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miguel-ohara-wifey · 9 months

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I’ll find you

Chapter 2: Jobless Monday

Cowboy!Miguel O’Hara x fem!Reader

Rating: 18+, Angst, Hurt + comfort, & fluff

Warnings: portrayal of grief, portrayal of depression, mention of dead animals, mention of domestic abuse, mention of child labor, mention of child abuse, murder plot, misogyny, spoilers for Jane Eyre I guess

Word count: 2.6K

~~Fifteen years and 6 months ago~~

“It’s the only way to get the future we deserve…” Thomas whispered to you in the closet. Huddled by cleaning supplies and frail brooms. You both were cloistered in a cleaning supplies storage room in your soon to be father in laws factory. Thomas’s family were chemical industrialists, they mass manufactured perfume, bleach, and gas. Even more known for being disgustingly rich.

But considering what Thomas just told you. The stuffy humidity between you two wasn’t all that held your breath under your throat. You didn’t go along with what was asked of you just because it was your wealthy fiancé.

“What?” You managed to choke out, scanning Thomas’s well kept visage. Oily slicked back hair, topping the man in a freshly trailered suit. He was pale and fidgety under all the fancy dress.

“I know-“ “YOU KNOW WHAT!?” You screamed back at him behind the cover of the breaking wooden door. Still keeping it down enough for anyone on the other side not to catch anything. You kept on.

“How could you even fucking ask me that!?” You reviled back at him. “He’s a wretched man!” You roll your eyes so far in the back of your head you swear you catch a glimpse of your brain.

“Well I’ll believe that he’s an industrialist, he pays the kids here a nickel an hour…” your arms fold into each other below your chest. His father is a piece of shit, considering he called you “his son's whore” right as you first meet. Not even glancing at how he treats his employees as much as his property as the machines they operate for him. Thomas was a far kinder and more reasonable man.

However, to help murder a human being, to place their heir to take over. This is some French novel bullshit Thomas desperately tried to convince you to help him with.

He then lightly tangled his fingers with yours, breaking the wall you created between himself and you with your arms. Locking his eyes with yours in another soft embrace.

“I have no one else to turn to, fathers treated me like his property his whole life. His dutiful little worker, like he has everyone else in this fucking place…you can help me change that. The minute he dies this is all ours, we can change it…”

He moves a stray hair from your bun to behind your left ear, “I’d do the same for you. All you have to do, is get me that poisonous plant…and when my parts are over. All these people will have whole new lives…” He then traces his hand over your stomach. A vague shape of a bump can be felt forming.

“And for our baby too…” he finishes as your noses are now inches apart. A hole in your rib cage formed, despite the romantics of the scene. What it truly entailed, a weight was bound to your legs. As you flew down the waters of conflicting emotions and wishes.

Thomas explained how couldn't shut down the factories but he’d improve conditions and explained his plans for increasing the workers' pay. All these mental schematics of what he’d do the moment the factory was written in his name. But in your hearts, the factories would be yours.

~~That Monday afternoon~~

You were awake for a couple of hours, but the weight in your chest kept you sinking in Miguel’s guest bed. Your face is dirtied by messy blush and dried tears, your face looking like a shitty canvas. As you look through the window you feel asleep staring at. The black of the Sunday evening with heavy sprinkling of stars. Was totally enveloped by the milky clouds of the daytime, with just a few small puffs of the pure blue sky escaping through the colorlessness.

As your mind submerged in the gray sea of grief, being pushed down so deep all you could visualize was black. You recall when Mona learned to ride a horse, how she named her first horse snowball. The dimples framing her every smile, the pun book she carried around for years. How she’d collect plants to artistically study them, practicing drawing on dandelions. You had to carry her to bed when she fell asleep by her drawing desk many times.

You couldn’t help but smile at the thoughts, at the memories swimming beside you. It was a comfort. Then a gentle knock on your open door threw you back to reality.

“Hey, you didn’t eat breakfast. You should come out and get the lunch I got for us. Got some good rabbit…” Miguel sheepishly offered, you knew he was trying to help. You pushed yourself off the top of the comforters out of obligation of hospitality. You wiped your eyes after a long yawn.

“Okay, thank you.” You whimpered, Miguel gave a polite smile as you made your way past him down the hall. Once at the table, he neatly set out the plates. With some freshly roasted rabbit topped by garlic and basil. With lemonade in a see through pitcher centering the round table. His plate with the same sat across from yours. Once you meet the chair on the right of you, he sat on the other.

The clammer of metal utensils against porcelain plates, you lazily tore apart the seasoned rabbit with your teeth. You shot your eyes open, “Oh god this is so good-“ not meaning to sound so surprised in your compliment. Miguel smiled again “Thanks, took me half the day to catch it….” The hunger crushing you under your ribcage hit you twice as hard. Compelling you to shove as much of the meat into your mouth as possible. He started laughing, “Easy now no one's gonna take it from you…” you proceeded to eat like it anyway. The garlic giving a nice savory sensation across your tastebuds, meanwhile the basil a fresh sweetness splattered in your mouth.

Despite spending a lot of your life eating fancy meals prepared by great chefs. This simple meal tasted better than all of it combined.

“Thank you again, this is really good. I’m starving…” the rabbit you were currently chewing muffled your words. Miguel barely touched what was on his own plate. You spied so soon and stopped your assault on your own meal.

“Yes?” Enquiring puzzled, he shook his head with a nervous grin “Nothing.” He blatantly lied with an anxious crease framing his face. But considering all he’s done for you, you’d respect that he’d rather not say anything now.

“I have questions…” you abruptly state, he tears off his first piece of the rabbit putting it past his lips. “Ask away.” He responds casually, you point at his fingers “How the hell do you have claws?” He paused after swallowing his cooked kill, considering what to say. “Its a long story, short version being I created a liquid that gives me talons. As well as inhuman strength, stamina, endurance, and so on…” he said as if it wasn’t the most insane explanation you’ve ever heard in your life. Not like you’d anticipate a normal reasoning to how a human man can grow talons through each of his finger tips.

“Okay….” You breathed out, onto the next question “Just, who the hell are you?” Miguel raised his eyebrow at you, almost somewhat threatened by the question “What do you mean?” You frantically clarify “Who are you!?” That was a bad attempt at clarification. You’re sure Miguel won’t actually answer what you’re asking. But that doesn’t kill your persistence.

“How are you here!? Why are you here!? Do you work for the government!?…why did you save me?” The real question escapes from your lips after a few moments of quiet. Miguel’s suspicion dropped, pity rested in his blocky face.

“For the last one, I saved you cause I saw someone in danger. So I helped…” Miguel's hand brushing against your shoulder that was nearest to him. You realized just how big he is compared to you, at most an inch above six foot in height. And his muscles make his visage dwarf you by a lot. His hand can cup almost your entire shoulder too. But it was a comforting size, considering he’s used his body to do nothing but shield you and save you. The feel of his skin against yours only shoots a warmth from your heart to the rest of your body. How his touch moves through every nerve and muscle in your form is intoxicating to boot. But you snap out of it when he breaks away.

“But for the others, I’d like my privacy.” You nodded still somewhat dazed from how he touched you moments ago. But regardless you decided to respect that. You look down at the two helpings of meat left on your plate, as Miguel’s barely started with his. From then on you two embrace the silence. Just enjoying a lovely meal with company.

You can’t help but be intrigued by Miguel regardless. Wanting to dig behind his dark almond eyes to see the man beneath the mask. You don’t fear his intentions, he’s done the opposite of harm to you. Even if he did have bad intentions he’s had more than enough opportunities at this point to exploit you. But he hasn’t, you then spy around his home.

You noticed how empty it was, sure there were the basic necessities of life. Stove, bed, toilet, and kitchen sink. However besides that and a few bookshelves, there’s nothing filling this cabin. You certainly haven’t heard anyone else inside the house besides Miguel. Not even a dog or cat, it’s truly just Miguel boxed into this lovely abode. With quite a few miles of thick forestry severing his connection to the rest of humanity.

Miguel’s surely a character, all this skill and power, looks to boot. Yet he chooses nature as his only companion, but kept a guest bedroom in case anyone wished to fill this space with him. But by the partial dust that rubbed against your body as you laid on the guest bed. Something tells you you’re the first to do so in a long while.

He hides his loneliness well, wearing polite awkward smiles to greet you. Humbly allowing you to make your presence known however you wish. But never pushing or begging for it. However his dimples are always carved by a hopefulness you’d come closer. That you’d speak with him for more. Even when his introverted silence and private exterior would suggest otherwise. You know Miguel’s type, you’ve been that way too for many years.

So you throw him a bone, “For the sake of conversation, what do you read?” Miguel perked up, his dinner half done by the time you speak up. You swear you catch him blushing. “Not as much as I want to that’s for sure, can barely remember what I have read. What about you?” He’s hoping you can keep this going. His puppy eyes in your sights makes your heart flutter. This almost feels like a date.

“Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice is my favorite of her work. Jane Erye’s just okay….”

~~One heated rant about Jane Eyre later~~

You and Miguel were sitting beside one another on the couch with tea cups centering the coffee table. As cooled green tea fills your cups, you conclude.

“THATS why the twist with his wife being in the attic this whole time is ridiculous and out of left field.”

Miguel was entranced by you, just hearing you speak about the nutritional value of rice and he couldn’t look away. He’d barely be able to space out, just you yourself is enough to glue his mind to you. With his red button up shirt has a couple of its top buttons undone. With the sleeves folded back behind his elbows. You can’t help but be tangled by the sight of him, his laps spread about to massage his large thighs. Both his arms lining themselves along the top of the furniture you both sat on.

You knew he was good looking, but he can make even sitting on a couch look hot. You then cough realizing how long he’s been listening. Slightly embarrassed you await whatever response he has.

“Thank god you spared me having to read it then…” he chuckles, indulging your info dump. You gratefully smile as he grins back.

“Miguel…” you say, tasting his name on your lips. As the joy of the moment dropped. “Sorry, I overstayed my welcome, haven't I?” You let your head fall at your feet. Becoming anxious at the thought of Miguel becoming annoyed with you.

“No you haven’t at all…I’m guessing you have nowhere else to go?” You shake your head solemnly. As he continued, “You can stay here until you work something out…” you leered up to meet his eyes ``What? I can’t ask that of you-“ Miguel contradicted you “You’re not asking, I’m offering…” he bent down his head slightly. To make up the head and a half gap between your heights, even when sitting down. He eclipsed you by quite a margin.

You knew you couldn’t tell him no, even if you had other places to shelter you. Being with Miguel is just euphoric. You haven’t felt this way since before you met Thomas. And the feeling hasn’t come back since Thomas…changed.

You never felt a crawling under your skin at the sight of him. You didn’t jump upon hearing the sounds of his steps throughout the house. Miguel never would give you the silent treatment until he needed something from you. Even with a gun strapped to his thigh you never felt safer in your life. So you nod, swallowing tears back into your eyes saying.

“Okay, thank you…” Miguel’s smile fills his entire face, eats away the whole room so you can’t look at anything but the curve of his lips. After a moment of looking each other in the eyes. You spot the break of sundown through the window. You’ve talked for long yet it felt like a precious moment.

Miguel had his own question, it hung out from his bottom lip. You could tell. So you cut to the chase “I’m sure you want to ask something..go ahead.” Miguel swallowed and moved his arms to his sides. His posture is notably stiffening.

“Why did your husb-Thomas, want to kill you?” You grunted, a small volatile flame combusted under your collarbone. Igniting your heart like a match in a powered barrel. But it was muffled by your skin and bone, as well as your calm response. “I tried to run away with Mona, he found out. And tried to have me killed and make it look like an accident…” Miguel nodded understandingly. His hands folded together as his fingers nervously tangled themselves into each other.

“Did he want to kill Mona too?” He almost whispered, like one would try to gleam their feet as gently as possible on the breaking ice of a frozen lake. From what you both saw it looked like she was shot in the crossfire. Neither of you knew his plans for her, and why he was in such a hurry to leave with her.

“I….I don’t know.” You eventually choked out, a loud sniff punctuating your admission. You explained further looking down, “He never once paid attention to her when she was a baby or growing up. If there’s one thing Thomas despises it’s something or someone he can’t control….I assume he cared enough to try and kill me for leaving. But I just don’t fucking know.” Miguel apologetically frowned at you, nodding with a “Okay, thank you for explaining to me.” One socially inappropriate smile at him you chuckled

“I appreciate it, Miguel.” He nods standing up, cracks his back the second after. Then get up to start the dishes. You don’t feel tired at all, you straighten your legs after pushing yourself off the couch.

“Hey, let me help you.”

#Miguel O’Hara #Miguel ohara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #spiderverse #spiderverse au #I’ll find you #18+#cowboy!Miguel #cowboy au #au #miguel 'ohara x fem!reader #miguel ohara x fem!reader

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funnylittlelad · 11 months

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So, I've been thinking about Appalachian!Eddie and Steve meeting as kids when Eddie's mom cleans Steve's house

disclaimer here: i grew up in the very northern bit of Appalachia and i went with my mother to clean houses growing up so this may have been a little thing just for me at first

wc: 2.3k

steddie masterlist

Eddie’s childhood was spent in grandiose houses with giant yards and more facilities than a home could ever need. Not because he lived in them, but because his mother cleaned them. She worked for a private cleaning business that would send her, and therefore Eddie, in her shitty little Chrysler at least forty minutes into the middle of the state. To where all the miserable people lived.

That's what his mother called the people who lived in those grandiose houses. She'd tell him that their houses may be nice, but they're miserable because they have to work so much to pay for it that they never get to enjoy it. He supposed she must be right. No one was ever around when they were, after all. As he got older he couldn't help wondering if those people were miserable then what was his family? Damned, he guessed.

There was one house at the start of one summer, a little further than normal that Eddie remembers better than the rest. They would visit his Uncle Wayne who lived nearby whenever they were there. It had a ruby red door despite an otherwise drab exterior. Eddie remembers this particular mini mansion because someone was home. A boy, around Eddie’s age with fluffy looking hair and cautious caramel eyes. Eddie was enamored instantly. Those eyes and the moles dotted around tanned skin shot Eddie through the heart with a harpoon. His parents were never around. It was always just him and the nanny.

The first time Eddie walked into the house it was a lot like all the others. Towering ceilings, giant stairs, and all the makings of someone’s wildest American dreams. The boy didn't really talk to him in the beginning. In fact, Eddie tries to say hello when the boy walks past him and his mom, but to no avail. The boy continued on as if he wasn't there. Fifteen minutes later he was sent into the kitchen to find extra clorox. His mom didn't grab some like she thought. When he reaches the side entrance, he hears them.

“Why does it matter?” The boy asks petulantly. It’s Eddie's first time hearing his chime-like voice, “They're just cleaners.”

The nanny sighs and shakes her head. She levels him with a disappointed stare.

“The people who work for you are still people, Steven. Just because your parents are-,” another sigh, “Your parents may not act like it, but the people who take care of you and your home deserve to be respected too. If that's how you're going to treat them, that's the same as treating me that way.”

Eddie expects to hear the boy fight back. He expects some kind of tantrum he’s grown to accept as normal from people who live in places like this. Nothing like that ever comes.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“It’s okay, Steven,” she replies gently, “With your parents… it's no wonder.”

Eddie isn't sure what that means. He doesn't get too long to think about it either. His mother calls his name from down the hall. It jolts him into movement. Silently, he enters the kitchen but keeps his eyes ahead of him. He begins to scan the doors of all the cabinets. It's an overwhelming amount. Way more than the four they have at home.

“Do you need help finding something?” The boy’s voice asks from behind Eddie.

With a start, he spins around. The boy is smiling at him. It’s small, but it's there and it's friendly. It strikes Eddie that, even at the ripe age of ten, this boy is pretty. Almost like those porcelain dolls his grandma used to hoard.

“My Ma needs the bleach,” he replies slowly.

The boy's smile grows ever so slightly. He nods and goes to the cabinet beneath the sink. It's a strange place for cleaning supplies, Eddie thinks, but he’s noticed a fair amount of the miserable people do it. His mother always kept the chemicals high and out of his reach.

“Don't you usually bring your own?” The boy asks, seemingly to be genuinely curious as he hands over the blue spray bottle.

