I was stressed, and I took it out on her. I pushed her away when all she needed was my support. I didn't realize how much those words would haunt her, how they would make her doubt her worth. And now... she's paid the price."
Sam's gaze turned cold, his disappointment evident. "She died thinking I hated her," he said, his voice filled with frustration. "She was the only person with me after-"Bucky pauses realizing he's all alone again, as if fate wanted him to be alone. "after Steve left me. She was like an angel who was there and and now she is gone because I was a fucking idiot" Bucky says kicking a trash can to the other side of the hallway.
Bucky's shoulders slumped, his eyes welling up with tears. "I failed her, and now she's gone. I've lost her..."
@marygoddessofmischief @specialsnowflake-gabbi @openup-yourmind @madi-is-kinda-lame @maddieislost @666yourmomdotcom @kentokaze @floralwslokicjand10 @vicmc624 @theroyalmanatee @kandis-mom @elite4cekalyma @sargentbarxes @milanaasblog
#bucky x reader#bucky x reader angst#bucky barnes x reader angst#james barnes x reader#james barnes x reader angst
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It appears the game has corrupted, leaving Pomni and Bubble as the only survivors...
Introducing: The BLEAK FUTURE AU!
This is both a promo and a masterpost for the Bleak Future AU, along with a Q&A to keep people's expectations steady. Though this account will
LOOSE PAGES
>Dancing Dolly Room/>Masked Wilds Room/>Burden
OTHER
>Entry (Original OST)/
ASKS
>Fanmail
>Deprecated
QUESTIONS & ANSWERS
Q: Will this AU will be a comic?
A: At the moment, I'm planning to do a little bit of everything. Stay tuned to what it might become in the end... I guess!
Q: Can you ask questions about this AU?
A: Yes! If the interest is there.
Please ask more questions, I will add it to the Q&A!!
#the amazing digital circus#tadc#digital drawing#digital art#art#artwork#artists on tumblr#fanart#sketch#the amazing digital circus bubble#the amazing digital circus pomni#BleakFutureAU#moumekie
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Elaborating on robot!König. He was a man, once, he believes - or that’s what his fuzzy memories tell him. He’s unsure, but he knows that this is his reality now. And he’s built to love it, to love the attention he gets When he walks onto the battlefield, and the praise from his superiors from time to time when he successfully destroys an enemy base with just a flick of the hand. His wrist opens, splitting his forearm and Hand apart, revealing a hole - and a second later, a rocket heads straight for his targets.
Within the destroyed enemy base, someone manages to escape. A frail little being, könig notes, when he scans her from afar. He chuckles to himself, seeing her run around like a lost fly hitting a window over and over again, because one second she’s running this way and the other she’s running that way. She has nowhere left to go.
He decides to kill her. He’s her enemy, and his sensors are going crazy noting that the target is trying to run away. But it all soon quiets, as he hears a voice through the earpiece built into his head. “You noted a target escaping, are they strong?” König stands on the battlefield, unharmed, talking to his superiors as if nothing particular is going on. “Ach, nein, very… weak. Not suited for war. She will to die by exhausting herself, running in circles.” He laughs loudly, making heads turn towards the 208 cm tall crazy metal-man.
“Then get her for questioning.”
“Jawohl.”
He simply walks over to her, not rushing one bit. He loves the terrified look on her face when she turns around and sees him. She doesn’t even try to run away. “Stupid girl, not even trying to escape me?” You don’t answer and he grins, “A smart decision. Jetzt komm schon, hopp hopp!”
He flings her over his shoulder like it’s nothing. His mouth curls slightly upwards at the “oof!” Sound she lets out. He grabs her steadily by the back of her knees and one large hand over her butt. On his walk back to the helicopter, he experimentally squeezes a few times and decides he likes the feeling of it. He sits her down in his lap, ass on one thigh, and he bounces the other every now and then. He wants to stare at her, but he doesn’t want to scare his new little prey off.
Back on base, they keep you for questioning. You know better than to give information away, but you suppose it’s either that or you’ll leave this place in pieces - as they heartily promised to send könig to blast you away into the night sky like a firework.
When they don’t let you go, you’re still confused, but just as you’re about to speak up to the leaving soldiers, two men walk in. You recognise one as König the war machine, and the other must be in a higher position with the way he holds himself. König meets your eyes and grins toothily, not that you could see it because of the mask. But you shudder at the bright blue shining on you.
“She’s all yours, König” the older man pats his back, “we don’t have any use for her, and I could see the way you looked at her. I guess even those like you happen to to want to keep a war trophy, yeah?”
“Ja… jawohl” he keeps staring at you, eyes scanning over your body. Quite literally. The older man nods and tells him that he can take you home, “have a good time, you’ve deserved it.”
He props you up on his shoulder again and leaves to his apartment, built right beside the base to make it easy for him to come and go as commanded. He slaps your ass, and grabs a cheek through your pants, smiling and your soft gasp.
“I’ll show you a good time, trophy girl.”
(Proceeds to show you the 30+ modes he has on his vibrating dick)
WHO ARE YOU?!? Can I marry you…? 👉👈
I mean do I follow you here anon? And if not then wtf?! Give me your blog now if you’re pushing out stuff like this! Gimme! I beg of you!
(I had to collaborate to the awesome bleakness of this: here, have this as a ty gift!)
She literally prayed that some other veteran would have taken her as a “trophy”, just anyone except this machine.
It claims it was once a man, but seems to have forgotten what it is to be human, walks in and out of his apartment that’s really just an old container, disturbs your only moments of peace in the “bathroom” where you’re trying to wash yourself clean, under a bucket shower with a small bar of soap he found for you somewhere.
Doesn’t respect your privacy at all actually, stares at your breasts when you get up and get dressed, scans your body up and down when you hesitantly crawl to him at night. He has a body warmth feature which he uses to lure you in and to his arms because the metal casket you live in with this war machine is horribly cold, night and day. Of course you seek warmth from the giant radiator so that you wouldn't freeze to death.
Due to the many upgrades – or that’s what he calls them – made to his body, he has inhuman stamina. Gets his pleasure out of edging and studying your body, clearly trying to remember what human women were like... How they writhe, what makes them quiver and cum, what forces them to moan.
He wants to know how many orgasms can be pulled out of your weak body, how many times can you take his dick that’s a bit too hard and unforgiving compared to the smoother human cocks, he's especially curious whenever you start to beg for him not to stop.
You feel like you’re more like a guinea pig to him when he returns to probe and experiment on you at night. Asks why you look sad when you curl into a fetal position after the three peaks he just tortured out of you. When you explain to him that you’d like some skin-to-skin contact and cuddling after sex, the automated breathing behind you stops for a moment.
“Ah... Post-coital procedures... Ja, I remember, ganz sicher.”
He settles down next to you and draws you into an embrace, a bit too cold and rough. There’s no heartbeat, but he breathes steadily behind your back, the steady thrum of his inhales and exhales supposed to make you relax. He could probably turn his body heat system up if you asked, but you’re too shaken to even speak.
“You feel good now...?” He asks as if it’s in his protocol to do that these days. That it’s his job to make you feel nice and he must not fail…
“Yes, much better,” you lie as you spend another night with this war-torn but highly functioning cyborg, trying to cuddle and comfort you like a human man.
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hi, how would you write a sense of detachment for someone but still feeling something there? like the character is trying so desperately hard to understand but they just can’t comprehend whether it’s because they refuse to, they can’t, or they just don’t remember something? i don’t know, kind of a weird question i guess
This is a two-prong question! Firstly, we have detachment, and secondly, we have incomprehension, both of which are different emotional states. Let's look at detachment first, and we'll consider incomprehension in a different post.
How to Write Characters with a Sense of Detachment
Characters with a sense of detachment offer a unique perspective, challenging readers to delve into the intricacies of human emotions and the complexities of forming connections. From emotionally distant individuals to socially detached personalities, exploring detachment opens doors to exploring themes of self-discovery, personal growth, and the search for true connection. But how do you write characters who are emotionally distant? Here are some quick tips to show, not tell characters with a sense of detachment.
Behaviours
Avoiding eye contact
Speaking in a monotone voice
Fidgeting or avoiding physical contact
Not showing excitement or enthusiasm
Refusing help or offers of support
Giving vague answers to questions
Interactions
Struggling to relate to others
Preferring solitude over socializing
Difficulty in forming close relationships
Difficulty in expressing emotions
Dismissing others' feelings or being insensitive towards them
Being guarded or intentionally vague in conversations
Physical Signs
Lack of facial expressions
Stiff posture or body language
Little to no physical touch or affection
Unkempt appearance or disregard for personal hygiene
Tendency to keep distance from others
Habits like staring out of windows or picking at nails
Visual Cues and Imagery
Using minimalist and simple designs in their home or office
Wearing muted and plain clothing
Utilizing bleak or empty landscapes in their surroundings
Portraying a sense of emptiness and hopelessness
Using shadows or darkness to enhance detachment
Using silence as a tool to emphasize detachment
Internal Thoughts
Lack of self-worth or identity
Little emotion or empathy towards others
A feeling of general apathy or resignation
An intense focus on rationality over emotions
Difficulty in recognizing and addressing emotional issues
Distancing oneself from their own thoughts and feelings
Body Language
Lack of eye contact or facial expressions
Standing at a distance from others
Crossing arms or legs as a barrier
Staying still or avoiding physical movement
Avoiding physical touch or contact
Restless or fidgeting behaviour
Feelings
Numb or deadened emotions
Apathy and lack of interest in most situations
Difficulty experiencing joy or happiness
A sense of detachment and isolation from others
Irritability or frustration when confronted with emotional situations
A feeling of being out of touch with oneself and others
Attitudes
A focus on rationality and logic over emotions
A tendency to pull away from people and situations
Believing that detachment is a positive trait
Experiencing a lack of fulfilment in life
Feeling like they are on the outside looking in
Perceiving others as needy or overly emotional
Positive Outcomes
An ability to stay calm in stressful situations
Being able to solve problems objectively
An ability to make rational decisions without influence by emotions
Maintaining a level head in dangerous situations
Being able to maintain privacy and distance when necessary
The ability to think clearly and analyze situations without distractions
Negative Outcomes
Struggling to form close relationships
Feeling disconnected from others
Experiencing emotional numbness or apathy
Becoming detached from one's own emotions and thoughts
Failing to recognize and address emotional issues
Feeling internal conflicts and a sense of dissatisfaction in life
Detachment can add layers to your characters, but it can also have consequences. When writing detached characters, consider the audience's level of empathy towards them, and make sure they experience some kind of character growth as the story progresses.
If you'd like a more in-depth look at writing detachment, you can also check out this post:
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Right Where You Left Me
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!reader
Word Count: 10.1k
Content Warnings: Angst, Lovers to strangers kinda deal ya know, some cursing.
Summary: It's the summer before you head off to college, and there's a fear about that decision that keeps creeping in. You try not to let it drown you, spending time making summer plans for your friends and with your boyfriend Steve. It feels like you can do this, and you're happy to be staring into the summer ready to make memories that will carry you into college. However, unbeknownst to you something else is brewing and Steve has plans of his own. One unexpected breakup later and your summer now looks a lot more like trying to overcome heartbreak.
Author Note: I'm the only one to read over this, so me and Grammarly are all I have regarding editing. Also, I guess this is just what I write now! Inspired by my favorite sad girl songs, if you know them I'm sure you'll see them. I have ideas for a part 2 of this if anyone would be interested? All of this was supposed to be a one-shot type of thing, but it started getting long. Part two would be a resolution as we fade into a happy ending, and get some much needed answers.
Ao3 Link - In case you want to read it there
Steve Harrington is soft smiles passed your way over the tops of all the children he babysits heads. He is weekend movie nights spent curled up next to one another on his couch, so close that you sometimes think you could become one person if you tried hard enough. He’s not your first relationship, but sometimes when you can’t sleep at night there’s a reoccurring thought that he is going to be your last. Steve has been orbiting around your life since elementary school, close but never within reach. That was the way, only knowing him through rumors passed around the halls of Hawkins High, two passing ships in the hallway between classes. This last year though has brought him into your world, no longer is he a passing comet that you stop to stare at. Now he’s yours and your mom will chide and say it’s just high school love, but you can’t imagine a world where his hand doesn’t stay attached to yours. Call it whatever you want, but something about this just feels too real. The kind of love you hear about in novels, the kind people wax poetic structures about. You’re not sure what you did in a past life, or what karma you collected over time, but you’re thankful for the universe putting the two of you together.
The only bleak part of your future with Steve comes after summer ends. You’ve just graduated, and school is expected of you in a way that you know you can’t turn down. Steve has been more than understanding, it’s a pressure he recognizes from his parents. You have no clue what you want to do but your dad swears that you’ll figure it out when you get there. You manage to get into a good school but it’s 5 hours away from Hawkins. Your parents are ecstatic, they can’t stop talking about all the ways you’re going to grow in this next phase of your life. Your parents are the people who met in college, and even though they won’t say it there’s something about you needing to attend that feels a little like them trying to relive their glory days. You love them but you’re not sure if they know you or if they really listen when you talk.
You find that if you put on a smile and nod along to what they say though it gets you through conversations faster. It’s a small price to pay so you can escape the house and rush to Steve. Steve who you hate to leave behind, sweet Steve who has been there to hold your hand and be your rock through it all. You’re not sure if you’d be able to put up with your parents’ expectations if he wasn’t there with you holding you up. You worry you put too much on him like you weigh him down the same way your parents tend to do. Sometimes you tell him your concerns, and he’s always quick to quiet the fear.
The thing with Steve is he is so soft sometimes, and yet you can’t help but feel protected in his arms. Still though, even as he brushes your hair to the side, as his lips touch yours and he peppers you with affection and reassurance, you make a vow to yourself to try and reduce how much you complain. You can’t stop the anxiety that sometimes spikes up despite his kindness that maybe this all hurts a little too much for him. After all, his family held similar expectations for him. You know that his dad is a different kind of mean and demanding than yours. Your family feels like a small-time problem when put into the perspective of Steve’s parents.
You have a mantra you follow, reminding yourself that school, as daunting as it is, is still months away. You have a whole summer to forget about it all. A whole summer of nothing but your friends and Steve. You know you’ll be right next door at the arcade, your shifts and Steve’s always lining up because of a favor Keith owed you. There are plans in place that will carry you through. There’s the drive-in and their Friday night movie deals, sunny days that will be spent at Lover’s Lake, the regular Sunday brunch at your favorite diner, and so much more. You make sure to focus on those things, knowing that all of it will be enough to get you through that first semester of school once you finally go.
However, like with most things that seem to happen in Hawkins, your good luck runs out. You hate to say it, but you didn’t see it coming. Delusional bliss is apparently where you’ve been living and the rose-colored glasses you didn’t know you were wearing are snatched off your face without a moment of hesitation. Looking back the signs will be there in glaring neon colors, and you will hate yourself for missing them. For missing them to the point that you couldn’t even backtrack to fix where your so-called perfect relationship went off the tracks.
It's a week into summer and things are not at all going to plan. Your parents are pressuring you to cut your summer short and go to school three weeks early so you can settle in for classes. And honestly, it’s not the worst idea and if you were anyone else maybe it would be appealing. However, you’re on a fixed time frame and you don’t plan to give up one ounce of time with Steve and your friends before you absolutely must. Despite schedules syncing up, there’s a distance growing between you and Steve. At the time you understand, there are kids to be driven around and then his parents unexpectedly show up back home. You don’t blame him for the distance, you take it in stride and offer your support just like he’s been doing for you. The future version of yourself, will look back and call you an idiot for not digging deeper. But why would you? In all the time, though maybe it hasn’t been that long, Steve has never once been the cause of your anxiety. Never once has he ever done anything to make you question your relationship, or whether you can trust him or not.
