#and i hope things look less dire in the morning

[luveline]

What about a lil fic of the first time bombshell reader gets mad at Spencer? Like it can be while they r dating or before and May be r is giving Spencer quiet treatment?

ty for requesting! ♡ fem, 1.3k

Spencer waits for Morgan to get up for a coffee before he gets up himself, tailing his teasing teammate to the microwave. He's hoping Morgan's in a sympathetic mood today, because Spencer is in dire need of some sympathy. 

"Loverboy," Morgan says, his voice steeped in suspicion. "Can I help you with something?"

"Do you know why Y/N's upset?" 

"You don't? You're the expert." 

Spencer rubs at his nose, the beginning of another migraine brewing between his eyes. The gesture draws a little more empathy than his misguided question. 

"You're gonna have to ask her yourself. I don't want her angry at me too, she's gonna fix my computer before Garcia finds out I fell for her phishing email test." 

"I've been asking her. It's making it worse. She won't answer my questions anymore. She just hums." 

"Silent treatment. Yikes." Morgan sips his tea through a grimace. "I mean, you must've done something bad. She's usually so–" 

"Lovely?" 

"–in love with you." Morgan laughs as he wanders off in the direction of the stairs up to Hotch's office. "Same thing."

Spencer decides to make a cup of bribery tea for you. He microwaves a mug of hot water and plunks a bag of your favourite blend in without ceremony, bobbing it up and down as he watches you from over his shoulder. You've moved desks upon request to sit with the rest of the team and opposite Spencer (against Hotch's self-proclaimed better judgement), your things set carefully in contrast to his books, a library's worth teeming on every spare inch. Some have even made their way onto your desk, pristinely stacked in wait of his perusal. It's one small gesture among the hundreds of kind things you do for him. 

"Here," he says, setting the mug down next to your mouse carefully. 

Your anger strikes him. Eyes frosted with an uneasiness he's not partial to, lips, so perfectly painted, screwed into a frown. It's not nice seeing someone he cares about upset with him, worse when he has no idea what it is he's done. 

"You're annoyed at me," he says. You wait for him to continue. "I don't know what I did." 

"That makes it worse." You frown at him. After a few seconds of this—your frowning, his looking sorry and confused— you sigh wretchedly (as in, he's never heard you sound that sad, ever, and he hates it). "Spencer, you stood me up." 

Everything in him goes cold. "No I didn't." 

Your sad frown melds again to anger. "Yes you did! I– I got my hair done at a salon, I bought a new dress, I bragged to all of my friends that my cute coworker was gonna be my date, and none of that mattered because you didn't text me back so I was worried sick all night that you were," —your voice drops to a private whisper— "in trouble somewhere, and then you come into work like nothing happened? Not even a hint of an apology? I thought you wanted to come."  

Your voice burns with embarrassment. Spencer can feel it in his throat, that plucky ache of someone letting you down. 

"That was last night?" he asks quietly. A friend asked you to their charity ball, not as ridiculously fancy as it sounds but an occasion of esteem and important to you nonetheless. "Y/N, I thought that was– I have it in my phone as next month. As November. I'm so sorry." 

"Why didn't you answer my texts?" 

He winces. "I had a migraine… Screens make it worse, and I haven't charged the battery yet because I was coming to work anyways I'm sorry, Y/N, really. I mixed it up. I should've asked you." 

You seem less disheartened at his admission. You cross your arms over your abdomen and lean back a touch in your chair, as if deciding whether he's being truthful. Spencer isn't in the habit of lying to you and anybody could tell you that, so after a few seconds you look away. "I asked you if you were excited yesterday morning. I told you my dress came."  

"I know." He can't believe he's gotten it wrong like this. Anyone can make a mistake, but he imagines you in your new dress with your hair done waiting for him in the cold weather that descended on Virginia last night and his guts twist into a knot. "I didn't piece it together. I didn't… I didn't…" 

Spencer can't remember the last time he let someone he loves down like this. His migraine spikes again like a needle in the eye, fiery agony that has him closing his eyes to cope. 

"Spencer," you say, softly admonishing. "Hey, it's okay." Your chair creaks.

"I'm so sorry," he says through his teeth. 

"I thought you were being a jerk, but I guess I should've known you wouldn't do something like that." You stand up and take his elbow into a very gentle hand. "I'm sorry for giving you the cold shoulder. It was childish. I was just hurt thinking you did it on purpose." 

"Sorry," he says again. "Migraine." 

Your hand rises to his cheek. "Yeah? Sit down, Spence. Take a breather." 

The doctors say that Spencer's migraines are psychosomatic. He doesn't get how something so odious can start from nothing. 

You seem twice as upset but in a different light, ushering him down into your chair. "Don't worry," you say softly, your hand falling into his hair, "I took a great picture. You can still see me in my nice dress." 

You're kidding but he's genuinely glad. Then the pain takes over and he can't see the other side of it for years. 

It only feels like years. 

When he can open his eyes, you've knelt by his chair. He hates to see you getting your pants dirty like that, hates worse that your eyebrows have pinched and the soft plane of your forehead has etched deep with concern. 

"You can still be mad at me," he says under his breath. 

"I'm a little upset," you confess, putting an uncharacteristically tentative hand on his knee. "It sucked, but not as much as this seems to suck for you." You're like an angel, all pretty and wide-eyed at his feet, your hand beginning a short path up his leg, a soft back and forth. "I'm sorry Spencer. I was punishing you for something that wasn't your fault." 

"You didn't know. How could you, I–" He winces as another wave of pain flares behind his eye, blurring your small smile. "I should've charged my phone." 

"Maybe. I can't imagine you had the capacity, Spence. Not if you're like this." 

"Don't just forgive me because I'm in pain." 

"I'm not, I'm forgiving you because even though it really hurt my feelings turning up alone, I'm not cruel enough to blame you now." You squeeze his knee. It's an instant balm, the chronic ache behind his eyes easing ever so slightly. Your forgiveness makes the rest bearable. "Can you forgive me for being so heartless?" you ask lightly. 

Your lips curve demurely around each word. Spencer scrambles to cover your hand with both of his, his neck craned forward. "Of course I forgive you." 

"Thank you." Spencer could collapse. "Drink some of this tea, okay? Maybe drinking something will help."  

Nothing ever helps, but he does it because it's your hands bringing the cup to his lips. 

"I know you looked beautiful," he says between sips. 

"I would've looked better on your arm. Too bad you're getting grievously attacked by your own brain. This is what happens when it gets too big, babe, it's trying to come out of your ears." He's a little sorry to have won you back this way, but mostly so, so relieved. "Anymore of this'll and you'll start messing up the months. Oh, wait!" You laugh as he laughs but soon scramble to apologise when the sound makes his head hurt. "Sorry, I'm sorry! Drink some more tea, sweetheart." 

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader

[solarmorrigan]

If you’re still taking prompts, could I ask for “please come get me” with Steddie?

I’ve read over all your other angst prompts and just about died this morning, you’re so good at the pain!!

Hello! :D Thank you for the prompt! I'm afraid this one is a little heavier on the comfort than the hurt, so perhaps not as much pain, but if you've been binging what I've written so far, maybe that's a good thing?? But anyway, I hope this is alright!

[Warning for implied child neglect/emotional abuse. Nothing really happens in the fic, but just as a heads up]

Angsty-ish Prompt List

-

Eddie shouldn’t be hearing this. This isn’t a conversation meant for spectators.

“I know you just got back from a trip, I just–” Harrington says into the receiver of the payphone, clinging to the handset as he practically wilts against the useless ‘privacy wall’ next to it. “I’m sorry, I was just hoping you could give me a ride home.”

All Eddie had wanted to do was cut the pep rally like any self-respecting social outcast would, except he couldn’t just ditch and go home; it’s Friday, and he has Hellfire after this. But the last thing he’d expected while loitering around outside, waiting for the pep rally to end, had been to stumble across Steve Harrington on the phone, practically begging someone for a ride home.

“No, I drove myself here today, I’m just not sure I can drive home.” Harrington pauses, then sighs. “No, Dad, this is a pep rally, I haven’t been drinking.” Whatever comes down the line next makes his posture snap straight almost immediately, before he hunches back in on himself with a wince and a hand pressed to his forehead. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

This is weird. This is so weird. Harrington is meant to be cocky – confident and in-charge and at ease, not curled around a payphone in the same way a kicked puppy tries to protect itself even as it asks someone for more attention.

Someone who is apparently his dad.

It’s just – weird. It’s like how you know a lemon is a citrus fruit, just the same as an orange, but the second you peel off the rind, you feel like you’ve seen something forbidden. Lemons aren’t meant to be peeled that way, and Harrington isn’t meant to look close to tears while trying to get someone to drive him home.

“I – I’m sick. I mean, it’s – I have a migraine,” Harrington explains haltingly. “No, it’s not just – yeah, my head hurts, but if it was just that, I swear I wouldn’t bother you, I just – I’m dizzy, and my vision’s all blurry, so I’m not sure I can drive, and I don’t…”

Shit, that sounds kind of fucked up. Eddie frowns, leaning against the wall he’s been peering around, now definitely intentionally eavesdropping. Harrington is frowning, too, rubbing a frustrated hand over his face.

“Tommy and I don’t hang out anymore, we haven’t in over a year,” Harrington says, then carries on a little more quietly, a little more subdued, “and there isn’t really anyone else here I can catch a ride with, either.”

Eddie will admit he hasn’t been paying a whole lot of attention, but anyone who doesn’t live under a rock knows that Harrington’s popularity had taken a bit of a hit last year, when he’d ditched Hagan and Perkins and decided to be a bit less of a dick. And then this year – well, even if Hargrove hadn’t crowed enough about the fight between the two of them, the state of Harrington’s face back in November had spoken volumes. Still, Eddie hadn’t been aware the condition of Harrington’s social life was so dire.

“I’m not – I’m not making this up, the doctor talked to you about this, he– I’m not trying to talk back, I just– Dad, please, can you just – please, come get me,” Harrington stutters through what sounds very much like a losing argument before going silent altogether, pressing one hand over his eyes as he lets his head hang, the other still holding the handset near his ear. “I understand,” he says dully after a minute. “I’m sorry. I’ll – I’ll figure it out… Yes, sir.”

It doesn’t seem like there’s much left to say after that. Harrington hangs up the phone and leans up against the adjacent wall before sliding down and sitting himself right there on the ground, knees drawn up and face in his hands.

Shit.

Eddie ducks back around the corner, gnawing on his lip, caught in indecision. He shouldn’t have overheard any of that, intentionally or otherwise, but now that he has, he can’t just – not do something.

Can he?

He tries to tell himself it’s not his problem, that Harrington’s certainly never done him any favors, even if he’d never been a dick to Eddie specifically, but it doesn’t work. All Eddie can see is the defeated slump of Harrington’s shoulders, the helpless way he’d just sort of dropped to the ground, the way he’d quietly admitted there’s no one else he can ask for a ride – Eddie’s always had a soft spot for the lonely ones.

But when he rounds the corner, prepared to come up with some bullshit excuse as to why he’s out here and willing to drive Harrington home, he finds that Harrington is – gone.

Eddie glances around, but he doesn’t seem to be anywhere. Poof, vanished while Eddie had been too busy trying to decide what to do.

Well, damn.

Distantly hoping that Harrington had, indeed, figured something out, Eddie tries to put the incident out of his mind. The pep rally will be over soon, and that means Hellfire will begin, and he needs to get his head in the game.

He has no real reason to think on the incident after that, and he’s fairly successful at shoving it somewhere into the back of his mind until nearly two years later, in a setting so far removed from that spring day at the school that it might as well be in another life.

Eddie has to extricate himself from a few fans (actual fans; apparently, rumors of Satanism and returning form the dead will do wonders for the reputation of your metal band) in order to get up from the table settled near the back of The Hideout. Gareth, Jeff, and Oliver are all accounted for, enjoying their drinks and chatting with whoever’s descended upon them after their set, but Steve had disappeared ten minutes ago and has yet to make a reappearance.

Ten minutes isn’t all that long, Eddie knows logically, but after last year, after everything, it still feels a little too long. If he finds Steve and Steve tells him he’s fine, then that’s great, Eddie will leave him be. But he just wants to check.

The bathroom is a bust, empty but for one drunk swaying precariously in front of a urinal, so Eddie heads outside, where, around the side of the building, settled on the ground in a triangle of sodium-glow orange thrown off by a nearby streetlight, he finds his quarry.

Steve is sitting with his back to the rough wood façade of the bar, his knees drawn up in front of him and his head leaned back against the wall behind him. His eyes are closed, but there’s a little pinch of tension between his brows, and Eddie is abruptly reminded of that day, eons ago and not really that long ago at all, when all Steve had wanted was for someone to care enough to give him a ride home when he’d been sick.

Eddie finds his ass on the concrete right next to Steve before he even has the conscious thought to go over and sit down.

“Doing okay, sweetheart?” Eddie asks, picking up one of Steve’s hands from where it’s resting on his own knee (it’s safe enough right here, Eddie knows; someone would have to actively be looking for them to spot them where they’re tucked away).

If Steve is surprised to find Eddie beside him, he doesn’t show it. He turns to look at Eddie in the low light, offering him a fond little smile.

“I’m good. It was just getting to be a little much in there, so I came out here for a break,” he says.

Things like excessive noise and heat—say, the likes of which might be experienced at a concert in a crowded bar (or maybe a high school pep rally)—tend to be migraine triggers for Steve, so why he continues attending shows at The Hideout is beyond Eddie. He’s tried telling him that he doesn’t have to come, but Steve still insists he wants to make it to every performance that he can.

Eddie squeezes Steve’s hand. “You wanna head out?”

Steve shakes his head. “You’re having a good time. I don’t want to take you away from that.”

“I’m not going to be having a good time if you’re miserable.” Eddie reaches up and cups Steve’s cheek in his hand, keeping him facing in Eddie’s direction. “You’re a priority for me, you know that, right? Say the word, and we’ll go home.”

It doesn’t seem like Steve has anything to say to that; instead, he just stares at Eddie with something like wonder, as if Eddie’s just done anything more amazing than promise Steve that he’ll never have to beg for basic consideration.