“Reckon she thought she’d brung’it in her poke, but came up empty,” Eddie shrugs.

The boy blinks at Eddie as if he’d suddenly grown a second head.

“What?” The boy asks, a laugh teetering on the edge of his lips.

Eddie’s defenses go up instantly. The boy must be able to tell because he holds out his hands to assure Eddie all’s fine.

“Sorry- Just-” The boy shakes his head a little, “I didn’t understand like… any of that.”

Eddie regards him, trying to decide if he’s messing with him or just that stupid.

“What part?”

“Well, what’s a poke?”

“Y’don't know what a poke is?”

The boy shakes his head. Eddie scoffs a bit and looks around for help, but they're alone. How could this kid not know something so simple?

“Like what groceries go in,” he tells him.

The boy's head cocks to the side.

“Oh, you mean a bag?”

“That's what I said,” Eddie states annoyed, “A poke.”

The boy is blinking again.

“Where are you from?” He asks suddenly.

“Not from this neck. We moved from the Cumbies out t’ward the state line,” Eddie answers.

“The Cumbies?”

“Yeah, the Cumberland Mountains.”

The boy let out a fascinated huh. Eddie nods awkwardly. His mother says his name from the doorway. His eyes shoot to her. She wears a slightly amused yet scolding smile. He offers her a sheepish smile in return.

“What’d I tell you about talkin’ when we’re places like this?” She questions knowingly.

“To use my proper people words,” Eddie drones.

“That's right. Now c’mon, we don't want anyone put out.”

Eddie nods and hands his mother the bleach. He goes to follow her back to the bathroom she’s cleaning.

“Wait,” the boy says.

Both Eddie and his mom look over their shoulders. They’re almost the same image. The boy flushes at the sudden attention.

“You can keep the bleach,” he tells them weakly.

“Thank you,” Eddie’s mother smiles.

Steven and Eddie hold eye contact for another moment. It feels like Steven wants to say something else, but he doesn't. Eddie drags his eyes away to follow his mother. He doesn't see Steven again that day.

Eddie’s mom doesn't get that house to clean again until a month later. Steven and his nanny are once again the only ones home. This time Steven never ignores Eddie. He finds Eddie and his mom in the living room. Eddie is curled up on an armchair with a rather thick looking book while his mother vacuums. Steven comes up behind the chair and taps Eddie on the shoulder. Eddie’s deep brown eyes fly to Steven curiously.

“Wanna play outside?” He asks.

Eddie considers him for a moment before closing his book and nodding. His mother smiles at him as they dart out of the room. When they get to the backyard Eddie comes to a stop. He looks around and his nose crinkles. It's pavement and pool as far as the eye can see.

“You call this a yard?” Eddie scoffs.

Steven pouts as he takes in his own yard with fresh eyes. He shrugs.

“Yeah, what would you call it?”

Eddie picks up a half deflated beach ball and looks at Steven with a deadpan stare.

“Sad.”

“Well, what's yours look like?”

Eddie flashes a toothy grin.

“Back home we had a lotta land. I could get through those woods with my eyes closed,” he answers, his words sounding thought out and intentional.

Steven frowns a tad. Where’s the quick talking hard to understand boy from last time?

“There are woods,” he points to the thin cropping of trees beyond the fence.

Eddie snorts.

“No, those are some trees. I’m talkin’ woods.”

Steven leads them to some pool chairs while Eddie describes the woods back home. He goes into great detail about the green of the trees, the thickness of the trunks, the solitude of being out there, and the animals he's learned to interact with. Steve hangs onto every word, but something is bothering him. Eddie is still talking in that measured way that sounds nothing like the last time.

“Why are you talking like that?” He blurts out while Eddie is telling him about a nearby stream.

It was the way that Eddie hesitated and struggled with the word stream that prompted his outburst. Eddie narrows his eyes at Steve.

“Like what?”

“I dunno, you’re not talking like you did last time,” Steve shrugs insecurely.

“I’m… s’pose to be learning how to talk more proper,” Eddie sighs, looking down at his hands.

“Why? What's wrong with how you talk?”

Eddie’s wide deep brown eyes shoot back up to Steve curiously.

“It makes people think I’m stupid,” he answers.

Steve’s face scrunches in a way that makes Eddie smile a little.

“I don't think it makes you sound stupid. You can talk normally around me,” Steve tells him.

Eddie blinks for a moment. Steve’s words latch right onto his heart. You can talk normally. No one outside of where they're from has ever made Eddie feel anything less than weird, or an outsider. Here Steve sits in front of him calling how he talks normal.

“Y’sure?” He checks, his smile growing.

A grin starts crawling across Steve’s face as he hears the startings of a twang. He really likes the way Eddie talks. He sounds so much different than anyone else Steve has talked to. It grabs Steve and makes him want to solve every sentence like a puzzle.

“I’m sure.”

The rest of the time Steve spends trying to guess what Eddie is saying. Eddie, the little shit, isn't making it easy for him. He just smiles more and more mischievously each time Steve fumbles. By the time Eddie’s mom is done with the house they're chasing each other around the backyard giggling like mad. She feels bad for breaking it up. It's not often she gets to see Eddie playing so care free with another kid. He hasn't had it easy since moving to Indiana.

She starts taking Steve’s house more. Eddie and Steve quickly become best friends. When they’re together they're completely wrapped up in each other. Eddie’s mom finds it a little funny, but figures boys will be boys. Steve never stops encouraging Eddie to talk how he normally does around him. Eddie never stops complying, reveling in the feeling of being normal.

One day they're there a little later than usual. Steve’s parents left a mess from hosting a bunch of fancy guests. The sun slowly dips below the horizon, orange hues drench the sky. Crickets chirp and the high pitch trills of gray tree frogs fill the air. Steve and Eddie had been trying to skip rocks across the pool, but have since transitioned into sitting with their feet in the water. Steve doesn't need to guess or fumble anymore, he’s officially fluent in Eddie. As the summer winds down the impending school year looms over them. Eddie won't be going with his mom to work anymore and Steve won't be around if he does.

“Maybe you can come over on the weekend,” Steve suggests hopefully.

“I dunno, Stevie. My Ma has to carry us pert near an ahr to get to these parts.”

Steve frowns. He didn't know they drove close to an hour every time they came here.

“Maybe I can come to your house then,” he switches gears.

He doesn't want to give up Eddie yet. Eddie doesn't expect Steve to be anything other than who he is. Steve wants to desperately cling to that as long as he can. Everyone in his life wants him to be something else, even at ten.

“No,” Eddie shakes his head vehemently, “Y’don’t want that. My dad… Well, he gets het up easy. He’s ill.”

“Like he’s sick?”

Eddie sighs. Not because Steve doesn't fully get it, but because he has to talk about this at all.

“He’s gotta bad temper.”

Steve simply nods. He gets that more than Eddie knows.

“You’ll be around next summer, right?” Steve checks.

Eddie smiles widely.

“You betcha!”

“You promise you won't forget me?”

A funny expression takes over Eddie’s round features. His eyebrows furrow, his nose gets a crinkle, and his mouth quirks into an amused smirk.

“Ain't no way I’m forgettin’ you, Stevie.”

They spend their last evening together not worrying about the eyes and opinions of other people. When with each other they only have to worry about Steve and Eddie. It's a reprieve that they both miss come the school year. Eddie gets distracted by bullies, his mother passing suddenly, his father deciding he’s man enough to help provide now, and attempting to teach himself guitar. Steve spent the whole school year waiting.

The first week of the next summer Steve waits, vibrating with anticipation. When the day the cleaners usually come swings around, he’s all but bouncing off the walls. His nanny even scolds him a few times for his restlessness. The sound of the doorbell has him speeding to answer the front door. He swings it open with a wide grin ready to greet Eddie and his mother.

Steve’s heart falls flat on the floor and his smile drops. Waiting to be let in isn't Eddie or his mom. It’s some older woman in the same shirt Eddie's mom always wore. That tells Steve his parents didn't change companies, but Eddie still isn't here. He decides maybe it's a fluke. Maybe something happened so they couldn’t come this week. They're nearly an hour away, after all.

The next week Steve repeats the same process. And the week after that. And the week after that. Until he finally gives up on the idea of Eddie altogether. Steve spends that summer locked away in his room mostly. He wallows in his loneliness while all his friends from school are on lavish vacations with their families. He spends his summer in Hawkins alone missing the only friend he really felt himself around. Meanwhile, Eddie spends the summer lifting cars with his dad to afford to continue living in their house after his mother’s death. Every day, his thoughts wander to Steve and how much he wishes he had a way to tell him he didn't forget. He'd never forget.

part 2? | steddie masterlist

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie brainrot #steddie fic #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie ficlet #appalachian eddie #appalachain!eddie

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crescentbelle · 8 months

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The Motel

Jake Lockley X reader word count: 1k warnings: mentions of violence?? blood and injuries, angstyy but also fluff?? who knows

my neighbours were having the loudest sex the whole time i wrote this and it did not help with the ambiance i was trying to create for myself

You look over the text again.

I'll be back late, leave the door unlocked.

Please don't stay up, I love you.

And of course, you are choosing to ignore it entirely. Chained to habit, you slip up onto the basin and prep to play makeshift nurse. The motel is grimy this time, with blue-hued fluorescent lights and cracking pink tiles. You are sure this is the worst place you've stayed in, spending time hyping yourself up in case of a rogue cockroach and trying to find the source of a bleach ridden smell.

From the crack of the bathroom door, green numbers stick alight, displaying 3:35 AM. Fourteen motels and hotels across the US have been home, running away from one problem or another for months. And for the last 4 hours, you have the fantastic entertainment of buzzing lights and hissing pipes, waiting for Jake's return.

The janky doorknob turns, and a whisper of a swear is caught. Jake is finally crawling back in. Two quick thumps of his boots echo with the pat sound of leather to wood.

"Hi, my love," You whisper, trying to take in the state of him. You don't know what to say. Grazes litter the high points of his face, rouge and raw. His left eye is almost swollen shut, bruises littering his brow bone and a cascade of other injuries, covered with their fair share of blood. The lighting makes it look all the more vicious, the tacky liquid coming up black.

"I told you not to stay up." His voice is barely alive, hoarse and bare.

"Stop it," You start to fiddle with alcohol wipes. "You're too stubborn. Have I ever told you that, Mr. Lockley?"

Jake hushes you, moving between your legs and gliding his hand to the nape of your neck. It's self-soothing, as he brushes at the soft skin, easing into closing his eyes. "I'm fine, mi conejita."

A stillness settles, and for a moment, you try to figure out where you're supposed to start. In all honesty, his condition scares you. He almost seems unreal, face swollen at awkward angles and vulnerable. Jake's stare is cold, a dissociated look locked into the rusted sink. You wonder if Steven or Marc are saying anything or if the pain is just that bad.

"I'm taking there's still no word from Vengeance himself?"

"I don't know what he wants." The words are like déjà vu, ringing out into the silence. Memories of hot dunes- a knife to sutures, courses to the front of your mind. Marc's body crawling towards you, fisting at useless, liquid sand. "I'm stuck waiting like a fucking dog."

You kick-start yourself into shitty medic mode and away from any echoes of the past or failed humour. Slipping your hands down the buttons of his shirt, you peel the soaked cloth off his body. The process starts, patiently wiping away blood from his chest and neck, sinking into soft kisses across the aftermath. It's slow, and the man is patient, keeping his eyes screwed shut.

Jake has always been the toughest, which, contrary to popular belief, might not be the best quality. He's loyal, and harsh, and like a fucking brick wall sometimes. There's a confidence and strength of his that has a way of enveloping you, and something about another man's blood on his hands is (disgustingly) enticing.

And yet, despite this, tonight has proven that things are hitting their boiling point. Khonshu's absence is becoming worrying, and the boys' absence is becoming painful. How much longer can Jake endure cleaning up a ghost's messes, one that he refuses to let the others do?

"It's all just power plays." You soothe, "From experience, I don't think he's actually waiting on anything. Maybe one of us should offer up as a human sacrifice, that'll get his attention."

A snicker escapes Jake, and a kiss is planted on the crown of your head. "Smart girl. It's a wonder why he never chose you for an avatar."

You sneak a mischievous grin, "I think I would be great, don't you?" There's something to his slight grin that might make you consider it.

The man shakes his head, pointing absentmindedly to the mirror. "Hm careful, Marc didn't like that one." Of course that's what brings Marc forward to say something. You try to ignore Jake's morsing glimpses in the mirror and the sour turn to his grin.

"Things will be okay, okay?" You reach out, smoothing over his shoulders. "I know you don't like us saying it- and you don't have to believe me, but it's true."

There's no response from the brooding man, but his eyes lock onto you, brow furrowed. There's that look, the one that chokes you up.

Within seconds, you melt into a meek woman, legs dangling on the bathroom sink- caving into yourself. It's as if he sees through you, watching the cogs turning as you try to figure him out. You'll never win because giving respect to Jake is giving in, letting yourself live on the impulse of submission. It's breaking out of the mould for Steven or Marc and trusting (or more likely, devoting) yourself to what he tells you.

"Come on, let's get in the shower. You can help me clean up." Holding out his hands, they slowly guide you off the sink and eventually into hot water. There you both soak, wincing soft I know's that stay with the steam until the warm water cuts. It's as peaceful as it can be, and you feel your body aching for sleep.

"We'll be home soon, conejita. You've been so patient with me." The brunette whispers, cocooning you with a thin towel and drying himself off in following. It almost feels like home, the chilly draft of London and scratchy cloth.

"Maybe we can wait a bit," A smirk creeps up. "I'm gonna miss the moustache too much."

"I always knew you had great taste."

#moon knight #fanfiction #moon knight fanfiction #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley #jake lockely x you #angst #moon knight fic

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thefearfulheart · 8 days

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Untittled Superhero au thing

Alek grunts as he plucks another shard of glass from his hip, gritting his teeth on his leather glove as he does so. His breathing picks up as he places the small shard with the others that he has gathered on the gas station’s bloodstained sink.

The coppery smell practically fills the entire bathroom and it makes him feel sick.

It’s pure agony as he plucks another one from his hip.

There’s just a little more to go.

But he can’t help but think it’s been hours as he slowly, carefully gets rid of the tiny shards of glass from his flesh.

Alek can’t help but almost shudder in relief as he finally gets rid of them from his flesh and he can feel his wound slowly start to knit itself painstakingly back together until the brutal, bloody wound is only a faint pinkish mark on his skin.

He practically spits out his glove from his mouth and rubs a hand over his face.

A pain in the ass to do but better to get it over and done without so he doesn’t have to worry about his flesh healing over the glass.

The metahuman turns the tap and watches as the blood and small shards slowly drain inside the sink until all that’s left is the larger shards of glass in it.

He’ll have to clean it up but that can wait.

Alek ignores the harsh banging at the door.

“Fuck off, I’m a bit busy in here if you haven’t noticed?” He hisses out as he haphazardly cleans himself up as best as he can, wiping away whatever blood he has on him with paper towels and water. “Gimme 5? I won’t be too much longer.”

He drags his shirt over himself and wraps his black coat before throwing the glass into the bin.

Not the best idea but this is a shitty little no-name gas station that nobody should bat an eye at.

He wishes he could get rid of the smell of blood though.

It practically reeks of it…along with piss and the stinging smell of bleach mixing in the air.

Disgusting.

#oc: Aleksandr #to be a man? or a monster? // OC: Aleksandr Zhivago Levitsky #Of Might and Monsters #AU for some of my characters

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carry-on-my-wayward-butt · 3 years

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god i must have stood in front of the sink for hours today

#op #morning bottles #afternoon sanitizing #new pump parts to prep #dishes #cleaning sink for baby bath time #a loooong baby bathtime because SOMEONE couldnt stop SHITTING on the bath lotus #cleaning and bleaching the shitty sink #evening bottles #my feet fucking hurt

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little-diva-gurl · 2 years

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You are the best drug I consume Part. 4

Elliot x reader

Warnings: horny thoughts, some sad shit, drugs, hint of OCD

Word Count: about 1.1K

"I love you. Bye."