After a week of only seeing Steve in passing and on lunch breaks, you finally get the chance to have uninterrupted time with Steve. He catches you on a break at work and asks if you want to get dinner once your shifts end. He doesn’t carry that same glowing smile he always does when he drops these moments on you, but you brush the thought aside assuming this is the residual damage from his parents. You’re just happy at the prospect of being with Steve so you’re quick to agree, and even quicker to pull him in for a kiss to seal the deal. In your excitement, you don’t notice how this kiss doesn’t feel like a welcomed hello, and later you’ll tell yourself that it was the first sign of goodbye. But in the moment Steve is pulling away, and he’s looking at you like he's tracing and memorizing everything about you. “I’ll see you after work,” is the parting sentence before he’s jogging back to Family Video.
Steve and you meet in the middle of your two jobs, and he holds out his hand just like he always does. He leads you to his car, asking you about your day. You tell him about the party coming in, and about all the different characters of teens who came in. You prattle on and on, all the way to your favorite diner. You ask him about his day and try to get him to talk more. A quiet Steve, with eyes not shining, is a version you hate to see. You want nothing more than to pick him up, hopefully, wash off all the grime that his parents so obviously threw on him in the short week they were home. It’s always hard doing this walk and dance, the scars his parents leave him with always cut deeper than you have an awareness of. But it’s never this impossible, by the time you’re leaving the diner you’re more worried about what happened during this visit home than you ever have been. You’ve learned with Steve that when it comes to his parents you can’t poke too much otherwise, he gets spooked. Normally, he finds a way to talk about it usually when you’re both back at his place and the light is off for the night. When it’s so dark in his room that you can’t see the way his face is lined with grief, and pain that he shouldn’t have to experience. You’re so used to the pattern that you don’t mind the car ride after dinner being just the sound of the radio. It’s not unwelcomed, it’s just a part of the pieces that happen, which is why you’re surprised when Steve parks in front of your house.
“Oh, are we not going to yours?” Your brow is furrowed as you turn in your seat to face Steve. Even when you don’t stay at his place, he still is always looking at you when you turn to leave. This time though Steve’s hands are still holding on to the steering wheel, and he can’t turn to face you when he finally gathers the ability to reply. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
The radio is still on, and your ears pick up Whitney Houston singing a new song that’s been playing everywhere. “What do you mean,” your stomach feels like it’s falling right out of you and your brain is giving radio silence as you try to gain some understanding of what the hell is going on. You watch as Steve takes a deep breath like he’s centering himself before turning to face you. Every time Steve has ever looked at you it’s been with nothing but softness, an unquestioning gaze that always tells you what he’s thinking. The Steve before you though, these are eyes that aren’t that sweet look he normally gives you. Instead, this one is cold, one that you can barely recall. You have to pull at memories from his reign as King Steve to find some type of look that’s like the one you receive now.
“I just don’t think this is working,” he shrugs like this isn’t the biggest thing to ever happen before. Like he’s telling you something that should be common knowledge.
“I don’t understand, Steve.” There’s a burning feeling in the corners of your eyes. The sensation is a warning that if you don’t pull it together, you’re going to start crying. You don’t know how to pull it together because what little Steve is telling you sounds an awful like a breakup.
Steve sighs, something heavy like he’s just so tired of having to explain himself. It’s an odd sound and it rubs you raw because he hasn’t explained anything. How can he already be tired of a conversation that makes no sense?
“Look, I don’t want this to be harder than it is,” you cut him off before he can continue. “So don’t make it hard, just tell me what’s going on and why you’re saying all of this.” You don’t recognize your voice. The pleading tone sounds watery and not at all like what you know yourself to be. You don’t think you’ve ever begged someone in this way before.
“I just don’t feel the same way for you,” it’s so blunt and to the point that it leaves no room for argument.
“I don’t understand,” you’re repeating yourself and you hate that. You’re not stupid, you can usually piece things together faster than this. The phrase, ‘having the rug pulled out from under you’ rattles around in a way that suddenly makes total sense.
“I don’t know how to explain it any better. I don’t want to date you anymore. I don’t want to see you.” You didn’t realize before that the cold tone he was using still allowed for kindness. In this final statement, his words are ice, and you feel like you just took a plunge into Lover’s Lake in the middle of winter.
You have more you want to say, questions that you feel need to be asked. If you stay though you feel like you’re not going to get them, and honestly, it’s taking more energy to keep yourself together than it would be to stay. You’re not sure if you say anything else if there’s some kind of acknowledgement on your part. All you know is that your body is screaming at you to run. Staying in that car doesn’t feel like a place you belong, so you’re quick to get out. You don’t even make it to the door before Steve is peeling off and driving himself home. The action feels like the last break in any resolve you had. Your Steve would always wait until you were inside before leaving. Always telling you he'd rather know with certainty that you were safe before he ever left. It was one of those things that told you how caring he was, that showed how he loved you.
______________________________________________________________
In what will later be referred to as The Aftermath, you have the next day off. Your mom hovers at your door, knocking and knocking. The sound makes your head hurt and forces you to pull your covers over your head like it’ll drown out everything else. If you had anyone else as a mother, you might be able to convince yourself that she’s doing it from a place of concern. The truth is that this is the same woman who when you came in last night, uncontrollably sobbing and barely getting out the words ‘Steve’ and ‘broke up’, your mom was asking if this meant you’d go to school earlier like she and your father want.
The tears had stopped sometime around when you finally found yourself falling asleep. They haven’t picked back up and everything you ever learned in biology screams out you’re dehydrated. There are things you should be doing, things that you have done for yourself when other relationships ended that made it so the person you were dating was nothing more than a faded memory. Maybe if you go through the ritual of it all, the gathering of reminders, and the disposal of memories it’ll make you feel better. There should be phone calls to girlfriends, and movie nights set up to help push you through these feelings.
Instead, you continue to stay in bed. Your limbs feel like lead, weighed down and stuck, too heavy for you to move. Your curtains are drawn so tight that not even the hot Indiana sun comes through to ruffle you into motion. Your wall has your attention, and you find yourself using the texture of the paint to trace all the lines in your relationship with Steve. Maybe if you follow them to the end like a map, they’ll tell you where you are and where you go from here.
In the midst of The Aftermath, in the bed of your grief, you manage to make one phone call. Well… that’s a lie. You make two phone calls. In no surprise to the imaginary audience watching you grieve; the first call is to Steve. The phone rings and rings and rings. Steve never answers and it should be a sign. You get the standard Harrington voicemail. Steve’s mom’s voice becomes the soundtrack to your day. She tells you to leave a message, and that the family will get back to you when they can. You open your mouth, no plan on what to say but surely there’s something there in your head that will tumble out. The answering machine beep is met with your silence though, just your breath coming through, you wonder if Steve will know it’s you even if you don’t leave your name. Does he still have you memorized in all the ways that you still know him? Did he forget about you in just the span of a day? Worst thought of all, did he even really take the time to trace you down in his memory the same way you did him?
You hang up after that last thought, still no name and still carrying the hope that it could be enough. Your second call is made two hours later when there’s still no call back from Steve, even though he should be off today too. Even though, there’s a piece of your mind screaming over and over that he should have heard the silence in the message and been able to read through it. Maybe that’s unfair of you to place that on Steve, but it also feels unfair that he had the power and took action to bring you where you lay now. The second call is to Keith at the arcade, where you know he’s working since you’re off today. The favor you cashed in on is wasted because your request is for him to take back your schedule.
“I can’t work the day shift anymore,” your voice is hoarse and throat sore as the words stumble out.
“That sounds like a you problem,” you grimace as you hear Keith chewing what you know are those stupid cheese snacks he always carries around.
You hold back a groan and tell yourself your next move, while incredibly bratty, is the only way that you return to work. Your parents hate you working at the place anyway, but you like the independence, you like having your own money and you don’t want to give up another thing this summer.
“It’s going to be your problem because I’m not working any shift that overlaps with Harrington. I’ll quit.” You hate how Steve has transformed into Harrington. Hate how removed it sounds, not at all reflective of how close you had been. If you say his first name though, you know you’re going to cry.
Keith whistles, the tone way too low and drags out in a way that makes you feel a wave of creeping anger you’re not used to.
“So, you and Harrington are over then. Knew he was stupid but didn’t think he was that stupid.”
“He’s not stupid,” your defense is soft, it feels telling of where you are. It isn’t harsh in the way that it should be. It’s not your job to defend Steve anymore, he let you go from that position last night after all.
“I’ll change the schedules,” is the response you get back and it’s the nicest thing that you think Keith has ever said to you. However, you know Keith, and this feels a little too easy.
“Is there a catch?”
“Nah, just can’t afford to lose you so consider it your lucky day.” It doesn’t feel like your lucky day, but you don’t say that. Just mumble out a thank you after he tells you that your shift tomorrow will be the closing shift and Harrington will be gone by then.
True to his word, when you pull into the shared parking lot of Family Video there is no sign of Steve’s car. There’s an awareness that it won’t always be this easy, that Hawkins is too small to go all summer without seeing him. And despite Keith’s previous comments on how he couldn’t afford to lose you, there’s also a silent understanding that he’s still going to be an absolute shit about all of this for the rest of the summer. Keith doesn’t know any other way to be, and it’s a moderate price to pay for your ability to at least show up to work without breaking down.
Dustin is the first one you see in The Aftermath, and you can tell by the way he keeps glancing at you in the arcade that he already knows what’s transpired between you and Steve. You’re not sure if it’s the telltale sign of the obvious breakup look you’re sporting, or if it’s Steve’s own admittance to the teen. Could be a combination of the two though. You looked in the mirror before leaving today. You’re fully aware that you look and feel like shit, and there’s no way to sugarcoat that.
Normally, Dustin would come to chat with you. Whether he’s with the rest of the party or by himself, he always says hello. He would do it before Steve, and you hoped that he’d do it after too. Dustin doesn’t say hello though, he avoids your gaze when you catch him looking your way, and even though you know at one point, he should come to you to complain about a machine he just leaves instead. The act makes you sad, it’s the first divide between the friendships you created and thought you would get to hold on to. Dustin might be in high school now, but he’s still a kid. Rationally, a piece of you should be able to string together how his silence speaks more about how he doesn’t know what to say and less about a side he’s choosing. Reality rarely ever plays out as it rationally should, so instead Dustin just becomes the first domino that falls, and you feel like you should have known everyone else would go along with him.
______________________________________________________________
The next three weeks find you oscillating like a fan. Days spent hiding in your room, working up the courage to move and take care of yourself. Then nights of work or spent rummaging through polaroids that catalog your relationship. You always told yourself you put them in a scrapbook, something to hold the years together so in old age you’d have something to shuffle through. It sounds silly now, but the pictures sit in a shoebox of movie stubs from the Hawk, the receipt from your first date together, and the paper menu from the diner that you talked a waitress into giving you. There are notes scribbled on lined paper that were slipped into your jacket pockets when Steve would kiss you goodbye as he dropped you off at school, dried flowers from prom, and so much more. After a week of crying over the pieces, ink smudging thanks to fresh tears your body can create again now that you’re hydrated, you manage to shove the shoe box in the back corner under your bed. You had to slide it back there with the broom, but you know it’s not within reach now and that feels like progress.
You still dodge calls from your friends that you collected outside of your relationship. When they manage to catch you on the phone they whisper sweet condolences, but underneath it’s an unspoken blame of how you should have known. “He was the King of the school, he only knows how to break hearts,” your friend Val tells you over the phone one night. Val pops her gum on the other end of the line, and it sets off a chain reaction of emotions. You feel like you’re going through the five stages of grief in that moment. Val tries to invite you out and reminds you that Hawkins has more boys than just Steve Harrington. She promises you a good time, a night to help you forget all about Steve. You make an excuse and promise to go out next time, but both of you know it’s a promise you won’t keep.
Your parents seem to have set up some game plan amongst themselves. They’ve learned that they can’t tell you that your heartbreak is juvenile. Instead, they preach about how open you’ll be to new opportunities when you head to school. Your dad has the course list, where he got it from you don’t dare to ask. He tries to plan out your future over dinner, but you don’t even know what life you want for yourself. Before this you just saw Steve in the future, you had naïvely assumed you’d have time to sort out the rest. But Steve’s in the rearview now, and your parents want to know what life you plan to have in your passenger seat.
It's three weeks of juggling it all, but you still haven’t seen Steve. It should feel like the universe is still on your side, but really, it’s more of a cosmic joke. It should be finally time for some peace, instead, the world feels the need to implode again. Your parents are out of town, an annual get-together with their old college friends, and you’re home alone. It’s late, you’ve only been off work for 20 minutes when you get to the grocery store. The pantry at home is bare bones and you’ve been putting off the need to go shopping for the last three days. You’ve been supplementing meals through various fast-food restaurants on the outskirts of town. But you’re tired of driving so far away, plus the taste of grease has become less and less appealing as the days have dragged on.
The evening finds you shrugging off your name tag from the arcade and running into Bradley’s to do some shopping before they close for the night. The air conditioning hits you right as the doors open, it cools your skin in a way that summer nights never will. You close your eyes and pause for a moment, maybe you look crazy, but it’s late and you don’t anticipate anyone else is going to be poking around the store. You grab a cart and you’re on your way, trying to be mindful to be quick because you know how it feels to work a closing shift. You wander up and down the aisles of the store, with no real list in mind just grabbing what sounds good. Your diet is still in a post-break-up mode which means you’re either only consuming junk food or pushing food around on your plate still too sad to eat. Which means, it’s time to be gentle with yourself and just grab the food that calls to you. Now is not a time for healthy eating and hitting every food group on that pyramid they went over in health class.
Because of this though you aren’t paying attention to what’s in front of you. You move through the aisles of the store with your eyes on the shelves, still having confidence in the fact that it’s just you and the store clerk in here. But remember, Hawkins likes to implode both literally and emotionally. You swing your cart into the next aisle, already excited to be browsing the cereal options. You only make it a handful of steps forward, eyes already searching for the cinnamon toast crunch which you’re rarely allowed to bring into the house otherwise your mom will complain. Your cart jolts and pushes you back, and you look up to find that you’ve hit another person’s cart.
You feel silly, and your cheeks are warm in an embarrassed flush. “I’m so sorry,” the words tumble out as you drag your gaze up to see what suburban mom you’ve managed to piss off tonight. When you see who it is though you find yourself wishing it was a mom about to yell at you, instead it’s Steve, you find yourself in front of. He says your name, a hint of surprise, and what you might have previously labeled as nervous energy. You must look stupid, both of you really, just standing in silence as the hum of the grocery store lights buzz on and the radio station the store is set to plays out louder than it should. Steve’s cart is full of popcorn, and snacks that you can trace to each teen you know he babysits, there’s even Robin’s favorite chips and the beer that Eddie likes to drink. All of it slides together and reminds you that it’s Saturday, which means movie night at Steve’s.
You don’t know what to say, and you feel like a deer caught in headlights. Frozen so that you can’t even run to escape the impending collision that is about to take place. It’s Robin rounding around the corner, her voice loud and unapologetic in a way you have always admired. “Hey, dingus, should we grab some ice cream for Erica, or do you think…” her voice trails off as she catches sight of you. “Oh,” and you look to Robin, she raises a hand to give a small wave at you and smile. It’s enough to also jump Steve into movement again, saying your name and you don’t wait to see if there’s more.
You don’t say anything as you turn to leave, though maybe you should have, at least to Robin. But she’s the headlights turning off and giving you the freedom to run. You can eat another fast-food burger tonight, and you hate that you’re just leaving your cart in the middle of the cereal aisle. But you can’t, you won’t just sit there and let yourself wonder that store when it’s obviously not a safe place.