“Besides,” Eddie goes on, if for no other reason than to shift the sudden weight of Steve’s reverence, “it’s not like it would be a hardship.” He leans in, pressing a kiss to Steve’s willing mouth before he continues, speaking so close that their lips are brushing. “Getting to take you home, take you to bed, lie there in the dark, just the two of us…”

Steve presses in for another kiss, long and lingering, before pulling away.

“Let’s stay a little longer,” he says. “Jeff owes me a beer, anyway.”

“Y’know,” Eddie pauses with a grunt of effort as Steve stands and uses their joined hands to pull Eddie up after him, “the only reason you knew the movie he was referencing—and, thus, the only reason he owes you a beer—is because I made you watch it.”

“And? What do you want, a medal?” Steve snarks.

“Well,” Eddie drawls, glancing Steve up and down, “some token of appreciation wouldn’t be remiss.”

Steve raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Eddie. “It would be if we did it in the alley next to a bar.”

“Wow, Harrington, mind in the gutter much? I only meant a beer,” Eddie sniffs, all exaggerated offense.

“Sure you did,” Steve says. “Now c’mon; one more beer, and then… home?”

“You got it, sweetheart,” Eddie says, offering one more quick kiss in hopes of putting any hesitation out of Steve’s mind. “One more beer, and then home.”

#rajumat #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #eddiesteve #I think this one is a little rough but I dunno man I'm fond of it #solar wrote #answers from solar

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

As soon as Robin and Nancy enter the room, the first thing out of Eddie’s mouth is a frantic, “What's Steve’s phone number? I need to—need to check something—”

His heart thuds in anticipation, an impatient buzzing sensation creeping across his skin, and he kind of gets it now, why everyone else was so quick to roll with the punches throughout everything while he was left reeling; having something to solve means that there’s somewhere for all that nervous energy to go. Means he isn’t just sitting around, waiting for...

Robin reels off the number with precision, and when Eddie hesitates in the doorway, glancing back, she adds, “We’ll keep watch.” She catches Nancy’s eye, and they exchange a look, as if they can sense what Eddie is feeling, as if they can feel it, too: a mixture of worry and hope.

Eddie nods, grateful, and runs. He wants the confirmation first before he tells them anything, can’t shake the fear that perhaps, alone and half-asleep, he imagined that flicker of awareness on Steve’s face...

His call is picked up after barely two rings. Max dully parrots the number back to him, along with an uncharacteristically formal, “Who’s speaking, please?”, and if the circumstances were less dire, Eddie would have the time to enjoy that: the idea of Steve teaching the kids how to answer his own phone, simply because they must be over often enough for it to be necessary.

“Hey, Red,” he says as gently as he can, but some urgency must still seep through; he can hear her inhale sharply.

“What is it? Is Steve—?”

“Wait, listen. I just need Dustin to take a look at something for me, okay? Shit, no, his foot—in Steve’s room, there should be a tape in a drawer. It’ll—” He has to stop talking suddenly, recalling the horror all over again of finding that empty cassette case. “It’ll just be loose in there, no case.”

He hears Max half cover the receiver, hears her shout, “Lucas!” She relays the information to him, and Dustin’s voice comes through, calling after them both: “What’s going on?”

“Just wait at the stairs for Lucas, Dustin. Oh my god, use your crutches!” Then she must be speaking properly into the phone again, because her voice is an undertone. “This is for Steve’s song, right?”

“I...” Eddie sighs. “God, I hope so.”

They both fall quiet, and Eddie listens to Dustin’s echoing complaints at Lucas taking too long; the sound of Erica running up the stairs to help in the search.

“I would’ve given him my tape,” Max says, barely above a whisper. “If it would’ve helped.”

Eddie is speechless for a moment, then quietly clicks his tongue in sympathy. “Ah fuck, Max. I know you would’ve.” He laughs a little, tries and fails to ward off another wave of emotion. “He wouldn’t have let you, though. Not a chance in hell.”

She scoffs, sounds a little teary herself. “Yeah, I know.”

There’s a distant shout of triumph. “We’ve found it!” Lucas yells.

The line crackles briefly as the phone is passed over, and then Dustin is speaking, chanting, “Holy shit, holy shit,” over and over again, clearly having made the same connection as Max. “Um, Breakaway by Art Garfunkel?”

Eddie chews on his thumb nervously. It sounds right, but... “Could you read out the track list?” He can't stifle a gasp when Dustin says, “My little town,” and that leads to an explosion of noise on the other end.

“Holy shit,” Dustin repeats. “That's his song, isn’t it?”

Eddie can’t speak. He nods uselessly, before finally managing a shaky, “Yeah.”

-

Things start to become a blur; it’s only thanks to adrenaline that exhaustion doesn’t bring Eddie to a complete standstill. Still on the phone with Dustin, he realises that it’s almost three in the morning and while he’s itching for that tape, he knows damn well that if he has barely slept, then neither has Dustin.

“Oh, ew,” Dustin says when he brings this up. “Get it together, Eddie, you’re not the babysitter.”

“But Steve gave me a schedule and everything,” Eddie says sweetly.

And that elicits a giggle out of Dustin (a proper giggle! After everything! Jesus Christ, he loves this kid), which makes him laugh, too; but he has to quickly stop himself before it dissolves into something else.

After a reluctant but genuine promise from Dustin to sleep for at least a few hours, Eddie then sprints back to Steve’s room to catch the girls up with everything.

He delivers a quiet snippet of the song to demonstrate, weak with relief when he sees that little crease of concentration return to Steve’s face.

Robin, who is holding Steve’s hand again, gives a breathy, near silent scream. “Oh my god, his finger twitched, oh my god.” Then, deadly serious, she adds, “Eddie, I could kiss you.”

Eddie, feeling like he’s pitching towards hysteria, only just stops himself from saying something like, “Well, that would be hilarious for two reasons.”

Instead he just laughs, tries to keep singing. But it quickly feels like every part of him is trembling uncontrollably, and Nancy clocks it just as his voice fails at the start of a verse.

“Get some rest, Eddie,” she says firmly. “You’re the only one who hasn’t had a break.”

But he hesitates at the hospital entrance. He’d had a vague thought of going to Steve’s house to check up on the kids but, after a week of hiding, he can’t really wrap his head around the idea of just calling a cab out in the open.

But then, as if he’d heard his internal dilemma, Wayne meets him by one of the front doors.

“Let’s go, kid. Got us a hotel a couple blocks away, they’re giving out rooms for free.”

They walk there together, Wayne guiding Eddie with an arm around his elbow, like he can sense his exhaustion. Their door is at the very end of a floor, a little distance away from the other rooms. It’s quiet. Peaceful.

When they get inside, the first thing Eddie notices is that it must be two adjoining rooms, a door embedded into one of the walls left slightly open. Then he looks around and freezes.

Because his guitars are there. There’s somehow hardly any damage, just a faint scratch on the surface of the electric guitar, and some of the paint spelling out ‘This machine slays dragons’ has chipped off on the acoustic—barely anything. Eddie would rather they both have been smashed to pieces, if it meant that Steve would’ve been spared.

“You... you went to the trailer,” he says, stunned.

“Sure did.”

“And...” Eddie tries to avoid Wayne’s gaze, knows that his face is probably cycling through too many emotions to count. “And it was... okay?”

Wayne sighs. “It was pretty banged up, Eddie.”

Oh, Eddie thinks, and this time he does feel more than hysterical. He thinks I've not seen it.

“But, like, that was... it?” He doesn't really know how to ask ‘no portals to another dimension? No gigantic cracks in the earth?’ without, well, asking about it.

He chances a glance at Wayne, watches him raise an eyebrow. “Why the hell you askin’ that? What else would there have been?”

“Oh, no reason,” Eddie says, high-pitched and strained. On the bedspread he can see a little bundle of his clothes has been salvaged, and he already knows in his bones that there’ll be significantly more of his own things rescued compared to Wayne’s.

Wayne gives a small, knowing smile. “It’s just stuff, Eddie.” He nods in the direction of the shower. “Go on, now.”

The shower is an arduous but therapeutic task: just taking off his bloodied shirt feels like he’s shedding just a little bit of the horror of the night behind. Afterwards, Eddie stretches out on the bed; through the wall, he can hear Wayne talking on the phone to one of his colleagues. He makes out something about an earthquake hitting, about the colleague’s daughter in a car wreck, and he holds his breath, listens closer... but it sounds like she’s okay. Jesus H. Christ, he can’t take another fucking tragedy.

He feels his chin dipping down to his chest, and he sniffs sharply, rubs a hand over his face. It’s as if when resting, his body has finally given itself permission to feel every ache: his knee throbs dully from where he had fallen in The Upside Down, and his limbs are as heavy as lead.

Eddie groans, forces himself to sit up. He reaches for the acoustic guitar, mutters a little, “C’mon,” when he catches himself drifting too close to sleep. He has work to do.

He gets the chords down in fits and starts, plays the song on a loop until it feels like it’s a case of muscle memory, ingrained into some deep part of him. Soon even his fingers feel too heavy to lift, and he swears he’s only stopping for a moment, just to rest, just for a minute...

He wakes under the blankets. His guitar has been propped up by the end of the bed, and he can faintly hear the phone ringing in the room next door, Wayne answering it gruffly.

Eddie sits up at the sound of a soft rap on the wall. He rubs at his eyes; he’s slept so deeply that he can feel the mark of a pillow crease on his cheek.

Wayne enters through the adjoining door, says, quietly bemused, “Mornin’. There’s a Dustin Henderson waiting for you at the hospital. That make sense to you?”

“Yeah. Shit.” Eddie stifles a yawn into the crook of his elbow. “What time s’it?”

“’Bout eight.”

Eddie pushes himself off the bed. Wayne watches him with interest, eyebrows raising when he grabs the acoustic guitar.

“You need that for the hospital?”

“Mhm.”

He's put on his jacket, ready to leave, when he catches Wayne still looking at him.

“What?”

“You always lose your words when you’re hiding something,” Wayne says mildly enough, but Eddie can still hear the worry underneath.

“Wayne, I’m not in danger,” Eddie reassures. “I’m not the one who…”

“That Henderson boy mentioned something about Steve Harrington?”

“Yeah. He—” Eddie has to grip onto the door handle for a moment. “He’s the friend who—he died trying to—to save us. All of us. But then, he—his heart started beating again, fuck, I don’t even know how, Wayne, he died in my fucking arms—”

“Shh now, take a breath. This was… in the earthquake?” Wayne asks delicately. He says ‘earthquake’ with the same skepticism he holds when repeating Eddie’s words back to him, whenever Eddie breezily says, “Oh, I just had a thing,” instead of, “I got a detention.”

Eddie nods slowly, makes a vague gesture with his hand meaning sort of. Close enough. “We’ve… we’ve got a plan. To bring him back.”

“Something the doctors can’t do?”

“Damn it, Wayne, I told you, there’s stuff I can’t—”

“All right, all right.” Wayne raises his hands slowly in placation.

“No, I’m sorry. It’s just… I don't know if it’ll work,” Eddie says, voice faltering. “Don’t know if I’ll—if it’ll be enough."

Wayne considers him with a long look. He crosses the room to squeeze Eddie’s shoulder and his hand stays there, a reassuring warmth. “You’re a smart kid, Eddie. Reckon you’d best see it through.”

-

They reunite in Steve’s room: Eddie, Robin, Nancy, Dustin. Robin has brought a few extra tapes from her parents’ collection, including the Paul Simon album that also features the track. Dustin has Steve’s original tape along with a casette player.

Before Eddie’s arrival, they had tried playing the song a few times over but, by the fourth play-through, Steve’s heart had started beating alarmingly fast.

“Shit,” Eddie says, his own heart plummeting. “What happened?”

“One of the nurses said it was like he was... having a panic attack,” Dustin says quietly. He exhales in frustration. “I don't get it, Max only had to hear a bit of Kate Bush before she came back.”

Through a nerve-wracking amount of experimentation, they work out a routine that doesn't send the heart monitor screeching in warning: every hour on the hour, they play through the song once via a cassette, then Eddie picks up his guitar and sings. Steve’s thoughtful expression gets the tiniest bit more pronounced each time, like an opaque window slowly becoming clear, bit by bit.

When Robin takes Dustin away for a late lunch, Eddie finally asks the question.

“Hey, Wheeler? Why’s it just... us here?”

Nancy is slowly rewinding one of the tapes with a pen, but at Eddie’s words, she stops. He can tell by her face that he doesn’t need to elaborate; she knows what he’s asking.

Because the thought that Eddie cannot get away from is the fact that, if he were in Steve’s position, Wayne would have been here, would have moved heaven and earth to stay by his side.

“I...” She sighs. “I don't think they've ever come, Eddie.”

They’re silent for a moment, as if they both need to take the vastness of that in.

“In ’83, he stayed at mine for Christmas,” Nancy goes on. “And at the time... God, I can't even remember, maybe I thought it was a little weird that he didn't even—like, there wasn’t even a phone call, you know? But he just made it out like it was normal, so I... I didn’t...” She sighs again. “You know how... like, at school, people would be like, ‘Oh, I came in drunk, my parents went crazy,’ but you could tell that they were fine, that they were just... playing it up?”

“Yeah.”

“I think he was the opposite,” Nancy says. She looks at Steve, her lips pressed thin. “I think he said just enough to... hide behind it, does that make sense? I didn't see.” She tuts at herself, raises her eyes to the ceiling. “I remember thinking, sure, he might say ‘my dad is an asshole,’ but no-one who actually says that is serious; look at him, how bad could he have it?”

Eddie thinks of himself saying, Rich parents, popular. He feels sick.

“I didn't see either,” he says.

Nancy smiles sadly. “That's the thing,” she says. “I don't think he wanted anyone to.”

-

Eddie stays overnight at the hospital. “I can't leave him,” he tells Wayne over the phone, and while he's waiting for Nancy to give Dustin and Robin a ride home, he finds that a bag has been left for him at reception, containing more clothes and his toothbrush, and his breath catches a little at the sight.

The staff have told him not to play any music past eleven at night, and Eddie almost fights them on it, like, oh yeah, well that didn’t stop that radio playing at whatever-the-fuck o’clock. But then he looks at Steve’s face, at the drawn eyebrows, and realises that he looks...

Pained.

Alone in the room, Eddie finally sets his guitar down.

“You tired?” he murmurs.

He tentatively reaches out, brushes a couple of his fingers across Steve’s forehead, as gently as he can. When he draws back, he finds that the lines of tension have dissipated, but the stillness doesn’t look so unnatural; it feels like Steve is still there.