Jules' face made my heart break a bit, honestly I’ve never really been heartbroken over tiny things, but I’ve never been in a real relationship. Guys were dicks, because the majority of the male race thought with their dicks. I guess the tinier the dick, the more chances they were assholes probably because their dicks were small. When we walked in the girls bathroom I saw BB, Kat, and Maddy at the sinks so I let Jules go to the stalls so she could cry. I whipped out my pen and took a hit needing the buzz to get rid of all this shitty feeling.

“Hey, Y/N. How’s life been?” BB asked while blowing out a huge ass cloud of smoke. BB was fucking legit and that’s what I liked about her.

“It’s been good. Getting high and seeing friends is always a highlight of my day. Drama isn’t my forte, so if there’s shit happening let me know so I'll beat a bitch up. Text me, Facetime me, etc.” I said making them laugh.

My weakness for people I love and know is that I’m people pleaser, might be sexually or emotionally, physically. I would go to the depths of hell to make my friends and family happy, fuck.

I don’t like depending on people, because then thoughts would race in my head making me think the worse. I don’t ask for help, but Jules needed the comfort especially if this whole relationship thing with Rue was new. Just need to guide her on the right steps like a ballroom dance.

When the bell rang I walked Jules to her class, so that she knew she wasn’t alone. I gave her a quick hug, and I knew she needed it when she squeezed me a bit. Damn, this girl is tall next to my 5’2 ass.

Rushing to my class wasn’t something I did, since I said I had good grades, so my teachers hardly bat an eye when I come into class a bit late. What came to another shock was that Elliot was in this class too. Well, this will be an interesting school year.

As soon as school was over Elliot invited me to his house to smoke, and who was I to decline free weed? Walking into his room made me slightly itch since it was a bit messy, and I'm a bit of a clean freak.

“Listen, before I even sit on your bed, either clean a bit or I’ll be a maid but the pay can be weed. Sounds like a deal?” I told him as he pulled out his guitar strumming a bit of chords.

Shit, no wonder he knew how to use fingers. Talented fingers.

“Go right ahead.” Elliot said not looking at me when playing a bit of tunes

With that I got to work, putting his clothes into a laundry basket, picking up trash and putting it in a bin, angling his bean bags, and straightening his sheets. When I felt like I was done the room looked exceptional. I hopped on his bed with a gentle sigh listening to the strums of the guitar, and letting comfort take me and shutting my eyes.

“Oh, shit. It looks livable now, maybe I should keep you here as a maid.”

Opening my eyes to look at the bleach blonde shithead, who was smiling at me with a cheeky smile. Huffing, I laugh a bit while sitting up on the bed to face him,

“I can’t help it, I was raised cleaning after myself, so now that I’m comfortable with you I just can’t not clean.” I tell him while looking down playing with my stiletto nails hoping he doesn’t judge me.

“Hey, quit with the awkward silence, I’m trying to serenade you.” Elliot said making me laugh and look up at him.

He kept trying to play love, cheesy songs like Taylor Swift making me laugh whenever he’d start singing a bit. While time passed it felt like a few seconds went by, because hanging out with Elliot is fucking amazing.

Time wasn’t even a concept when being high and being with him, but Rue arrived with a cheery little smile on her face. I pulled some weed from my pocket and began crushing it with my little emergency crusher.

While rolling my blunt with precise rolling skills, because I’m a fucking legend at rolling blunts. Lighting that sucker up, and hitting it gave me a clear head, handing it to Elliot who gladly took it, while Rue walked to Elliot’s vinyl player playing some music. The blunt was passed to her while she was dancing to the music. It wasn’t until Elliot pulled something out from under his bed that caught my attention.

He also had a little tray placing it on his bed, and had a bag of pills with a card on it. Oh, shit. I was witnessing some hardcore drug shit. Crushing up one of the pills with his credit card and putting it into lines, and then pulling out a dollar bill rolling it up. Elliot sniffed up the line while I was watching this with wide eyes. Rue passed me the blunt still dancing which snapped me out of spacing out.

My high was streaming through my body, wrapping itself around me like a warm blanket burrito that I never want to get rid of. My buzz kind of euphoria was short lived when I saw out of the corner of my eye Rue taking the rolled bill and snorting a line too.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

“Rue, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I sneered while Elliot took the blunt from me and put it between his lips while grabbing his guitar and playing with the music.

“You shouldn’t be shocked, especially with what happened at the New Years party.” She shrugged making me huff.

“How would Jules react if she saw this shit? Especially when you both just got together.” I said while having a stern look on my face and turning to Elliot who was minding his business but felt my glare.

“She won’t react, because she won’t find out.”

#elliot euphoria #dominic fike #euphoria elliot x reader #elliot x reader #jules euphoria #jules vaughn #rue euphoria #rue bennett #euphoria x reader #euphoria

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thesmokingguns · 3 years

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warning: smoking, slight smut, drug use

Wendy and The Lost Boys

CHAPTER FIVE

Sasha sat in class, her notebook open and pen in her mouth as she looked out the window. It had been two weeks since she had been back to the apartment. After she had hooked up with Nikki she had tried to not be around the guys. Even when she worked at the club she’d call a taxi or Len would pick her up after her shift. She was aware that she was avoiding Nikki but she wasn’t sure what to do to fix it. After she had slept over a couple weeks ago she had worn so much cover up or scarfs to cover the marks Nikki had left on her. When she undressed she had seen the purple hickeys and angry looking bite marks. He had done it to show her not to make him jealous or he’d mark what was his. It wasn’t like she was hooking up with anyone at school. Len was a good boy towards her and she knew he was trying to take it slow before weaseling it to get her. He was one of the guys who were looking for a girl who came to school for a wife degree. But Nikki had made it impossible to even think about fooling around with someone else. All she could think about was the feeling of his mouth on her body and how when he kissed her she couldn't even think. She had known she had a crush on him but it was becoming apparent to her it meant more than she had expected

The sound of books shutting made her aware that the seminar was over. It was a Friday afternoon so everyone was hustling around campus heading home or off to get ready for the night. Sasha was working that night and was scheduled for an earlier afternoon shift the following day. She was only working two days a week unless she picked up other shifts but the money was better than most places. As she slipped into the blue costume she’d be wearing that night she looked around her dorm. With her schedule she needed to stay at the apartment. It made the most sense. She threw everything in her overnight back and headed to the bus stop. She’d need to call Tommy to give him a heads up about staying over.

“Sasha is staying over tonight. I’m going to grab some beers for her because she said she won’t come out with us.” Tommy said headed to the window to leave the apartment Nikki looked up from where he had been writing a song on the couch trying to process what he was told. After they had hooked up Sasha had vanished. She called Tommy sometimes but she wasn't around at all. He had thought about calling her or even driving the fifteen minutes away to her dorm room but there was nothing to really say.

Nikki loved the rockstar lifestyle. He loved the attention women would shower on him at shows or pretty much anywhere on the strip. He loved always having someone giving him booze or drugs when he wanted them and even when he didn’t. He loved all the eyes on the stage watching him and his band play the songs he created. The rush of it all was everything that he had dreamed of in his life. The problem with how much he loved the rockstar life meant that he wasn’t going to settle down. Sasha was a good girl and if there was someone who was worth settling down with it would be her but not now. Now when the band was putting out their first record and she was finishing her first semester of college; it wasn't the time for either of them to commit.

But Nikki hadn’t stopped thinking of her. Even though he knew he couldn’t be with her he still remembered every inch of her body and wanted more of it. He could feel her kiss still racing through him throwing him off balance. He could smell her on his sheets and feel her against him in his dreams. He was hooked on her with constant thoughts that no amount of alcohol or drugs seemed to numb. And now she would be in the apartment tonight and he would know she was there. How was he supposed to hit the Strip thinking of her in the house alone? He groaned, kicking the table sending bottles shattering onto the carpet. The fucking apartment was a mess and he was sure she would start cleaning it without anyone asking her to

They needed to move out of this dump. It was only him and Tommy living there now. Mick had moved in with a girlfriend; he was sick of the constant parting going on, never giving him a break to rest his back and the fact the place was always a mess. Vince had gotten married to his girlfriend Beth and they were renting a place together, playing family in the house well he would come out with the band most nights and run astray, Nikki didn't get the point of getting married and sleeping around like Vince did, They were too young to be worried about having old ladies keeping them in check. He even worried about Mick missing out and he was the old man of the group.Tommy was the youngest and he always managed to have a girlfriend because he thought he loved every other woman he met. Maybe, Nikki though, I’m just cut from a different cloth. He had been by himself for so long he didn’t know what value there was in love.

Sasha shook her head as she lit a cigarette. Tommy had told her that he was going to pick her up after her shift but it was 1120pm and he was twenty minutes late so she didn't expect him to come. She lit her cigarette headed down the strip to the apartment. She hated walking down the strip by herself, not that she was scared but more because she was so used to doing it with one of the Crue boys by her side. She was glad she had changed into her Keds before leaving but made a mental note that she would need to throw her bag at the apartment before her shift or take over one of Tommy’s draws. She yawned as she turned past the Whisky to the apartment hoping that there wasn’t some party going on. She was pleasantly surprised to find the house empty.

“Jesus fuck.” she gagged, her hand flying to cover her mouth at the smell. “I’m going to fucking kill them.” she said to herself. There was trash everywhere and it smelled like they hadn’t done any basic cleaning in months. A ripped up map was hanging outside of the bathroom and she peaked inside and wanted to scream. It had been two weeks since she had been there but a couple months since she cleaned the place. “Fucking children.” she moved into Tommy’s room stepping on a used condom and literally gagging. She was going to kill all of them.She changed into her pair of shorts, even though it was cold and tucked in a sweatshirt with the UCLA logo on the front. If she was going to sleep here she needed to clean it up.

The trash hadn’t been taken out since god knows when, and when she started moving the pile she ran with the cockroaches that came rushing towards her. It took her over an hour to get the trash into the apartment's garbage and by then she was crashing. Sasha took a half of one of her pills that she usually used to help her focus when she was studying. She wanted to get a few hours of cleaning done, not sure that it would actually really do anything to the house but at least someone should put in the effort.

It was three in the morning and she was still going strong, a warm bucket of water and bleach as she cleaned the walls in the living room. Hall and Oates were blaring on the record player as she danced around to the song. She had done all the laundry, dishes, cleaned the bathroom including buying toilet paper, made Tommy and Nikki’s bed, and was still going strong. She clapped her hands as she dropped the rag into the bucket. The sound of the needle skipping had her turning, looking at Nikki. She hadn't heard him come in so her heart had skipped a beat.

“Do you understand people know this is our apartment and we have a reputation to keep up with? You can’t be listening to this shit in the apartment.” he picked the record up, snapping it in half, watching the way her mouth fell open. She was shocked he had gotten so mad that he broke her record that he knew she loved. “Imagine if someone came by and here you are pretending to keep fucking house with your shitty disco music. For someone in college you should use hit fucking head.” she was staring at him, blue eyes watering. Nikki was notorious for being the asshole of the strip but he was never like this with her. Her mouth was open slightly as if she didn’t even know what to say to him yelling at her. She hadn’t been yelled at since the last night with her ex. Nikki moved over only stopping when he saw her flinch at him advancing towards her, her arm coming up like she was going to cover herself. He realized at that moment that he messed up. The tears were falling now and she wiped them with the back of her hands, noticing they were shaking.

“I’m sorry. “ she stepped back, fumbling as she picked up the bucket of water. She was moving to the sink, her heart racing. The water got dumped out and she placed the empty bucket under the kitchen sink. “Can I have my record?” she asked her hands out wanting the two pieces that he was holding. He handed them over not sure what to say. “Thanks.” Sasha stuffed them into the sleeve and headed to Tommy’s room, shutting the door behind her. She wanted to leave the apartment but she was afraid

He knew that he had fucked up as soon as he grabbed the record, snapping it like that and then yelling at her was overkill. The whole night he had been thinking of her back in the apartment. He had been so distracted that he barely realized what or who he was doing. He had thought about staying at the girls house who he had slept with but the idea of leaving Sasha alone in the apartment had him stumbling home. And when he saw her through the window, God she was beautiful. All her blonde hair and her ever present shorts drove him crazy. The way she was so in her world as she cleaned up all the shit that they had left, taking care of them in a way that only she could care enough to do. He stumbled into his room stopping when she saw the bed made, the empty beer cans cleared out, clothes hanging on the hangers in the closet. So he had fucked up even more because she was just trying to help.

“Fuck.” he was turning to go knock on Tommy’s door before he could talk himself out of it. The door opened and she answered it looking up at him, “I’ll go to Tower Records tomorrow and get you a new record. I shouldn’t have broken it, even though it sucks.” He ran his hands over his head feeling the knots of Aquanet teasing not allowing him to run his fingers through it. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.” he didn't want to look at her and see her upset.

“You don’t have to buy me a new record. I shouldn’t have left it here.” there was a tension between them and it was just heightened with the fight they were just having. “And I’m sorry I cleaned the apartment. I just wanted to do something nice since you guys let me stay here.” Of course was doing something nice for him, that’s who she was.

“Are you going to be okay sleeping by yourself?” he looked at her, seeing the way that her eyes flashed almost annoyed at him when he asked that question. Sasha could see the lipstick down his neck and knew if he was coming back to the apartment at 3am that he had been with some girl.

“Yeah. I think I’m getting to be like you, Sixx.” the way her tone was turning bitter surprised the bassist, “I mean you didn’t have to come back here tonight But you like being alone and I respect your space.” She knew where he had been and now he knew she wasn’t going to be the one that acted like he hadnt been fucking someone else.

“I came back here because I knew that you would be here.” Nikki told her, his hand on the door to block it from closing. She was angry at him for hurting her feelings again and mad at how he always was. He thought he was speaking volumes to her but she just looked mad at him.

“So you decided to come here to start a fight with me and break my record. That’s good to know. Now I know where you stand with me.” she was mad at him and her stomach was turning. He was such an idiot and Sasha didn’t know why she liked this moron who never said the right thing. He reached out and she closed her eyes, “I don’t like smelling some other girls perfume on you.” She told him and that was true. Knowing what Nikki did and having to experience it was a lot different.

“So why don’t I go shower and you meet me in my room?” He asked her to look at him so he could kiss her. She shook her head stepping back from him. The fact he was so casual about if made her even more mad.

“We can’t, Nikki. I want too much of you and you don’t want enough of me.” Her words meant nothing to him, despite it being kind of true.

“I think we both want the same thing. Even if it’s just for tonight.” She looked at him giving Nikki the opportunity to kiss her. Once their lips were locked, it was like a free for all. He lifted her easily slamming her into the wall. Her legs were around his waist and her hands buried in his hair. This fire between them as they both were starved for the other.

“I can’t have sex with you.” She managed to get out, making Nikki chuckle his mouth on her throat well he used one of his hands to get up her shirt. The feeling of her breasts in his hands had him pushing into her so she could feel how hard she made him. Sasha was pressed against the wall with him rocking into her wondering if she was going to cum from him dry jumping , “Wait, I’m serious.” She moaned out watching as his green eyes held hers.As much as she wanted to there needed to be a shred of self preservation, “I won’t have sex with you if you’ve slept with someone tonight.” He knew she was serious now and rolled his eyes.

“It’s past midnight. I should get a do over.” She was already wiggling her way to her feet. “You aren’t going to do anything?” He asked, watching her. She shook her head and Nikki wanted to punch something but his temper had already flared once. “What am I supposed to do?” He asked as she moved to go back into Tommy’s room.

“Use your hand and imagination.” The door was almost closed, “Like I’m going to do.” She shut the door hearing him groan and smiling.

“Okay, angel.” Sasha heard him outside the door. “I’ll play by your rules, just for tonight. But I want to either see you or hear you explain everything you’re doing.” She gulped because she couldn’t play games like this with Nikki. He knew more than her and wanted things she didn’t know how to give to him. Nikki couldn’t look and not touch. She knew that as much as he did but she was opening the door anyway letting him pull her into his room already breaking his no touch rule. Sasha was vaguely aware at this point that her feelings were going to get really hurt.

His mouth was on hers, her clothes being discarded before she could even figure out what he was doing. It was like she was falling in a spiral. Nothing made sense and she would collapse if Nikki had his hands on her back pretty much keeping her steady.