The air conditioning hits you again as you run out the doors. No time to pause this time, and you actually seek comfort in the sticky heat that greets you outside of Bradley’s. The crickets sing to you as you rush to fumble with your keys and drive away before your past tries to catch you outside. You got three weeks of no Steve, and you had been lulled into this fantasy of maybe being okay someday soon. This though, this small interaction, where you didn’t even really talk to him, has shown that you’re not close to that. When you finally manage to pull into your driveway, your hand bangs down on the steering wheel. You mumble to yourself, “that was so stupid, you just ran?”
You’ll eventually make your way into the house about 15 minutes later, after you had completely gone over the entire interaction about three times. You know it will continue to replay all night long. It’ll be inside that you realize you never even stopped to get food, too focused on seeking the safety that you can apparently only find in your room these days. Time drags on and you keep opening and closing the fridge and the cabinets hoping that food will magically appear the next time you start looking. It’s late, Bradley’s will have to be a tomorrow you type of goal. You know Steve and the group will be up late tonight which means the morning will be safe.
You’ve resigned that tonight’s dinner will be a pack of saltines you find buried in the back of the pantry when there’s a knock on your door. Your friends know not to show up unannounced, and if your parents managed to come home early, they wouldn’t be knocking. It’s Hawkins, you remind yourself as you creep to the door, but then the additional it’s Hawkins kicks in and there could be anything waiting for you. You grab your mom’s tennis racket from the closet by the front door and peek out the peephole, but your porch light isn’t on, and you can’t see anything. When you open the door, tennis racket at the ready, there’s no one there. Instead, sitting on the mat right in front of your door is three bags of groceries from Bradley’s.
The bags contain all the items you remember dumping into your cart, including the added addition of one box of cinnamon toast crunch. You can’t prove it, there’s no note, but you don’t really need it do you? There are only two people who would have had access to the cart you left behind, and only one of those two would have added in your favorite cereal. An internal debate rages inside of you, one side of you wanting to leave the food on your porch. Hoping that maybe later Steve will drive by and see it still sitting there. Maybe it will be an ounce of the hurt he's inflicted on you. The other part of you though, the part whose stomach is literally just growling at the prospect of food, wins out. You drag the bags inside and spend the night cycling between the incident in the store and what the bags of food on your porch mean.
The next day feels like a relapse, and you find yourself pacing by your phone, the internal debate to call Steve rages on in your mind. The number of times you pick up that phone and start to punch in his number is too many to count. There’s only one time when you get through the whole number, you only let it ring once before you’re slamming the phone back down and rushing off to your room. You throw yourself onto your bed, face first into your pillow, and you scream. It feels like every emotion that’s been building up since that night in Steve’s car just forces its way out of you. You spend the rest of your day in bed, Don’t Dream It’s Over plays on repeat as you stare at your ceiling and only recognize time passing by the light that streams in from your window.
When your parents come back a week later you say that you want to leave Hawkins earlier after all. They don’t even ask why you changed your mind. They don’t press the issue, which you figured they wouldn’t, but it still stings. instead, they celebrate. Your mom pulls you into her arms and excitedly tells you that it’s the second-best decision you’ve ever made. Your dad chimes in about how the first was applying to college in the first place, his hand feels heavy on your shoulder. The smile you wear feels like it was pasted on, like some macaroni art piece a kindergartener does. Your parents don’t notice though, they never do, they move on already making plans about your departure. The choice doesn’t feel right, but then again, you’re not really sure what the right choice is any more or how it should feel.
______________________________________________________________
You spend the rest of your summer forcing yourself into spaces you don’t want to be in, but it feels like you have to. You got to parties with Val, you spend summer days at the pool with your friends as you planned. It may not be all the friends that you had anticipated being with but it’s something. You feel like with each activity you do you’re adding another band-aid to your heart hoping that this time maybe it’ll stay together. There are times, like at the community pool, when you sit with your friends, and you don’t really feel there. It feels like you’re playing a part and you’ve never been a good actress, so you’re still surprised when everyone just believes it.
Time and life keep moving forward and you wish it felt like you were too, but you still feel stuck. Your parents think that time won’t start moving until you’re away at college, and your friends believe that you need to start dating someone new to feel like you’ve moved on. You don’t think any of them are right but again you’re still stuck wondering what the right move is and how it’s supposed to feel.
What you do manage is to only catch glimpses of Steve for the rest of the summer. You see him at the movies dropping the party off, and you catch him one day leaving Family Video when he’s stayed too late. There’s another day at the grocery store, where you find yourself hiding behind a display stand to avoid the awkward run-in. You see him but you don’t think he ever sees you. You’re not sure if that’s exactly what you want, but if it is then why does it still also ache? A week before you leave you seek Steve out. You spend the morning giving yourself a pep talk, you take the time to perfect your outfit and ensure that you look better than you feel. This encounter is in your control, and you want to make sure it all goes off without a hitch.
You march into Family Video. You’ve been waiting for Robin to leave for her break and for a lull in customers to happen. When all the stars align you take a deep breath, shake out the nerves and move forward with purpose. You have a week left in Hawkins and all your teen magazines have told you that if you want to start college off right you need closure.
The bell above the door rings out in a way that feels louder than you remember. You don’t let it stop you though, you move forward and watch with some satisfaction as Steve’s head pops up and surprise washes over his face. Good, you think to yourself, finally, he knows what it’s like to be ambushed. You’ve planned out what you want to say so once you’re at the counter you speak before Steve can completely derail you.
“Harrington,” the last name comes out a lot calmer than you thought it would, you feel confident. “I leave for school next week…”
“Next week?” Steve interrupts, he looks like he has more to say but you send a glare his way which is enough to have him holding back words. If you paused long enough to just stare at him, you might wonder if he's disappointed, but you don't let the silence linger long enough to notice.
“As I was saying, I leave next week for school, and you owe me some type of closure or explanation for what happened. I’ll be at the diner tomorrow night, 7 pm and I expect you to show up.” You’re proud of yourself, your voice has an edge to it that leaves no room for disagreement.
Steve just says your name and he says it in the same soft way he did when you first started dating. You feel ruffled and some of that confidence feels like it’s being washed down a drain somewhere. “No,” you interrupt him. You can feel the tension in your forehead, you know your brows are furrowed and the frown on your face is reflecting your real emotions instead of some mask you’ve been wearing.
“You just dumped me, out of the blue and you gave me no explanation. I’m leaving next week, and you owe me this. You don’t get to dump me, say that you don’t care for me, and then leave groceries on my doorstep, Steve.” Something in your words must hit a soft spot that you know Steve still has inside of him. Even if his feelings for you are long gone, Steve has always been gooey and soft like caramel on the inside.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll be there.” You stare at him a moment longer, trying to figure out if you’re getting an honest response. Once you’re sure you are you nod and turn to leave. When you were dating you never liked saying goodbye to Steve, it was always a see you soon. Now when you leave there’s no goodbye, but it’s more because you don’t want to waste another word on him. Not when you need to prepare for tomorrow.
______________________________________________________________
The next night finds you showing up at the diner first. The waitress recognizes you and tells you it’s been a while since she’s seen you. You don’t have the heart to tell her the reason why, you just smile and walk to the booth that used to belong to Steve and you.
You don’t feel as prepared for your conversation tonight as you would like, but you do feel less fragile. Somewhere between yesterday and today, you’ve managed to slide into the anger stage of your grief. There are times when you’re not sure if you’re going to just hit Steve as soon as you hit him, or worse. Worse is that small intrusive thought that you have about kissing him one last time. It’s weird because you’re so angry, the angriest you think you’ve ever been before. You feel like a pot that was left on a burner too long, just boiling over the edge and sizzling when you hit the stove eye.
And yet, behind all that anger there’s still the part of you that loves Steve. That piece of you can’t even remember the last time you kissed. You have fuzzy memories of when it might have happened. Maybe a goodbye kiss as he dropped you off at home, something that happened underneath his comforter as you both tried to hide away from the world a little longer. Either of those or something more is possible. It’s just... how were you supposed to know you needed to remember it? You think that maybe this time if you knew it was the last, you’d feel more prepared this time. Maybe it’ll help you feel better.
You slide the salt shaker between your hands, watching as it glides over the table as smooth as butter. Another glance at the clock tells you that Steve is late, Steve who was never late to anything that had to do with you before. The heat starts to turn up, and you feel more and more like that roaring boil of the pot. Twenty minutes after the hour he was supposed to be there the bell chimes above the door.
You don’t give in to the urge to look, you watch the salt continue to glide over the table. You know already it’s Steve because that same waitress is telling him that his girlfriend is at the regular booth. Steve doesn’t even correct her, at least not that you can hear. Steve slides into his seat as easily as the salt continued to glide on the table. All the anger you felt feels like it whooshes out of you. You go from feeling like a boiling pot to a balloon that was blown up and then let go before the air could be sealed inside.
As you sit across from him, the silence stretching on like the miles on an interstate you find yourself spiraling. People, mostly your friends and parents, have implied that it was childish of you to assume that your relationship with Steve would be anything long-term. And maybe you were, maybe somewhere in it all you got swept up in teenage fantasies. Sitting across from him though reminds you how it happened. For all the pain he’s caused, Steve Harrington is still the prettiest sight you’ve ever seen.
The people of Hawkins can gather and label you as simple-minded for all you care. Slap a label on you and shelve you in the town library with all the other romance novels, you don’t care. Because for all that they say you saw yourself creating a future with this man in front of you. Sure, maybe you romanticized it all, but God… you would have married Steve if he had given you a chance.
It’s that thought that spurs you back into the anger portion of The Aftermath. Because you didn’t build your relationship up by yourself. Steve was there too, he’s the one that layered the cement for your foundation. Steve with his endless flirting, his soft compliments, his whispered promises of forever. And even at the end, Steve left you with no explanation for this exit he took. And you can’t start your journey until he finally tells you why.
“You never really gave me a why for what happened at the end. I hate that it’s been months and I can’t let go of you, and maybe I’m just oversharing here, maybe I cared more, but I have to know. Steve, what the hell happened to us?” You’re surprised how quickly the words come out, but you’re pleased that they sound so tough. If Steve is surprised that you had to break the silence, he doesn’t show it.
“We’re young, this wasn’t going to be forever.” Steve’s voice isn’t loud, but it feels like it echoes in the diner. You want to sink into the vinyl of the booth, but you know you can’t.
“See, you say that but,” you take a breath to collect yourself to figure out how you say this all. “We talked about plans, Steve.” You look up, it’s easier to stare into the fluorescents than into Steve’s eyes. Your nerves make themselves known as you feel your fingers picking at the dry skin around your nails.
“Maybe somewhere along the way, I was looking farther into the future than you were. And if I was then I guess that’s on me. But I didn’t even know forever was an option until you gave me the words to use.” You shake your head like it’ll knock away your disbelief. Your gaze drifts from the lights to your hands gathered on the top of the table now.
“There was that time,” You lay your hands flat on the table hoping the action will stop the nerves from expanding. “We had only been together for like 4 months, and it was that really rainy day?” It’s a question, a quick uptake that doesn’t need an answer. You finally look to Steve again, waiting for some recognition to spark in his mind before you bulldoze on.
“We stayed in your bed for hours, wrapped up in one another. It was the laziest and softest day we had since we started dating. And there was that moment, and you told me that you wanted pause time.” A grimace of a smile forms, and it’s a bitter laugh that accompanies it. “You wanted to stay in that moment forever, do you remember that?”
Steve, who has been so emotionless through your every moment since you broke up, seems to finally crack. You watch emotions slide out of him as you wait for a response.
“I remember.” It’s a whisper, a barely audible acknowledgment of your past. If words could hold weight though, if they could carry more than a sound, you think those two would weigh a ton. They sound heavy at least, and for once you’re happy you don’t have to offer to carry them for Steve.
“So, when did that change?” You press on, encouraged by his response.
“I wish I could tell you. I wish there was a day or a time if that would help you. It was slow, and then it was just there and so I ended it.” Steve’s response is a rush of words, and his gaze isn’t even on you. It all collides together like a car crash. And just like a car crash once the collision hits, you can’t look away from it. It feels like a tragedy, and you know you shouldn’t stare, but human nature is human nature, and you can’t change that. Maybe there’s more to say after his confession but instead, Steve leaves without saying goodbye. His departure is quick and you calling his name is the only thing that follows him.
You stay stuck in that booth for a while, Steve’s words rolling around in your head like a tumbleweed. This was supposed to be closure, but it doesn’t feel like anything has been closed. You feel like you’re trying to piece a puzzle together but some of the pieces are still missing. Steve is the only one that has them but he’s refusing to let you see them, so you don’t even know what you’re trying to put together.
A small nagging part of you feels like there’s still more to this. Like something bigger is at play. But if Steve isn’t willing to share with the class despite all your opportunities for him to do so you’re at a loss. You have to, at a certain point, accept the fact that this is an unknown portion that you’ll never get answered. You hate that, hate how bitter it tastes, but you have no other choice than to find a way to work towards it. Because if nothing else, this night has shown that you can’t keep this candle burning when someone is actively blowing it out. It’s time to snuff the flame out yourself. You want to hope that maybe it’ll be easier once there’s some distance between Steve and yourself. Maybe if you’re no longer hiding from him at the grocery store that door that feels like it’s still wide open will start to close and you can move on.
______________________________________________________________
The day before you leave feels like a round of goodbyes. You hadn’t told anyone besides Steve that you’d be leaving early. Your friends are surprised, and you smile and tell them you’re just excited. Steve had always been your secret keeper, the only one that knew the fear you had around going to college. So, you know your lie will go over smoothly with your friends, and just like you’ve been doing for the remainder of the summer your mask of ‘I’m fine’ will help sell the story more.
It's the kids and Robin that you feel the most torn on, the ones that you struggle with when it comes to a goodbye. The breakup fractured a lot of things in your life, and it feels like maybe you lost them all somewhere this summer. They were never really yours though, so how you could have lost them you’re not sure. In the end, you solidify your resolve and even if it means nothing to them it does mean something to you. You’ve already worked your last shift, and yet you sit in the shared parking lot of your former work and the only place you’re guaranteed to find everyone you need all at once. Since the mall is long gone, this is the best place to be on a hot summer day. Unless you want to share the pool water with the rest of the Hawkins. You wait, you let Steve leave for his lunch, and you take that as your moment.
There’s no speech planned, nothing too major in your goodbye. Robin’s surprised face is what greets you when she looks towards the bell ringing. A soft exclamation of surprise escapes her and she looks confused. “I don’t want to waste your time,” you find yourself telling her. This is the quietest you’ve ever seen Robin.
“I just wanted to say goodbye. I know you’re his friend, and we haven’t really talked since… Well, you know when, but sometimes you felt like my friend too and so I just wanted to say goodbye before I left and that I’m sorry I didn’t say anything to you before this.”
All your words sound so unsure, and you feel like you should be phrasing questions instead of just statements.
Silence hangs over the store, and you feel like if you don’t leave it’s just going to grow more awkward. “Okay, well then.” You mumble to yourself, and you force a smile and a wave before you turn to go. You make it to the door, it’s open and you are half in the heat and half in the air conditioning when Robin finally speaks.
“I’m sorry,” it’s not what you expect, and you throw a glance over your shoulder. Her face reflects the apology she’s given you. “We were friends, it’s just-” You shake your head and interrupt.
“It’s okay, Robin. He was your friend first, I’m glad that he had you and the kids.” You smile, and it feels real this time. “Maybe when I get back for winter break, we could be friends again?”