It just looks like he’s sleeping, Eddie thinks, and he blinks hard.

“S’okay,” he says softly. “Just rest, Steve. I’m right here.”

-

“Mm, damn, I think that was pitchy, dude,” Dustin says, far too brightly for nine in the morning.

Eddie gives the guitar a warning strum and flips Dustin off. “That wasn’t funny the fifth time you said it, dude.”

But his tone is far too fond to even fake annoyance. Dustin is clearly in much better spirits today, largely helped by the fact that he’s brought in his walkie. Every so often, Lucas or Max will call in from Steve’s, crowing about some discovery they’ve made in the house.

“He has a VHS collection that's just musicals,” Lucas intones gravely, as Max cackles in the background.

“Tragic,” Dustin says.

And Eddie can’t resist his own curiosity. “Which ones?”

Lucas recites the titles and Dustin gives a wheezy laugh at, “The Sound of Music.”

“Imagine if The Lonely Goatherd was your song,” he says with pity to Steve—and Eddie counts that as a goddamn victory, because it's the first time Dustin has properly acknowledged Steve’s presence; speaking teasingly, as if Steve can hear him.

“I’d still sing it,” Eddie replies, and he means to sound light-hearted, but Dustin must hear something else, because he looks over at Eddie, and his expression softens.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, smiling. “You would.”

-

Some time after noon, Dustin leaves to raid the vending machines for the pair of them. Eddie has played through the song twice to mark the hour, feeling calmer than he has in days; something in him has settled through the ritual of it.

He’s doodling on the back of his hand with the biro Nancy left behind when he hears the familiar click of the walkie, but no-one starts speaking.

He picks it up. “Sinclair,” he says, “you’re pressing the—”

That’s when he hears it.

A faint crackle. Someone breathing, gasping and catching their breath at frequent intervals. They’re crying.

“Oh, God,” comes the whisper, and Eddie knows that voice. “I—I don’t know where I am.” Eddie holds the walkie with a white-knuckled grip.

“I don’t know where I am,” Steve Harrington repeats, cracked and desperate. “God, please, I—I don’t—”

“Steve!” Eddie shouts into the walkie. “Can you hear me? Come on, man, I’m right—”

But then Steve’s voice is abruptly cut off, replaced with static.

Eddie swears vehemently, drops the walkie and flies to the bed. There doesn’t seem to be any change—if anything, Steve looks peaceful.

But no. He looks harder, feels a tug of doubt and follows his instinct, swipes his thumb underneath Steve’s eyelashes, feather-light. Feels a dampness there.

And then he sees two tears leak out of the corner of Steve’s closed eyes, trail across to his temples.

“Fuck,” Eddie says. “I don’t—Steve, I don’t know what to do.”

I can’t reach him.

The door opens.

“I got one of everything! But oh my god, Eddie, Nancy called and she says that Mike says they’re—what’s wrong?”

“I heard him,” Eddie says. He gestures to the walkie. “But I couldn’t—I couldn’t help—Dustin.” His voice breaks. “He sounded so scared.”

Dustin runs to the walkie, leaves his crutches behind with a clatter. He tries it multiple times, saying Steve’s name urgently, but there’s no reply.

The tears have dried on Steve’s face. Eddie sits down wordlessly and puts his head in his hands. When he looks up, Dustin is kneeling in front of him.

“El can reach him,” Dustin says, and Eddie doesn’t know what the hell that even means; but Dustin’s eyes are wide, and Eddie clings to the conviction in his voice. “She has to.”

#steddie #steddie fic #the self sacrificial steve agenda #steve x eddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #wayne munson #dustin henderson #nancy wheeler #robin buckley #max mayfield

[elorawrites]

raising a kid with ellie [ headcanons ]

pairing: farmhouse!ellie williams x fem!reader

summary: what it'd be the like to raise a kid with ellie after moving to the farmhouse just miles from jackson.

warnings: nothing crazy, this is just a whole bunch of fluff! proofread-ish.

author's note: was in dire need of making something with ellie as a parent!! this is my first hc, so it might not be the best. hope you enjoy nonetheless!

wc: 0.8k

there would definitely be a point in time after living on all that land, with just you, ellie, and the sheep, things would grow to be a little quiet for the both of you.

you would be the first one to bring the idea up to ellie, it'd be during one of those mornings the two of you decided to spend a little more time in bed, rolling around in the sheets together before you pretty much asked her on a whim:

"hey els, what do you think of having a baby?"

your question didn't necessarily surprise ellie. she knew from past conversations that eventually, the two of you would like to have your own little family. the idea has been on both of your minds a lot more than usual, not that either of you were aware of that about other.

ellie would tease you about it at first, laughing at your protests for her to be serious as she playfully nipped at the skin of your neck and squeezed your hips.

"seems like someone caught a case of baby fever, hm?" ellie continued to tease you as you whined, grasping at the girl's face and pulling her away from your neck to look at her.

"ellie, i'm serious–" you started to speak, before quickly being interrupted by the feeling of her lips on your own. you melted into the kiss, delighted hums coming from ellie as she felt you reciprocate before pulling away just slightly.

"i'm serious too, babe." her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper as her green eyes holding an unwavering stare, "let's have a baby."

you guys would work like madmen trying to baby-proof the house. ellie took on all the handiwork, softening out any harsh corners and securing locks to doors and cabinets. you took care of supplies you were sure would come in handy: clothes, food, diapers, and toys.

you decided the best thing to do would be to go back to jackson and adopt one of the kids who were left without parents. it was the safest option, and ellie didn't want to think of all the potential risks and dangers of you being pregnant in this kind of world.

i feel like ellie would make a connection with one of the younger kids, around toddler age, almost immediately.

you two would visit the makeshift orphanage any chance you got to be with them, and ellie would spend the whole trip home talking about those few hours in jackson

(which you were there for, but you would listen anyway because ellie was just so happy)

ellie would pick back up on the guitar after a while, finally ready to replace any old memories with new ones she'll create with her family.

she would absolutely teach your kid how to play guitar early on.

perhaps maybe a little too early..

"babe, come look at this! i think we might have a future rockstar on our hands." ellie's voice called to you from the living room, leaving you to abandon the dishes to follow your girlfriend's voice. the sight you walked in to see made your heart swell with so much love, you swore it would start pouring from your orifices or something.

there ellie sat on the sofa, baby on her lap with wide eyes as they watched her strum on the strings of joel's her old guitar, their hands eagerly pulling at the chords and babbling excitedly as it made a faint plucking sound.

ellie's gazed shifted between you and the baby with a grin you were sure was reasoning the room got a little brighter.

you wouldn't dare tell ellie that you think she might be getting a little ahead of herself, the sight of her cooing to your child about how she would teach them all the songs she knew, or even make a little family band.

ellie and you made sure your little one wasn't anything less than entertained.

i can imagine you sitting out on the porch with your baby, telling them all sorts of stories about your lives before you were introduced to each other.

ellie would pull out her comics or astronomy books and read pages to them in such an animated manner, always pausing between pages to gauge the baby's reactions

(they were always smiling and entertained with her)

i just feel like after time, you both would be laying in bed one night, curled up into each other now that your child was old enough to have their own room, just reminiscing.

definitely a full circle moment with this, ellie just admiring you and how much of an amazing mother you are, how blessed she is to be able to actually raise a family with someone like you

even though your kid was still young, the idea of you being the mother of ellie's children just put her in overdrive, her mind going haywire as she asked you on a whim:

"what do you say we have another baby?" she'd ask you in between hushed kisses, arms enveloped in each other as you leaned back to look at her with surprise, lips quirking up into a smirk.

"who has the baby fever now, huh?"

#ellie williams #ellie tlou #ellie tlou2 #ellie williams tlou #the last of us #the last of us ellie #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie x reader #ellie williams fluff #ellie williams smut #ellie williams x female reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie williams angst #tlou #ellie williams headcanons #ellie williams imagine #ellie williams x y/n

[neontoad]

“One soul in two bodies”, people often say about Double Black. Chuuya calls bullshit on that. It’s ridiculous. But then why every time Chuuya comes to work after tossing and turning in bed all night unable to fall asleep, he sees that Dazai has dark circles under eyes as well? Why every time when Chuuya checks his phone at 3am, insomnia eating him alive, he sees that Dazai is online, too? Why does it feel like there is one more person wide awake in the sleeping city when Chuuya’s staring at the ceiling, as wakeful as ever?

One night, a message pops up on his phone.

🐟: You awake?

“Fuck off,” Chuuya mumbles to himself and turns the screen off. The night is quiet. The air still seems to be vibrating after the notification chime. He counts seconds.

Nothing disturbs the silence anymore.

The next day Dazai keeps yawning and stealing glances at Chuuya as they sit in another boring meeting. He ignores him, even though every time Dazai covers his mouth with his hand, Chuuya can’t help but yawn too.

He sleeps well that night. He knows Dazai does, too - he can tell by how stupidly annoying he is the next day. Chuuya knows well that only well-rested Dazai possesses such a ridiculous ability to get on Chuuya’s nerves in record time. He sleeps okay again. And again. And again. Chuuya even starts thinking that maybe he’s finally out of that cursed bout of insomnia. Seems like Dazai managed to get some sleep, too.

Until another night comes.

He’s exhausted - they have just finished a mission, the last one in a strenuous sequence, and the only thing Chuuya wants is to sleep until next week.

He can’t.

His phone chimes.

He doesn’t bother looking - he knows who’s texting him. Dazai’s insomnia is not his problem.

He lies with his eyes closed, hoping that maybe, just maybe he’ll be able to trick his brain into finally shutting down and letting him fall into Morpheus’ embrace, giving him the rest he so desperately needs. He doesn’t know how much time passes until he hears a knock.

“The fuck you want?” Chuuya grumbles, looking at Dazai miserably standing in the hallway of his apartment building.

“Just checking on my dear partner.”

“It’s 4 in the morning.”

“You make it sound like it’s a problem.”

“I was sleeping, you bastard.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Dazai yawns and Chuuya follows suit, stretching his sore muscles. Fuck this, he thinks. I’ll let him be. Without saying a word, he turns on his heel and marches to the kitchen. Dazai follows him and plops on the stool. He probably thinks he looks smug. He looks like shit.

“I’ll have a whiskey,” he croaks and smiles.

“Fuck off,” Chuuya says, pouring Dazai three fingers and sliding it across the table before stopping in front of his wine cabinet. That’ll do, he thinks and pours himself a glass of red.

“You know, chibi,” Dazai muses, watching the ice in his glass bob up and down, “I blame you.”

Chuuya takes a sip of wine. He wonders if he looks as stern as he hopes he is. Or does he, akin to Dazai, resemble a miserable stray dog? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care.

“Whenever you can’t sleep, neither can I,” he continues. “It’s like we have some kind of invisible bond.”

Despite his fatigue, Chuuya can’t help but chuckle. Invisible bond! Dazai sure loves these stupid pretentious speeches. What an emo.

He downs his wine and goes to the living room. “Take your ass with your invisible bond to the couch,” he commands. “Let’s play.”

“It’s not a laughing matter!” Dazai whines but obeys, finishing his whiskey and leaving the cup on the table like the ungrateful pig he is.

Whiskey made him feel warm and fuzzy, making the unwelcoming sleepless night feel slightly less dire. Besides, playing video games with the slug is certainly a better pastime than tossing and turning on his old mattress. They play for a few hours, sleepiness going away as they keep beating each other in a video game, pushing each other with their shoulders and yelling at the top of their lungs.

Chuuya doesn’t care about his neighbours complaining - there’s no one living above him anymore, anyway.

The dark night gives way to the pale morning, timid rays of sun sneaking through the closed blinds. A ray falls on the empty whiskey cup, the last drops of the amber liquid shining like gold under the light. Another one shines on the shattered controller lying in the corner. Another ray of sun caresses the leaves of a half-dead plant on the bookshelf. Another - the picture on the wall, the five people on it forgotten by all but one. Another - the cobweb on the ceiling. Another - the brass door handle. As more time passes, the sun gets more comfortable dancing in the small apartment, its rays travelling across the walls, trinkets and furniture until they reach the boys sprawled on the couch.

Their breath is even, chests rising and falling in unison. Chuuya���s head is resting on Dazai’s lap, his hand against his chest still holding the beaten controller. He squirms when the sun shamelessly goes across his eyes but doesn’t wake up.

Neither does Dazai. He just smiles through his sleep and puts his hand on Chuuya’s back. The rays of sun stall before continuing to move across the room as if taking in the unusual, eerily peaceful atmosphere in the living room, the raging fire turned into quiet embers for a bit.

Chuuya might call bullshit on the “one soul in two bodies” idea.

But… the sun surely knows better.

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #skk #chuuya nakahara #dazai osamu #soukoku #mini fic #teen skk #pm skk #literal sleeping together #soft skk #developing relationship

[droogiesanddiscourse]

“I’ll Fake God"

Pairing: Herbert West x GN!Reader [Re-Animator 1985]

Summary: A lab accident renders you on the brink of death with little to no hope for recovery. But Herbert isn't about to let the only person he's ever loved to leave his life so quickly.

Warnings: Body horror, death, the usual re-animator content.

A/N: we love the angst. Changing a little bit of the ending to re-animator (1985) to fit my sick little evil narrative. This was written in an odd dreamy like stream of consciousness thing im not exactly sure what this is or if its even good, but I hope you enjoy it.

Memento Mori. Remember that you will die.

When you feared monsters as a child, ones that hid in the deepest corners of your room, you would close your eyes and count to ten. The fear dissipating as your heart rate returned to normal, there was nothing that could hurt you in the first place.

Applying that same practice now, you squeeze your eyes shut; hoping to re-awake in the comfort and safety of your shared apartment. In bed. Waking up from a horrible, incredibly lifelike dream.

But the monsters were real, now. They walked among the same Earth you did. There was no escaping the re-animated monstrosities of flesh and bone that clawed it's way out of the dark makeshift laboratory deep within the basement. The sound of inhuman claws ripping through your flesh, right through your delicate insides.

It's not a dream.

The white coffee cup in your hand you brought for Herbert loosened from your grip, making a resounding crash on the concrete floor. Shattering into uneven pieces as the brown liquid pooled beneath your feet. You didn’t scream. Simply widened your eyes at the spectacle before you, as the monster’s hand continued to create a penetrating trauma; right through to the other side.