“Why does everything feel so good with you?” She whispered as his mouth went lower. He was nudging her on the bed. “Maybe because I feel safe with you and I trust you.” She sighed out wiggling under his hands. His lips were on her hips but when she spoke he stopped looking up at her blue eyes.

“You trust me?” He asked her feeling frozen in the moment. Sasha pushed herself up on her elbows looking at him.

“Of course I trust you. You’re always making sure no one touches me at shows and during the summer you’d split your food with me. You always tell me how things are and don’t sugar coat it. I like that.” Nikki almost fell on his ass. His hands slid up her body moving to kiss her, this time slowing things down instead of rushing her. Sasha surprised him when she rolled on top of him pulling off his shirt. Nikki hadn’t had anyone trust him before. When she confided in him it was like it made something realer between them. There was no doubt in his mind that he wanted her but now he could lose something he didn’t know he valued.

“That’s just how you should treat people.” He said his hands in her hair. She was five years younger than him but they both evened each other out in areas the other didn’t. If he was going to settle down it would be with her. He just needed her to get college so she could sow all her wild oats. She laughed at him and he frowned, “What is funny about what I just said?” he asked her, his hands behind his back. There had never been a time where a girl was naked on his lap and he talked this much. Usually he saved the pillow talk for,...never.

“Nikki, you’re literally one of the rudest people I have ever met in my life. “ he frowned at that and she touched his cheek. The small motion had him looking up at her, redirected, “You literally pissed on someone outside of The Roxy the night of my birthday because you didn’t like his shoes.” he smirked remembering that night. “And I haven’t had the best track record with people so when someone is nice to me it just means a lot.” she seemed to realize that she was naked on top of him but the way his fingers were dancing over her back.

“Do you think I should be mean to you so people don’t know?” he asked her, his hands on her hips pushing Sasha into his body. He did try to be a little mean to her to keep her on her toes and he did have a shitty personality.

“Don’t know what?” she asked, licking her bottom lip as she leaned closer into him. She could drown in kissing Nikki and wouldn’t even ask for a life raft. He did his side smirk, his hand sliding down her cheek and into his hair.

“I think we’ve talked enough, Angel.” he wasn’t going to tell her he liked her and set her up to be hurt even more but Sasha wasn’t going to let him go that easy. Her hands on his shoulders as she looked down at him.

“Tell me.” she was giving him this look, “Or do you want me to guess?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow. His hands were running up and down her sides and she knew that she was getting distracted.

“Forget I said anything, Angel.” he laid her down moving so he could be on top of her. Nikki put his lips on her. She was wiggling again and he sighed. “Why don’t we just sleep if you’re not going to let this go?”he asked her. He rolled holding her in his arms. She was quiet.

“I like you too. Even though you’re a huge asshole. And sometimes you stink from not showering.” She whispered. Nikki listened to her, frowning. The last thing he needed was to hurt her. But Sasha was smart, ambitious, good looking, and Nikki didn’t want to be the one to ruin her shine. Yet he was pulling her closer burying his face in his his as he fell asleep. Everyone was going to get hurt by this.

#nikki sixx #nikki sixx fic #nikki sixx fanfiction #nikki Sixx fan fic #Motley Crue fan fic #Nikki Sixx imagine

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whirlybirbs · 4 years

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✩ -- BLEACH ON A BUZZCUT ; 1 / 1

summary: captain rex needs to fix his hair. you help. pairing: captain rex x war correspondent!reader, established relationship warning: angst! and tenderness! mention of fives’ death. word count: 2.2k a/n: dedicated to @cyber-nya. i will probably write more about these two if people are interested. i really love this idea of a war correspondent for the HNN! would be fun.

Captain Rex, in all his years, has always ensured one, simple thing through the long, grueling tide of war:

His hair will always be blonde.

Save for that three month campaign on Kashyyyk, that is. Back then, dying his hair was the last on a long list of concerns. Food, shelter, and not drowning in the heavy monsoon months were at the top. His hair had grown out into angry little blonde tipped tufts, then. The roots of his hair looked like that of his brother’s. His beard, just as dark as the roots, itched. General Skywalker had laughed, citing the fact he’d never seen Rex with anything but his usual bleach blonde buzz.

“You don’t look like the Rex I’m used to.”

He sighs and runs a hand over the grown-out buzz in the barrack’s bathroom mirror.

The words stuck.

Anaxes reminds him of Kashyyyk. Different, but...

He feels the same. Tired, weary, and alone.

You plant your knuckles on the open archway of the bathroom as if you’d heard that thought from across the clamoring airbase. The rap-rap-rap snaps him from his stint in the land of self-pity. Rex’s eyes, warm and soft, land on you leaning in the doorway.

You frown. You know that look on his face.

“Been looking for you.”

Rex, fresh out of the shower, moves to the bench where his blacks sit. Beside those, a half-used bottle of bleach that’s been living in his foot locker for the last month. Beside that, a cup he’s stolen from the mess. Kix had lended him a pair of mint-colored surgical gloves, as per usual. Sure, maybe it’s a gross disuse of GAR medical materials, but... His vanity outweighs his guilt.

First though, he needs to shave. The three day old stubble is begin to rub the inside of his helmet wrong.

Rex, GAR issued towel hanging on his hips, snags the razor on the edge of the bench and turns back to run the water of the sink.

You’re moving across the room. You’re quiet -- and you’re watching the way the Captain wets the razor. You’re quick, snagging the GAR issued travel tin of dry-to-wet shaving cream from atop his folded blacks. You hand it to him, and Rex’s eyes sit on your for a moment.

“Everything okay?”

You lean against the mirror in the space between his sink and the one behind you. Your arms are crossed tightly.

Rex, ducking his chin and snagging a dab of the shaving cream, smears the foamy substance across the sharp curve of his jaw. You watch a bit enamored with the gesture, following the trail of white that paints the planes of his cheeks. Only when it’s even does he speak.

“Fine,” it’s tempered and slow, “You?”

You almost snort. “Rex...”

“Tired,” he supplies, then, realizing yeah, he’s being a little unfair, “I’m... tired.”

“You’re being called a hero,” you push yourself off the wall, spreading your stance and tilting your head, “You and Echo and --”

“Yeah.”

Oh. Your mouth closes almost immediately. Guilt washes over both your faces.

Rex drops his head again. “Sorry --”

“No,” you shake your head as he leans to grab the plastoid razor. The handle is battered and chipped. It’s his trusty one -- one that’s followed him in his pack on nearly every mission he’s run. It fits in his hand neatly. He drums it against the sink as you shake your head, “I... I know it probably sucks... Seeing him go.”

Rex snorts. Then, with an incredibly steady hand, carves a clean shaven path through the shaving cream along his cheek. He finishes the swipe, flicks off the foam, and huffs.

“He’ll be okay,” Rex says, voice wavering, “Just, uh... I’d thought it might be like old days.”

Your heart whines. Hurt pulls at your features. Rex ignores his own heartache.

Things are different. This isn’t Kashyyk. Not like when he had Fives and Echo and Jesse and Kix and Hardcase by his side. Not like when Torrent was whole, or when Ahsoka minded his recklessness and him hers. Everything is different.

And he was stupid to think it could be the same.

Rex is quiet while he finishes shaving. By the end of it, he feels a bit better. Cleaner. Less run ragged. The blonde, bulky and wide with muscle, bends over and splashes his face clean in the sink.

You touch his shoulder when he stands up.

“Hey,” you say, “I’m not goin’ anywhere, you know.”

Rex’s lip quirks.

You have long since become a fast fixture in his life. The affections between you both had blossomed and bloomed and... it had culminated in nights spent together in small cots on planets near and far. It was an unspoken bond -- one that was sewn together with stolen kisses and wandering hands in the final hours of war torn nights.

You’d met him months ago -- before the Outer Rim sieges had risen to the escalation they sat at now -- when you’d been working public relations and doing press releases for Senator Amidala and the other Republic aligned senators.

You’d shook hands with General Skywalker on the terrace of the Naboo Senator’s balcony, and then his Captain’s. The Jaigeyes on his helmet betrayed the kind eyes beneath.

(You were beautiful, standing there in the sun before him. Even now, in the humming overheard lights of the Anaxes barrack bathroom, you’re beautiful.)

Two weeks later, you’d been sent to tail the 501st and report on the war for the HoloNet News in juncture with the Outer Rim Node. HNN had been wanting a reporter in the field for a while now and... Padmé had put in good word.

“Keep an eye on Anakin,” she’d smiled, “And Rex, too, will you?”

You kept that promise you made.

Rex is standing before you now -- tanned skin marred with starlight colored scars. They dash across the planes of his chest and abdomen like comets in the sky. One scar, a large circular hole that swirls in the center of his chest like a collapsing star, has its own gravity. The scars on his body paint a universe in and of itself. Mapped and ever expanding.

He touches your cheek. His hands are warm and calloused.

“I know.”

The smile you give him is reserved for moments like this. Tender. Quiet.

You lean into the touch and kiss his palm. Rex chases the touch with a sturdy press of his lips to your forehead. He speaks against your brow.

“Gotta fix my hair.”

You laugh. “I do love blondes.”

Rex’s chest rocks in amusement. He moves away, towards the bench -- you linger. The electric buzzer, copped off Jesse, hums alive in Rex’s hands. You touch his forearm. Brown eyes look up in question.

“I can help,” you say, “I don’t mind.”

He lets you take the clippers from his hands. And then, he move to stand in front of the mirror again. You trail behind, a head shorter than the trooper, and crack a wry smile when Rex bends -- with an expression of haughty pride -- so you can reach his head.

The peek of brown has climbed up his short bleached hair. It feels odds to reveal a trail of dark brown hair when you run the clippers over his head. You teeter on the balls of your feet, catching a smirk in the mirror on the Captain’s face at the need to get a better view of his head. You swat at his back. He laughs.

The work is easy enough -- and in a minute or so, Rex looks more like Cody than himself. It’s disorienting. His hair was so... his... that the absence of the blonde made him look so much like his brothers. You’d not thought of him as a clone for a long time, now. This moment serves as a reminder.

It’s a bit of a punch in the face.

His life -- as treasured as it is in your hands -- is nothing to the Republic he fights for. The thought is one you’ve bitterly swallowed down for months. All of them... hundreds of thousands of men. Nothing but canon fodder. Nothing but numbers on a datapad.

Rex notes the discomfort on your face.

He runs his hands over his fresh buzz and drops his hands to his waist. The defined muscles of his stomach move as he exhales.

“I hate it, too.”

“Does it bother you?” you mumble, “Looking so much like...”

“Like Jesse?” Rex snorts, “Sure does. Ugly sonuva --”

Your laugh makes him sport a wry grin. You shake your head, moving to eye the job. You did a decent enough buzz. The bleach will hide the imperfections, of course. You swipe at the back of his head and brush some hair from his shoulders.

"Why do you think I bleach the life outta my hair, huh?” Rex supplies as he leans around to grab the half used bottle of bleach -- the tube is blue and reads Fancy’s Hair & Dye down the side in Aurebesh. It’s the best brand he’s used; a favorite. No need for two rounds. Does the job in one sitting.

“Because I like blondes?”

A joke.

He laughs. You snag the bottle out of his hands, then point to the bench as you read the label.

“Sit.”

“Didn’t know you were a stylist.��

You swat his shoulder. Still, you’re reading. And when you finish, satisfied with the thirty minute wait time outline on the bottle, you hand it back and reach for the gloves.

“... You don’t have to --”

“Rex,” you mutter, “Shut up and let me dye your hair, will you?”

His smirk digs into his cheeks. “Why should I?”

You snap the gloves on and brace a knee on the bench beside his hip. In the mirror across the room, you can see the wrinkles along his cheeks return with his amused expression. You plant a sturdy kiss to his temple.

“This,” you say, opening up the bleach and quickly making work at spreading it along his scalp. It reminds you of shitty bleach jobs you did in university -- drunk in communal bathrooms surrounded by your classmates. It’s not neat, but you try to make the bleach even along his head, “is the most relaxing thing I’ve done in weeks.”

“War’s hell.”

“Eugh,” you recoil, “This stuff smells like hell.”

Rex grins. “Extra strength.”

“It’s that Mandalorian hair,” you chirp, smoothing the bleach. Rex’s eyes lull shut, “I never realized how dark it was.”

“It’s deceiving.”

“I like the blonde better,” you say, then adding, “On you, I mean.”

"Not a fan of Crys’ hair?”

You scoff. The 212th trooper had sunshine colored hair. Not like the near silver of Rex’s. His look was high-maintenance. Rex’s was... battle-ready. Easy. Handsome. Not pretty like Crys tried for.

“Despite the brotherly similarities,” you grin, satisfied with the now purple colored head before you, “I really do only have eyes for you, Cap.”

Rex rolls his eyes. “As if you wouldn’t drop me for Wolffe in a heartbeat.”

Another swat. Rex is going to start keeping count. You chuck the gloves in the trash, moving to prop yourself up on the bench next to the Captain as the bleach sets. “That was before --”

“Before you realized I was this handsome under the bucket?”

When you’d first began operating within the 501st, you’d had a few run-in’s with the Wolfpack. Their commander had readily stolen your attention, much to Rex’s dismay. He’d been pining for weeks by that point, and to hear you vocalize your evident attraction to the gruff vod’ika ticked a blonde right off. You still haven’t lived it down.

“Wolffe is... mysterious,” you shrug, “His holonet segments got a lot of traction, you know. Almost as much as -- ...”

Almost as much as Fives.

Charismatic, kind, and handsome. Funny, too.

Rex squeezes your knee. “Hey.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Still hurts.”

“Kills.”

His arm snakes around your shoulders. Your cheek knocks his bare shoulder. The shared grief ripples around you both tightly. But there’s comfort there. Two souls, hurting -- together. Better than before, and Rex certainly doesn’t feel as lonely as he did when he first set out to fix the blonde on his head.

The kiss is a little jumbled. Your nose bumps his and your teeth clack. It’s sweet and tender and you have to laugh into the gesture. No matter how often you two come together like this, in comfort and in passion, it still yields lovesick results. The 501st Captain has you wrapped around his thumb. It shows, especially when you lean in to steal another moment of the kiss.

Anaxes reminds him of Kashyyyk. Different, but...

He didn’t have you on Kashyyyk.

Now, he’s not so tired, weary, and alone.

But, still blonde.

#captain rex imagine #captain rex x reader #captain rex x you #rex x reader #tcw imagine #captain rex reader insert #clone wars imagine

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whalesfallmoved · 3 years

Text

hand over wound (1/??)

half an excuse to play around with form, style, and the second person pov. this isn’t what I typically write, so I’m ahhhhh about it all around. alas, FHR lives rent free in my head right now. only read over it a few times for mistakes, so apologies for any typos.

pairing: ricardo ortega/f!sidestep, pre-heartbreak rating: t word count: 2175 warnings: mentions of blood, injury. typical canon content.

[read on AO3.]

You’re in an apartment that isn’t yours with a man you shouldn’t trust and a gut bleeding out over his nice, expensive bathroom, and that doesn’t sound like the start of a bad joke so much as the start of the end of your life.

(If you could call it a life, if you could call it anything more than all your stolen seconds ticking down to this moment. Torn stitches— fucking stupid, stupid mistake, this is how they’re going to get you—)

(He’ll take you to a hospital and they’ll look and they’ll know and he’ll know and and and)

Fuck.

Two choices:

One. You can suck it up, ask for a first aid kit—he’ll have one, twice as nice as the one you’ve got and he doesn’t even need it—all those Ranger benefits he keeps trying to entice you with, go team! Maybe even some halfway decent painkillers.

You lock yourself in the bathroom, stitch yourself up clean enough to get out of here without bleeding on his floor, too. You can meet his questions with a hard laugh and a fuck off I’m fine go finish making the food I’m starving.

(and why the fuck did you come here why did you let yourself get swayed by his fast grins and his bright eyes? He isn’t your friend, he isn’t, even if he thinks he is.)

Fuck.

Two. You make a run for it. More questions. Potential for passing out in a dark alley. Vulnerable and wounded until you can get back to your own shitty place and hope to god Ortega doesn’t think to follow you. Which he will, you know he will, and you’re fast but he’s always been faster, just as quick on the draw with a mind of static to take your edge.