“I’d like that.” Robin matches your smile, and her nod is enthusiastic. You wave one last time and head fully out into the heat, you’ve got one more stop right next door and then your goodbye tour of Hawkins will be over.
The kids are right where you expect them. Tangled together around one of the games, with Max behind the controls. You wait until the losing screen comes on before addressing them. Your goodbye with the kids is just as short as your one with Robin. “You know I’m kind of gonna miss watching you all hold these games hostage,” Your tone is cheerful, not at all scared like you feel inside. The kids are quick to turn around and it’s Will that matches your tone when he calls your name. Will has always been the kindest of the bunch, and he’s quick to hug your side while everyone else smiles and says hello.
Max is the one to break the greetings, always the most impulsive of the group. “What are you doing here, do you work today?”
“Uh no, actually I came here looking for you guys.” You feel like you stumble over your words, especially as Mike gives you the most suspicious look you’ve ever seen him throw your way. He’s always hard to please, but you feel like maybe you shouldn’t have added him to the goodbye tour after all.
“I just wanted to say goodbye, I know we haven’t talked this summer but still.” You find yourself shrugging as you finish talking.
“You’re leaving already?” It’s Dustin this time, and you find yourself surprised. He hasn’t talked to you since the breakup, and you assumed that would carry over to this conversation. His tone sounds disappointed, and you find yourself feeling guilty for a reason you can’t name.
“I leave tomorrow,” there’s a chorus of groans and refusals that leave the kids. Something like regret swells up because sure these were Steve’s kids first, but they were kinda yours too. You knew them before Steve and had a whole weird dynamic with them before you even knew Steve worked next door. A part of you feels like you messed up this summer by not making more of an effort with them.
“I’m sorry about this summer,” the expressions they turn your way feel like they know too much for kids who are too young to be wrapped up in your love life drama. “We’re sorry too,” Lucas tells you. “You have nothing to apologize for okay,” you look at each one of them, the look on your face leaves no room for argument. It’s always worked with the group.
“Maybe when I get home for winter break, we could all do something together?” You offer them the same olive branch that was extended to Robin. Everyone, Mike included you’re happy to note, nods their head. You find yourself ruffling Will’s hair, he’s still the closest to you. “It’s a plan,” you tell them. “I’ll let you get back to the game, make sure you keep that top spot!” Max tells you not to worry about it, a smirk already forming on her face. You give them all one last smile and make your way out of the building.
You think you’re done, and you feel as at peace as you think you can manage under the circumstances of it all. You unlock the door of your car, plans already in mind for what is left to pack up for the trip tomorrow when someone is calling out your name. You look up and find Dustin running towards you. You meet him part of the way, and he’s throwing his arms around your waist and squeezing you tight. There’s a huff of surprise that forces its way out upon the impact, but you don’t hesitate as you return the hug.
His voice is muffled, and you rub soothing circles on his back. “Dustin, I can’t understand you.” You keep your voice soft like you’re talking to a startled animal. It’s just a moment before he pulls back, and you’re met with a teary face. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you this summer,” Dustin’s words are rushed and come out as almost one sound. You find yourself shushing him and pulling him in for another hug. “You’re all good, it’s okay.”
You give him a minute to just feel his big feelings before you push him back. Your hands rest on his shoulders and you find you don’t have to bend down too far to meet his gaze. You wonder when he started getting so tall and remind yourself it was probably sometime this summer.
“Dustin, I’m not mad or upset or anything okay?” You wait for him to nod along to what you’re saying. “I’m sorry you got caught up in all this,” there’s enough stress on sorry that you think it could take off like a jet with the force you’re pushing it out. “Steve and I were the adults, you shouldn’t have been caught up in the middle, okay?”
Dustin looks like he’s going to argue, “No arguments! This was between us, and we should have made that clear.” Dustin stares at you for what feels like a minute before he nods.
“I’m gonna miss you,” is what Dustin tells you next. “Keith is never gonna be as cool as you. Whose going kick all the older kids off the games for me?” You laugh, happy to see him joking with you now.
“I’m going to miss you too, kid.” You give his shoulders a squeeze, “I’m going to give you a secret, use it responsibly, okay?” Dustin gives you an excited look and nods his head quickly, “I promise,” he says.
“If Keith gives you any trouble, just tell him that you know about Lucy.” Dustin has questions you can tell. “Keith won’t ask you to tell him, he’ll be too embarrassed. If he asks how you know, then you just tell him I told you. He’ll do whatever you want.”
There’s a part of you that feels like maybe you’ve given him too much power, but Dustin’s always been a smart kid and Keith has always been a dick to him, so you don’t feel too much remorse. Someone should be benefiting from the information anyway, and Dustin feels like the right one out of the party to hold on to the information.
“With great power comes great responsibility,” You quote to him, it’s a quip he used to tell Steve all the time before you started dating. Something from a comic book if you remember correctly.
Dustin’s smile is blinding, “You were always too cool for him you know, it’s his loss.” You smile and hope it doesn’t come off as sad as it feels. “Thanks, Dustin.”
You ruffle his hair, just like you had done to Will. Dustin bats at your hands and you push him toward the arcade, “Go spend time with your friends. I’ll see you in December.”
Dustin starts to go but turns back just as quickly. “You promise?” The happiness that had been there before has been replaced with worry again. “I pinky promise,” you hold out your pinky to show him you’re serious. Dustin comes back just to seal the promise and then waves goodbye again returning to the arcade.
The next morning, when every spare inch of space in your car is covered in your belongings, you finally feel like you could actually leave this place feeling okay. Things are not at all the way you thought they would be when the summer first started. You also still feel a weird sort of dread about attending college, but it feels like you could conquer it. If you could do this, this weird limbo break-up, then you think college can’t be that bad.
Your parents aren’t going with you. Despite their excitement and all the ways they’ve pushed you into this decision, they have both told you they feel you have to do this alone. Everything is set up for you, your dad has given you a paper with your new address on it and a credit card for emergencies. You know in both their eyes they’ve done their job as your parents. They’ve paved the way for success and now it’s your responsibility to make them proud.
It feels fitting that you leave Hawkins the same way you started the summer, all alone. You tell yourself that this is what you need. You tell yourself a lot of things as you make your way to the town line. You try not to look in the rearview mirror, too afraid that you’ll see everything you’re leaving behind and change your mind. You remind yourself it’s a few months, and that you can do this. You just hope that you aren’t lying to yourself. You may not feel happy, but you also don’t feel completely numb either. Maybe that’s the right type of progress though.
#steve harrington x y/n#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x you#steve harrington#steve harrington angst#She's back at it again with another sad fic#but no one dies this time so progress#berrystiles writes#rwylm
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In the Bleak Mid-Winter
Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Fem reader (Nurse) Fem reader x Arthur ( platonic) Fem reader x Micheal ( platonic )
Summary: This is a story about two people who become constants in each others lives, and eventually fall for each. While one learns to love again, the other learns the cost of loving a man like him.
Word count: 6.6k
Warnings: Cursing, blood, death, child birth, drinking, alcohol, talks of war, guns, Tommy Shelby ( If I missed anything or you think something should be added please tell me.) ( Also Y/N is on dick, IDKY she acts like this)
A/N: part 1 takes place during season two, part 2/3 season 3 and 4/5/6 season 4. This is a Slow burn there will be smut eventually.
There is month and week time just in here, this is the only part where I would do that cause I had a lot to fit in. Because I had a lot of fit in, I have to add another part so too much won’t be going on all in one part. Also this is bit of a filler for that time jump from the end of season two to the beginning of season three
Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 part 6
*******************************************
Although you didn't see Thomas again for nearly a year, you knew he was there watching you, keeping tabs on you. You had seen Arthur more than you had seen Thomas; he'd often come in, all cut up and in need of stitching.
You still remember the first time you met Arthur; you were busy with a patient in one of the ER exam rooms when one of your fellow nurses slid back the curtain.
"Hi, excuse us. I need to borrow her for a second," She said, smiling towards the patient as she grabbed your arms, pulling you out and sliding the curtain back.
"What"
"You've been asked for by name, exam room three. I'll take over here."
"Why, what's going on”You asked confused.
She shrugged her shoulders,
"All I know is that it's a peaky fellow, a Shelby, to be exact."
She went back into the exam room, but you stood still. Thomas, he's here to see you? You were confused, if he wanted to meet, he could've just come to your apartment; he did know where you lived.
Then it clicked ,he's hurt again; he has to be.
You turned and started to walk down the hall towards the third exam room. Walked…. ran the same thing.
Soon, you were standing in front of the curtain to exam room three. You took a deep breath as you smoothed your outfit out.
You don't know why you were so nervous to see him; you felt kinda silly; you had literally performed surgery on this man and dressed him.
You shook your head, then quickly pulled back the curtain before you could change your mind.
You’re puzzled because the man sitting in front of you is not Thomas Shelby.
"Hi," you drew out, unsure who this man was and what he wanted with you.
"Oi, you the girl that took care of Tommy when he was here?" he asked, all chipper despite his ear being split, cuts on his face, and blood being littered all over his body.
You shook your head slowly, still unsure where this was going
"Tommy sent me here to get patched up; he said you were, uh, sympathetic to the cause." That made you laugh a bit
"I guess I am; let's see what's going on here, Mr.Shelby." You stepped into the room, closed the curtain behind you, and went to the table to find some gloves.
"It's Arthur"
"Oh, Arthur, and who is Thomas to you again?"
You pulled the stool underneath you as you began to clean the cuts on his face with some wipes.
"He's my brother; I'm the oldest, then Tommy, and then John, and last Finn."
You made a face; you didn't know Thomas had a brother, let alone three; in all the stories you heard about Peaky Blinders, only Thomas had been brought up.
You continued to clean Arthur up, and as you did so, you asked a million questions like where they grew up, how old they were, and how betting even worked.
You have learned so much from Arthur in the past 30 minutes about the business and Thomas than you would have ever thought.
Arthur was so talkative, he answered all your questions, he honestly was a bit too happy, you had assumed he was on something but wasn't sure.
He had just gotten done telling you a story about when he and Tommy were younger when you finished his last stitch.
"It sounds like loads of fun," you said, cutting the string to the last stitch.
"Yeah, it was different back then; Tommy was different back then. "
You had wanted to ask what he meant, but he had gotten up before you could. He walked over to the mirror to look at his face; as he did so, you pulled some cream out of the draw for him.
"Here, make sure you put this cream on so you won't scar."
"Ahhh, thanks, Doc; Tommy told us whenever we need fixin' to come to you, and you didn't disappoint."
"And how is Tommy? Is he all healed up?" Part of you just wanted to say his nickname out loud, and another hoped that Arthur would continue his over-sharing streak.
"Yeah, all good; you know our Tommy strong as a horse," He said before walking away.
You smiled and waved to him, watching him walk away. Our Tommy that made you giggle and smile like an idiot. You started to clean up your mess and wipe stuff down when you suddenly stopped, and your smile dropped.
It had just dawned on you, but It was too late; he was far too gone when you realized. What did he mean by Tommy told us whenever they needed fixin' to come to you. You were hoping it didn't mean what you had thought, but it did.
To say you were overworked was an understatement; you couldn't have imagined first how many men were peaky blinders and second how often they got hurt.
Every time you turned around, your patient was a peaky boy, saying Tommy had sent them to get fixed up. Some of these men came into the hospital standing even though they had cuts the size of your arm on their bodies. They were bleeding out, but they remained calm like it was just another Tuesday, and soon, so did you because eventually, it was just another Tuesday.
You and Arthur became close; you would even say you became friends. You saw him often; either he was in for himself, getting more stitches, or he was dropping off a person to get help. And on those sad, rare days, he was picking up a body, someone you couldn't save.
You and Arthur talked a lot about everything and anything; you felt like his priest with the kind of things he confessed to you. How he felt the business was going, how he was still messed up from the war, how lonely he was.
On those days, you would just listen to him talk and give him a hug after; you knew he needed it. Your relationship truly felt like brother and sister, and you couldn't have been more happy about it, seeing as you are an only child.
Arthur and Thomas were the only Shelby brothers you had the pleasure of meeting. Polly and Ada, you have not, but Arthur said you shouldn't because they don't get involved in dirty business. Finn was far too young; he often just hung back, and Micheal Polly's son only handled legitimate business.
So you were pretty shocked when you had been requested, and Michael Gray was behind the curtain.
"You the peaky doc."
"I am." You had tried to tell the boys that you were only a nurse, but none of them listed, so you just accepted the nickname.
He nodded and started to take his shirt off; he had bruises and cuts all over his body. One big cut on his stomach and one on his forehead; that's the ones you will be focusing on. You put your gloves on and got to work; you cleaned the cut on his stomach a bit before starting your stitches.
Your head was down the whole time you stitched him, but you still knew he was staring at you; you felt it, and the way he looked down at you made you slightly uncomfortable.
Once you finished the stitches, you stood up from the stool, making you come face to face with him.
His eyes were quite different from Tommy's; you didn't know yet if it was in a good way or bad.
He cocked his head to the side as he looked at you, then looked down at your name tag before looking back up at you.
"Can I smoke in here?"
"Sure, and do you mind if I stand right here? It's the only way I can reach," you said, pointing to in between his legs.
He took a long drag of his cig before responding, "Whatever you want, doc."
Even from this position, you had to stand on your toes; he was pretty tall. You were pulling a stitch through when you almost fell, but Micheal had placed his hand on your back, keeping you upright.
You cleared your throat. "Thanks"
He just nodded at you with his hand still on your back
"Tommy pays your rent, right? I've seen your name in the books."
"Yeah"
"I always had thought he did that cause you to stitch the boys up with no questions asked and no coppers involved."
You just smiled back, unsure what to say
"But now I'm not so sure."
"What do you mean"
At this point, you were on your last couple of stitches
"You have your own protection detail; he sends his most important men to you, and he pays your rent."
You knew about the rent and never paid much mind to why Tommy started sending his men; you'd just assumed that it was your payment for free rent. A protection detail, though, you were confused; Micheal had to be mistaken. You'd never seen anyone following you, or maybe that was the point.
You tied the thread before cutting it, all while Micheal's hand remained behind your back; you looked down at him and asked.
"Why"
He shrugged his shoulders, taking one last drag before putting the cig out on the tray behind you.
He blew his smoke to the side before saying, "Tommy takes care of his own; he protects what's his."
You were stunned, but Micheal didn't allow you to process. He stood up, putting on his shirt before walking towards the door.
"Thanks, doc," he yelled as he left
You smiled and nodded back before turning around and cleaning up.
Had you really made that much of an impression on Tommy, you were confused and stuck, your mind racing to solve this riddle. If you had left such an impression, why hadn't you seen him in weeks? Not even so much as flowers or Arthur playing playing messenger, nothing. Micheal had to be wrong.
But what if he wasn't? What angle was Tommy playing? What was his end goal?
Your head was starting to hurt, maybe cause you were tired or cause your brain had been overworked trying to figure out what this man wanted from you. You decide to go back to work cause, whatever was happening, you wouldn't figure it out.
*******************************************
It had been a little over nine months after your visit from Micheal that you saw Tommy again.
You had been requested at his house, Arthur came and got you. This house wasn't in Birmingham it was nice and big, a mansion. You knew why you were here. Arthur had been keeping you up to date with all the Tommy and Grace drama. After Arthur told you about Grace and her and Tommy's Past and present, you knew that Micheal was wrong.
He couldn't have been more wrong cause here you are, arriving at Tommy's house about to see him for the first time in a year to help deliver his baby.
"There already a doctor there, you say," you asked Arthur as he helped you out of the car.
"Yes, Tommy said he still wants you there, though."
You didn't understand why you had to be there if a doctor was already there, someone who has had more schooling than you and should hold more knowledge.