The way you looked up at Herbert will be permanently etched into his mind for the rest of his days; a mix of terror, shock, pain, and something else within your [e/c] orbs.

One that Herbert immediately recognized as betrayal.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Herbert and Dan’s worried faces loom over you on the gurney as you are pushed through the Miskatonic University ICU. Your hand desperately clutched to your chest, doing little more than coating them with the blood gushing out of your open wound; painting the digits a bright red.

You didn’t dare to look down at it. If you couldn't see it, it wasn't real.

Metallic iron and antiseptic.

The faces of horrified onlookers parted the aisle like the red sea. Each of them blurred into a mirage of color, unrecognizable as they merged into a single entity. Your colleagues, friends, and professors surely spectating the horror no doubt.

What will they say about you in the morning paper, what photo will they use?

"I'm dying, oh god this is it isn't it? I'm dying, Herbert. I'm sorry I'm so sorry I'm sorry”

You hold your bloodied hand up to the overhead fluorescent lights zooming by above you, marveling at the way the harsh light bounced of the ruby liquid. In other less dire circumstances, one might even find it beautiful. Your fingers grasp and coil in the air towards Herbert's direction, desperate to make skin-to-skin contact with the one you call your partner. Your palm presses flat against his cheek, transferring your sticky blood onto his flushed face.

“Shut up, [____], you’re not dying," he huffs out, the warble of uncertainty in his voice makes you doubt him. "Stop being dramatic." He presses his lips against the middle of your palm, giving the area a chaste kiss.

These usual terms of endearment do little to comfort you; having never seen Herbert look this concerned before. The most unhinged events he's encountered have simply been brushed off with ease; he is the only man to have stared down death in the eye and challenged its finality. Never in those intense moments did his eyebrows even dare raise in shock. You lull your head to the side, attempting to hold back a choked sob stuck within your throat.

"Is it bad?" you ask, your chest rising and falling as you let out a pathetic laugh. He doesn't even bother to respond. You know the answer anyways. You'll be entering oblivion tonight.

Pushing you into the empty examination room, Dan and Herbert already knew it was too late. They weren't quick enough, not fast enough. Your eyes glazed over as blood continues to pour from you -- trailing and spilling its way down the side of the now still gurney. A cascading river of crimson. Your arms were stuck with a crosswire of tubes, gathering your vitals. It seemed more a formality at this point, as your heart rate already starts to fade.

Dan, with all his optimism, understands any attempts to save your life would be futile at this point. Instead, his infinite mercy injects morphine into your iv bag - a type of drugged-out relief washing over you almost instantly. Kneeling next to you, he holds your hand as your labored breathing fades into short breaths as the medicine enters your veins. Still painful, yet not unbearable. Just enough to bring you comfort before your expiration.

"You're gonna be fine," he smiles, squeezing your hand. You don't have the heart to tell him he's lying. Instead, you just give him a closed mouthed smile back.

Euthanasia. What a beautiful word.

You can hear the rummaging of vials in between your haze, your stomach twisting as Herbert pulled out his precious container of re-agent. His facial features become illuminated by the sickly green glow emanating from the bottle, neon reflecting off of his wire rimmed glasses.

Herbert notices you staring at him, as he waves his hand in front of you, seeing your eyes already grow wide in fear. “It's okay, this won't hurt. You'll be okay in no time, back in our apartment, you just have to trust us-"

"Oh, no no no. NO. You've got to be fucking kidding me, Herbert. You're not doing that to [____!]" Dan interjects, jumping up from his kneeling position next to you. Lunging forward, Dan attempts to grab the liquid. Doing what should have always been done.

Where it should have gone the first time Herbert played God.

Smashed onto the floor into a million fucking pieces.

But Herbert's too quick, as he moves backwards away from Dan's rather pathetic attempt. He cradles his potion like a newborn baby, holding it to his chest for dear life. Lips pressed together into a harsh line; his eyes aflame with fury. "It's the only way Dan. This, or we lose them forever."

Dan stares stunned at his partner, his eyes welling. "You want to turn them into one of those monsters, Herbert? Is that what you want? You want [____] to turn into a snarling, disgusting reanimated beast? Because that's what will happen! That's what happened every FUCKING time before, Herbert! I know you want things to be different but you can't save them. I-I'm sorry," his voice waivers as a sob threatens to steal his voice. "It's not working. At least the way you want it to."

"NO. That's not true. It's different! B-Because this time it's a fresh body, Dan! It will work," Herbert explains, hands shaking, barely getting the needle to plunge into the green fluid. "It's different!! It's different this time because...because it's THEM, Dan! Don't you understand? It has to be different!"

Dan shakes his head solemnly. "But it won't be, Herbert. No matter how much you love them."

"Is that truly what you think? What if it was Megan, Dan? Wouldn't you do the same for her? Give a second chance to the person you love the most, breath new life into what was lost?"

Silence.

"Look me in the eyes right now and tell me you wouldn't. This is what we've worked so hard for, Dan. We will eradicate death altogether. There will be no more suffering, no more pain. No more grief."

He wouldn't admit Herbert was right.

"I can't lose anyone else, Dan," he emotionlessly states, turning his gaze towards you.

"Herbert, please," you beg desperately, a gargle from the blood invading your airways makes your speech difficult to understand. There wasn't much time left.

“You're a monster, Herbert."

“And you’re a hypocrite, Dan,” he spits coldly, flicking the tip of the syringe with his middle finger. “I don’t need your moral superiority interfering with this."

With what little strength you have left, you push yourself to the corner of the gurney, cowering with fear as he stalks towards you. You feel like a lab rat, as Herbert stands before you with an emotionless gaze.

This isn't what love was supposed to feel like.

“Don’t. You promised...you wouldn’t." You feel the cold metal of the needlepoint run against the delicate flesh of your inner arm, and you jump. Your sobs of pain slowly materialize into ones of pure terror. "Don't turn me into one of those creatures! Please!"

The pleads fall hopelessly on deaf ears as every ounce left of your body thrashes in protest, fists weakly hitting against his chest. Your voice hitting a shrill octave that was unfathomable and almost out of the human sound waves. Dan turns his head, unable to bear witness.

"PLEASE, PLEASE HERBERT LET ME DIE. PLEASE!!!"

This was for your own good. You couldn't leave him now, not yet. There was so much more to accomplish, so much more that you had to experience together. You are the exception.

Reversed human decay. Memento Vivere. Remember that you must live.

Your clinical death was called at quarter to twelve.

You rose again at midnight.

#herbert west x reader #re animator 1985 #herbert west imagine #re animator imagine #slasher x reader #gn!reader #this sure is something that I wrote #we got a hot priest break

[starlightsearches]

Mail's Here

Thought about this earlier and then I had to write it or I'd die. Let me know what you think 💖

Edward Nashton x Roommate! Reader

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, masturbation (m), language, sexual references, this is rushed because i have an assignment due at midnight but i couldn't work on it until this was done.

"You got a package."

Edward hears you as soon as he walks in the door, ditching his messenger bag and rain-spattered coat. It's not new information—he got the delivery confirmation while he was still at work, which made focusing pretty close to impossible—but his heart still jumps in his chest as you gesture to the box on the table.

"Oh, thanks."

He grabs the box immediately, glad to see the company was honest when they'd promised discreet packaging. It's a little lighter than he expected, and he weighs it in his hands, drumming his fingers against the top of it and trying to decide if it would be less suspicious to go immediately to his room or linger here a few moments longer.

"Whatcha get?" you ask casually, flipping through the pages of a magazine as you recline on the couch. Maybe guilt has put him on high alert, but the question feels almost too casual; Eddie has to wonder . . . do you know?

He's being ridiculous, but still.

"Computer parts," he answers, watching you closely for any signs of suspicion. There's nothing in your expression, though. You're not even looking at him, showing only the barest amount of interest.

"Cool."

It's not cool, and he knows that. The only thing less cool than computer parts would be the box's actual contents.

"Yeah," Edward says, wishing he was still wearing his jacket so he could have somewhere to put his free hand, "well, I'm gonna go, uh, put it together."

"Sounds good, Eddie," you tell him, "when you're done we can think about dinner, if you want. I've been craving that Thai takeout we got a few weeks ago."

"Yeah, okay."

Eddie reaches his room and twists the lock on the door, triple-checking to make sure that it's actually locked, and then giving it a few extra tugs for good measure. You never came into his room without knocking anyways, but today's not a day to take risks.

Scissors in hand, he sits on the edge of his mattress, trying to shake the nerves before he slices a clean line through the tape.

Eddie never thought it would come to this, but the situation is dire. Being your roommate has ruined him in some of the best ways, and more of the worst.

He'd always been satisfied enough with a little lotion and a collection of tissues, tugging at his cock whenever the urge struck him. He'd been satisfied picturing whatever porn star he'd latched onto recently, thinking about the way they'd look with their knees buried in his carpet, or how their breasts would bounce in his hands while they impaled themselves on his cock.

He'd been satisfied, until you fucking ruined everything.

With your fucking low-cut sports bras and your morning yoga routines in the living room, your laundry basket full of lacy panties peeking out from under a pair of jeans. With your kind smiles and thoughtful questions and the hot press of your body when you curled up against him on the couch.

Fuck, he couldn't jerk off enough anymore—developing fucking callouses on his palm every time he snuck off to the bathroom during movie nights and morning coffee, practically sobbing into his palm if the bathroom smelled like your shampoo.

This was his last hope. The only way to stop himself from going fucking crazy.

The inside of the package is a little underwhelming—just the two items he bought and some bubble wrap to keep them from rattling too much in the box. He grabs the bottle of lube first, since that's the least foreign of the two, popping the top and rubbing a few drops between his thumb and forefinger.

Eddie slicks up his first two fingers, his breathing growing harder, cock stirring in his jeans.

He'd heard you once, late at night when you thought he'd be asleep. Walking back from the kitchen after grabbing a glass of water and passing by your door, Eddie had been stopped in his tracks by a sound on the other side, knees weak. Even as his stomach churned with guilt, he'd pressed his ear up against it, and had his suspicions confirmed—only there long enough to hear the wet friction of your fingers in your cunt, and another stifled moan.

Imagining it's your slick coating his fingers has him painfully hard, all his embarrassment swallowed by need. He slides the fleshlight from its box, dropping it beside him on the bed before kicking his pants down his legs and forcing the band of his boxers under his ass.

His cock flops against his stomach, dribbling a little on the bottom of his button-up, and he's already so sensitive, gritting his teeth just at the rough feeling of the fabric.

Eddie grabs the toy again, bringing it close to his face, skin hot as he studies the silicone model of a pussy. He's learned the basics from porn—knows that the clitoris is at the top and the folds around the opening are the lips—but there's a difference between seeing it and feeling it, even in plastic form.

He presses his thumb against the little nub at the top, rubbing slow circles around it, like he'd seen done before. What kind of noises would he hear if it was yours?

Eddie's thighs constrict, and he forces himself to take a few deep breaths until the feeling subsides. He's going to cum before he even gets inside the little plastic cunt, if he's not careful.

Eddie grabs the lube from his bedside table, smearing some over the entrance of his new toy—coating it until it shines—and then adding a few drops to his hand and stroking it over his cock for good measure.

He feels silly, lining up the swollen head of his dick with the little plastic entrance, feels silly enough that he can't look as he presses the toy down until it swallows the tip.

"Fuck."

He whispers the word through clenched teeth, and there's not much else to say, except that it feels so much better than his hand. Squeezing him from every angle, and there's blood in his mouth from the way his teeth dig against his chapped lips, hips bucking off the sheets.

With a little more lube, Eddie's able to fit the toy over the entirety of his length, lightheaded when he sees the opening stretched around the base of his cock, a little lube dripping from its surface, displaced by this first thrust.

"So, god, so tight," he speaks his thoughts out loud even though there's no one to hear it, no one to be praised for how good he feels. He can't stop himself, moving his hand with a few shallow strokes, eyes rolling back at the feeling. "Just- just like that."

Like this?

Eddie hears the words in your voice and he groans, slapping his free hand down over his mouth to quiet the noise.

Eddie, he imagines your fingers at his wrist, pulling his hand away as your hips bob up and down over his cock, don't do that, honey. I want to hear you.

"Mhhmh—" it's all he can manage, forcing his fist against the sheets, hot tears pooling against his lashes. Just the thought of you here with him has him fucking crying, body on the edge of collapse.

Good boy.

Eddie is your good boy, pumping vigorously now at his cock, letting the lewd, wet noises rush over him as sweat drips down his flushed temples. He's caught enough accidental glimpses of himself in the bathroom mirror to know his whole face is bright red, cheeks and forehead shining.

But he thinks you might like that, would want to see your good boy coming apart beneath you, your pretty fingers circling his neck as you rode him to oblivion.

"M'gonna cum," he mumbles, unable to stop his release once it's started. The website had a whole bunch of tips for increasing your stamina—stroking patterns and ways to stop an orgasm—but those are long gone, his whole body a tightly clenched fist.

Go ahead baby, since you've been so good for me.

He swears he feels your lips against his just as the shock of it hits him, spurts of cum leaking from the open cunt as he fucks himself through the electricity of it, your name in his lungs and his mouth and the curl of his toes until the feeling subsides.

Jesus. Even if he never used it again the toy would be well worth the money he'd spent.

He's still sensitive as he slides the toy from his spent cock, a few dribbles of cum landing against the sheets. Eddie grimaces. He'd have to put a towel down the next time.

"Hey, Eddie?"

Shit. There's no time to strip his sheets now, not when he hears your fingers rapping against his door frame.

"Just a second," he calls, throwing his covers over the leaking toy and running to his closet, "I'm changing."

He leaps into a pair of gray sweats, ripping the buttons of his shirt open with clumsy fingers before throwing the cum-stained garment into his hamper, pushing it deep into the basket.

He unlocks the door with shaking fingers, and you slide in as soon as there's a gap available.

"So," you glance at him before looking around the room, "did you get it put together?"

"What?"

A crease appears between your eyebrows. "Your computer?"

"Oh, yeah." He glances at his clearly untouched computer desk, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Were you watching something? I thought I heard voices."

You're being too generous with him; he knows that by something you really mean porn, which means you know he was getting off only a few moments ago.