You pull the tight undershirt up higher, flinching at the sight of your own skin, focus on the blood rolling sluggish and hot instead of the flinty orange patterns. The wound’s deep and fresh and curled like a crooked smile.

Black clothes help. Red splatters vibrantly on the white marble counter, onto the floor, sticks to the soles of your feet (bare, shoes kicked off at the door.) You’ll have to clean that up. How the hell will you do that? With his goddamn bleach white towels?

God— fucking— fuck.

Okay. You can do this. You just ask. Ask for the first aid kit. Slam the door in his face. Or run.

You want to run. Feel that rabbit-heart drive bursting up under the skin to book it and maybe that’s what you need to do. Yes. That’s what you need to do. Leave Ortega the mess—you’ve saved his ass enough times you won’t feel bad about it, or at least not so bad you’ll apologize for it later (you never apologize, even when you maybe should) and—

A knock, and you jump, gasp. “Still alive in there?” He asks, that same smile-lilt to his voice. He’s teasing you, a little, but there’s an edge of concern too.

(shitshitshitshitshitshitfuck)

“Just give me a second.” You bite out, trying to sound put upon rather than panicked.

Shirt tugged down—fuck, that hurts—and your teeth sink into soft cheeks, hard enough to sting.

A pause. You wait for the sound of footsteps to move away from the door. Silence, instead.

Exhale.

“—Hey, are you alright?”

Goddamnit.

“I’m fine,” you drop to your knees and your side screams and the blood gets stickier, you can feel the fabric dragging with every move. Throw open the cabinets. Maybe he was organized for once in his life and put the first aid kit in here (fat chance) and nothing, nothing, just bare bones cleaning supplies.

Frustration and pain build up, you slam the cabinet with a teeth-clenched groan and the knock comes again, more insistent this time, hard knuckles on hard wood— can’t you just fuck off can’t you leave me alone why did i come here—

“Noa. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. God, what do you want?” You snarl, voice raising to a pitch.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.” Your hand clutches at your side and comes away red, smeary. You have to do something, you have to move. Think. You can’t stay here.

He’s not going to let you go. You should’ve just run while you had the chance, now he’s just outside the door waiting, on alert, knows you better than anyone (which isn’t saying much but it’s saying enough) and knows enough to not let you just snarl your way out of this.

Shaky inhale. “Maybe.”

“Okay,” he breathes—relief? you don’t know and it chafes, what’s there to be relieved about?—gives a softer laugh, “no big deal. Just open the door.”

You don’t want to do that. You really, really don’t want to do that. He’s going to want to help, he’s going to want to see, the way you’ve helped him before.

(warm brown skin interrupted by mods and scar tissue and the expanse of his back, defined muscle rippling under your fingertips— stay still, you snap, smacking his shoulder, and he laughs— ouch, watch it, I’m wounded— and that’s your own fault you idiot, needle/thread, and you lay his stitches so much neater than your own.)

“I… can’t.”

“...You can’t?”

“No.”

“Is it that bad?” His voice takes on a new edge, sharper now, the kind of break down the door, get the job done edge that comes with being a Ranger, you suppose. Not quite hard, still light enough to pass for his brand of charm-sly soothing, but you know better than to fall for that.

“I’m fine. Can you just…” you push up onto your feet, choking down another groan, pain splitting through your side like a disc-saw, “can you just get the first aid kit?”

You think you hear a faint curse, and then: “yeah, be right back.”

In the space between, panic sets in.

Panic’s a cold emotion, and it’s a sick kind of luxury. You never got to panic before, riding it out out out all silent scream while everyone else’s thoughts and feelings stuck to your teeth, wormed down to the base of your spine. With Ortega you’re alone in your head and the only thing left to do is wait. Fists clench, ease the shaking.

A few minutes pass, tick-tick-tick, and he’s at the door again, knock softer this time, and please, please, please leave me alone you want to say but you don’t, you just press your palm (red-stark) to your side, and maybe— maybe if you slam it open, it’ll knock him back long enough to give you a head start. You just have to get out—

“Noa.” He knocks again, and you think you hear his breath hitch, maybe, and you want to know what he’s thinking, you want to know so badly but it’s just deafening silence outside the door.

“Yeah… yeah.”

One hand to your pulsing gut, one hand shaking, the knob unlocks with a soft click, and you’re stumbling back into the bathroom, and he’s there, filling the doorway, eyes soft-hard and brow furrowed. His eyes flick over the counter, the floor (blood splatters, streaks of it) and he lets out another quiet string of curses, “what the hell happened—?”

He’s moving forward, and you stumble back till your knees hit the toilet.

You both still. Freeze. He’s got you cornered, and he knows it, he must know it, fuckfuckfuck— breathe, you have to breathe.

“You didn’t tell me you were hurt.” He murmurs, softer than before, one hand curled around the green-white first aid kit. Bandages. Stitches. Alcohol.

Maybe you could grab it. Run? No, that’s stupid— he’ll just grab you, shove you back, ask for answers you can’t and won’t give.

Fuck.

Again, you say: “I’m fine,” and feel your lips curl back, a snarl fit for a dog in a ring.

“Yeah, you look it,” he shakes his head, tries to smile, like he isn’t surprised but he wishes it were different, and he’s not going to get mad at you, not yet, we all get hurt in this business but it still can’t be different, it can’t be, asshole, so stop asking, “c’mon, let’s… go in the living room, and I’ll—”

“No,” you snap hard, working around the toilet toward the counter. A little more room that way, and you won’t sit, even though you’re starting to feel it, the shakes and the dizziness. Drip, drip, drip, and your hand curls tighter over your stomach.

“No?” He blinks, more confused than offended.

(you have such a delicate touch, he scoffs as you wrap pristine white bandages over the stitched gash, rough but slow, and you roll your eyes don’t get fucking shanked next time then, and he gasps, mock-offense, brown eyes sparkling, searching your mask for expression he won’t find but you’re smiling, you’re smiling because he’s beautiful.)

“Just give it to me. I can deal with it myself.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” It is.

“Sure it isn’t.”

“It’s just a flesh wound, alright? Someone got a lucky scratch in that last fight. Didn’t think it’d open again. But it’s not that bad.”

“Well, I’m still not going to leave you here to stitch yourself up.”

Fucking— always so stubborn, why won’t he quit?

“Either give it or I leave. Take your pick.”

He stills, watching you, and you wonder how you look to him.

Like a scared animal? Wounded little monster he found and picked up for some fucking reason? What does he want with you? What is he thinking?

His eyes trail over you, clothes all black and layered, baggy enough to hide everything,

“You’re kidding.” He wants you to be kidding.

“Do I look like it?” You tilt your head back, challenging, stilling up—shoulders stiffen, legs numb, prepared to run or to fight. Like he’s not blocking the only exit, like he’s not the one person in the world you can’t outmaneuver—Sidestep brought down by a head full of silence and a pretty fucking face.

They would laugh at you. They will if this escalates, if he sees. He’s got all his good intentions, it’ll be the death of you. He’ll be the death of you.

“So what’s it gonna be?” It’s supposed to sound like a sneer-snarl but it comes out weak, the razor edge of fear sliding just under your tongue.

But he must miss it. Or chalk it up to something else. “You’re being ridiculous,” he shakes his head, “it’s really not an issue.”

Ortega, always believing the best of you. That you don’t want to inconvenience him.

He wants to stay.

(you’ve never had anyone who wants to stay before.)

“I just wanna do it myself, fucks sake.” You burst, cutting him off at the finish line, and now you’re up on your feet, reaching with your free hand for the kit, ripping it from his hand.

“Just...” what was the line? “Just go finish making the food, alright? I’m starving.” and he lets you take it, lets you slam it down on the counter. You drop your blood-wet palm and clench it, as if to say see I’m fine it’s not that bad and his eyes drift over you again, harder than before, and he’s annoyed, well that’s too bad.

“Can I at least…”

“No.”

Jaw clenches. Works. Ortega never knows when to not push, when to not be that wonder boy so full of heart, head first into the action, and you’re small potatoes so what the fuck is he doing here, really, with you? There’s a dozen other vigilantes in Los Diablos that would probably work with him, that would fall for his knockout smile twice as fast and twice as hard.

(oh, you’ve fallen alright, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

But he knows you. He does. More and less than he thinks he does. And he knows you’re not bluffing. You’ll leave.

Shoulders still raised, jaw still stubborn, he slowly nods and steps back. You feel relief unshutter in your chest. “Alright,” he sighs, slumps.

Does he want you to stay? Or does he just want to make sure you don’t pass out in some grimy back alley to get picked over?

It doesn’t really matter.

(why is he letting this go that easily?)

“If you say it’s not that bad, I’ll believe you,” he nods, and it feels like a lie, sticks around in your skin the way lying does when someone lies with their mouth but not with their thoughts. “Just let me know if I can do anything, alright?” Smile, again, he’s always smiling except when he isn’t, effortlessly charming.

“...Okay.” You mutter. There isn’t anything he can do, and you both know you won’t ask.

You stand off, not flinching and not moving as he steps back, hands twitching at his sides—to raise them in surrender or grab you, you don’t know, so as soon as he’s through the door you grab it, slam it closed, lock it fast.

Safe. Or as safe as you can be.

Fuck.

#ricardo ortega #fhr #mywriting #hand over wound*#also known as: I wrote this instead of an essay #did I proof read it? no.#*forgot the ao3 link mndfgnmf whoops

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andromedarune · 3 years

Text

[Vampire!Leon/Witch!Reader] “A Night of Tricks and Treats” (Halloween Fic~!)

A/N: HAHA, I did it! It’s later than I wanted to post this, but it’s here! So enjoy the story that y’all voted for: A Vampire!Leon AU, with cute/fun elements, and a black dahlia thrown into the mix (along with other creative liberties). Thanks to everyone who voted on that poll - this one’s for you!

Vampire!Leon x Witch!Reader - “A Night of Tricks and Treats”

Word Count: ~3k

Rating: Teen (mild blood, reference to death, adult language, spooky stuff)

The third set of feverish knocks on your front door pulled a frustrated groan from your lips. You were finally drifting off to sleep when some rando decided to assault your door at some ungodly time in the night (or morning, since you checked your phone to see that it was a quarter past three). Pouted lips set on your face, you groggily slip out of bed, hardly bothering to grab the cardigan that you kept slung over your desk chair. Another fit of knocks was just starting up when you threw open the door, ready to say a few choice words to your unfortunate visitor.

But unfortunately for you, this wasn’t just any visitor.

“Hey, you’re awake!” Leon gave a cheery smile, oblivious as ever.

Ah. Maybe you should have put on some better clothes. But you’re already this far in - you decide to just play along like nothing’s wrong. Knowing him, you’d at least have a couple of minutes before the awkward sets in.

“Uh, yeah… You do realize it’s three in the morning, right?”

Leon shrugged.

“I’m aware, but it’s so much easier getting here at night. You have no idea how annoying paparazzi can be…” You sink in your hip a bit, watching his eyes flit down past your head for the briefest of moments. He tries to meet your gaze again, but the awkward smile twitching with some odd emotion that settled onto his face cues you in that he most definitely noticed.

The weather’s been oddly warm despite it already being autumn, so you were still wearing your summer pajamas. Which, of course, were a simple set of purple Wooloo PJs. Short-shorts that were baggy and comfy, a tank top that was equally baggy and comfy. Nothing scandalous, but definitely more revealing than what you normally wear.

You can practically hear the dial-up sounds going on in Leon’s mind as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, one hand tangling itself around a strand of that obnoxiously long purple hair, him just desperate to find something to distract himself with. It’s kind of fun to watch, actually.

“Did you need something?” you eventually sigh, crossing your arms over your chest as a hint of self-consciousness rumbles through your gut.

“A-ah, right!” he snaps out of it and lifts up his arm. Carefully pulling back the sleeve of his casual red hoodie, he reveals to you his forearm. A large, dark-colored burn covers most of the arm, even reaching down to his fingertips. You can’t help but wince, leaning forward for a closer look. “I, um, could use some of your help with this, if you don’t mind.”

“Again, really, Leon?” you can’t help but scold him a bit. He laughs, anyways. “This is the third time this month - one of these days there’s not gonna be much of you left to heal.”

He mutters a soft apology, but you’re still playing like you’re irritated with him and spin around into your living room. You don’t make it far before you realize that Leon’s still standing just before the threshold.

“Oh, right - you can come in.”

“Thanks,” Leon sighs in relief, still holding his arm with a smile.

Just like always, you guide him through your house, leading the significantly taller man down the halls towards a dark down just at the opposite end of your little cottage house. Expertly, you unlock the mystical mechanism that you yourself created (probably seven or eight years ago now? Man, how time flies) to reveal the ominous, shadowy basement. The two of you descend down the steps; you pass by a set of candles and light them with a snap of the fingers, a sight that surely puts stars in Leon’s eyes. He’s always been a sucker for parlor tricks like that.

Leon waddles over to the simple wooden chair you have waiting near the center of the room, taking a seat to watch as you tugged on your long black cloak (the one you made a habit to keep hanging down here for these very instances) and began pulling out various ingredients from one of the numerous cabinets that lined the upper walls of the room.

“Wish you’d just commit to being nocturnal, already,” you couldn’t help but sigh, checking the date you had written on the little jar of beeswax you were inspecting. “If you keep getting injured like this, your healing abilities might become permanently disabled.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m still champion,” he laughed, seeming more amused by your reaction than anything. “I can’t just step down for no reason.”

“Sure you can.” You climbed up onto a lower shelf to dig further into a cabinet. You left that jar of chamomile here somewhere. “Gym leaders do it all the time.”

“It’s different for champions. We’re the best of the best, the image of the ideal trainer for our region. Galar isn’t known for giving up, so that’s not an option I’m willing to consider.”

You almost settle for the bag of rosemary, only to quickly set it back in the cabinet. That would be bad, using rosemary on Leon. You were trying to heal him, here, not destroy the guy. You decide to check another cabinet.

“I know, I know, Mr. Unbeatable Champion. I’m just saying that it hasn’t even been a year since you’ve turned and now I’ve basically become your primary medical provider. And you don’t even pay me!”

“I pay you!” He whines a bit before pausing, no doubt trying to think of instances of proper “payment”. “I, um… Well, I’ll pay you back this time!”

You finally find the chamomile, and even stumble upon that jar of honey you were looking for earlier today (of course, they were both behind the several jars of cinnamon sticks). So you throw the man a perked eyebrow while walking over to your giant black cauldron, which rested within a rustic brick fireplace.

“Oh yeah? What have you, Good Sir Champion, have to offer to the likes of me?”

“Name your price and I’ll double it.”

You snicker, lighting the fire with a clap of the hands rather than snapping. You can barely catch Leon’s amazed smile from this far away. How is any of that exciting for someone like you, you can help but wonder. Champion, genuinely cool guy, recently-turned vampire… still gets amused at basic baby magic. Same ol’ Lee.

“Hm, that’s a bold offer, young man,” you muse, adding a dramatic raspiness that makes you sound like some aged witch from a shitty Blockbuster horror film. “A wise man would think twice before dealing with a witch~.”

“Please,” he snickered, “you still call me to catch baby Joltiks that wander into your house. Don’t even try.”

A playfully sour look from you spurs a booming fit of laughter from your old friend. You hide your smile by turning away, focusing more on getting some dandelions to add to the mix. A small bag of garlic slumps over in the cabinet, so of course you grab it and reveal it to the man. He instinctively leans back a bit, a nervous grin settling onto his face.

“Hey, maybe this’ll add some extra zing to your salve, huh?”

“Uh, n-no thanks…”

“That’s what I thought,” you cackle, tossing the garlic away. Thoroughly satisfied with what you have, you dump a shit-ton of beeswax into the cauldron, watching it slowly melt before adding in the other items. While all that boils away, you wander over to your other writing desk, skipping past your grimoire in favor of digging into a drawer. There, you retrieve a small glass vial and a bag of jumbo marshmallows; those in hand, you walk back over to where Leon resides.

“Time for the secret ingredient.”

“It’s not really a secret ingredient if I already know what it is,” he frowned.

“Shut up and open wide.”