Arthur had led you through the house, at first he got lost, it was a big house, but soon he found his way and plus it wasn't hard you just followed the screams and cursing.
You should have braced yourself before entering the room, but you had thought you would be fine; you weren't.
As soon as you opened the door, all eyes were on you, including Tommy's, his eyes which you hadn't seen in so long; they were so intense.
He was standing next to Grace, who was lying on the bed; he was holding her hand, blood smeared on his shirt. Two women were on the opposite side of him next to Grace, two women you assumed to be Polly and Esme.
You kind of just stood there, unsure of what to do and a bit scared. Grace's head popped from behind the doctor who stood in between her propped-up legs.
"Arthur, would you shut the door" Grace yelled
He laughed awkwardly. "Sorry, I didn't see anything, Tommy; go on, Doc." He gave you a push as he shut the door.
"Umm, where can I help?" you asked, and it was clear that you were nervous, but you hoped they thought it was because of the situation and not because of what it actually was, Tommy.
"The doctor is saying the baby is trying to come out feet first and that he must cut her open. Polly and Esme say that the baby can be turned, and if she is cut, she will bleed out." Thomas said as he rubbed his face; he was trying to hide it, but you could tell he was nervous.
"OK, OK, OK, Excuse me, I need to assess Grace to see which option is better." You placed your bag down and pulled out some gloves before approaching Grace.
"OK, Grace, I'm just going to see where the baby is at," You said as you reached up in her cervix, checking for the baby, and it was trying to come out feet first. You pulled out of her before speaking again.
"OK, Grace, the baby is coming feet first, but it's still far up, so I think we have a good chance at turning it around. It will be painful, but it's better than cutting you open and risking you bleeding out."
"Well, I can't do that, and I still believe that a c-section is the way to go; I've done many and have had many successes." The doctor tried to argue, but you knew that the risk of her bleeding out was higher than her not.
"I can do it. Trust me, Grace, I can do it."
"Are you even a doctor?" the doctor asked.
"No, but that doesn't matter. Grace, what do you want."
Graces looked between you and the doctor before looking up at Thomas, who was looking at you. And for the first time since you stepped into this room, you looked at him in the eyes. You nodded slightly, telling him you had this; he stared at you a little longer before telling you to go ahead.
You got right to work pushing on Grace's stomach, pushing the baby's head, and slowly turning the baby. She screamed in pain, and Thomas held her hand, encoring her along; after 30 minutes, you finally got the baby in the correct position. You would’ve let Grace take a much-needed break, but she said she felt the need to push and couldn't hold back.
"OK, Grace, that's fine. Push." You got back between her legs and sat on the stool at her feet.
It only took two pushes, and the baby was out, but It wasn't breathing; you panicked, and everyone looked at you scared. Except for Thomas, he looked at you in a way you can't describe as anything other than murderous.
You held the baby in your hands, quickly walking over to the dresser and placing the baby down before grabbing the suction ball from your bag below you. You sucked the goo from the baby's mouth and throat and ran your knuckles across his chest.
The baby still didn't cry out, and you were nervous. Had you pushed on its head too hard? You had never done it yourself, only seen it done, but-
The baby coughed and let out a cry; relief flooded your body, and tears slipped from your eyes. You cleaned the baby before turning around and walking over to Thomas.
"Here you go, Mr.Shelby, a beautiful, healthy baby boy."
For the first time ever, you saw Tommy smile, like a full ear-to-ear smile, as you handed him his son. You smiled to yourself before stepping away and collecting your things. You looked at the doctor who stood in the corner, flipping him off before saying.
"You can handle the rest, right, or do you need help with that too?"
He rolled his eyes at you before walking to Grace to clean her up.
You opened the door and saw Michael, Arthur, who you assumed to be John and Finn, and many more waiting outside the door.
"Grace is fine."
"And," Arthur asked.
"And it's a- "
"It's a boy," Thomas said, interrupting you, you turned around, and he was standing right behind you.
"Congratulations," You said to Tommy.
"Thank you," he said back before he got rushed with a bunch of hugs.
You went down the steps, deciding to wait for Arthur outside, and truth be told, you needed some air not only because of Tommy but also because that was the most ballsy thing you had ever done in your career. You just delivered a baby, all on your own.
You weren't waiting on the steps outside long when you heard the door open, and you stood up, brushing the dirt off yourself, slowly turning around.
"I thought you had gotten lost again. Arthur thought I had to come to find yo-"You stopped your sentence abruptly, seeing as Arthur wasn't the one standing in front of you.
"Micheal, where's Arthur?"
"I had asked him if it was alright if I took you home."
"Oh, OK, let's go," You said before hopping in the car, with Micheal right behind you, sliding next to you in the driver's seat.
The drive back was quiet, and soon you were back at your house; you hopped out of the car and walked towards your apartment building, Micheal right behind you.
"You don't have to walk me to my door, Micheal; I'll be fine."
"Who am I to defy orders?"
That made you stop and turn towards him.
"You’re wrong, Tommy's with Grace. We're friends; he has no feeling like that towards me."
"You sure about that"
"I just delivered his baby, Micheal."
"Exactly," he said, then turned around and left.
You walked into your building and up the steps to your apartment; you stood at the door searching for your keys and became frustrated when you couldn't find them. You threw your bag at the door, making everything fall and spill across the floor.
You took a deep breath before squatting down, picking everything up, and putting them back; your keys had also been on the ground. You grabbed them and unlocked the door, walking in and shutting it behind you.
You walk over to your bed and jump in it; you don't even have the energy to change. You were so tired, and your head hurt trying to figure out what Micheal got from playing with your head like this.
You wouldn't even let yourself go down the guessing road; he was with Grace, and that was final. They were apart and came back stronger than ever; their love was fairy-tale-like.
You couldn't help yourself, though; a small part of you still thought,
What if.
********************************
Months have passed since you last seen Tommy since you delivered his baby. You haven’t seen him, but you know he was keeping tabs on you. You also started to see Arthur less; he was a changed man so he says. He met a new dime, Linda. You’re not going to lie, you don’t like the bitch, but Arthur does, and seeing as he has stopped the fighting, drinking, and even snow, you’ve decided to let it go.
You still see peaky boys, though; they have become a part of your day-to-day life. You can’t remember the last time you had a regular patient or even a day off. And you needed a day off, you barely sleep cause of all the doubles you’ve been pulling at the hospital, and you never go out anymore. You honestly don’t remember the last time you got laid.
It’s been a while.
So that’s why you decided to take the day off and to take up one of the doctors at the hospital's offer to go out.
You honestly didn’t care where the doctor took you or what y’all talked about; you had one goal tonight: getting laid.
You were ready to go out, sitting at your kitchen table bucking your shoes, when you heard a knock on your door. He was early, but you were ready, so it was fine. You walked over to the door, a smile taking over your face. You opened the door and were immediately pushed out of the way as someone invited themselves into your home.
“ Um, excuse me,” you said, turning around to meet the stranger.
Only it wasn’t a stranger. It was Tommy
And he wasn’t alone; he had his son in his arms.
“What's wrong?” You asked, rushing over to them.
“ he fell. I was changing him, and he fell, and he cried and cried, but then he just stopped.” He was pacing your living room with the baby still in his arms.
You slowly approached him.
“ It’s ok, Tommy, babies aren’t glass, ok. Every kid has been dropped on their head, I’d reckon Arthur, more than once.”
You got him to stop pacing with your words, but he still held the baby in a death grip.
“ Let me see him, Tommy; everything going to be fine, just let me see him.” You spoke as softly as you could as you stood before him, placing your hand on his shoulder.
He looked up from the baby to look at you; you nodded as you placed your hands under his to take the baby from his hands. He slowly let go of the baby, releasing him to you. Once you fully secured the baby, you held him close as you walked over to your med bag at home. You fetched out your stethoscope and put it on before listening to the baby’s heart rate and breathing; you then checked his pupil reaction with your small flashlight.
The baby seemed fine; Tommy probably put the baby to sleep by rocking it for so long, that’s why it probably stopped crying.
“ Your baby’s fine, no signs of brain damage; he is just sleeping. That’s why he stopped crying,” you said, walking back over to him, and handing him back his baby.
You could see his body ease up slowly as he rocked the baby back and forth.
“ Did you drive here, or” you trailed off
“ Yeah, but my car ran out of petrol; I’ve sent Curly to get me some more.”
You nodded slowly; you weren’t sure what you were supposed to do next.
“ Do you have a quiet place where I can put him down?”
“ Yes, my bedroom, it's over there,” You say, pointing towards the back of the room.
Tommy walks back towards your room, and you just stand there, uncertain what to do in your own home. He came back soon and started to head towards a seat in your living room and to make things less awkward, you took a seat across from him in the other chair.
“ Can I smoke in here?”
You nodded to his question; he pulled out his cigarette holder and took one before offering you one.
“ Oh no, I don’t smoke,” you said, making him make a face.
“ I only smoked that one time cause I was a bit stressed.”
He just nodded at you, lighting up his cig and taking a drag, and y’all just sat there; honestly, how long does it take to get some petrol. You couldn’t be this still any longer. You had to get up.
“ Would you like something to drink?” You asked, walking over to your drink table.” Whiskey fine?” you asked, even though you knew that’s all he drank
You turned back to see him nodding his head, so you continued to ask, “ Brown or white?”
“ Brown”
You poured the both of you a cup, filling yours up a bit more than his; you would need the whole bottle if he stayed any longer. You walked over to him, handing him his cup before sitting back in your seat. The silence followed again shortly after, and it was killing you; he had finished his cig, and you had finished your glass; you were seriously thinking about getting that petrol yourself.
“ You were a nurse in the war? “ Tommy asked, pointing towards your medals on the shelf above your fireplace.
“ Yes, I was stationed in France, you? “
You already knew the answer, though, cause of Arthur
“ Yep, I was in France, tunneler.” he finished his drink before continuing, “You kept your medals?”
Even though he didn’t phrase it like a question, you still knew he was asking why you had kept them.
This question caught you slightly off guard, but you knew most people around here threw theirs into the cut as a fuck you to the king for the way they were treated when they got back.
“ You mean, why didn’t I throw them in the cut like everyone else?” You asked as you got up, getting his cup and you for a much-needed refill. “ I don’t see them like how you might; I see them as my team telling me good job and not the king. My team nominated me for the medal, not the king.”
He nodded, slowly taking his drink back and sipping before asking you another question.
“ And the war,” he cleared his throat, “is it still with you.”
You didn’t know why he was asking you all these questions, but you didn’t mind answering them. The more you talked about your experience, the easier it was to continue your life and leave the war in the past.
“ Honestly, there must be something wrong with my brain because no matter how hard I try to think back, I can’t remember half of the things that happened.” You let out a slight chuckle as you spoke.
“Nothing, eh?”
“ Well, not nothing; I remember why I was nominated for that medal.” You paused, unsure if you should tell this story. Men like Tommy don’t often reminisce about their time in France. But Tommy tipped his glass towards you, encouraging you along.
“ Ok, umm, my group and I had been relocated closer to the battlefield; we were located where fighting had taken place and tunnels dug. So there were a lot of caved-in holes and shells everywhere, but they said they had swept the area, and there were no bombs or anything. Nightfall came, and we were all set up; everyone but the guards were asleep. I couldn’t, though; I could hear the fighting going on in the distance. And even though it was really dumb, I went for a walk. I just couldn’t keep still and didn’t want to wake up the others.”
You looked down and realized that you had finished your drink, so you got up to get some more; you went over to the drink table but didn’t pour anything. Instead, you just leaned against it before turning back to face Thomas.
“ I was walking, and um, I tripped, fell right on my face. I had dropped my flashlight, hitting the ground must have turned it off. So I reached around looking for it, and that was when I touched something, but it wasn’t my flashlight; it was my hand. I panicked and backed up as quickly as possible and ended up finding my flashlight. I quickly turned it on and saw a hand sticking up from the mud, almost like it had broken through. I was trying to calm myself down when I saw the hand twitch; I had assumed the guy was dead. Next thing I know, I’m on my hands and knees digging through the dirt, and it seemed like no matter how fast and hard I dug, dirt kept refilling up the hole.” Tears started falling from your cheek, but you wiped them quickly, not wanting to cry in front of Tommy.
“ I uhh eventually was able to dig his head out, then shoulders and then I was able to pull him out, he wasn’t breathing, so I began CPR and mouth to mouth, the mud got all in my mouth cause his face was caked with it, but I didn’t care. Finally, after five minutes, he began coughing and gasping for air; I pulled him up into my lap, propping him up a bit, hoping that would help. Then he opened his eyes. He had tried to speak, but he just kept saying the same thing over and over again; he wasn’t making any sense. I told him he should save his strength, which made him quiet down. And so we just laid there for a bit, with him in my lap holding onto my arms; he just looked at me, and I looked at him. He eventually remembered that other men were still down in the tunnels, and thankfully, the tunnel hadn’t fully clasped. Together, we dug them out and helped them back to camp. They were all too badly injured for us to help, so they were driven to the nearest hospital.”
You had walked over to Thomas, picking up his cigarette holder, taking one, and lighting it up. Tommy took notice but didn’t say anything.
“ Soon after I was nominated for the award, the soldiers I had saved and the nurse in my unit nominated me. And the rest is history.” You took a couple more puffs of the cig before putting it out on the table since you didn’t have an ashtray.
Tommy opened his mouth to speak, but there was a knock at the door; you walked over to it, opened it, and was greeted by Curly.
“ Tommy, I’ve got the petrol for you and filled your car; it's all ready to go.”
You turned to face him, smiling, before heading to your room to pick up the baby. You brought the baby out to Thomas, placing him in his hands.
“ Welp, this has been fun, but I’m tired, and this little one needs to get home. See you, Tommy.”
He said your name, tilting his head down before leaving your apartment.
You have never told that story to anyone before; it brought up a lot of emotions, more than you expected. It had felt good telling that story, though, especially with a person who also served, who might have understood where you were coming from.
You had washed up and changed your clothes; the Whiskey made your eyes feel heavy, and you practically had to drag yourself to bed. You did make it, though. You got under the covers all warm and cozy, and you were about to fall asleep when you suddenly realized,
You never went on your date.
********************
You wish you could say the next time you saw, Tommy was as pleasant as the last.
You had a late shift at the hospital tonight.
You walked into the hospital late, around 8:00 p.m. The air felt good, and you had been inside all day at home, so you decided to walk to work; it wasn’t far. You had run into a friend at the door and were walking in together. She was talking to you about her lazy husband, but as soon as you entered the hospital, you had tuned her out. You heard a voice screaming in the distance; you knew that voice. You started running in the direction the voice was coming from, leaving your friend without a goodbye.
It felt like you were running in slow motion; the hallway was getting longer and longer, and you thought you would never get to the end.
When you finally reached the end, you stopped and scanned the room. Tommy was being held back by multiple guards and doctors, Polly and Linda were screaming at the nurses, Arthur had been pressed to the floor, and John was against the wall.
“ Mr.Shelby, if you don’t calm down, we will have to put you out,” one of the nurses said, trying to get him to calm down, but that only made him more mad.
The nurse screamed as Tommy held a gun to her face. “ I’m sorry, what was that? hmm”
You had rushed over, placing yourself in between the gun and the nurse,
“ Tommy, Tommy, look at me. What's wrong? Tell me how I can help.”
His breath was coming out shaking. He waved the gun to the side, trying to tell you to move, but you didn’t; he did it again, and you still didn’t move.
“ Move!” he yelled.
“ No, Tommy, what’s wrong?”
He yelled out in frustration, then put the gun back in his holder. He turned around walking away from you, putting his hands on top of his head.