"No, I was just—"

Talking to myself. That's what he was going to say, but those words are long gone when he watches you grip his comforter in one tight fist, throwing back the sheets.

He watches you take it all in: the fleshlight, the bottle of lube, his cum staining his sheets.

God, there can't be anything worse than this. Eddie would rather be killed on the spot than hear what you say next.

Which is why he's so surprised when he feels your hand against his cheek.

"Oh, honey," you coo at him, and he has to open his eyes to make sure you're really there this time, "there's no need to be embarrassed."

"What?"

God, you are there, looking up at him with glossy eyes and a patronizing little grin. He feels your fingers in his sweaty hair, teasing at his scalp.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help but listen, and you were making such pretty sounds for me—they were for me, right?'

Eddie just nods. Of course you've known this whole time. He lets you guide his hand to your waist, a sliver of warm skin meeting his fingers, feeling far away from his own body.

Your lips are at his neck, tongue just pressing against his skin and Eddie can't breathe.

"Do you think you can make a few more?"

18+ Riddler Tag List: @midaribaby, @kpopgirlbtssvt, @redpaints, @littleevilme13, @greenxtea0, @ladytomioka, @ohturtlesmyturtles, @tayt101, @thottywizard, @bokksieu, @urevilshadowhasacupoftea, @kiraske, @antoinebascha, @virginhore, @eatmoretoasts, @phantomofthecathedral, @aro-loser, @sweetums0kitty, @trelaney, @theold-ultraviolence

Join my taglist here!

#edward nashton x reader #edward nashton x you #the riddler x reader #the riddler x you #the riddler/reader #the riddler/you #edward nashton/you #edward nashton/reader #dano nation #danonation #danocel #dano!riddler smut #dano!riddler x reader #dano!riddler x you #dano!riddler #paul dano #minors dni #my writing

[lambsouvlaki]

For the Hell of it - 5 - Uncomfortably Honest

Character: Jason Todd x civilian! Fem!oc

Rating and Warnings: PG, discussion of past partner abuse (not Jason).

Word Count: 1,639

Summary: Jason and Andy talk about vigilantes who kill people. Andy wonders why he knows so much about these things. Jason wonders why she

Masterlist

Jason typed on his laptop, one handed, with his lips pursed and an irritated spike in eyebrows. His other arm hung in a grey sling with the ends of a bright red cast visible at his wrist. 

Andy sat next to him and restrained herself from grinning at his grouchy face. He had been in a rotten mood since he broke his arm a few weeks ago. ‘Fell off his bike’, he said. He couldn’t do his normal night shifts and was stuck doing admin in the meantime. She’d even gotten texts from him in the mornings. Things were getting dire. 

She’d demanded he join her in the library. If he was just going to be at home sulking over a laptop he may as well come sulk over a laptop with her.  

Outside it was raining, but there were no external windows in the study room, or any windows at all. The only lighting was yellow tinged from old fluorescent tubes. The old oil radiator ticked in the corner. She’d covered the large table they shared with reference books and loose notes, while Jason had only a slim laptop he hunched over. 

He took a disinterested bite from a stale croissant. He sighed and looked at her. 

“What are you working on? That essay on Dumas?”

She shook her head and finished scrawling out a sentence. “History paper today. I’m translating primary sources on the Reign of Terror.”

“Yeah?” He pushed his laptop away, happy to be distracted, and leaned his elbow on the table to face her. “How’s that?” 

“Linguistically fascinating. Thematically… really fucking grim.” She made a face. It was easy to forget the content sometimes as she focused on syntax and word choice. “I don’t mind three or four public executions, or even five or six, but I’m starting to think this is getting out of hand.” 

He snorted. “Not on board with the death sentence?”

“There isn’t a government on this planet I trust with the right to execute its own citizens. Or any other planet for that matter.” 

“Hm. What about the capes?”

She stared at him. “I don’t think they should be executed either? Jason, do you think-?”

“What? No!” He huffed a laugh. “I’m asking if you think vigilantes should kill people. They say that Batwoman with the red hair does sometimes.”

“Not my business.”

“Oh, come on!”

She shrugged. “What?”

He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “You live in the most cape infested city in the world, and the most crime ridden, in a suburb literally named ‘Crime Alley’, and you don’t have an opinion?”

“Do you?”

“I asked first.”

She sighed and leaned back. “You can be really intense sometimes, you know that?” It was like getting hit with a floodlight in the dark when he turned it on. It made her feel naked. 

His brow lowered. “Do you really not care?” 

She opened then shut her mouth. She hated the idea that he might think that about her. 

“What do you want me to say here?” she asked. “That I think criminals should be gunned down in the streets? Of course not. If you ask half the pricks in the Diamond District they’d probably tell you living in Crime Alley is evidence of being a criminal.”

“Probably.” 

“But what do the other vigilantes do? Leave you for the cops? How many people did the GCPD kill last year?”

“A few hundred,” he said. His expression was just as serious, but less troubled. She still felt like she was under a swinging interrogator’s lamp, and her indignation rose.

“And if you’re lucky enough to not get murdered by the fucking cops then welcome to the prison industrial complex, doing its best Hotel California impression. I hope you weren’t planning to do anything more than underpaid menial labour for the rest of your life, because you are never getting a better job than that. Congratulations. You have received Gotham’s mercy.”

“What else should they do then?” 

She heaved a sigh, letting old grief and anger fall away. It was hardly Jason’s fault. 

“I don’t know.” The Red Hood had saved her life once, and that guy had sure as hell killed people before. She didn’t know if he still did. The police hated him. That wasn’t the heart of the matter for her. “I never said I have all the answers. I’m not running around in a funny hat trying to save the world, I don’t have to have the answers. 

“Funny hat,” Jason muttered, with a quirk of his lips. He leaned back in his chair and studied her. “You feel pretty strongly about this.”

She threw her hands up. “First I don’t care enough, now I care too much? What do you want from me? And don’t think I didn’t notice you demanding my take while refusing to share yours.”

“I think Gotham’s vigilantes are too disconnected from the people they claim to protect. Association with the police has alienated them from some of the city’s vulnerable. I think the vigilantes forget that they’re criminals too.” 

It was her turn to stare. That wasn’t a stray opinion formed from half remembered headlines, that was a belief with conviction. Not that she was surprised he had a concrete position, she knew he was smart and thoughtful. For someone who, until now, had never expressed even a passing interest in Gotham’s crime problem, it was… not what she’d expected at all. 

“Yeah… I guess so,” she said, uncertain.

He ducked his head. He tapped a stray key on his keyboard.

She got the strangest impression she’d just seen something of his heart, displayed without pretence. She wondered what burned such an opinion into him. She thought about her own unplanned rant. 

He faced his laptop, idly scrolling through a text file. She stuffed a bite of her croissant into her mouth while deciding if she wanted to share something of her own heart. If she could bear it. Jason could mock and scoff with the best of them, but he wasn’t cruel, and there were things he didn’t make fun of. 

She screwed her courage to the sticking place and took a deep breath.

“I have a friend,” she said, into the silence that had enveloped them.

He looked at her questioningly. 

“Let’s call her… Stacy. She was abused by her partner. Not violently, but… it was still bad.” Her voice didn’t shake, and she was proud of that. “He controlled her money and made sure she had no one to turn to except him. She escaped, eventually, but not without getting an assault charge and six months behind bars for throwing a lamp at him while trying to get out. In the eyes of the law, he’s squeaky clean.” She bit the inside of her cheek. Her eyes felt damp, the traitors. 

“If someone in a cape and a mask had smashed through the window that night and killed Kieran for what he did to- to Stacy-” Her voice failed. She looked away to try and regather herself. 

Jason took her hand. She clutched on tight. 

“It probably wouldn’t have been right. But it would have made me feel safer.” 

“What’s so wrong with that?” he asked gently. 

She laughed and it was bitter and more pathetic than she liked. “Because he’d say the same thing. Why won’t anyone think of poor little Kieran’s safety?”

“Because he’s a liar.” 

“I know.” 

“Stacy deserved better,” Jason said, his voice unshakeable. 

She risked looking at him. He met her eyes and there wasn’t a hint of pity or disgust or discomfort in his face. He was calm. She saw understanding shining so staunchly in his eyes it was confronting. Her gaze dropped.

“I know,” she whispered. If she said it enough, one day she might even believe it. She took her hand back and sniffed. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.” She laughed weakly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you this fine Tuesday morning.”

“I’m a big boy, I can take it. Thanks for telling me.” 

“I’m gonna get a refill,” she said, pointing at her empty water bottle and getting up. “Do you need-?”

He waved her off. 

She left the study room. She took a deep breath after the door closed behind her and headed to the bathrooms to wash her face and try to calm down. She was patting her face dry with a paper towel before she noticed she hadn’t even brought her water bottle. She laughed at herself, and knew without a shadow of a doubt that Jason wouldn’t call her out on it. She stared down her reflection, with her splotchy cheeks and red eyes. Kieran would have called her pathetic and melodramatic and attention seeking. He’d have told her she was misremembering. 

She smiled at herself and walked out with her head held high. 

She siddled back into the study room without a word. Jason was tapping away at his laptop and didn’t make any kind of fuss over her looking like a mess. She picked up her notes and tried to find her place. 

“What’d you say his name was?” Jason asked about ten minutes later, not looking up. “Kieran…?”

“Mcleod,” she replied without thinking. She paused. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Just wondered if I knew him.”

“Doubt it. He’s in Newark. Runs some stupid tech startup.” 

Jason grunted in reply. “You gonna eat the rest of that croissant?”

“All yours.” 

They fell back into the quiet and easy camaraderie they usually shared. Most of her drive to get work done had melted, so she just made notes to flesh out later on.

Jason, however, was deeply focused on his work for the rest of the afternoon. The staccato of one handed typing played a steady beat like a war drum.

Next>>

#jason todd #red hood #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x oc #jason todd x reader #dc #red hood x oc #for the hell of it #my fanfic #hurt/comfort

[portablecity]

So, some news: tomorrow morning I'm having surgery on my right arm - my dominant arm - my drawing arm, my writing arm, my brushing-my-teeth and typing-in-chat and unlocking-my-door arm - and will lose most use of it for years, and an unknown (but hopefully less dire) amount of use of it forever. As you might expect, this sucks so, so bad.

As you can see above, I have been trying to proactively warm up my left hand so I can still write and such once this happens. As you might also detect above, it has not felt great.

(complements on my left-handed writing are not welcome; the feel of it is so alien that even if it looked perfect, i'd be upset)

So while I go in to get that done, I was wondering if you'd be willing to reply or repost or something with a thing you like about my work that isn't about how it looks? So I can go back to this post when I get real depressed afterwards and remind myself I'm more than my line quality?

And if you are curious, slightly more explanation with anatomical specifics below the cut:

so it turns out I have a peripheral nerve tumour on my radial nerve above my elbow in my right arm - it's been slowly preventing me from lifting up my index finger (extending it) and more and more the rest of my hand's extension has been weakening. scans show muscle atrophy in my forearm, so not only is the nerve weakening, it's been weakening long enough that the muscles are getting noticeably less use.

from what we know, the tumour is benign, but it's not possible to remove it without removing a chunk of the nerve, and likely fully severing the nerve. and though benign, the tumour has been steadily growing and is likely to continue doing so, where it would eventually effectively sever the nerve all on its own.

so this is a preventative surgery where we take the tumour out before it withers all the radial offshoot nerves farther down my arm, and graft in a spare (well, less important) nerve from my ankle, and hope that the graft takes and the nerve has a chance to heal and then let me rebuild my muscles and recover some hand and wrist extension. How much is not known. Complete recovery is impossible - some nerves in there are already dead and no amount of grafts and occupational therapy can change that, and more will wither while we're waiting for the graft to heal.

Motor nerves can only heal for so long, so I'll know more about my expected lifetime function in a few years. Likeliest outcome is followup tendon reassignment surgery to try and fill any dire functional gaps, and then what will presumably be a bit of a mind-fuck of physio trying to teach my brain that one of my flexion muscles will then be responsible for extension of fingers or wrist or something.

What's confusing about this is, my other arm nerves are all fine.

Ulnar? Doing great. Those nerves you fuck up with carpal tunnel? that I fucked up in 2008 and have spent a decade and a half taking very careful care of? really solid, healthy nerves! good job past Shel!

So I'm certainly not losing 100% of hand function; I'll still be able to curl my fingers and thumb and actively bend my wrist down - I just likely won't be able to reverse all those movements. Hell, already I can tell how much weaker my right hand is at typing - writing this after a day of spreadsheets at work is really wearing it down.

It's surreal how much all i feel is grief about this. There's no one to be mad at, not even myself - it just, sucks. Can you hold a funeral for your handwriting? your markmaking language? your line quality? your ability to touch type up to 140 words per minute? your confident, trained, controlled method of self-expression? RIP, radial nerve. I already miss you.

It's been a 13 month gauntlet of medical appointments since I first saw a neurologist about this and it's a relief to finally have the surgery, but i do really appreciate all the other scans and tests and biopsies - they gave me enough information to make this legit horrible decision to try and save what function I can for tomorrow by making today awful. And to try and become ambidextrous, I guess, because god knows I'm not stopping making art simply because my body betrayed me. It'll just be ... not what I think of as my art, for a while, at least.

#crosspost #life stuff #news #artist life #health stuff #nerves

[xxsksxxx]

Liberating the Mirage

Summary:

When an assignment goes horribly wrong, Mulder has to race against time to find Scully.

But sometimes the line between reality and illusion blurs—and it turns out there’s more than one locked door that needs to be opened.

Notes:

This is my contribution to Fictober, a yearly event that celebrates writing and reading—and fall. All of which are good things in my world.

Since there’s no way I can come up with a new story every day, I’ve decided to write one fic that includes all prompts from the Fictober 2023 prompt list. They’re all in bold if you want to seek them out specifically. You can find the list here: Fictober 202

I’m dedicating this final chapter to @baronessblixen who’s encouraged me throughout this journey!

I would’ve never had the courage to try my hand at writing (and actually posting!) if it wasn’t for her. So, thank you, my friend.

I hope you’ll have as much fun reading this fic as I had writing it.

AO3 | Start at the Beginning | @today-in-fic and @xffictober2023

Epilogue

Holy Cross Memorial Hospital, Washington, D.C.