He rolls his eyes a bit, but does as he’s told. If you didn’t already know the truth here, you might have not seen anything unhuman about his teeth. Overly white from years of meticulous care and likely bleaching or whitening strips (though the thought of Leon walking around at night with whitening strips on his teeth nearly made you choke on your spit), but otherwise normal-looking human teeth. However, you knew better, and peered a little closer to his canines. Sure enough, you could see it; a slight shimmer, something like seeing heat rising off the earth during the summer, wavy and hardly noticeable. You took a marshmallow in one hand, the vial in the other; expertly, you stabbed the treat into one fang and simultaneously propped up the vial against the other tooth. Leon flinched a bit (“It feels really weird,” he had told you one time, following the same procedure the night he needed a quick fix after accidentally grabbing one of his grandmother’s rosaries when cleaning up his mother’s house, “kinda like I’m spitting with my teeth. Yuck.”). In seconds, small spurts of a dark, sort-of maroon-colored liquid fills up most of the vial. You give it a few seconds more before pulling away, taking a moment to drain the liquid from the marshmallow before offering the remains to the champion. He childishly takes it with glee, stuffing it into his mouth with that stupid smile on his face (goddamn his smile was gorgeous, but it’s way easier to just say that it was stupid, instead).

With the last and most important ingredient, you return to your work, carefully pouring the vial’s sibylline contents into the concoction. You pick up the large wooden spoon that hangs over the fireplace and give a few generous stirs.

“Y’know,” you hear Leon’s footsteps creeping up behind you, keeping a slow, leisurely pace as he meanders around the room, “this really wasn’t the future I thought for us when we were kids.”

You exhale a chuckle from your nose. You almost say that you feel the same, but the fear of him inquiring further about what you did envision makes you choose a different set of words.

“Don’t even think about getting all Byronic on me,” you peered over your shoulder. He simply smiles at you - an even stupider smile - hands in his pockets as he slowly makes his way towards you. “I’m not going to listen to you moan and groan about your tragic fate for all eternity.”

He chuckles, something surprising soft instead of his regular bone-shattered laugh.

“Of course not. I’m just saying that I figured we’d be, y’know, doing other things.” You try not to think about what he could mean by that. “But I’m not really against this. I don’t think I would’ve found out about your little shop of horrors down here, otherwise.”

He’s got a good point there. Literally the only reason you admitted to your secret life as a decently skilled witch was the night he turned. You could still remember it all; he stumbled into your house, desperately holding his wound with that terrified look in his eye, as if he was looking at Death, itself. You’d never personally treated a victim of vampire’s night out (not a live one, anyway), but you did everything in your power to keep Leon alive. But you knew that it was nothing short of a miracle that he managed to wake up the next morning, having survived a night of literal death in slow-motion. Not so many victims were so fortunate to make it through the process, but like hell you were about to let your childhood friend die like that. So now he knew your secret, and you protected his. At least you didn’t have to worry about the two of you drifting apart any time soon, especially with him always forgetting basic vampyric flaws like sunlight all the time.

He settles beside you, offering a soft smile.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m really grateful to know someone like you. You’ve got better things to be doing, and yet you always make time to bring me back after I do something stupid again and again.”

You look into his eyes a moment too long before looking back into your task. The gooey mixture, now dyed a deep red, bubbled down below, seeming almost alive.

“You make it sound like I just started doing this. I’ve been patching you up since kindergarten.”

“Fair enough. But still… I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. So, thank you.”

He’s got that look in his eyes again, golden irises burning brighter than ever, and he’s far too close for you to be comfortable. So, logically, you look even deeper into your cauldron, grateful that the darkness of the room likely hides your ever-burning cheeks. Thankfully, the brew looks just about ready. You reach over and grab a small bowl from the table nearby, spooning some of the waxy goo into its hold.

From birth, it had been decided that you would carry on your mother’s family tradition of witchcraft. And you have - with much pride - and it’s become your greatest secret that would spell disaster should it be learned by the wrong people. You didn’t make many friends, but Leon’s dumb smile was so infectious that you were always drawn to him, even if he drove you bat-shit with his innocent antics. The two of you were close for so long, but after he became champion, things became a bit more strained. You figured that it wouldn’t be long before he forgot about you altogether - but then last year’s “incident” happened, and now a whole new understanding unknown to much of the world had formed between you both. You knew it was far too late to ever consider confessing any of your possible feelings for him (feelings of annoyance, you always told yourself - what an unfortunate lie that’s come to be), but now here you were, likely stuck as his clandestine nurse for the rest of your mortal life. And then what? You’d be reincarnated, would likely stumble upon memories of your past lives (such is the fate of those who take on the witch’s mantle), and see the man you once loved (or loathed, as you’d rather say) finding someone else to take care of him in your absence. For him, it’d hardly feel like a change. But for you, it’d truly be a fate beyond that of death or eternal damnation. You should be happy that he has a reason to stay with you for the rest of your life, but instead, all you can feel is a bitter aftertaste that you have no choice but to suffer through.

“I can’t say I believe in fate,” you shrug your shoulders, “but every now and then the stars align in such a way that has us thinking that God has a sense of humor.”

Leon chuckles again, but you don’t really know. He doesn’t really know what you’re referring to. Right?

You shuffle him back over to the chair, sitting him down and resting his arm across the armrest. As gentle as possible, you spread the salve across the burn area, letting it soak in a bit before applying a second coating that you massage into his skin. Leon watches with that dumb, stupid, bothersome smile of his; you make a point never to meet those eyes, not when you’re so close to him like this.

After a few minutes, you give an affirmative nod and pull back, inspecting the injury. Sure enough, it’s already starting to lighten up.

“Looks like we got power in the healing department,” you smirk. “You’re all ready to go, Good Sir Champion.”

“Not quite.” You must’ve made a weird face, because he’s quickly backtracking, rubbing the back of his neck with a laugh. “I mean, uh, I still have to pay you back double, right? You never said what kind of payment you want.”

You don’t like the way he phrased that. No, you hate the way he phrased that. It’s got your mind in all sorts of a jumble, now. So as quick as you can (before you accidentally say something stupid), you make up a response.

“Flowers.”

Okay that’s really fucking dumb.

Leon quirks his eyebrows at you, seeming amused once more.

“I, uh, I mean,” you stumble for words, hoping to dig yourself out of this hole you’ve thrown yourself into with one stupid word. “What I mean is… I’ve been looking for a specific set of flowers for this spell I’m working on, but they don’t really sell them in stores nearby. So, uh, yeah. Get me flowers.”

“Flowers? For a spell?”

“For a spell,” you affirm.

“Okay,” there’s a strange tone to his voice that you don’t really want to try and decipher, “I can do that. What, uh… what kind of flowers do you want - er, what kind do you need? For the spell?”

You run through a mental list of all the most non-romantic flowers you can think of. Unfortunately, you like flowers, so all of them kinda felt romantic. God fucking dammit.

“Uh… dahlia’s? Black dahlia’s - yeah, those’ll be good. For the spell.”

“Right, the spell,” he nods, glancing off to the side for a millisecond. “I think I can do that, yeah. For a second, I was kind of scared you were gonna make me get a bunch of super poisonous flowers. Not sure how I would explain that one to my bank.”

“Y-yeah, right.”

A brief (and awkward) silence settles over the two of you. Eventually, Leon moves to get up; you shuffle a few steps back to give him enough space to stretch.

“Well, thanks again for helping me - I feel a thousand times better. I swear, you’re a better doctor than, well, actual doctors.”

You smirk with a smidge of pride. “Magic is just a science that hasn’t been accepted yet. And it looks cooler, too.”

“Maybe you can teach me a few things, some time.”

You narrow your eyes at him, playfully glaring in such a way that has him laughing just at the sight of it.

“That’ll cost you more flowers, Lee - are you sure you’re ready for that?”

“I’ll buy you as many flowers as you want - any kind you want.”

You wait a minute for him to backtrack, or to say “For the spell” in a rushed manner like always. But that’s it, the end of the sentence. He just stands there, smiling in that stupid way evermore, eyes focused entirely on you.

It’s a look that you can hardly describe, the look in his eyes at that moment. It pulls something from your chest that you had spent years keeping locked up tight.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You don’t know what scares you more - the fact that you said that, or the fact that he grins even brighter.

You’re the witch here, and yet he’s the one trapping you in this terrible enthrallmetn that has you seeing stars with just that stupid-dumb smile of his. It’s hard to blame it on his status or his altered state of humanity when this has always been the case. No, that’s just the kind of person Leon has always been and (hopefully) always will be. And you would likely be stuck with this (gorgeous) idiot for the rest of your mortal life.

It’s got your heart beating faster - you can’t tell if it’s from fear or from excitement. Maybe both. Most likely both.

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thephantomofthe-internet · 5 years

Text

Not Your Type

Steve Harrington x Reader

Read part 2 HERE

Word Count: 6,669

Warnings: Swearing, Smoking, Drinking, Sexual Assault mention

Tag List: @carolimedanvers @moonstruckhargrove @denimjacketkisses @hotstuffhargrove @thechickvic @alex--awesome--22 @hipsmcgee @lilmissperfectlyimperfect @so-not-hotmess @balladblood @ashescilev

“You’re not her type, Steve.”

“You can’t say that till she meets me.”

The two had been arguing for days on the subject, without a clear answer in sight. Robin had promised, after weeks of watching Steve fail at getting girls, first at Scoops Ahoy and now at Family Video, to introduce him to a girl. Not just any girl, a girl like her. Steve had finally admitted that Dustin was right and he needed to go after girls who could make him genuinely happy, not just a girl who fit his popular mindset. He had tried his luck with Robin, and easily accepted the loss due to her own sexuality, and now he was set to try again. And Robin had been hyping up this friend of hers for weeks. She was cool and funny and smart like her and she was straight. That was all he was looking for. Whoever she was, she sounded perfect.

But Robin was holding out on him.

His turned halfway to look at her, leaning his elbows on the counter to watch her shelf VHS tapes of music videos by the checkout line. She kept her back to him, rolling her eyes at his last comment. He was so pig headed most of the time, it was honestly annoying.

“Robin, you made this big deal about her, you said she was perfect, that I’d want to marry her on sight, and now you’re holding out. You gonna tell me what the deal is or not?” he asked with a brutal sigh.

Robin didn’t turn around “Look, I might have...overhyped her a bit...like she’s amazing but she might...not be interested.” she said, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, turning to look at him with an embarrassed grimace.

“What?” Steve asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Look...she likes Billy Idol types. She probably would’ve gotten along with Billy Hargrove if...well, you know.” Robin said, trailing off at the end. Both nodded softly, Robin swallowing as if her throat was dry. Maybe it was, the memory was certainly hard to swallow and even harder to forget.

“Right...so?”

Robin scoffed “You’re too squeaky clean for her.”

Steve slapped his hand on the counter, his hair bouncing excitedly with the quick movement “Oh come on! Do you remember me? I’m Steve ‘Hair’ Harrington! I was the coolest guy at Hawkins High.” he puffed up his chest proudly, like a peacock.

“And the most modest.” Robin stood up, dusting off her knees from grim from the carpets sticking to her bare skin. The only perk of working at Family Video was the lax dress code. The store’s air conditioning had broken in June and had turned the place into an oven with its big windows that couldn’t be shaded to hide the marquees and cardboard cutouts in the windows. Keeping the front door open and wearing as little as possible helped.

“But seriously, Steve, I don’t want you to get your hopes up about her. She might not be interested.” Robin replied, planting her hands on her hips.

“I got it, now when can I meet her?” Steve asked.

Luckily for him, you were already on your way.

You had no idea why Robin had been so insistent on you visiting her at work. She never had been before, she’d made you promise not to visit her at Scoops, which was strange since you only worked a floor above at Claire’s, piercing children’s ears with ugly silver butterflies and flowers, only for them to buy big plastic hoops and balls to shove into the unprepared holes and get them totally infected. It was fun, you got to use a piercing gun. You’d almost gotten fired for trying to pierce your nose with the gun. You were glad that you didn’t, it would’ve totally ruined your nostril, but you wouldn’t pretend that it wasn’t totally worth it to see the look on your fat manager, Marge’s face. She was such a bitch, you were glad when that damn mall burned down. The one in Carmel was better anyway.

When Robin insisted on you coming to Family Video to meet her for her lunch break, you weren’t insanely apprehensive about it. It wasn’t until her tone changed when she mentioned meeting her coworker and friend that you started getting that sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach. She was trying to set you up with someone. Again. She always did this when she wanted something. Last time she did it, it was with that awful Keith to try to get him to give her his poster from The Godfather, which he’d nicked from the back storage at The Hawke while it was still open. Whatever she wanted, you weren’t going to be used to get it.

Still, you showed up. You promised that you would after all, and you were a person of your word. Parking your car in front of the store, you saw the almost empty parking lot and the wide open door signaling the open store. You sighed softly to yourself, grabbing your purse off the seat next to you and stringing it over your shoulder, popping the door and climbing out.

“Robin? You here?” you called as you walked in.” the store was empty and far too quiet for your liking.

“Welcome to Family Video, where we bring movie magic to you! Can I help you with anything today?” Steve asked from the counter, startling you. You practically jumped out of your skin, your hand coming to clutch at your heart as you whipped around to meet the soft expression of Steve Harrington. He looked slightly bemused, clearly trying to not laugh at your over the top reaction. You rolled your eyes, walking up to the desk.

“Is Robin here? Robin Walker.” you asked, looking him over with a calculating eye.

“Yeah, she’s just in the back, wait here.” Steve stepped out from behind the desk, pulling at his stiff, polyester golf shirt. The shirt was so white and blindingly bright that it hurt to look at, but the large black logo for the store broke it up enough to make it easier to watch Steve leave as it was to watch him walk away.

Steve didn’t even make it all the way to the stockroom before Robin emerged, already changed out of her uniform and was grinning like an idiot. “Hey! You made it just in time!” she said, tossing you her purse and sweater. You caught them easily, relieved to see your friend and get out of there.

“Steve, this is my friend Y/N. Y/N, you know Steve, right?” Robin said, gesturing between them with her now free hands.

“What up, Harrington?” you asked boredly, crossing your arms over your chest.

Robin gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut and pulling her lips into a straight line. This is exactly what she thought would happen. Every time she’d introduced you to someone, no matter how genuine she was being, you turned into a brick fortress, completely impenetrable. Gone was your bubbly, snarky personality and quick wit, replaced by sneers and eye rolls and sarcasm. You weren’t nice or warm or open when you met the boys Robin decided you’d like. You weren’t yourself.

This wasn’t you. Robin knew it, she was certain that deep down you knew it. But Steve didn’t know it. Robin was certain that he had no idea who you were. And that made it worse. He had no background to you other than her own descriptions. And that wasn’t enough. This was not going to end well.

“You ready to grab food?” you asked, drawing Robin out of her mind.

“Huh? Oh yeah definitely. Burger in a Basket cool?” she replied, her eyes darting strangely between the pair of you.

“Sure, I’m not vegetarian this month. Accidently ate a fish stick last weekend while babysitting Todd Carther again. Total shit head but his parents pay me so much money to do it.” you replied, handing Robin’s things back to her.

“Hasn’t he scared you off yet?” Robin asked, tying her grey sweatshirt around her hips.

“Nope, almost got me by dumping a whole jar of electric blue paint on my head. But the stuff is non-toxic so it didn’t mess up my eyes or skin and it let me know that dying my whole head blue isn’t going to be a good look for me.” you replied with a giggle, flashing a strand of faded blue hair to her. “The stupid paint did dye some of the bleach though, which totally sucks.”

“You babysit Todd Carther?” Steve asked, drawing your attention back to him and indented a hard frown onto your face. Robin caught the look and wrapped an arm tightly around your shoulders, squeezing them too hard.

“Oh yeah, Y/N is utterly fearless.” Robin announced with a grin.

“I know his older brother Matt; wicked dude, total party animal. He threw the best parties at the end of the basketball season. Totally rad…” he trailed off with a doofy grin, clearly imagining the fun times he’d had at some shitty house party.