“ Talk to me, please, Tommy.” You begged
You blinked and suddenly he was in your face, he was so close you could feel his breath on your face. He squatted down to your eye level before pointing his arm out in no particular direction, his mouth opened and closed, as he struggled to find the words.
“ Them fuckers shot Grace, and now these doctors won’t let me see her.”
“ Ok, I will go check on her, okay, but you can’t threaten them; they’re just doing their job.”
“ Ok, Tommy,” he nodded slowly back at you.
“ Ok,” he whispered.
You turned to the nurse you had protected earlier.
“ Take them to a private waiting room, please.” She nodded, whispering a small thank you as you walked towards the surgical wing. You were about to walk through the door when you had been tugged back; it was Tommy.
“ I got her, Tommy, I promise.” He squeezed your hand before letting go.
You pushed through the door to the surgical wing and started to run; you weren’t sure which room she was in, so you checked every single one, busting through the door and looking at the person on the table. You have reached the last surgery room with no luck so far. Grace had to be in this room; it was the last one. You opened the door, saying a slight prayer.
“ Time of death 10:55”
You tried to talk, but the words got trapped in your throat; you felt it sitting there, causing your throat to burn as you struggled to breathe. Tears began falling down your face as you fell against the wall, feeling too weak to stand alone. This wasn’t supposed to happen; this isn’t how things were supposed to go.
“ No,” you sobbed out.
“ No, no, no, no, no, what did you do?” you screamed at the Doctor.
You pushed yourself off the wall, walking over to Grace; you touched her arm, and she was still warm. You looked up at the Doctor; it was Dr.Brown.
“ What did you do? The shot was to the fucking shoulder; what - did - you - do”
He just stared at you, not answering you. You looked around the room, and everyone was staring at you. You went around the table and pushed Dr.Brown against the wall; you didn’t know what you were doing; you didn’t know what you wanted from him.
“ Do you think you could tell Thomas for me?” his voice was shaky.
You let go of him, walking backward. You stared at him in disgust, and then you started to laugh.
It was an eerie laugh; you were practically choking on it. You wiped the tears and snot from your face with the back of your hands.
“You want me to tell him that you killed his wife because you don’t want him to smell the alcohol on your breath 'cause you want to live right.”
The Doctor stared at you with his mouth gaping open like a fish; you even saw his eyes start to fill up with tears.
“ Oh, don’t worry, I’ll tell him, and when he’s in the right mind, I’ll tell him that you’re a drunk and you killed his wife.”
You walked out before he could spill some bullshit to you.
You wanted to walk slowly and drag your feet, but you knew better.
You’ve lost patients before and family, but it didn’t feel like this. You’ve never felt like this; you never felt so responsible for someone's death.
You know that there was no way you could have stopped it, and there was no way you could have known. But what if, what if you called a taxi instead of walking? What if you told the police about the Doctor's drinking. So many moments played through your head, so many moments you wished you changed because somehow this feels like your fault. You knew that. Dr. Brown was a drunk; you should have fought harder with the hospital board. You should’ve-
You stopped cause; deep down, you knew there was nothing you could have done. There is no way you could have saved Grace.
You approached the private waiting room and stood there for a second to gather yourself. This death isn’t yours to cry for; it’s theirs. You wiped your tears and snot on your shirt; you cleared your throat and took a deep breath.
You pushed open the door and entered the room; they all stood when you entered, except for Tommy, who already standing cause he had been pacing. You looked around the room. Every single person's eyes were on you, waiting for you to speak; it was so quiet, no one made a sound.
“ So,” Tommy’s voice cracked as he spoke.
You took a deep breath before you tried to speak, and you tried, you really did, but you couldn’t keep it together. A sob left your mouth before you could stop it.
This caused Polly to bring her hand to her mouth as she fought back her tears.
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath before trying again.
“ I’m s-so sorry, Tommy; when I got there, she was already gone. There was nothing I could do.” Your voice grew horse as you spoke, and your throat burned as your fought back tears.
“No,” he whispered.
“ Tommy”
“NO!” he shouted before throwing the chair across the room.
Polly started telling everyone to get out and give him some space, but you stayed. You knew the last thing he needed was to be alone with his thoughts.
Everyone had left, and it was just you two alone.
He had stopped throwing things and rested his head against the wall.
“ Get out”
“ No,” you said, walking over to him,
You had placed your hand on his shoulder, but it was only for a second cause soon he had flipped you, and now you were against the wall. He held a tight grip on your shoulders, keeping you bound to the wall. His eyes started directly into yours, and even though he appeared mad, his eyes showed he was hurt.
He pushed you deeper into the wall. “Why didn’t you save her?” You heard the pain in his voice as he spoke. “You saved me; you brought me back to life; why couldn’t you save her? Why couldn’t you bring her back.” He whispered out
You just stared at him; you were speechless.
Then it finally happened: he broke down; you put your arms around him as he slowly fell to the ground, with you falling with him.
You held him in your arms as he cried; his grip on your arms kept tightening as if you would let him go. You hadn’t planned on it; you would hold him till he asked you to let go. You’d lay here as he slept if he needed you to.
He needed you, and you were going to be there for him.
#cillian murphy#tommy shelby x reader#thomas shelby x reader#peaky blinders#tommy shelby fanfic#thomas shelby fanfic#tommy shelby#thomas shelby#arthur shelby#john shelby#michael gray#polly gray#ada shelby#thomas shelby x y/n#tommy shelby x y/n
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A Drunken Proclaim
(SFW)
Slight fluff/slight angst
Warning: mentions of drinking, being drunk, drunk confession
Summary: once again drunk at another straw hat party you found yourself looking for the missing surgeon, unexpectedly leading to an unofficial and abrupt confession of his feelings.
Word Count: 1,300
(A/n: I don’t have my notes with me for my other requests I’m working on as I’m on holidays but I really am just craving writing some Law stuff right now and will get back to them next week)
Pulling yourself out of the uproar, you found a clearing through the legs of Franky; a band of dance moves sweeping you into the middle of the floor. Taking a quick sip from your bottle of alcohol, you moved further out, your mind spinning from the overbearing and shrill music. It hadn't taken much convincing for Luffy to throw another party, his excuses becoming more bleak for reasons to celebrate.
The crew, however, was happy to take some time out and forget their troubles, even the likes of the usual quiet Zoro and Robin taking their turn on the dance floor. It was admittedly a wonderful night, as these things always were. However, there was a part of you that felt off, missing a familiar face as Luffy twirled you around the floor; watching him closely not to hurt you.
Sweeping over the crowd you found Bepo, losing any remaining worry as he swayed and fanned himself down; lost in the rhythm of the song. As usual, his captain was nowhere to be found, creating the perfect mission to escape for a few moments; wishing to retrieve the surgeon in a hope he might dance with you.
You stumbled into the infirmary, tightly grasping the same bottle you had carried around for the last few hours; more comfort than beverage. The room was dimly lit, a few stray candles surrounding the surgeon as he leaned forward, lost in the stacks of papers under his nose. He was focused, as usual, spending most of him time researching than he did bonding with the crew. You guess that was how he got the title of surgeon.
"You're still in here?"
Law looked up towards you, his face neutral as usual, giving no rise into how he was feeling in that moment; his grey eyes swiftly taking you in. He sighed, that usual annoyed sigh, as if he wasn't in the mood to be disturbed tonight. Not by somebody who was drunk, anyway.
"How much have you had, Y/n?"
"I don't know" you admitted, tripping into the room. You hummed as you steadied yourself, laughing at your words before you even said them. "I'm not a mathematician"
"You're not a comedian either" Law admitted bluntly, sitting further upright. His chair swivelled around to face you as you stumbled to his desk, leaning on it for support as you reached him. Avoiding his gaze you looked blindly at the papers in his desk, blurred together to form some kind of foreign language. Although all medical words felt like that to you.
"You didn't answer my question"
His voice was softer this time, more understanding.
"I'm not sure" you shrugged, trying to give him a sober answer. Anything to get him to stop looking at you like that. Like he was disappointed. "I remember drinking when the sun was still up, and then Zoro handed me another bottle; which turned into a few more... I think there may have been some wine from Nami mixed in there too somewhere..."
"The swordsman..." he trailed off, "of course".
You met his face then, realising there was a hint of hurt as he spoke, not noticing the break before. It was only subtle, and maybe if the room wasn't so quiet you wouldn't have noticed. But it was there.
Noting you were looking at him, he focused his gaze, studying you for a moment. It was if there was something mutual, something warm and passionate, forcing you to truely look at one another; more than usual. His eyes were tired, as they usually were, but held an edge of desperation as if he was speaking to you. He wanted to have you closer.
Setting down the bottle on the desk slowly, you stepped towards him, letting his arm come out to guide you. His hand easily fell to your waist, cupping gently over the fabric of your shirt, holding you like glass. As you straddled up onto him, his other hand moved to cup under you, helping to secure you into his lap. Your arms looped loosely around his neck, holding you close as you took in his face; lit by the flickers of soft gold and orange from the fickle flames.
Law gently moved your hair from your neck, sweeping it back with the back of his hand. He continued to hold your gaze, locking you in a trance to let him control the room; his sober stance holding much more composure than your own.
Moving slowly, he tilted his head down to your neck, gently breathing against your skin. His breath was warm, inviting, your body subconsciously moving away to expose more of your skin for him. Needing this as much as he did.
Law's lips met against your skin, warm and slow, taking him time in leaving soft puckers over your neck. He moved over the same spots, leaving an invisible mark of lust, building up the courage to confess. There was a lump in his throat the burned when he saw you, wanting nothing more than to take you from everyone; knowing he needed you as much as your crew.
But it was different for him, built solely on his own selfish love for you. He didn't need you for your skill or your wit like your friends did. He didn't need you to help him become king of the pirates or to achieve his own dreams.
He needed you because he wanted you.
He wanted you by his side, to bask in your company, your safe and loving aura. He needed to have you, the greatest love he had ever known, to be with him and love him just as deeply as he did you.
"You're so beautiful, Y/n" Law mumbled, dragging his lips over your voice box. He shut his eyes, gulping nervously, carefully grasping at your clothes to ground himself. "You are easily the best part of this experience and I could wait my whole life for you to want to be with me; but I hope I don't have to"
"Say you'll be mine, forever"
A heavy silence filled the room, lost in what to say next. The mix of sake was taking its toll on you, weighing you down with the way Law spoke, making it seem almost impossible to speak back. But you had to say something. These words weren’t just a lost dream you slept upon, curling deeper into your bed to keep yourself here. These words were real.
"Drunk or sober?"
"Both" he smirked, pulling away to look at you again. "Definitely both"
"I guess I could get used to being called Mrs Trafalgar Law"
"Glad to hear it"
You wished to close the gap - you both did - filling the room with lewd and desperate sounds as you kissed one another. How you wished to finally taste each other, so lovingly, so private, losing your senses in a whirlwind of unforgivable madness. But you couldn’t; not like this. As tempting as his pout looked rested on that crocked smirk you couldn’t advance like this. Not while you were impaired.
"Ya know forever is a really long time, right?" You tilted your head to the side, curling your brow, hoping to change the subject.
"Yeah" he admitted, carefully pulling you closer. His arms held you against him, resting his head on your shoulder. A deep inhale crushed him to a saddened smile, taking in your scent, feeling different, more free with his emotions now.
The lump was no longer there, and even if you woke up tomorrow, sober and forgetful of this night, he would remember. He would remember your voice, how you smiled, how you laughed at your own stupid joke. He would know that even for tonight, you were his, and he would hang onto that for as long as he could.
"That was the point; to be with you for as long as I can be"
#ive got writers block for all these requests im working on and I really wanna do some law stuff because I love him so bad#one piece#one piece x reader#one piece x you#one piece x y/n#one piece scenario#one piece imagine#one piece sfw#one piece confession#trafalgar law#trafalgar law x reader#trafalgar law x you#trafalgar law x y/n#trafalgar law scenario#trafalgar law imagine#trafalgar law sfw#law#law x reader#law x you#law x y/n#law scenario#law imagine#law sfw#op x reader#op law#op#trafalgar law scenarios
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All other criticisms of modern Star Wars aside, the thing that gets me the most is how every single story is being written to fit into some Avengers-level grand finale that just isn't laying a solid enough foundation to make it worth the wait. Regardless of whether the individual stories are good or bad, what makes them fall so short, imo, is that there's usually no real payoff within their own runtimes (unless you count cheap callbacks or loose promises of More, which you shouldn't)
Like, I already knew halfway through Ahsoka that we were in for a cliffhanger and it's just like...alright, guess we'll see how this ends in about 5 years? Even Mando, which had a great first season and was poised to stand on its own two feet and ride off on a rootin' tootin' bounty huntin' adventure, has ultimately become yet another dusty path on the road to the current Big Plot with an indeterminate due date. That's not deliciously addictive media, it's a dry-ass carrot on a spindly little stick, lol
Of course, this is a problem that many franchises are happily getting cozy with lately because everybody wants to have their own Infinity War / Endgame moment, but I guess it seems a bit more egregious with Star Wars because, ironically, it used to work best because it had less overall focus. Like, sure, we had concurrent movies, animated series, and games, but they were always happy to do their own things and tell their own stories with definitive conclusions. Now it all has to funnel into the Big New Plot and, man, I honestly just can't bring myself to care when it feels like an endless waiting game
I definitely need to get around to watching Visions at some point because, every time it pops up, it sounds like the lifeblood that Star Wars sorely needs atm
Yeah the setup-and-payoff a-to-b type dramatic clarity that seemed so entrenched into the very bones of cinematic grammar - up to around the emergence of streaming, wink wink nudge nudge - is sorely missed in star wars atm. sure maybe downsized writers rooms fidgeting with limited series formats instead of doing actual seasonal TV has something to do with it, but even that is probably such a small piece of the larger issue that spins all this longform storytelling bullshit ferry wheel around.
Another part is certainly chasing the MCU business model of it all like you said. Carrot on a stick is verbatim how I've often described these things myself, the endless promise of another promise of another promise instead of forming a complete thought with a beginning and an end. servicing the plot before story at all costs. another part still is reverence towards the aesthetic trappings of the source material instead of its themes, trying to nail the exact texture of tatooine's huts and dial in the perfect balance of lightsaber choreography and pay homage to a thousand iconic shots before articulating something true in the text.
And like it's an endless laundry list, this confluence of capital-I Issues both industry-scale and creatively-driven that seem to be flaying the skin off the bones of whatever star wars even "is" nowadays. no one can answer that in the context of billions of dollars made off toys and storylines centering around this one moment in fictional history about sons and fathers and empires and rebellions. so they just keep twisting in the wind filling in any gaps within that period. I don't know nonnie, it's all so bleak. ahsoka and obi wan and even mando tbh. as charming as season 1 was, it truly felt like it coasted on its incredible restraint to avoid muddying its aesthetic with cameos, and lucked into effective storytelling as a result of that utterly unintentional alchemy. that's obviously well and truly gone now as its true optics have reared head.
what star wars is by itself is such a pointless discussion, right? andor argues it's a perfectly functional heightened universe that can support incredibly nuanced and dramatically charged stories of grassroots rebellion and the bureaucratic strain of fascist regimes. visions argues it's a world beholden to the force, an endlessly mutable and elegant metaphor that can support infinite monomyths and fairy tales. both are equally fantastic at executing on their takes, despite being in diametrically opposite extremes of interpreting the source. so it's not really about that at all, why the other stuff sucks this bad.
they're just bad at the craft of it, that's really it. whether it's auteur worship or business decisions rotting that fish down, it still rots all the same. maybe the new writers' guild contracts can shift the winds a little, because I was so securely done with star wars and then the aforementioned 2 shows came and affected me. so, so profoundly that I'm back on the hook again. like a lil sucker!