Mulder pressed his back against the wall of the long hallway and stealthily crept from door to door. If he didn’t have to worry about getting caught, he would’ve laughed. It seemed creeping along walls was all he did these days. The consequences of getting caught this time would be very different from last night though, even if they were not any less dire. Hospitals didn’t appreciate people sneaking into patients’ rooms after visiting hours, he’d learned over the years. Usually, he didn’t care about those things, but this time he didn’t want to take any chances.

When he finally reached the door marked with the number 603 he let out a breath and took a careful look around. He was alone in the hallway; the only sound was the humming of the overhead neon lights. He silently opened the heavy door to the hospital room and sneaked inside, quickly closing it behind him again. Someone had drawn the blinds, and only small slivers of sunlight fell onto the white covers of the bed standing close to the window.

Scully was lying in her hospital bed, her eyes closed. He quietly walked over to her bedside, his sneakers squeaking softly on the linoleum floor, and stared down at her. The machine monitoring her blood pressure hummed softly in the dimly lit room.

Her breath was slow and deep, and Mulder let out a relieved sigh. It would take some time until he stopped worrying after her latest adventure. His fingers brushed a strand of hair off of her forehead, and the slight contact of his hand with her face caused her to stir, her eyes fluttering open to look at him.

“Mulder? What are you doing here?” she asked, not the slightest hint of surprise in her voice at seeing him there.

“I needed to see you. Make sure you’re okay,” he said simply and took her hand in his, playing tag with her thumb. Scully watched their hands silently, pressing her thumb back against his, lost in thought.

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she said reverently. “There’s just a lot on my mind.”

Mulder nodded while keeping his gaze on their still joined hands, afraid she’d be able to read him like a book. “I talked to Skinner this morning. Our host was still in the basement where we had locked him up. It seems he couldn’t find a way out either.”

Scully looked up. “What about Connolly? Did they catch him as well?”

Mulder shook his head, not raising his eyes. “No. There’s no trace of him. He disappeared.”

Scully stayed silent, returning her eyes to their joined hands after a while.

“Did you talk to the doctor? When will you be able to go home?” Mulder finally asked, breaking the silence.

“Tomorrow. They did a full check-up and blood work today. I had an allergic reaction to the drug he injected me with. But apart from a few scratches and bruises, I’m okay now.”

Mulder finally raised his eyes to hers. “Who’s going to take care of you? Is your mother coming over or do you want me to pick you up?”

Scully looked up at him and then quickly avoided his eyes again. “Would you mind taking me home tomorrow? My mom’s just going to fuss and worry, and I’d rather not have her make a big deal out of a few bruises.” She kept fiddling with his thumb, circling hers around it again and again.

Mulder watched her for a moment. “What’s going on, Scully?” he asked softly.

“What do you mean,” she replied, still not looking at him.

Mulder squeezed her hand gently as he curled his fingers over her thumb, forcing it down into his palm. “You’re not looking at me, Scully. What’s this about,” he hesitated as a thought suddenly struck him. “Is this about our kiss?” he asked quietly.

Scully’s fingers twitched in his grasp. Bull’s eye, he thought grimly. His heart picked up speed, and he started to sweat. “Do you regret it, Scully?” he asked monotonously, his face a mask even though his heart was beating wildly.

Scully quickly looked up at him, searching his face. “Do you?” she asked, her face unreadable.

“No, I don’t,” he said firmly. “But if you do, I… I want you to know I understand. I know it wasn’t the best of circumstances, and you were probably still feeling the drugs,” he rambled nervously. “So, what I’m trying to say here is, that if you didn’t like it, and you’d rather forget it happened…” he waved his free hand around vaguely.

“I’m not saying I didn’t like it,” Scully said, amusement tinging her voice.

Mulder dropped their joined hands down to the bed covers and exhaled. “What are you saying then, Scully?” he asked, watching her intently.

“If I remember correctly, Mulder, it was me who kissed you. And I don’t want to forget. But in case you forgot, I can remind you,” she said with a smile.

She tugged on his hand in hers and pulled him closer, tenderly putting her free hand behind his neck.

Mulder was watching her with wide eyes, and she pulled him in for a kiss. This time he didn’t hesitate and deepened the kiss immediately, pressing his lips to hers.

Neither of them noticed the rays of the setting sun streaming through the hospital window, bathing the hospital room in soothing colors and engulfing their faces in a warm glow.

The End.

***

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed my contribution to Fictober 2023.

And if you want to comment, please feel free. You'd make my day—just be kind. You can also find this fic on AO3.

#xfiles #mulder and scully #xf fanfic #fictober23 #dana scully #fox mulder #msr #the x files #fictober event #fictober 2023 #xffictober #xffictober23 #i wrote this #Liberating the Mirage

[nightghoul381]

To My Dearest Love~ Yves Kloss x Reader

Over halfway through the challenge, thank you @aquagirl1978 and @violettduchess for hosting!

Prompt: 8. Postcards Pairing: Yves Kloss x Reader Genre: Angst Warning: Implied Death of Reader

Pictured: A dazzling arrangement of roses

May 14th

My dearest love,

I saw the first bloom this morning as I was looking out to the gardens. The sunlight was just peeking over the horizon, you would have told me how much the golden hue of the sky reminded you of my hair. I wish you could have been there with me. It means nothing, I know it means nothing and yet I still feel compelled to write this postcard. I know you’ll never read it. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. But for whatever reason it makes it seem less lonely.

Forever Yours,

Yves Kloss

Pictured: The night sky over crashing waves

July 10th

My dearest love,

I accompanied Nokto on a business venture in Benitoite and I needed to tell you about it. The coast is so lovely. Not nearly as lovely as you, of course, but I can imagine the sparkle in your eye that you would have, taking in the sandy shore and ultramarine waters. It makes my heart ache to know that we will never get a chance to experience this together. I must admit, I was hoping that by now the pain would have eased a bit. Yet, it seems to continue to reawaken, ebbing and flowing like the tides. You would have wanted to feel the water, to walk along the beach. That is precisely why I couldn’t. I did try, but my breath would catch each time and I just… I just couldn’t. Anyways, enough dire talk. I do miss you and I know you would have loved to visit Benitoite.

Forever Yours,

Yves Kloss

Pictured: Windswept Plains

August 21st

My dearest love,

I visited the Jadean capital and had tea with Prince Keith. It was pleasant, the air was warm and the scent of flowers filled the air. It smelled like you. That night, I had a dream that everything had gone back to how it was. It felt so real. I could feel the warmth of your body as we held each other. Waking up was such a difficult thing to accept. I longed to spend even another minute in that dream with you. That’s all I have left. Memories and dreams. I return to Rhodolite castle tomorrow. I almost dread returning to those familiar halls knowing I’ll never again see you running down them to greet me. My, I really have let my dour mood influence this card. I love you, I will love you until the end of time.

Forever Yours,

Yves Kloss

Pictured: White roses amongst green leaves

September 17th

My dearest love,

The summer has come to an end. Yesterday my brothers forced a surprise party on me. I had no intention of celebrating my birthday. Without you, I can’t seem to find anything to celebrate anymore. If only birthday wishes could come true. I’d wish for you to be back in my arms. I’d wish to see the smile on your face that greeted me each morning. This will be the last postcard I send. My brothers are concerned with me continuing to write to you as though you’re still here, so it’s time I move forward. I know this, yet it is still so painful to say goodbye. My heart will always belong to you. I will never know a more wonderful person; none could possibly compete. Know that my love for you will remain eternal. You have me, all of me, forever. You are always on my mind. We shall meet again someday, I promise.

Until I find you again,

Yves Kloss

Akatsuki swallowed thickly as he crouched over the tombstone, placing the stack of postcards in a small divot he had dug along the side.

“It’s good to know that you were so loved.” He murmured, scooping the displaced dirt over your lover’s words. “I don’t think that boy realized that I would read the postcards he had sent to the bookstore, but he clearly thought the world of you. I’m glad you were able to experience such a deep love during your time on this Earth.”

Rising to his feet, he gave one final statement, “Rest well, dear one.”

#summer days sultry nights ccc #ikemen prince #ikepri #ikemen prince fanfiction #ikemen prince yves #ikepri yves #yves kloss

[illumeew]

wits' end | k.alberich (chapter two)

Summary: Kaeya was never in love, but he could admit he felt loved.

Tags: Mentions of flings and romance, Slight angst, Hurt/Comfort, Is this a bit ooc? (please tell me if it is or not!)

A/N: ohhh i love kaeya so much he's so sweet and cool !! but sometimes he gets a lil mischaracterized, so i hope i've done him some justice in this one !

< chapter one | chapter three >

“There are two types of ‘tired’, I suppose. One is a dire need of sleep, the other is a dire need of peace. He needed both.”

Kaeya was never in love, but he could admit he felt loved.

No, it wasn’t romantic—he has never exploited the title of being the renowned candidate for grandson-in-law to most of the elders roundabout in Mondstadt, who experienced his selfless determination to protect the city and the nation whole.

To Kaeya, the concept of love has never been an easy topic. Love is complicated, similar to attempting to sit on your own shoulders: you can try, but it’ll leave you hurting and confused wondering why it didn’t work.

“Flings” were another thing he couldn’t understand, but whatever meaning it stood as, it most definitely wasn’t a category in Kaeya Alberich’s dictionary. One thing’s for sure that he’s received enough “complementary hugs” from the people of Mondstadt to know how it feels to be within love’s reach.

Though, despite the number of praise he gets on the daily, never was he once content encaptured in another’s arms.

To Kaeya,

Love is complicated.

Love is an anomaly.

Love is… something someone like him will never understand.

But he tries to be the right person and change, which is why he pays and leaves Angel’s Share as soon as he finishes his drink, the range of how many being between four to even less than two, unlike his past indulgences.

He wanted to become better, knowing a world like this wouldn’t accept and love someone like him. A sinner who has the world against himself.

Tonight, he had two different drinks, both without a single ounce of alcohol mixed into it. This has been a daily thing that servers, Charles and Diluc, would experience with the Cavalry Captain.

At seven-forty-five in the morning, quarter to eight—the usual time for the Knights to come to work—Kaeya enters Angel’s Share and asks for one Moonlit Alley: a mixture of coffee, milk, and cocoa paste. “Just something to get himself ready for a new day” is what he says to the current server of the bar, whether it be Charles or Diluc, to tell him of another day’s order of the same drink.

Both of them probably had it memorized by hand due to his consistency, because recently, as soon as Kaeya enters, the drink has been already made and set out on the counter, still hot and fresh, as if just finished and waiting for his arrival.

He’d reach for his wallet, grab the needed mora, give it to the server, then walk out taking a small sip of the drink before heading for the Knights of Favonius headquarters.

His schedule cycled every single day; wake up, get ready, grab a Moonlit Alley, go to work, then go back home, and restart.

At one point in his life—or maybe not just one point but a few, he felt lonely doing it all by himself. To tell the truth, he has no one to come home to, so how could he change his life? Someone can’t just walk in and tell him with all their honest joy, “Welcome home, Kaeya.”

Though, he wished he had someone to greet him by the door. Anyone.

He sighed and dropped the feathered pen, letting it roll across the papers scattered in front of him as his elbows slammed gently onto his desk, and he let his fingers run through his already tousled hair from how many times he’s done this. It was thirty minutes before midnight, and the pile of paperwork didn’t seem to look any fewer than it was four hours ago.

The Acting Grandmaster and the Librarian, Jean Gunnhildr and Lisa Minci, just clocked out just from the sound of the Mondstadt Library doors clicking shut, following suit by multiple footsteps that, Kaeya assumed, belonged to the two and the knights that guarded the doors to the library. His office was just above the library, and hearing the main doors close made him want to have agreed to Jean’s request to clock out with her and Lisa.

His stubbornness outweighs his sense of self.

Outrider Amber and Eula Lawrence ended their shifts an hour before they did, as did Chief Alchemist Albedo an hour earlier than them, rambling on about to himself how he has his own research to finish back at his camp in Dragonspine. He came to pick up Klee just before and walked her to the house her mother, Alice, had rented for her. He waited for her to sleep, which took a whole three hours, and then he went to the snowy mountain after tucking her to bed and kissing her good night.

He told her, “Another day has yet to come, for both you and me” as he stared at her sleeping form like she was the younger sister he could have ever wished for. That was something Kaeya only ever experienced when he was a kid, when his father would tuck him and his brother into bed, whisper the great things they’d done today, and kiss their foreheads good night before, too, tucking himself into his own bed a room across theirs.

The memories of whatever it was he felt genuine love was lost in time.

He grabbed each of the scattered paper and brought them together, grounding them on the table before setting them aside. He put the feathered pen on top of the stack, and deciding that he was too exhausted to even lift another finger, he crossed his arms on his desk and laid his head on top, and he sighed.

Though the large window behind him had curtains to shade him from the moonlight, he could still feel the wind blowing strands of his hair onto his eyepatch. But with the black cloth obscuring his right eye’s vision, he had no problem with the wind’s disturbance to the odious side of his two-faced artifice.

He soon drifted asleep, just without the praising whispers and kisses good night.

#genshin impact #genshin angst #genshin scenarios #genshin kaeya #kaeya headcanons #kaeya alberich #genshin impact kaeya #kaeya imagines #fiction #illumeew's works #genshin #writing #writers on tumblr

[aerisfelidae]

Happy vent for once?

Man I got the faintest whiff of love, financial security and hope for the future and suddenly I'm upgrading my whole life?

It's really hard to put my finger on what exactly has changed because it doesn't seem like a lot actually has - like these friends aren't new friends, they've been here, and they've always tried to include me in stuff and be there for me

I've always been good at what I do, I've never faltered in thinking that, my organizational ability/level of demand hasn't significantly picked up tho

I'm still in debt even if my bank account is looking just a little less dire

But man I'm waking up in the mornings lately and like... Feeling like I wanna get out of bed

Feeling like cleaning my windows sounds like more fun than scrolling TikTok for hours

That I don't just live in a void, that I have things to live for, people to make plans with who actually like... Like me? and remind me that they like me? And show me that they like me?

Feeling like I have things to look forward to

I still wanna cry all the time but now it's crying remembering that I'm loved and remembering that my friends spent time with me and remembering that they maDE STUFF FOR ME and like

BRO??? I LOVE MY NERDS???