“I know Matt too. He groped Sylvia Newman in the middle of freshman English for a stripe of Fruit Stripe gum. He assaulted her and didn’t even get detention for it.” you replied stonily, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Oh… bummer.” Steve tried. You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “No, I’m serious. I didn’t know about that, that’s really fucked up. I don’t hang out with him anymore, but if I did I’d stop.”Steve said more confidently this time, running a hand through his overstyled hair.

That...wasn’t the answer you were expecting. It knocked you out of your senses and you took a moment to respond. “Yeah...well I take money from his parents so I mean nobody’s perfect. And that whole family’s fucked up anyway.” Steve smiled slightly and you tried not to notice it. He just looked so proud of himself. It was almost endearing. But not enough to make you want to care.

“So, anyway, Steve? You go on break yet?” Robin asked.

Steve furrowed his brow, looking at Robin as though she’d grown a third head. Robin nodded her head towards you strangely and suddenly Steve blurted “That’s the girl? Really?”

You whipped around to look at Robin, utterly appalled. You had a sinking feeling that the whole reason you’d been invited out today was to be introduced to some guy, but you had no idea it would be so quick and for the guy to be Steve motherfucking Harrington. You couldn’t believe it. I mean he was the dumbest, more generic guy at Hawkins High. You swore he’d won the metal for stupidest questions in your Home Economics class in freshman year. He was just…such a dork! How he’d gotten so popular, you had no idea. Maybe this town was such so void of charm and charisma that even the most empty, callus boy could become a god with a wink and a smile.

“What does he mean that’s the girl?” you asked, your face pulling into a look of sheer anger that could stop a man in his tracks.

“Oh great work, Harrington, now you’ve done it.” Robin sighed, pulling her purse across her chest, smacking his arm roughly.

“Robin, what does he mean? What did you do?” you snapped, forcing her to look at you. Her face pulled into a look that you knew too well. Regret, embarrassment, and just a little bit of fear.

“I might have promised Steve that I’d introduce you to him.” You groaned loudly, your head falling back to look at the white tiled ceiling. Robin pressed on, her face turning into a look of sympathy, her smile made of rubber. “Because you’re so great! He doesn’t have many friends his own age anymore and I just thought-”

“Oh I know what you thought.” You bit out.

“Well, are you coming or not?” Robin turned to Steve, completely ignoring you.

Steve’s face turned sour and surprised and he looked between the two of you and then to the clock above you. “I mean…I kind of have some stuff to finish up here and I should really wait until Keith gets here before I go on my break…don’t want Mr. Mueller mad at me again.” He scratched the back of his neck, shrugging awkwardly.

Robin clicked her tongue “Since when do you care?” Steve simply shrugged again. “Y/N, can you wait for me outside?”

You nodded, turning on your heel and heading out just far enough to be out of sight. You wanted to hear whatever they had to say.

“Dude what the fuck? You wanted this!” Robin whispered violently.

“Yeah but I didn’t want her!” Steve replied. You didn’t see the smack, but you sure heard the sound of skin hitting skin and the embarrassing yelp Steve let out.

“Yeah well, you’re going to come with us and you’re going to be nice. Because I did this for you. And now you have to accept it.” Steve didn’t respond, which must have been a good sign for Robin.

“Remind me to never do anything nice for you ever again…” Robin muttered as their footsteps charged closer to you and you scurried out the open door, choosing to lean against the burning hot glass, crossing your arms over your chest and knocking the sunglasses from the top of your head to your face again.

“You ready to head out?” You asked, standing up straight, smiling at Robin.

“Yeah, just waiting for Harrington to put the sign.” Behind her, Steve was hanging the tiny clock shaped sign on the door, trying to figure out what time it would be when they got back.

“Just put four fifteen, Steve, Keith will be back by then and your shift will be over like immediately anyway. You clocked out, right?” Robin said quickly, turning to you to add “Keith is a menace; he doesn’t like to work with anyone and kicks everyone off the floor whenever he can.” You nodded boredly, you’d heard this when she worked with him at the arcade; she quit whereas he got fired, it was a point of bragging for her.

“Yes, Robin. I did what you said. I don’t like this idea, I need this job more than you do.” He muttered bitterly. You raised an eyebrow curiously. Bitter looked decent on him.

“Oh, will you relax? Let your hair down a bit, dingus.” Robin grinned, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. The three of you headed down the street to the cheesy diner Burger in a Basket. The whole place was themed after a fifties diner, complete with neon and pastel colours and fifties nostalgia on the walls. Bikes, hoola hoops, records, pictures of dead icons like Elvis and Marilyn Monroe, movie posters-the whole shebang. You didn’t go there for atmosphere, no, you went for the food. Robin insisted that it was the best burger she’d ever had and you’d be hard pressed to find one better in Hawkins. You didn’t know if Steve had been initiated into the burger ritual yet, but you didn’t really care.

Entering the teal and pink dining room, you nodded to the poor young thing in the giant black beehive wig and roller skates, you and Robin heading towards your normal booth. Steve followed behind, wide eyed and a little bit horror struck. You slid into the booth and grabbed the menus out of the rack at the table, handing them out wordlessly. Robin pushed Steve towards your side of the booth and he begrudgingly slid in, much to your dismay.

“You dragged me out of work…to go to a cheesy themed diner?” Steve asked incredulously.

“Just wait till you try it, Steve, it’ll change your life.” Robin said with a grin, flipping open the menu. You knew that she always ordered something different each time you came. You always ordered the same thing so you didn’t bother to open yours. Steve cautiously followed Robin’s example, flipping around with a wide eyed, innocent expression.

“Alright, welcome to Burger in a Basket, I’m Sylvia, how are you guys doing today?” the voice above you asked. You grinned as you saw Sylvia standing there in the stupid uniform. It was a comfort to know that her life was a little worse than yours. After all, she was such a bitch to you most of the time. That Matt Carther thing gave her plenty of room to get away with being a complete bitch, and it gave you something to use as a tester with guys in town. If they didn’t know who she was or they laughed, then they weren’t worth your time. Sure, you felt bad for her, but she treated you like dog shit for a year before dumping your ass to hang out with Macy Clarke and Nancy Wheeler.

“Hey Sylvia, we’re doing alright.” You said with a slight smirk, resting your head on your palms. Sylvia cringed slightly, but her eyes landed on Steve’s and her whole expression changed.

“Hey, Steve…” she murmured, pulling her lip into her teeth, grinning slightly.

“Hey, Sylvia, how’s it going?” he replied. Of course he’d go for her, you thought to yourself, she’s exactly his type. Just dumb enough to be cute but just pretty enough to hold your attention, with the slightest stink of desperation. You wanted so desperately to roll your eyes, but Robin was watching you with the knowing look, so you maintained your composure.

“I’m good! Can I get you a drink? Or are you ready to order? Do you need a minute?” you wanted to laugh; this was the best service you’d ever gotten at the restaurant. And it was all thanks to Steve.

“I mean…are you guys ready? I think I’ve got it figured out.” Steve said, gesturing to Robin with a nervous expression.

“Yeah, I’ll get the Fourth of July burger with mushrooms and can I get no mustard? Oh, and a diet coke.” Robin said, smiling confidently at Sylvia, who took down the order boredly.

“Sure, and for you, Steve?” she asked sweetly, fluttering her lashes.

“Um…I need a second more, Y/N can you order?” he muttered, leaning over to you. You nodded, surprised that him being closer to you didn’t upset you. It was almost…nice.

“Yeah sure…I’ll get the double hula burger with extra cheese, no pickles, no ketchup, and a triple thick chocolate shake.” You rattled off quickly, enjoying watching her struggle to get everything down.

“Alright, you ready, Stevie?” Sylvia asked and you noted the distinctive blush forming on his cheeks. Sylvia seemed too proud of her work and you wanted to wipe that look off her face. Pride was a bad look for her.

“Can I just get classic burger with mayo and extra tomato? And a coke?” he asked awkwardly, still clearly very unsure of himself.

Sylvia nodded “Perfect! I’ll be back with your drinks in a moment.” She said, turning and skating off, waving coyly to Steve as she headed back into the kitchen. You and Robin snickered, Robin rolling her eyes as soon as Sylvia disappeared.

“Oh my god we should have been bringing you since day one, they never give us that much attention!” you cried with a loud laugh.

“Dude, she wants you so bad oh my god!” Robin added, reaching out to slap his shoulder. Steve lowered his head, shaking his head.

“I totally remember her now…she had a thing for me in junior year, covered my locker in paper hearts. I wasn’t supposed to find out but I did. It was very uncool.” He muttered, shaking his head. You remembered that too, how she’d planned it for weeks, forcing you to help cut out pink, purple, and red hearts. You thought the whole thing was so cringy and weird, but she was dead set that he’d be intrigued by the mystery and sweetness of the action. She thought it was so cute. Barbra Holland unintentionally started the rumor that it was her, but you wished it was you to tell the world. Watching her slink home was worth the afternoons in the library with her calling you stupid for not cutting the heart out perfectly.

“She was just trying to put her feelings out there!” Robin replied incredulously.

“No, Rob, she was being weird. She could’ve shoved a note in his locker, send him a candy gram and Valentine, they do that every year for lacrosse team. She did something unnecessary and creepy to get attention. You’re just a hopeless romantic.” You grinned, reaching out to touch the bright red heart drawn in permanent marker on her wrist. You knew she had a thing for Jennifer Buffet, who worked at the now defunct Starcourt movie theatre. She always drew that little heart on everything whenever she had a crush, it was like she was trying to get caught, you didn’t get that; you always wanted to hide your crushes until the other person showed any interest in you. You wouldn’t usually agree or defend Steve Harrington, but he was right for once. You didn’t mind agreeing if he was correct for once.

“I am not!” Robin cried, crossing her arms over her chest.

You leaned in to whisper to her “Tell that to Tammy Turner.” Robin turned bright red and she leaned back into the vinyl seat, looking away from you.

“Oh was it bad?” Steve asked with a wide, doofy grin. You were surprised to know that he knew about Tammy, but you didn’t question it. Asking questions could reveal something that Robin didn’t want known. You were used to being careful with her.

“Ohhhh yeah, it was a rough year with her pine after that muppet.” Watching Robin pine after Tammy Turner was so embarrassing, since the girl was so straight. I mean the Steve thing was one thing, but the girl dated Tommy H for two weeks between his forty-second break-up with Carol. That’s the epitome of straight bullshit: finding Tommy H’ s awful, crass, and downright sexist attitude and sense of humor attractive and desirable. How Robin didn’t see that was beyond you.

“That’s what I said! She sounds like a damn muppet! Like Kermit the frog or something!” Steve cried, smacking the vinyl and turning to look at you fully. When he wasn’t trying so hard, he was actually pretty cute. His eyes blew wide and his smile reached its fullest capacity, straining to not split his face in half.

“I thought more Ms. Piggy, like when she sang with Elton John. She always like pinching up her mouth at the end of her words, she looks like a wrinkly old apple.” You said, giggling slightly. “Don’t go breaking my heart…” you imitated, pursing and squeezing your lips together, making a tiny ‘O’ with your lips. Steve’s eyes grew impossibly wider and he laughed far too loudly, his head tossing back. You turned to Robin, who was blushing crimson, fully turned away from the scene you were making. Sylvia skated over with your food and drinks, smiling far too much. She placed each order in front of you, angling herself so her chest landed in Steve’s face when she handed his order over to him. He didn’t seem to notice, he was too busy laughing.

“What’re you guys talking about?” she asked, tossing your order in front of you.

“That time you made Steve’s locker look like the Valentine’s Day massacre.” You grinned back spitefully.

Sylvia paled significantly and she reached up to adjust her wig, looking away. “That…that wasn’t me…” she replied softly.

“Yeah…yeah it was…” Steve said between breathes, wiping tears away from his eyes. Sylvia opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. She turned away quickly, skating out fast. You laughed hard when she ran off, hunching over in your seat.

“That was so mean!” Robin cried, looking between the pair of you with a stern look.

“She…she deserved it! After everything I dealt with from her, I get to have one!” you replied, shrugging softly as you recovered. Steve offered you a high five, which you took happily. You never thought in your life that you’d be laughing with Steve Harrington. Today was a weird day.

“Eat, both of you.” Robin snapped and you complied equally happily. You loved this place-everything was fresh and made to order. Sure, it was greasy and unhealthy, but you deserved a bit of comfort food once and awhile. Steve took his first bite and let out a very loud moan. You giggled, it was so stupid. And a little cute, you wouldn’t pretend that it wasn’t. And maybe a little hot. But you wouldn’t admit that.

“This is so good!” he said, muffled by his mouthful of food.

“It’s even better when you’re high.” You whispered, nudging his arm. Steve nodded in approval, clearly into the idea.

The three of you ate in silence, wolfing down your burgers without much of a hum save for the sounds of ice clinking in glasses and small slurps from straws. Burger in a Basket still had glass bottle of coke, the rumor was that they filled them up with every drink and washed them after, since they didn’t really make glass bottles of soda for retail sale anymore.

With only their fries left, the group returned to each other’s attention. To your surprise, Steve spoke first.

“Can I be like honest here?” he said, turning to face you once again. You nodded shortly, shoving a fry into your mouth. “I have like, no idea who you are. I really don’t.” you raised an eyebrow at him, unsure of how you were supposed to react to that news. You swallowed your mouthful, nodding to yourself.

“Yeah, I figured as much.” You replied “I remember you though.”

“Oh yeah, what for?” Steve leaned back in the booth, putting his arms over the seat. He looked to be ready to take in praise.

“I remember how shit you were on the basketball team. How shit that whole team was.” You replied with a chuckle, watching Steve deflate immediately.

“I was, like, the best player on the team!” he replied indignantly.

“That’s not saying much.” That line made Robin laugh and Steve curl further into himself.

“You really should’ve joined the track and field team. You were much better at that anyway.” You added softly.

“On what planet? I’ve never even done track and field.” Steve cracked bitterly.

“Yes you have, we all had to do it in middle school.” You said. Both Robin and Steve looked at you like you were crazy, so without any remaining shame, you pressed on.

“At the end of the year, every year of middle school, we had the grade-wide track and field meet. We all trained on basic stuff-long jump, cross country, shot put for the older kids, and high jump. Then, each grade would compete and the best of those kids would go onto the main competition. We all got a day off to watch and there were free freezies. It was one of the best days of the year.” You explained.

“Yeah, so what? I never competed.” Steve replied, watching you closely.

“Yes, you did.” Steve raised an eyebrow at you. You rolled your eyes and continued.

“You were in eighth grade and I was in seventh. You had won the long jump in your grade level because Jude Armstrong broke his ankle and I had won the high jump. So we both competed. I remember three things about that day: one; that I won the high jump against all the older kids and Tina tried to push me into the mud after I got my medal; that you and Tommy snuck off to smoke cigarettes during the high jump. You both pretended that you’d done it before, and maybe you had, but Tommy was coughing so hard even after that it was so obvious that he’d never even touch a cigarette before. And three, that that was the year we were all forced to run the cross country race. Nobody had wanted to compete in the race, so they forced us to do it to set an example. I didn’t want to run it, I’m not a distance runner, but you were so confident. You didn’t look nervous at all. And when the whistle blew and everyone bolted, you held back. You came in third in the cross country race and second at long jump, against the odds on both. It was the coolest thing I’d ever seen.”

Steve nodded. You looked so pretty when you explained the memory, your whole face lit up and your smiled so softly. You looked angelic, it was truly a sight. But the memory itself turned his stomach.

“I remember that…” he muttered “What I remember about that day was my dad telling me that no other place matter except first and that I was absolute shit.”

You felt so bad, bringing it up at all. He looked so sad now, you regretting even commenting on it. “Oh…I’m sorry…” you said softly. Steve shrugged as if it meant nothing, as if he felt nothing. “God, what a dick and you were good too!” you cried.

“Nah, I kind of sucked.” Steve replied, pushing away the compliment with his hands.

“No seriously! We could have used you on the team, Jude Armstrong sucked ass after like freshman year! You showed real aptitude. And you’re built for it, strong legs and a good core. Let guys like Chuck Bronson stomp around the court, you should’ve came and competed with us, you would’ve won something.” You joked, kicking his shoe with your own.

Steve huffed “We got into the county semi-finals last year…”

“Yeah? We won country finals and got fifth in state. Half my team got into state colleges on scholarship based on that alone.” You replied haughtily.