#long post#anon#asks#boy howdy forgive me mister baby yoda for I have engaged in star wars discourse again#this will definitely not backfire on me as it never before has.
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Ace of Hearts
Happy International Asexuality Day!
Andrew Marston x Reader
Andrew is ace. He hasn’t told you yet.
The semester had come to an end almost abruptly, the cool mornings of spring turning into the early rising sun of summer in the blink of an eye. Andrew had been looking forward to the summer break, simply because it meant he had more time to spend with you, free from his responsibilities as a professor and momentarily released from the calm air of absolute composure his position required of him.
Now, with the gentle rays of sunshine streaming through his open window and falling on your beautiful face, he could allow himself to simply feel.
The book in his hands had not held his attention for a while now. Instead, he kept glancing at your peaceful expression. You looked so at ease with your head resting in his lap, eyes closed, and a content smile on your face as you lay sprawled across the sofa.
The exams these past few weeks had been stressful for you — he saw the bags under your eyes, noticed your scattered thoughts as you were unable to slow down for a moment, too caught up in the subject you needed to study — and Andrew relished that you were finally able to unwind. You deserved it. You needed it, he was sure, and it would be his pleasure to shower you with comfort and distractions and sweetness until all the residue tension left your body.
He wanted to give you everything, pour out the contents of his heart for you, and give you all his love and affection until you asked him to stop. But as he sat in his reverie, his gaze shifting from his book to your lovely expression and back again, he could not shake the nagging thought stuck in the back of his mind — the memory he had not dared to revisit.
He had stayed later than usual one evening, unwilling to leave the comfort of your arms just yet as another episode of the show you had started together played in the background. You had been less interested in it, preferring instead to trail lingering kisses over his exposed skin and capturing his lips with yours, the gentle rhythm spiking into something else.
“Is this alright?” you had asked breathily, impossibly close to him as your arms tightened around him securely, hands inching lower. Andrew had not known what to say.
From the glint in your eyes to the sudden tension between you both, your intent had been obvious, but so was his nonverbal answer. You had drawn back immediately when you felt him tense, his sharp intake of breath not the kind you had wanted to elicit.
He had excused himself soon after, taking on the short trip to his bleak apartment with a heavy heart and racing thoughts. The questions burning in your eyes had remained unanswered, the whispers of doubt and insecurities in your mind not reassured. Andrew had hated leaving you guessing, but he needed some time to reflect first. He had needed some time to think.
“I love you,” he had told you at the door, your worried gaze tearing at his heart as he could see your mind pulling you into a spiral, fearing you had overstepped irrevocably. Andrew had pulled you into a tight hug, inhaling your scent for a moment and placing a chaste kiss against your lips. “‘Doubt thou that the stars are fire’,” he had quoted, earning a small chuckle from you. His heart had felt lighter tenfold.
“Drive safely, Andrew.”
He looked at your peaceful face, basking in the sun — so content, so warm, and painfully happy — and felt a shiver run down his spine at the reminder of the icy doubt and worry he had seen in your expression that night. His heart was filled to overflowing with his love for you, so much so that sometimes it hurt to be near you from how much he adored you — never should you doubt the love he had for you.
“Darling?” Andrew asked quietly, not wanting to wake you in case you were catching up on some much-needed sleep.
You hummed in acknowledgment, keeping your eyes closed as you waited for Andrew to continue speaking.
He hesitated, nearly biting out a huff of ‘nothing’ and returning to stare blankly at the page of his book, but he stopped himself. No, he wanted to do this. He wanted to tell you. He felt like he was hiding, and he did not want to be hiding from you. But why was he suddenly so anxious? What could he possibly have to worry about with you?
Still, his heart had begun hammering in his chest, and the air in the room seemed like it was slowly seeping out, despite the open window and the summer breeze ruffling your hair in his lap. Andrew cleared his throat, allowing himself a singly shaky inhale before continuing, “I was wondering if we could talk?”
You opened your eyes tiredly, blinking against the sudden brightness before rising from his lap and leaning against his shoulder. “What about?” you asked, glancing at the book in his hands. “Want to try the Socratic method with me?”
Instead of laughing like you had expected him to, Andrew did not give so much as a chuckle before taking a steadying breath and running a hand through his hair nervously. “About that evening,” he said slowly, glancing at you briefly before fixing his eyes on the scenery outside.
For the first time, you noticed his clenched jaw and restless hands, clenching and unclenching as his fingers ran along the edges of Plato’s Republic. You sat up, now serious and fully awake. “You don’t need to tell me anything if you don't want to,” you said, trying to reassure him by placing a hand on top of his fidgeting ones.
“I know,” he whispered, eyes averting to your now-joined hands, “but I want to. It’s just— I suppose I’ve never said it out loud to someone before.”
Isaac’s face flashed before his eyes for a moment. He had never said anything, but there was an unspoken agreement between them never to escalate things too far. Andrew always wondered how Isaac could have possibly known, even before he himself found a name for it, but then again, Isaac had always been very perceptive and excellent at connecting the dots.
“Alright,” you said, beginning to play with his fingers. “Take all the time you need, then. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”
Andrew turned his head to look at you. A reassuring smile flashed across your face and you nuzzled against his side again, comfortable and with infinite patience. He was sure you would not leave for however long it took him to find his words. It nearly filled his heart to bursting, the warmth and love you exuded so effortlessly — the care and understanding you showed him when nearly nobody else in his life had ever bothered to before.
He had nothing to fear with you.
“I’m—” He did not want to hide from you. “I, uh—” he trailed off. Why was it so bloody hard to say out loud?
“Take your time,” you reminded him, but Andrew was growing frustrated.
It made no sense. Why were the words stuck in his throat?
He huffed, taking a shaky breath. This was like a bandaid, he just had to rip it off. He just had to blurt it out. Why was this so hard?
“I—” Goddamn it. “I’m asexual.”
The weight falling off his chest at finally managing to utter the words made him feel slightly lightheaded, but the relief was immediately overshadowed by the rising nervousness, waiting for your reaction.
Asexuality was a spectrum, of course, and there was much more to tell about how he experienced it. Andrew wanted to explain to you what it meant for him, what he would and wouldn’t feel comfortable doing, but for now, he just wanted his heart to calm down. The anticipation of your response had him biting back any further explanation.
This was enough for now.
“Thanks for telling me,” you said, lifting your head to look at him properly. Your tone was genuine, and he could see the fond smile tugging at your lips and the pride shining in your eyes. “And trusting me with that part of you,” you added, leaning in closer to touch your forehead to his.
Andrew closed his eyes, allowing his anxiety to subside. “Of course, darling,” he whispered, feeling the smile on your lips as you kissed his cheek.
“I love you,” you said, “you know this changes nothing between us, right? There’s more to a relationship than the physical aspects of it, and I love you wholeheartedly no matter what. If we never have sex, that’s fine by me. If it takes a while for you to be comfortable with it, or if you are positive towards it — it’s alright either way. I don't mind.”
“You don’t mind that—”
“No, I don’t,” you interrupted, pulling him into a tight embrace. “I promise you, I don’t.”
“I’m not sexually attracted to anyone,” he said, “Not even to you. I will never be.”
You hummed, threading your fingers through his hair until he relaxed against you. “Do you love me?” you asked, earning a scoff from Andrew.
The answer was obvious. It seemed to be engraved into his very being that he adored you beyond words. “I do,” he simply said, “you are the love of my life, darling.”
“And you are mine,” you answered, squeezing him tighter. “That’s more than enough, Andrew.”
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That carnal urge to bite someone at 2am translated to a fic about remorseful/crybaby monster reader and the yan who cares for them [blood, light gore mentions]
A soft knock sounds against their window.
Ringing the doorbell at this hour would wake their neighbors dog and the whole neighborhood by proxy. Good, getting better. Such as the same, knocking on the window was far too strange of a greeting for their guest to be your average late night visitor like a police officer or a neighbor concerned about the blood trails in your yard. A burglary possibly, but one capable of such a gentle knock couldn't possibly mean any harm. At the very least they knew they could answer the door unarmed. Wouldn't want to frighten the wrong crowd.
Muffled sobs battle the raging winds for supremacy. In terms of filling someone with dread for the unknown, the winner was clear as the skies were bleak. Those cries were just - wrong. Like the howls of a dog past it's prime who had already been put to rest; whimpering those final howls on repeat like a broken record. The type of cry that makes you feel the urge to help, but the closer you get the more you realize something is terribly wrong. The home owner unlocks the dead bolt without a second thought on the matter.
"Car...mine."
It's the smell that hits them first. That awful stench akin to corroding metal masking a gentler scent of moss after a fresh rain. It always smelled like that regardless of the weather, and the body wash they used. Impossibly dark eyes cast clear streams of tears down a crimson stained face - rusted talons ripping holes in the sweater the homeowner misplaced just a few days ago. The creature sniffles.
"Sorry... I'm sorry, I did it again, Carmine. Please help me..."
Carmine. True be told, that wasn't their name. They thought of changing it legally, but hadn't gotten around to it yet. That word was the first thing it ever said to them. So proud to have correctly guessed the color of their attire. That one word alone is probably what had kept both of them alive by now. It stopped them from putting a bullet through the poor thing so that had to count for something. They'd gladly be any color of the rainbow for this creature.
"Oh my dear sweet Y/n-" They bite their tongue, backpedaling onto their concern as they hold the creature's hands. "Who's gone and ruined that sweater I gave you? It looked so good on you."
The creature fights back another onslaught of tears. "I got hungry and you weren't home. It's... rude to enter houses without permission - so I made sure the door was unlocked first."
Carmine swathes the beast with their loving arms, and the robe ripped straight from their shoulders. They felt terrible for the sorrow they caused, but the pain was a double edge sword for all those nights they spent copped up alone afraid their innocent monster had gotten themselves killed or worse. Found another human to do it's bidding.
"Now, now - my home is yours, my sweet. I left a key under the mat for that very reason. You can't go into stranger's homes and do as you please, despite how polite and kind you are. For now, let's get you cleaned up and in some fresh clothes. Sound good, Dove?"
The creature nods. Carmine presses a kiss to their damp cheek. "Good."
-
The bath is nice. It enjoys the bath. When Carmine brushes the collated blood out its hair and cleans the flesh beneath its claws everything goes quiet in its head. They're able to hide away from the insatiable hunger and the screams. Able to fit the mold their human body created and truly be -
"Y/n? Are you with me now, angel?"
You nod again, reaching out to touch their face. "Mm.."
Carmine kisses the ring of your thumb. "You've spoken enough for one day, dear. I know punctuation can be hard for you."
Your tongue lulls against your lower jaw, filling your mouth with a bitter taste. You wanted to talk more with them, but they were right. It hurt to speak. To do anything human. Even touching them caused you pain. You can't feel the warmth of their skin - only the coarse veins beneath. Your stomach ties in knots.
Carmine's arms shoot forward seeing you double over in pain, clutching your abdomen. "Sweetness is everything alright? Tell me what's wrong if it won't hurt you more."
You can hear them again. Those screams. Cries echoed into the night, gone as quickly as they began. Gone and still there - a nightmare of your own making. Killing off humans to satisfy your hunger, to make them stop begging for help or calling you what you are. They may be gone, but they live forever in your memories. Soon, Carmine will join that choir.
"You'll be gone too if I come back."
Carmine's heart sinks in their chest. They've never heard such certainty in your voice before. "Dear what on earth are you talking about?"
"All those people.. Gone because of what I've done. I'm going to hurt you too someday.. I'm going to kill you and you'll be suck in my head just like the rest of them. I don't want you to get hurt"
As swift as their descent, Carmine's emotions find new vigor in your caring words. An angel, an absolute angel you were. How precious of you to show your concern and to even think that a fate like that wouldn't be a fantasy out of their wildest dreams. Carmine struggles to contain their excitement as they roll up their sleeves. There was just one problem with your theory.
"Y/n... Darling, you wouldn't hurt me even if you were starving, but on the off chance that you did - it would be okay. I have dedicated myself to you and your needs. I would die a happy, smiling fool if I met my end at your hand not to mention carrying a permanent spot in your memory. If you doubt me, let's put my words to the test with dessert. I'm sure you still have room to fill."
You slowly shake your head as they flex their arm - jaws erupting with a flaring ache. "No... I can't."
"But you can, and you will." Carmine plucks a razor from the shower rack and does what's needed. The first petal of fresh blood in the water is all it takes. You lunch at them, dual blades of teeth hooking into the meat of their arm. The human set meant for camouflage and fo latch onto prey; thinner, sharp-edged fangs a tool for wrangling the flesh from their bones. You shred through to muscle before your brain can catch up with your body's speed, warm blood gushing down your parched throat. Their body jerks and flails, and a sharp ringing pierces your ears that leave you unable to tell what the sounds leaving their mouth could possibly be. You have a feeling you know what they are, but nothing could prepare you for the soft hand that falls on your head and the noise you first hear clear.
"That tickles, Y/n, cut it out!"
Carmine is... laughing. Tears pour down their face like rain and their every breath is labored, but they smile through it all the same with a cheesy grin that made you feel a lot less hungry for some reason. It hurt like a bitch, but you both were crying now. You both shed the same tears, and nullified each other's pain. You were both still here, both still human in your own twisted way.
"See, dear? Smiles all around - except for on that pretty face or yours. Do cheer up for my sake, won't you? If the day comes that you take my life, I want to be the happiest memory you've got. So glad to be with you that this smile makes all those haunts met glimmers of the past."
#Carmine my oc#Mayhaps I don't know yet#yandere oc#yandere imagines#yandere scenarios#yandere headcanons#yandere x reader#yandere#yandere x you#yandere insert#yandere blurb#yandere drabble#Yandere caretaker#yandere x y/n#monster reader#soft yandere
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"Don't you feel stupid answering these questions when you don't even know who you are?"
STORYTELLER SYNTHESIS SCENE 1 - A GIRL NAMED V
overview - masterpost - taglist
____
Storyteller Synthesis is an indie cyberpunk RPG that I’m currently writing and designing. This is the first scene of the game, where we're introduced to our first party member - a girl named V. Please enjoy!
____
Onyxveil is a troubled city. The streets are covered in litter, the skies are gray with smog, and the only sources of light are flashing neon advertisements on walls. Within this bleak cityscape stands an equally troubled young girl, one with hot pink hair and an unfocused gaze. Just a few years ago, she experienced a horrific eve-
"Can you shut up and give the Player control already? Nobody wants your stupid expository speech."
...Ahem. As I was saying, just a few years ag-
"Why can't you ever listen? The Player isn't interested and neither am I. Get it over with."
Ugh. Fine. I came up with this whole summary, but if you're so ungrateful I GUESS I can throw it in as flavor text somewhere...
"Perfect, I'll make sure not to read it. Now get rid of this black screen so the Player can see."
Excuse me? I know what I'm doing.
"Sure. Just get rid of it."
Ugh. Fine.
[Now, in tile RPG format, we see the aforementioned girl from behind. She's at the edge of a rooftop, looking out into the smog-covered cityscape. The camera shifts downwards to show another person, one with a long, pale blue ponytail. The girl turns around and walks towards them. She keeps her distance, but begins speaking. Her character portrait shows a girl with purple, rectangular irises. Her hair is spiky and she wears some sort of strange cropped techwear hoodie. She looks dissatisfied.]
"So, "Sylvie." Long time no see."
> I could say the same to you.
...
"How long has it been now? Three years? Four?"
> Three.
Not sure.
"And how was your little warrior's expedition? Successful?"
Very.
> You could say that.
Not exactly.
"Good, good. Now, Don't you feel stupid answering these questions when you don't even know who you are?"
Wh- hey! I already told you not to go off script!