#aeris.txt #dont want to get too used to this just in case #not a sad one for once #like i remember that people are coming over to my house for a party #and that they want to be here #bro??? #gonna cry again #im gonna end up fixing myself before the nhs gets to me i stf

[domes]

part, 07

Prompt: "In this hour, I do not believe that any darkness will endure."

Seth pauses as he approaches the cabin door. Everything seems a little less dire in the daylight. Seth looks back as he opens it, “That's not super comforting.” The wood leading up to the door lock plate has large sooty gashes in it, not deep but like three claws were used as one of those soldering iron wood burning art kits. Turning the pet backpack around to his front K asks, “What are these things, and why are they interested in me?” Seth says, “Honestly I have no idea, the little bits I know I pieced together from the shit left in the cabin after they got my old coworker, and last night is the first time I truly believed any of it to be truly real, fuck until now I thought I was just doing some crazy woods shit to, I don’t process trauma or something.”

In the apartment the sooty gashes continue, a little tour of the place three swipes at a time. Seth opens up a kitchen cabinet and starts pulling out boxes. “We have these and like four in the living room and like five under my bed and I really have no idea how much time you have until they come back. So don’t be gentile, dig in and look for anything that might explain what we do with that little loose skinned creep.” Seth says as he takes the backpack and sets the animals loose in the cabin. The prairie dogs take turns grooming and generally doting on the naked little guy.

The search process is greatly expedited by the fact that four of the boxes were full of mostly ski clothes and general ski hill work gear, but after hours of looking through notebooks and plugging in an old laptop to dig around in the best evidence of a plan was some light notebook ruminations on being cursed.

As sunset approaches the dogs venture into one of the boxes of clothes. There’s a sweetness to the way they smell around what is probably their strongest sense memory of their old keeper. K places the creature in with them and in settling it in to the makeshift nest, they notice a hard back notebook in a jumpsuit pocket. Hardly an instruction manual, most of the notes are technical lift mechanic stuff, but about halfway through a there is a few page of crude comic sketches staring a little mole rat looking creature that when pulled from the ground has the potential to be the 'least likely protector' K hands the notebook to Seth, “I may be dead by morning, but this gives me some slight hope?”

#flashficfeb

[lya-dustin]

All is bliss

Chapter 10

Cw: depression, mentions of suicidal ideation

Gif by: @userzil

Taglist: @mercedesdecorazon @darylandbethfanforever9 @sweethoneyblossom1 @aemondx

To her relief, grandfather’s library is as empty as ever.

And just as she did every time she felt like crying, she goes to that space between the last shelf and the large window with its curtains shut tight and hides there from the world.

She hates her life.

Just moons ago everything was fine and she greeted every day with a smile as radiant as the sun.

This morning she laughed at her stupid face for thinking it would get better.

No matter what she did, somehow her bitch of a goodmother managed to strip her of her bodily autonomy.

She draws up her knees to her chest as she did when she was little and cried.

“That bad.” Aemond says coming in from the passageway behind the suit of tapestry.

“I hate it here.” She admits with a sniffle. “I hate your mother. I hate ---"

“I would defend her, but lately I do not think I can come up with any good argument.” He said, joining her on the floor.

“She had the apothecary I visited tortured and killed for helping me avoid getting pregnant.” She tells him and moves when he tries to get more comfortable with her.

She couldn’t care less about his past with Lady Wylde, everything else seemed more relevant than Aegon’s new whore.

But she doesn’t know how he will react to the secret she kept from him.

Not that he has any right to be angry when he knows of her wishes to have no children his brother can claim.

“What?” he asks. She does not know whether because he is shocked at the measures Aemma will take to avoid becoming with child or his mother’s ruthlessness.

“He and his wife were selling me tonics to prevent me with becoming with child, she suspected I was lying about what the tonic was for.” She adds and somehow, he doesn’t grow furious with her knowing the danger she put them in.

“We can stop if you wish, with your mother here, we can get her to have father do something.” He suggests holding her and letting her cry on his shoulder.

“Do you really mean it?” she asks, looking at him knowing he does.

But here is the conundrum, if they stop what little happiness she has here leaves with him.

“I am going to leave with my mother, I think it is for the best I leave court until I am myself again.” She says and hopes he asks to come with her.

But he doesn’t, it would draw too much attention to them.

While Vaemond did not particularly care for the feelings of a child let alone a girl, it would be very bad for them all if Laenor’s only child was to hurt herself after Corlys entrusted her to him.

“Gods, is it that dire?” Her brother comments even after he knows what he does next will push her to the edge.

“I found her wondering if the fall from her window onto the dry moat would kill her swiftly or slowly this morning.” Teora answered her elder brother who thinks he is doing the right thing by calling Rhaenyra’s children bastards at the hearing tomorrow.

The right thing if you are self-serving idiot.

Unfortunately, all the people here seem to be.

Even Corlys would not have been so tolerant of the cuckolding had Rhaenyra not have a crown.

No one seems to care for the wellbeing of others in this day and age, no wonder Helaena foresees a devastating war that makes the dragons extinct.

“What do you want me to do about it? You heard the queen same as I, nothing else matters except her producing a male heir.” Vaemond pretends he cares and does a shit job about it.

If he cared, he would not have joined the greens in their endless plots for power.

“Don’t question Corlys’ will tomorrow. If you care as much as you pretend to do for our great-niece, you won’t show her what her future is.” The septa warns him knowing the most he gets for his troubles is being short a head and likely a dead six- and ten-year-old girl already suffering of melancholy.

“That is different, sweet Aemma has done something her whore mother did not: find a man who looks like her husband. Daemion had been available as were our younger brothers and nephews. Had she only fucked a man who looked the part, we would not be looking like fools, little sister.” The second son argues thinking Aemma sees such a difference between her and Rhaenyra.

“Yes, different, so different it is our enemies who had sweet Aemma fuck her husband’s brother when the right thing to do was have the marriage annulled.

If you do not desist, all you will do tomorrow evening is explain to our dead nephew why his daughter is so desperate to kill herself!” the Septa feels her voice rising in hopes it makes him see reason.

But one has more luck making a wild dragon obey your commands than making Vaemond change his mind.

“Do not think to tell me what to do, Teora. You are here due to the kindness of my late mother, bastard, do not forget your place.” He spits, and orders her out like a servant.

“Fine, but before I leave, do tell me which prayers you want read at your funeral, Lord of the Tides.” Teora left knowing at least he will be answering to the gods tomorrow.

Mother’s return to court finds her busy.

Busy with preparations for feasts, a masque or two, a hunt, several outings into the city and dealing with the ladies who tolerate her only because they must.

And yes, Aemma is aware that she must make them her friends, but she has just been too out of sorts to give it another try.

They had been warm when she got married, feeling more sympathetic to her thus trying to be nice and when she returned, she was not herself and the reception cooled after snapping at Alicent’s younger cousins at some point.

“Grand Maester Orwyle claims you have melancholy.” Alicent is strangely nice.

Wary, but pretending she doesn’t just love making her life hell.

“Yes, Teora asked him to examine me after we returned from the city yesterday." Aemma is happy to know she does have melancholia and that the very alarming symptoms are enough to push the good maester to get her the fuck out of here. “If it is alright with you, I wish to leave with my mother until I am better or more resigned to my fate.”

The guilt occasionally stabs at Alicent, a strange and funny thing when they are in this mess because of her brilliant scheme.

“I have heard the many benefits the seaside and the volcanic mud baths can have for those who have black bile.” She has not said no or yes yet.

“I would like to go alone. Without my husband.” Aemma adds knowing she is not getting a yes, but it was worth the try.

“If it is for the better of your health, you may do as you wish.” The queen says as if someone had replaced her with someone human and not the statue who craves blood and power.

The stranger inhabiting her body even went as far as hugging her.

Aemma thanks her just as Talya, the queen’s chief handmaiden, brings notice of the dragon’s being sighted over the bay.

Just one week.

One week and she is gone from this hell.

#aemma velaryon #aemond targaryen x velaryon!oc #all is bliss fic #aemond x rhaenyra and laenor's! daughter #aemond targayen x oc #aemond x aemma #ewan mitchell

[silvfyre-writings]

Aizawa Cares Pt. 24 (MHA Fanfic)

Hi, yes, I forgot to post this yesterday omg. I got in the car to work this morning and went "shit, I didn't post the chapter" but here it is now! It's time for Aoyama to shine! I hope you guys enjoy the chapter!!!

Okay, so, usually the way I work is that I try to be a chapter ahead so that if something happens I still have something to post. Well, I've now not gotten ahead. And it's also heading towards December so I'm becoming rather busy ugh.

The next update, as a result, will come on the 1st January, 2023.

HOWEVER! If I do complete the next chapter before then, I will post it, but just in case I can't get it finished in time, that date will be the next chapter post. Thank you all for understanding and I'll see you all in the new year (with this fic at least, and hopefully sooner haha)

Aoyama is crying.

It certainly wasn’t a strange sight for Aizawa to walk in on, and it wasn’t the first time that he’d walked in on one of his students crying. Hell, he often caught Midoriya crying about some thing or another at least once a day; he was surprised Midoriya even had any tears left to cry out by now.

But yes, Aizawa was no stranger to tears. The only question he had was what Aoyama could possibly be crying about. Nothing immediately came to mind; he hadn’t put his class through the usual rigorous training he did, and he hadn’t heard about the other teachers giving them a test so bad that even Yaoyorozu had been brought to tears. Poor Ectoplasm hadn’t realized just how hard he’d made the test until his students had approached him for help—something that they never did unless the situation was dire. Or someone got hurt. But all was well and mathematics had yet to claim a life.

That still didn’t tell him why Aoyama was currently on the kitchen floor, an empty packet of cheese in front of him, and sobbing his heart out, and Aizawa was a little terrified to find out just what could reduce the boy to such tears in the first place. “Aoyama?” Aizawa questioned as he approached his student, coming to crouch beside the boy, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What happened?”

Aoyama looked up at him, tears running down his cheeks. “Someone ate my cheese, Aizawa-sensei.”

Oh. Aizawa glanced at the empty cheese packet sitting on the floor. Yep, it was definitely empty and Aizawa had honestly thought that Aoyama had eaten it, but clearly that wasn’t the case. He’d witnessed just how passionate the boy was about his cheese, often sharing different kinds of cheeses with his classmates; however, unless Aoyama actually offered, the class knew to leave the cheese alone. But this time, one of his students had broken that rule.

“Did you do what I told you all to do?” Aizawa asked gently.

Aoyama nodded. “I put it in a container and labelled it and someone ate it!” The boy’s words rose until his voice was practically wailing.

“Alright, I know it’s upsetting that someone ate your food, but I need you to calm down for me, okay kiddo? Take a breath and wipe your tears.”

Aoyama did as he was told, his lip wobbling as he tried to stop himself from crying. It tugged at Aizawa’s heartstrings. It was such a simple thing to get upset over, but that didn’t mean that Aoyama’s feelings were any less valid. So, he reached over and tugged the boy into his side. His student lost the fight against the tears and began to cry again. This time, Aizawa let the boy cry it all out on his shoulder.

“Write down what cheese it was that was eaten, and I’ll try to get it replaced for you.”

Aoyama nodded into Aizawa’s shirt, a muffled ‘thank you’ coming from the boy.

Aizawa was going to find out who ate that cheese if that was the last thing he did, but first, he needed to help Aoyama calm down. He continued to hold onto Aoyama, not saying anything but just holding his student carefully. After some time had passed, Aoyama seemed to calm down, his sobs quietening into sniffles, and his tears coming to a halt. Still, the boy clung to him and showed no signs of moving.

"How about we get you to your room and you can have a rest?" Aizawa suggested.

Aoyama simply nodded, and didn’t resist when Aizawa guided them both into a standing position; Aizawa then leading his student up the stairs to his dorm room. The entire walk, Aoyama didn’t say anything, just kept his head down and finally pulled away from him when they reached his room. A quiet ‘thanks’ came from his student, and he watched as the door slowly shut behind Aoyama.

Letting out a sigh, Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose, mentally preparing himself for the following conversation he had to have with his class. Hopefully, whoever ate Aoyama’s cheese would own up to it, and fast, because he did not want this to become a regular occurrence; a detention and buying replacement cheese should be enough of a deterrent. As he made his way back down the stairs to the common room, he tapped out a message and sent it to his students—minus Aoyama of course—telling them all to come to the common room immediately.

Now all he had to do was wait.

One by one, his class trickled into the dorm, eyeing each other anxiously and slowly approached where Aizawa stood. He’d put his most unimpressed face on for this moment, eyes narrowed. It had the intended effect, for none of his students dared to speak, only taking a seat wherever they could. Midoriya walked into the room, his entire body trembling. If it were any of his other students, Aizawa would take it as a sign of guilt, but this was Midoriya, who quite frankly, was easily frightened. Still, Aizawa watched the boy sit next to Iida and Todoroki, politely nodding at them before turning his attention to Aizawa.

All he was waiting on now was the stragglers, those that had probably been in the midst of something when his message had gone through. And he was right when Bakugo stormed into the dorm, drenched in sweat and ranting about being interrupted; the rest of the boy’s friend group following behind.

“Please don’t sit on anything, Bakugo.” Aizawa said, not feeling up to trying to get nitroglycerin out of the furniture.

“I’m not stupid!” Bakugo snarled, and continued to stomp towards the bathrooms. “I’ll be back!”

Aizawa let Bakugo go, turning his attention back to his class, taking a mental count of who was here. Everyone had arrived, which meant that once Bakugo returned, he could begin. It didn’t take long for the explosive boy to return, free of sweat, yet Bakugo still chose to sit on the floor.

“Right, we can begin.” Aizawa said, but before he could continue, he was interrupted. By Iida naturally.

“But, Aizawa-sensei! Aoyama is not here and you said everyone had to be here in your message!”

“Aoyama is not present because he is the reason I have called you here.” Aizawa narrowed his eyes at Iida, who straightened and gave a single nod. “Now. I do not care what your opinion on the matter is, nor do I want you teasing or mocking your fellow student for what I’m about to bring to your attention. Aoyama did not ask me to do this, I did. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Sensei.” His class echoed quietly, each one of them looking uneasy.