> I'm not sure.
Oh. Sorry, you don't need to answer that. Let me just fix this... small bug.
[The Narrator goes silent for a moment and the girl stiffens.]
There! Much better.
[The girl's character portrait is different when she speaks again. Her eyes are wide open with no shine. She has a wide, fake smile. Her hair spikes stand up a little less.]
"So sorry, SYLVIE! I don't know what came over me there. I'm glad your expedition went well! Woul d y ouu be wil lin g to h e-"
[She snaps out of it, shakes her head, and glares up at the sky.]
"UGH!! Stop doing that!!! I would literally NEVER talk like that. You of all people should know. Ughhh... anyway, Player, I'm not gonna keep up the "Sylvie" act. You aren't her and we both know it."
If you go off script again, I'll have to keep acting for you. Get back to the story or else.
"Shush. Player, follow me."
[The Narrator protests as the player follows the her down from the rooftop. The two come to an arcade, which the girl enters without hesitation.]
Ahem. Sylvie. You don't need to go in there. If you would just give me a minute, I can get her to come back out...
Sorry, this is going to take some time. Please be patient.
[The player enters the arcade anyway while the Narrator is distracted.]
"Hey. Glad you could make it."
[The arcade is empty, save for the two of them. Most of the machines look like they're out of order. A few of the arcade cabinets are still working, though.]
"If you're waiting for him to talk, you should know he can't hear us in here."
> "He"?
"The Narrator. He's messing stuff up in Onyxveil, and probably in other cities too. If i had to guess, I'd say his other targets would be The Sunbasked Stratum and Karma Point. They'd be good settings for a story, so..."
> Why can't he hear us in here?
What is he trying to do?
Who are you?
"I dunno. My guess is that he never intended for anything to happen in this arcade, so it's barely more than set dressing. I've never heard him speak a word while I’m in here, though. It’s pretty nice."
Why can't he hear us in here?
> What is he trying to do?
Who are you?
"He's writing some stupid story. I don't know... it's hard to explain, and we probably don't have much time. All you really need to know is that he's meddling with reality for his own selfish reasons and not taking anyone else into account."
[Her face contorts in anger.]
Why can't he hear us in here?
What is he trying to do?
> Who are you?
"My name's V. There's nothing else you need to know about me."
> Who am I?
"You’re the one playing the video game. Obviously."
> That's not what I meant.
"Oh, you must want to know who's body you're in. It's another person from Onyxveil. Their name is Sylvie. They went out on some training journey a few years ago. I... haven't seen them since."
> ...
"It doesn't matter. I need your help, Player. I don't want to be trapped in this stupid reality where I'm a character in a story I never asked to be a part of."
> What do you want me to do about that?
"I want you to help me kill the Narrator."
[V looks determined, but angry. This Narrator person has very clearly wronged her in some way, and based on her face, it looks like it was extremely personal.]
> How are we meant to do that?
"I don't know all the details just yet. However, I think the most effective method would be for us to assemble a party of several people. More people means more firepower, and he already wants us to gather more allies to fight the robots that keep appearing in the city. It'll be easy to fly under the radar as long as we don't discuss it in front of him."
[She speaks quickly and confidently. It seems she's been thinking over her plan for a long time.]
> Do you know who we need?
#pixell.rpg#pixell.art#storyteller synthesis#WHEW this post had a shit ton of work go into it#it was a journey#but AAAAA SCENE 1 FINALLY UPPPP#EXPLODES#uhmm uh.m. i hate to beg but im working really hard on this game and if you reblogged this i would love you forever <3#godddd i would so totally blaze this if i could. but alas#anyway#gamedev#indie gamedev#indie game#writing#original writing#oc#oc art#oc illustration#cyberpunk aesthetic#solo dev#rpg maker#rpg maker game#illustration#art#digital artist#okay thats probably too many tags
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If you had to kill one archivas assistant, who would you pick?
Oh my god this is the worst question in the entire fucking world wow!!! I love all of them!!!!
But I'm gonna answer it from a potential for Angst kinda way and which one I'd find the most interesting.
Sasha
Well first things first she did die but we're ignoring that for the sake of this question
If everyone realised she died directly after the Jane Prentiss Attack i think it would eliminate the added layer of guilt of not noticing her being taken by the Not Them and maybe allow them each to grieve a bit more? I think if they were smacked in the face with Sasha's death, then they could communally grieve before Tim got massively resentful and maybe Jon would be distracted by the grief to fall into his paranoia as intensely and actually try to support Tim instead. I guess it's a sad world where we're choosing between one type of death for Sasha and another but here we are.
Tim:
I know that hes gonna die but I haven't gotten there yet so I'm gonna imagine what would happen if he died in the Jane Prentiss Attack instead of Sasha. Sasha wouldn't have the same resentment and fury that Tim has, I feel like she'd would be determined to avenge Tim, I think she'd be a better protagonist than Jon, which would cause him extra Jon Guilt cause he'd be like why am I the leader of this whole thing Sasha would've been so much better than meeee and Sasha would eventually be like yeah bitch get out of my way. Sasha being alive would actually solve so many problems like actually. RIP Tim though, everyone would mourn his bisexual ass. Jon and Martin would grieve him normally and Sasha might make them go to therapy/talk to someone about it.
Martin:
If he died during the Prentiss Attack, he'd come back as a ghost. There's no other option, that's just what has to happen. Maybe it would be a chance for slight humour, cause Jon resolutely believed he's hallucinating for an embarrassingly long time before Martin's like nah bro...im a ghost. And he keeps Martin's reappearance to himself cause he wants something good for himself that no one can take away and they get closer and fall in love and everything but there's the added angst that he's a literal fucking ghost. The whole Peter Lukas arc is him slowly fading away as a ghost and Jon nearly kills himself to bring him back. In the end he does stab himself but he feels Martin push the knife in when he dies and he dies knowing that he'll join him.
Or alternatively, he's just gone. Jon would spiral with guilt and anxiety knowing that his last conversation with him doesn't excuse his poor treatment of him and that he died getting cut off from the others in the tunnels, he died scared and alone and worse, he died with the little bit of hope that things might get better. Tim and Sasha would both be devastated, they'd stare out at his empty desk and lash out with anger and fear and cry but in the end at least have each other to lean on. But Jon would be alone in his office with no one to give him tea. His physical health spirals and everyone's worried about him, the way Sasha and Tim have stuck together makes him even more paranoid that they somehow killed Gertrude together and no matter how soft with him they are, he still barrells towards the end with an even stronger need to martyr himself. It's bleak guys. My man is not ok.
So I guess if I could kill one of them off, I'd probably go for Tim's death cause Sasha being a better horror protagonist than Jon is actually so funny to me I think that would be so interesting but Ghost!Martin as a close second cause that would actually add so much depth.
Thank you for your ask!! I really enjoyed answering it!!
#tma#the magnus archives#jonathan sims#martin k blackwood#jmart#jonmartin#tim stoker#sasha james#archival assistants#tma au#asks#answered asks#tma headcanons
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Well, guess who won’t be able to listen to L’amour est un oiseau rebelle for at least a month.
(I started writing a lot of stuff in the tags, so why not make a full post. Overflow of unedited immediate-post-ending thoughts incoming)
Ok, this book is a mess, I’ll be brutally honest, it almost felt like reading an unedited manuscript with lots and lots of good ideas that were being thrown at me without a breathing moment. And Dabos really got carried away with borrowing stuff from His Dark Materials. And I didn’t really grasped the character arcs (this is my fault though, I'll need a reread yada yada yada).
But as I said, I really esteem Christelle Dabos for choosing to change entirely the scope and taste of her series; here it takes a truly dark and disturbing turn (the claustophobric anxiety of the Observatoire, the straigh-up body horror of the Horn of Plenty)... only for the ending to be the most hopeful possible. (spoilers under the cut)
I was lead to think this would be a bleak conclusion thrown in for shock value, but it's just not? Eulalie turning out to be a genuinely good person who was really striving for the best; Victoire and Second getting to have a childood and the Family Spirits getting to have a life. The last scene perfectly mirroring the very first of the series in tome 1. Ophèlie entering her Orpheus era and yet never ever loosing her willpower. Thorn who, after four books of costant trying, finally managed to sacrifice himself for her, but she just won't let him. His answer on the other side of the page/mirror!! Perfection.
#la passe miroir#la tempête des échos#also another small thing I love was the reveal that ophèlie is indeed just a gal and not some prophetized saviour or anything...#l'attraversaspecchi#the mirror visitor#echi in tempesta#storm of echoes#recensioni#christelle dabos
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~The Glass Ballerina's Reputation~
CHAPTER 1- ...Ready for it?
AO3 LINK
Fic synopsis:
averyjameson!mafia AU
After Avery's mother's death, she is left with many questions. What happened to her mother's family? Who were they? Why did her mother never talk about them?
Why did Jameson Winchester Hawthorne appear in her life?
...What is her mother's secret?
~~~
When Avery was a kid, her mom was constantly inventing games. Not your average games like Hide-And-Seek or Tag. They were always small tests, a competition. Once they’d played the Who-Can-Stack-The-Most-Pancakes or Who-Could-Build-The-Tallest-Tower-of-Cards. There was always something to find, something to figure out- something to fix or something to take apart. A challenge. The rush of excitement and the thrill that came with success is what made Avery feel alive.
The last game her mother had made for her was the Don’t-You-Dare-Miss-Me game, where she sent Avery on a challenge to find a mysterious item. It was the longest game yet, suspiciously so. When her mom gave her such complicated games, like that one time she made Avery an escape room, she’d leave little clues that would confirm she was on the right track. Yet this game had been completely devoid of all that. All she was told was to find “where the heart feels whole”.
There was only one possible answer to that. Home. Not their little apartment, no. The antique shop her mother owned, right under where they lived. That’s where they felt at home. Each of the little trinkets they received from donations or found had a story behind them. Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, Avery would sneak downstairs to the antique shop and try to guess the object’s history. Once they’d received one of those old vintage desks, the ones that had even more shelves on top of the tabletop itself, and a bunch of hidden compartments everywhere. It even had its very own built in gas lamp. She could vividly imagine the original owner sitting at it, working with a quill and a pot of ink, furrowing his brow in concentration or struggle. It was objects like these that had a meaning, that were valued and cherished. They had stories.
When she’d entered the shop, she didn’t find any clue to indicate she was on the right track. The place had felt strange without her mother there ever since she’d been hospitalized.
Avery searched high and low. Nothing. Finally, she went to a relatively small room behind the counter and pushed open the door. There was a fireplace. It had been there ever since her mom had rented this place, but it didn’t work. Sometimes they’d bring chairs and sit around it, pretending it worked. Their home. That’s when her mom told her stories about who she was before she had Avery. About Ricky. About a secret lover. Not once did she ever mention her family.
For Avery, home was where her mom was. Family.
She immediately noticed that one of the wood planks of the flooring was askew. She slipped her fingers beneath it, blindly feeling around for something. Sure enough, she felt it. A paper with a phone number. Libby Grambs, it read, above the string of numbers.
By the time Avery made it back to the hospital, the heart monitor wasn’t beeping with that annoying yet reassuring ding. The bleak room was even more uneasily silent, devoid of life.
It was at that moment that Avery decided to never play again.
“I thought you promised to stay away from him, Lib.”
Avery was tired of watching Libby dust the antique shop over and over again, hobbling around with her black eye and bumping into everything. There were two things Libby always did when she had something on her mind- she either bakes a bunch of cupcakes that Avery would have no choice but stuff herself with later or dusts the antique shop until even the antiques themselves looked brand new.
“I couldn’t help it, Ave. He… he called me and said sorry and that he wanted to meet up.”
Avery rolled her eyes and tapped on the cash register in anger, though holding back from crushing the keys. They definitely couldn’t afford another one unless one of them suddenly married some rich man.
It was always the same story. Libby did or said something Drake didn’t like. Then he’d hit her. Only once, but it was already too much. Then he’d apologize and do his usual speech, and Libby would forgive him.
“This is the seventh time you’ve broken up with him,” she spat at her sister. “Make it be the last.”
Libby nearly knocked over another vintage jewelry box. “I can’t help it.” She ducked down to steady the box, probably already thinking about what types of cupcakes she was going to bake this time.
“How about you go and flip the OPEN sign outside? We should close up. I doubt we’re going to get any more customers at this hour.”
Libby nodded and went to the front door. Just as she was going out, she slammed straight into a man who had just opened the door to come inside.
“Oh my gosh I am so sorry I didn’t mean to–”
Avery glanced over while her sister started rambling away. A man with ashy brown hair and a cowboy hat was helping her sister up in a gentlemanly manner. He had matching cowboy boots, too. He looked… quite odd, honestly. Dressed as both a cowboy and in a fancy way at once. She couldn’t tell if he was some rich guy mocking cowboys or just a desperate wannabe. His skin glowed a beautiful tan, though Avery was skeptical as to whether it was real or not. These days bronzing drops were all the rage.
“Be careful, darlin’,” the handsome stranger said to her sister, whose blush seemed very visible because of her pale skin, looking at him as though he was a heaven-sent messenger offering tickets to paradise. She was so red even her blue roots seemed to be turning purplish.
Libby shyly thanks him and practically runs out the door, red-faced. The stranger’s gaze follows her curiously, and then he picked up an item that had fallen off a nearby shelf when he’d bumped into her. He then turned around and headed for the counter.
“The name’s Nash.” He glanced out at the sign Libby was flipping outside that now read ‘CLOSED’. “Well, mind if I take a look around even though you seem to be closing up? I promise I won’t take long.”
Avery nodded, watching him as he wandered around the little shop, his boots clicking rhythmically. He stopped at a particular shelf and picked up a knife, flipping it over in his large palm. It had patterns engraved onto the blade and a gem encrusted hilt, one of the more expensive items the shop had to sell lately.
“I’ll buy it,” he said, looking back up. The strange cowboy came and placed it on the counter, pulling out a shiny black card.
“Is that your sister?” he asked as she rummaged around, trying to find the magnetic stripe reader. Customers didn’t usually arrive waving around a fancy card.
“Yeah.” Avery paused, looking at him suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”
Nash raised an eyebrow playfully. “Ever heard of genuine, well intentioned romantic interest, kid?” he said, a slight southern accent dragging out some vowels and adding an atypical rhythm to his speech. Was that real, too? “What’s her name?”
“Libby. And stay far, far away from her,” she warned as she handed him the receipt and the knife. ‘Nash’ gave her a grin.
“Farewell, little miss. I’ll make sure to come around again, and maybe I’ll have my brothers tag along next time.” With that, he tipped his cowboy hat at her and winked, then turned around to walk out. Avery glared at him through the store’s glass door as he chatted away with Libby outside.
Her fists tightened on the edges of the countertop; fragments of their yapping being heard through the open window. Libby did not need another act to her tragic love life. Drake was already more than enough.
Sure, this guy looked nicer, but you could never know for sure. Drake had looked handsome and calm at first, too.
Avery rubbed her temples, trying to soothe the already forming headache as Libby burst back into the store, blabbing away.
“Avery, isn’t he so dreamy? I never liked cowboys but…”
Someone kill me now.
~~~
Let me know if you want to be tagged in the future chapters!
#fanfic#avery x jameson#averyjameson#avery kylie grambs#avery grambs#the inheritance games#the final gambit#tobias hawthorne#jameson hawthorne#nash hawthorne#grayson hawthorne#the brothers hawthorne#the hawthorne legacy#toby hawthorne#xander hawthorne#mafia au#the inheritance trilogy#jennifer lynn barnes#alisa ortega#libby grambs#nashlibby#averyjames#javery#jameson x avery#hawthorne brothers#hawthorne house#the grandest game#games untold
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