“Now, I am aware that Aoyama likes to share his cheese with you all, and that’s his business to do so. However, Aoyama has expressed that the cheese in the labelled containers is only to be eaten by him, as is the rule in this dorm.” Aizawa pulled out the empty container he’d picked up on the way, showing the labelled lid to his class. A few of them seemed to pick up on what the problem was and paled. “One of you has broken this rule. One of you decided to ignore the fact that the food in this container was not yours and ate it anyway. And I expect that whichever one of you did this, will be mature enough to own up to it, because your actions caused your classmate a great deal of distress, and that is unacceptable.”

Aizawa paused to let the words sink in, yet no one immediately owned up to the cheese. He imagined it was because the culprit was scared of what might happen to them if they did. He did tend to forget how threatening he could be when he wanted to, and that his students were about as forthcoming as rocks when he was actually mad. He sighed, and lessened his glare. “The punishment will be the following; detention, buying a replacement of the exact cheese that was given, and a handwritten and verbal apology to Aoyama.”

Finally, after several minutes of tense silence, Sero raised his hand, doing his best to avoid making eye contact with anyone. “It was me, Sensei.”

Aizawa nodded. “Everyone else but Sero, leave. Now.”

His class was quick to take the escape, practically fleeing the room and heading upstairs. Not one of them seemed to want to dare to leave the dorm with how angry he was. Sero’s friends gave him sympathetic glances as they too, fled upstairs, and soon it was just him and the boy in the room. Aizawa stared at Sero and sighed. “Why did you eat Aoyama’s food?”

“I—I don’t know.” Sero said. “I want to say it was an accident or something, but I honestly don’t know. I just wasn’t thinking I guess.”

“I’m disappointed. I thought I’d taught you all better than this.”

“I’m sorry, Aizawa-sensei.” Sero dropped his head even more, looking thoroughly ashamed at his actions.

“It’s not me you have to apologize too.” Aizawa said. “It’s Aoyama.”

“I’ll do that, Sensei.”

“Of you go then.” Aizawa tilted his head towards the stairs. “You’ll have detention for three days after school, and need to replace the cheese you ate. I expect it done ASAP.”

“Yes, Sensei.” Sero said, standing and quickly making his way towards Aoyama’s room, understanding Aizawa’s dismissal for what it was.

Aizawa sighed, hoping that Sero’s punishment would be enough to stop such a thing from happening again. Hopefully.

 Aoyama was crying. Again.

But this time, he wasn’t crying alone.

Aizawa didn’t know what he’d walked in on just now, but he almost wanted to walk back out and let the students involved handle the situation, thinking it was just a minor disagreement or something similar. But then he saw the same distressed look on Aoyama’s face that the boy had worn a few days ago after the cheese issue, and Aizawa knew then that he wouldn’t be able to leave the situation alone.

“What’s going on?” Aizawa asked as he approached the students trying their best to calm Aoyama down. Yaoyorozu… Ashido… Midoriya… and Sero. A quick glance up the stairs showed more of his class looking on anxiously; trapped on the other side of a wailing Aoyama. It was then that Aizawa saw it; shattered glass at the bottom of the stairs. Ah, shit.

Aizawa knew exactly what it was that had been broken, for it had been a glass sculpture of a building in France that Aizawa didn’t know the name of, but recognized. It was an important possession of Aoyama’s—a gift from his parents if he remembered correctly—and Aizawa wanted to know just how it had ended up broken.

Ever the voice of reason, Yaoyorozu was the first to speak. “It was an accident, Aizawa-sensei. Midoriya tripped down the stairs just as Aoyama was coming up them. We heard the crash and came to investigate, but by then, they were both in tears.”

Aizawa glanced over and Midoriya, taking note of the equally distressed look on his student’s face, and the rapid waterfall of tears running down his face. Aoyama was similarly distressed, but being much more vocal about it. “Midoriya—”

“I’m so, so sorry, Sensei!” Midoriya said in a hurry. “It was stupid of me to trip over my own two feet, and I tried my best to dodge Aoyama, but I couldn’t do it in time, so then I tried to save the sculpture, but I just made it worse, and I can’t apologize enough, and—”

“Midoriya, breathe. Aoyama, I need you to do the same.” Aizawa interrupted before Midoriya could really get going. His student followed his instruction—Aoyama taking a little longer to understand what was being asked of him—giving Aizawa time to approach, resting a hand on both his and Aoyama’s shoulders. “Now, are either of you hurt?”

Both students shook their heads, although Aizawa could see some puncture wounds where the glass had penetrated, and he wasn’t blind to the way that Midoriya was gingerly holding his arm. Aside from a few bleeding spots, Aoyama seemed to be fine, which was good considering he’d probably been squashed by Midoriya in the first place. Teenagers will be teenagers, I guess. Aizawa turned his attention to the students at the top of the stairs, scanning the crowd for the ones he wanted. “Iida! Todoroki!”

Two heads peered through the crowd, pushing their way to the front. “Yes, Aizawa-sensei?” Iida asked, quickly coming to stand just behind his classmates.

“Can you and Todoroki take Midoriya to Recovery Girl, please?”

“Sure thing, Sensei.” Todoroki nodded, quickly helping Midoriya to his feet.

“The rest of you, go back to your rooms.” Aizawa ordered, pleased when the rest of the kids scattered like mice. Now that there was only a small group of people, Aizawa could focus his attention on Aoyama. “Hey, kid, how can we help?”

“You—You can’t.” Aoyama sobbed, reaching for the broken glass, only to be stopped by Sero. “It’s broken!”

“I know.” Aizawa soothed, rubbing gentle circles into Aoyama’s shoulder with his thumb. “But maybe we can fix it?”

Aoyama’s entire body shuddered as the boy tried to gather his words. “It was a gift from my mother. She—she made it herself. And now it’s gone!”

Clearly, Aoyama was too distressed to actually listen to what Aizawa was saying. But thank god that Yaoyorozu was still here.

“It’s okay, Aoyama.” The girl smiled gently. “I’m sure if you tell your mother what happened, she’ll be happy to help you get it fixed. It was an accident that it got broken. I could easily make another for you as well if you’d like, but I think it’s more about the sentiment, isn’t it?”

Aoyama nodded; his sobs having died off. “Maman made it for me before I came to UA, as a way to remember her while she was in France still.” The boy paused. “Do you really think she won’t be mad?”

“Of course not!” Yaoyorozu said. “She’s your mother! How about we write her an email together? Sero and Ashido can gather all the glass and we can try and get it all sorted out.”

“Okay.” Aoyama agreed, letting Yaoyorozu pull him up, both students disappearing back up the stairs before Aizawa could stop them. He’d wanted to make sure that the minor injuries from the glass were alright. He’d just sent Yaoyorozu a message asking her to do that for him.

“Will you two be alright?” Aizawa asked his two remaining students who looked a tiny bit annoyed and being put in glass cleaning duty.

“Sure, Aizawa-sensei.” Ashido smiled at him. “We’ll just use Sero’s tape to clean everything up and take it to Momo! Although it would’ve been nice if she asked us first.”

“Would you rather be the one that has to comfort Aoyama and talk to his mother?” Sero retorted.

“Good point.”

Aizawa sighed, turning on his heel and leaving the two students to clean up the mess. Now he had to make the trip to Recovery Girl’s office to check on Midoriya. Why are my students such a mess? Why?

 

By the sixth time that Aizawa had walked in on Aoyama in tears, he was ready to get to the bottom of the what was the reasoning behind all the waterworks. Aizawa was all for his students expressing themselves, but this was more than the normal emotional distress he’d encountered over his years as a teacher. This time, Aizawa had had to hunt down Aoyama, for the boy simply hadn’t shown up to class that day, and no one seemed to know where he was. His class certainly hadn’t enjoyed the lecture that had come from that little titbit of information, but maybe that would teach them to pay more attention to whether their fellow classmates had actually left the dorms in the morning.

Anyways, Aizawa had left his class the moment Ectoplasm had walked in, and made his way over to the dorms, quickly climbing the stairs to the floor of Aoyama’s room. He was worried about his student, especially after the many breakdowns over the past couple of weeks. Aizawa stopped outside of Aoyama’s door, gently rapping his knuckles against it. “Aoyama? Are you in there?”

Aizawa listened carefully, pressing his ear against the door. He could faintly hear the sound of something moving in the room, but it was too soft to distinguish whether it was Aoyama or something else inside. “Aoyama?”

Aizawa carefully pushed the door open, not wanting to invade his student’s privacy, but also wanting to make sure that his student was actually in there and alive. The room was dark, a stark contrast to what he’d heard about the room in passing conversation. His eyes were drawn to a massive lump in the bed, the covers drawn over to hide the lump from view. The lump was shaking, the bed rattling in response, which explained the noise that Aizawa had heard from outside.

“Aoyama, are you alright?” Aizawa crossed the room and perched on the edge of the bed. He carefully pulled the covers down to reveal his missing student, cheeks splotchy and tears running down his face. “Oh, kid, what’s wrong?”

Aoyama’s eyes met his own, and the tears began to fall even faster, and the boy’s sobbing grew worse. Aizawa’s concern shot through the roof, all sorts of possibilities running through his mind for what could possibly be causing this kind of breakdown. At first, he thought Aoyama could be injured—a valid concern since his class had been sparring yesterday—but he didn’t find anything as he scanned the boy. Next, he thought it might be sickness, but it was hard to figure out if the heat Aizawa could feel was an actual fever or just from all the crying. Whatever was causing the breakdown, it certainly wasn’t going to stop anytime soon, so Aizawa just carefully pulled Aoyama into his arms, letting the boy cling to him and cry into his short.

Aizawa rocked Aoyama from side to side as the boy continued to cry, although his wailing was starting to quieten down, the sobs descending into silence. The tremors remained, and occasionally Aoyama would hold his breath; Aizawa felt a little bit of pride in that moment that his student was trying to calm himself down. He continued to soothe Aoyama for some time, just patiently waiting for the boy to calm down enough to tell him what was wrong.

“It’s okay, Aoyama. You just tell me when you’re ready.” Aizawa said, hugging Aoyama just that little bit tighter, ignoring the snot and tears that were slowly staining his shirt. He could handle a little mess if it meant that his student was comfortable.

Finally, the crying stopped, the silence that followed broken by the occasional sniffle and cough. “Aizawa-sensei?” Aoyama whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

“I’m here, kid. What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry, Aoyama. But you can talk to me.” Aizawa said, running a hand through blonde hair. “I want to help, if I can.”

“It’s stupid.” Aoyama sighed into Aizawa’s shirt.

“It’s not stupid if it got you crying like this.”

Silence followed his words, but Aizawa didn’t push. He just patiently waited for his student to find the words he needed. Several times, Aoyama made to speak, but failed to follow through; still, Aizawa did not push. Pushing would only bring back the tears.

“I miss home.” Aoyama finally said. “Not… home here, but home home.”

“Home home?” Aizawa was confused for just a moment before he remembered that Aoyama hadn’t been born in Japan like the rest of his students. “You mean France?”

Aoyama nodded. Aizawa could feel tears start to dampen his shirt again. “I miss France, and my parents. They went back after the dorms were built. And I can’t visit them…”

He’s homesick. Aizawa finally put the pieces of the puzzle together; when Aoyama had been crying over his eaten cheese, when he’d been crying over his broken statue that had come from his mother. All of those had been reminders of home for his student, and all of them had been broken in some way. It wasn’t surprising that Aoyama had broken down.

All of his students missed home one way or another, but most of them could be soothed with a late-night phone call, or an organized visit. Something that was near impossible when your family lived in another country entirely. And for once in his life, Aizawa didn’t know how to help. The solution would be to arrange time for Aoyama to visit his family, but the current situation with the League made that impossible. A phone call could help, sure, but he doubted that it would. And it wouldn’t be right of him to ask for Aoyama’s parents to just fly back to Japan—considering his students track record with bad parents, he wasn’t willing to risk it either—even though that would probably help Aoyama the most.

“How can I help, kiddo?” Aizawa asked.

“You can’t.” Aoyama let out a single sob. “You can’t help me, Sensei.”

“Let me try at least. Is it just you missing home?”

Aoyama nodded. “Maman and papa are busy. I haven’t—I haven’t heard from them in ages.”

“Okay, okay, it’s alright. We’ll sort something out.” Aizawa ran a hand down Aoyama’s back. He racked his brain to try and figure out what time it would be in France; not something he’d ever had to think about before. Once he figured it out, he couldn’t help but wince. If he tried to call Aoyama’s parents, it would be well into the night.

But if it calmed his student down, it was worth losing some sleep. At least, in his opinion, it was. Aizawa pulled out his phone and found the number he was looking for, only hoping that it was still the correct one. He held the device up to his ear, listening to it as it rang. Aoyama didn’t question what he was doing, nor did he seem to notice.

“Hello?” A tired, accented voice came through the phone. “Who is this?”

“This is Shouta Aizawa. Am I speaking with Ms Aoyama?”

“You are. You’re Yuga’s teacher, aren’t you?” Aoyama’s mother questioned, sounding much more awake. “Is everything alright?”

A competent parent. Finally. “Yuga’s just feeling a touch homesick. Would you be able to speak with him for a bit. I’m aware it’s late and—”

“Put my son on the phone.” Aizawa blinked as he was interrupted, not expecting the woman to interrupt him.

He pulled back from Aoyama and held his phone out to his student. Aoyama just blinked at him. “Your mother is on the phone, if you’d like to talk to her.”

“Maman?” Aoyama shakily took the phone from Aizawa’s grasp, tears welling in his eyes once again as rapid French began to filter through the phone; Aoyama responding in turn.

Aizawa found himself trapped, since Aoyama was still clinging to him, so he resigned himself to his fate and just made himself comfortable, pulling Aoyama into a one-armed hug. He didn’t have a clue about what was being said on the phone, and he could hear another voice had joined the conversation—Aoyama’s father if he wagered a guess—but whatever it was that was being said, it was helping, for Aoyama was slowly starting to relax, looking happier than he had in the past few weeks.

It wasn’t a solution to Aoyama’s homesickness, but it was a start to helping him.

He’d talk to Nedzu and Aoyama’s parents later to see if there wasn’t a way to allow Aoyama some time to go to France, or if they could bring his parents over to Japan for a visit.

And if they couldn’t sort something out, well, Aizawa would just have to learn French, wouldn’t he?

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha #bnha #dadzawa #aizawa shouta #aoyama yuga #mha fanfic #fanfic #writing