“You gonna get one?” he asked.

“I might, I got a scout watching me. Don’t know if I’m gonna take it.”

“Oh yeah, why not?”

You grinned proudly “I’m hoping to follow in Emma Lancaster’s footsteps.”

“What she do?” Robin rolled her eyes at that comment.

“She got a full ride to NYU for fashion design.”

“You sew?”

You rolled your eyes “I’m the head of the costume department for the drama club.”

“It’s how we met.” Robin added proudly.

“Emma Lancaster founded and headed up the fashion club at Hawkins High and ran the sewing club. She wants to work for designer labels and head up her own one day. I just want to make costumes for plays. I’d work anywhere that paid and go to any school that offered money.” You explained.

“That’s cool, I hope you get it.” Steve said and you noted the slightest hint of sadness in his tone.

“How’s your planning going, Steve, got any ideas yet?” Robin asked, clearly catching onto the tone Steve had in his voice.

“Well…” he looked a little embarrassed as he spoke, but did so anyway “I was thinking about applying to the police academy in Carmel…it’s not a clear shot, but I’d like it more than working for my dad.”

“My uncle works there, I can put in a good word with him if you want.” Robin said cheerily.

“That would be cool. I just don’t know if I’d be any good.” Steve muttered to himself.

“I’d think you’d be pretty good, I mean you’ve got strong morals.” You turned to Robin “Remember when he broke freak Byers camera? He deserved that fucking shit.” Robin nodded in agreement.

“I mean yeah, Steve, you care about people. Like you take care of Dustin like he’s your brother. It takes guts to be genuine and unafraid about hanging out with literal children.” Robin added.

“You hang out with Dustin Henderson?” you asked curiously.

“You know Dustin?” Steve asked, equally confused.

“Yeah, my sister Stacy made fun of him for like a week last year after the snow ball for asking her to dance. I wanted to smack the shit out of her for it, it takes guts to ask somebody out, especially at that age.” You explained, slamming your tall milkshake glass on the table, having just slurped up the last drops of chocolate milk and whipped cream.

“Yeah well he’s got a girlfriend now named Suzie.” Robin said. Steve’s attention had turned to the window and you heard a small gasp.

“Shit, Keith’s here, I gotta run.” He pulled out his wallet and slapped a twenty dollar bill on the table before sliding out of the booth.

“Don’t get in shit, dingus!” Robin called after him.

He spun around quickly, jogging backwards “If you get me fired, I’ll kill you.” He looked you over slowly, a lopsided grin pulling at the corner of his mouth “I’ll see you around, Y/N?”

“Yeah, sure.” You smiled. Steve nodded happily and his back slammed into the poor dish boy, stumbling slightly before scampering off.

As soon as he was gone, Robin turned to you with a devilish grin “He likes you.” She giggled, reaching out to poke your shoulder.

“Good for him.” You replied, trying to seem confident and uncaring about the whole situation. Internally, you were utterly rocked. He’d gotten to you. You’d drunk the Steve Harrington kool-aid. He was deeper, more genuine, honest, and cooler than you’d ever expected him to be. You were utterly intrigued and now you had to know more. But you weren’t going to admit it now, not when Robin was being so cocky about it.

“I think you like him toooo!” she said in a sing-song tone.

You scoffed “No, not really.”

Robin saw right through you. But there was no sense in arguing when you were like this. You had too much pride to admit it now, especially with Sylvia floating around, looking for any excuse to rip the rug out from under you. But she had an idea.

“So, listen, I’m not working tomorrow and we haven’t hung out in forever. Wanna have a sleepover tonight?” Robin asked, pulling out cash from her wallet to cover herself and you, since she owed you money from the last time you’d gone out to eat.

“Sure, I’m not babysitting the brat tomorrow.”

“Great! You want to rent a movie or something? I get a discount at Family Video.”

You knew what she was doing, but you went along with it. No sense in calling her out now when she had a plan, it wouldn’t stop her anyway.

“Eh, whatever. I’m good either way.” You replied breezily.

“I wanna rewatch Carrie so let’s head over. Maybe grabbed some snacks too, I want some sour belts.” Robin said, climbing out of the booth and grabbing your hand, pulling you out. You didn’t really like horror movies and you really hated sour belts, they weren’t even sour, so you knew Robin was milking your ambivalence for all it was worth. What she didn’t know is that you actually kind of liked Carrie and you had a new dress that needed fitting and Robin would be the perfect model for it. Karma was a bitch.

Robin dragged you all the way to Family Video and inside, grinning at Keith and watching him blush as you passed by. He’d told you that he loved you the first and only time you hung out. You never called him back and Robin had to explain to him that saying I love you on a date that wasn’t even a date is the wrong move. Now, he wouldn’t even speak to you, which you didn’t mind.

“Y/N! Go gather as many packs of sour belts as you can get your hands on! I’m gonna find Carrie in the back!” Robin instructed.

“Get something fun too! Like the Princess Bride or something! Something I’ll actually watch!” you called after her. Robin flashed you a thumbs up and you sighed, turning on your heel and heading to the checkout line, grabbing lime green packs of rainbow striped, sugar coated candies off the rack and clutching them to your chest.

Robin found Steve in the back and, with very little pushing, sent him out onto the floor to talk to you. It only took two tries from him to get the courage to go and talk to you.

And again, he scared the shit out of you. He tapped you on the shoulder and you jumped a foot in the air, dropping all the sugary treats.

“Shit sorry!” Steve cried, dropping to his knees to clean up the mess.

“It’s okay!” you replied quickly, following suit. He shouldn’t have to clean up your mess after all. Your hands both rushed to grab the packages and when they brushed one another over the last packet, you couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t nice. The briefest chance of touch set your heart aflutter. You felt like you were ten years old again. He handed the packages over quickly, standing up just as fast. He offered you a hand up, which you took, if only to hold his hand for the briefest of moments. God, who even were you? You pulled it away fast.

“So…what’s with all the sour strips?” he asked, looking over the armful of candy you had.

“They’re Robin’s favourite. She told me to grab a shit ton, so I did. She’s grabbing the movies for tonight.” You explained.

“What movies?”

“Robin wants to watch Carrie. I’m hoping she gets something fun too, like Fast Times at Ridgemount High or The Princess Bride. Something funny.” You replied. You’d never smiled so much in a day, your face was starting to hurt but with Steve you couldn’t help it!

“Oh yeah? Having a sleepover or something?” that cocky Steve Harrington attitude was coming out, but it wasn’t making you as nauseous as it usually would, which was very odd.

“Yeah kind of. Which means Robin’s gonna wanna watch horror movies, eat so many of these until she pukes, and sneak malt whiskey from her father’s liquor cabinet.” You said, not hiding the slight disdain in your voice.

“Yeah? What’re you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna hem the dress I made for the Roenke County theatre’s production of Romeo and Juliet, sip vodka from my flask, and take away the sour belts when Robin gets sick.”

“Sounds fun?” Steve questioned.

“It probably won’t be,” you chuckled “But it’s not the worst way to spend a night.”

“How’d you think an evening with me would chalk up? In comparison I mean.” Steve asked, his hand coming to the top of the low black shelf to lean into you.

“Well I guess it would depend, what’s your plan?” you asked with a grin.

“Whatever you want.” He murmured softly, smirking far too confidently. You didn’t mind though, you knew what was underneath it all.

“Well, I’d have to think about it…how about you call me sometimes and we’ll talk about it.” You replied slowly, looking him up and down.

“Anytime, you got a pen?” Steve said. You nodded, pulling one out of your purse and grabbing his arm. You scribbled out your number on his palm, trying to make it as legible as possible and ignore how big and warm his hands were.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, that cool?” he said as you watched Robin saunter up too confidently, too proud of herself and of what she’d done.

“Sounds good.” You smiled, ignoring Robin’s cocky leer. “You ready to pay for this shit?” you asked as she walked up, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

“Gimme the belts, I got this.” Robin said, eyeing up Keith like she was going to beat him up. Maybe she was. “Wait in the car, okay? I didn’t bring mine, so you’re driving me home.”

You nodded “Got it.” You turned to Steve, smiling softly “I’ll see you around, Harrington.”

“Definitely.”

5K notes · View notes

spaceskam · 4 years

Text

“What the fuck is that?”

“It’s bleach,” Alex laughed, mixing up the solution in the the little bowl, “Which you would know if you did any fucking research before you dyed your hair last time.”

Forrest pouted for all of two seconds before it slipped into his smile and he rolled his eyes. The color in his hair was starting to fade back into brown and he’d mentioned to Alex that he was going to redye it. Which would’ve been fine until he said the shitty routine he had for doing so. So now Alex had taken over and he honestly didn’t seem bothered by that.

“You sure you’re good with this towel being ruined just in case?” Alex asked as he turned to face him, gloves and bleach brush in hand. Forrest looked up at him with those fucking eyes and nodded.

“I don’t actually mind what you ruin,” Forrest said. Alex rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out at him, both men laughing as Alex started just putting the bleach on him.

It took awhile to saturate it enough because his hair was ridiculously thick, but he eventually did and peeled off his gloves before setting a timer. Alex pushed himself to sit on the counter in front him, giving Forrest a little smile as he braced his prosthetic against one of the drawers.

“We should get dinner after this,” Forrest said, reaching out to touch his bare thigh. It took awhile for him to get comfortable around Forrest, but now that he had, he was obsessed with the way he touched him. It was almost constant, always finding some excuse to touch him with his soft hands that had been smoothed with touching paper every day of his life. It felt like an incentive for Alex to walk around in nothing but briefs and a cropped t-shirt all day. It meant skin to skin contact whenever he wanted it. And he kind of wanted it always so that was a plus.

“Agreed,” Alex nodded, “Maybe we could order takeout?”

“Are you gonna be too embarrassed by whatever you do to my hair?” Forrest teased, squeezing his thigh gently. Alex shook his head, extending his foot to rest on Forrest’s own thigh.

“No, I think you’re gonna look hot as hell,” Alex promised, looking between his sweet face watching his hand slide down to grip his calf in a way that felt far too hot to be legal, “But I think I’d rather make-out on the couch than go out.”

“Oh yeah?” Forrest laughed, shaking his head before carefully pressing a kiss to Alex’s knee, “Well, at least you’re honest.”

“I am. I really, really am,” Alex insisted, both of them laughing a little harder as he said so, “But what do you want?”

“Mmm, Chinese food maybe? Lo mein sounds good,” Forrest said. Alex nodded, glancing over to the timer as Forrest continued to rub his leg.

“Can I get something else and then steal some of yours?” Alex asked, reluctantly pulling his leg away from his boyfriend so he could stand back up. Forrest watched him, hands to himself but ready to steady him if he needed it as he put his prosthetic on the ground. He didn’t, but he appreciated the sentiment.

“Absolutely,” Forrest said, “As long as you get something with friend rice.”

“Why would I not get something with fried rice? Do I look like an animal to you?” Alex asked as the timer went off. Forrest stood up from his chair.

“Well, I mean, not right now.”

“Shut up,” Alex laughed, “Can you wash it out yourself or do you want me to try to help?”

“I got it.”

Alex stood in the doorway as Forrest hunched over the bathtub, using the removable shower head to spray it out. Alex liked looking at him even when he was all hunched over and trying not to get bleach in his eyes. He was warm and inviting and Alex didn’t think there was enough people like him.

Eventually, he stood back at and dried his hair in a half-assed way before he just shook it out like a dog. Alex scoffed as water got on him and swatted him in the stomach. Forrest caught it easily, pulling him a little closer and pressing a kiss to his lips. Alex breathed him in as he kissed back, smiling easily when they parted.

“Sit down and I’ll get the blow dryer, okay?” Alex said. Forrest nodded, pressing one more kiss to his lips and then his cheek before doing as he was told. Alex felt that newly-familiar wash of being loved genuinely come over him at the small little moment and, instead of pushing it away, he let it sink into his bones and didn’t even try to hide his smile as he plugged in the blow dryer.

For the next ten minutes, Alex tried to dry his hair, continuously running his fingers through the newly bleached locks and being annoyed when it seemed to hold water like a sponge. His annoyance was bled away each time Forrest reached out for him, never pulling him closer since he was doing something, but just touching him because he could. That was nice.

“Stop it, that tickles,” Alex told him over the sound of the blow dryer as Forrest dragged his fingertips right above the hem of his briefs. So, Forrest listened, moving his fingers down a little bit more to trace over the seam of his underwear. Alex giggled, moving his hips just a little bit out of the way. “I’m never going to finish if you keep doing that.”

“Oh, I really think you will.”

“Get your mind out of the fucking gutter, Jesus,” Alex said, but he laughed harder and his face felt warm. His cheeks hurt from smiling. “Okay, it’s dry enough, time for the dye.”

It carried on like before, small touches being dispersed as he worked the bright blue dye into his bleached hair. Alex sat back on the counter after setting another timer to wait, smiling at him helplessly.

“Aren’t you excited to fully explore your young Manic Panic desires?” Alex asked. Forrest rolled his eyes with a laugh and pulled Alex’s good leg back into his lap. He pushed his thumb into the bottom of his foot, slowly started to massage it for no fucking reason. Alex shook his head. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Forrest said innocently, winking at him as if he didn’t look a little wild with the dye in his hair. Alex shook his head again and huffed a laugh, leaning his head back against the mirror as Forrest continued. “Does that feel good?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, rubbing this part of the foot is supposed to help your heart.”

Alex snorted, “Is there something wrong with my heart that I don’t know about?”

“No, just making sure it’s taken care of.”

“You’re so cheesy,” Alex laughed, but his stomach ached from the attention and his skin started heating up all over again. Forrest shrugged and pulled his foot up to his mouth, kissing the bottom without any hesitant. Alex laughed even louder. “Ew, that’s fucking gross!”

“What?” Forrest said, holding back his laughter as best he could, “My floors are clean.”

“Still,” Alex said, still shaking with laughter. Forrest rolled his eyes and didn’t let go of his leg as he got up and moved closer. He stepped between Alex’s knees, entering that space where he was more than welcome. “I am not kissing you after you kissed my foot.”

“Fair enough,” Forrest agreed, carefully placing kissing on his shoulder over his shirt and then over his heart. He made sure not to angle it any type of way that he might get dye on Alex’s skin. Maybe Alex moved his head to the side to give him more space. Maybe Forrest noticed and that’s how he ended up kissing on his neck.

“Can you brush your teeth please because I’m going to lose my fucking mind,” Alex breathed, overwhelmed with the need to kiss him but really not interested in the idea of his own foot in his mouth.

“So picky,” Forrest teased, tapping his index finger against Alex’s nose as he moved to the sink.

Alex sat, feeling a little restless at the lack of contact as Forrest did what he asked and made a point to wash the bottom half of his face for extra measure. He pulled him in for a kiss by his shirt before he could even dry his face off, kissing him. It was a little awkward, both of them trying not to get the dye in his hair on Alex, but it was hard when he just wanted to get his hands on him.

When the timer went off, they both groaned which made them both smile.

“Go wash it out,” Alex urged. Forrest hummed, giving him another peck before peeling away to go to the tub again.

“I’m just gonna take a shower,” Forrest decided. Alex carefully pushed himself off the bathroom counter again.

“Can I watch?”

“Oh, and I’m the weird one,” Forrest laughed. Alex smiled his way and shrugged. “Go order food, I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Vegetable lo mein?” Alex clarified.

“Yes, please.”

Alex hung around just long enough to watch him strip before leaving him to stain the shower curtain with his hair. He used his phone to order them both food, relaxing on the couch as he waited for Forrest to finish up. The longer it took, the more antsy he got which simply had him smiling to himself so wide it hurt. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so unrelentingly happy with someone else that he felt clingy and it wasn’t even a problem. Forrest was the same way. That was something otherworldly.

“Okay, so, you may have been onto something with the bleach,” Forrest said as he came out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel. Alex gave him his full attention.

His hair was actually blue now, a few shades too light to be navy. It went to his roots and didn’t look like the shitty dye job he’d been rocking. It looked good. Alex stayed on the couch, smiling up at him as he came closer.

“It looks fucking great.”

“Yeah, I know I didn’t dry it or anything, but,” Forrest said, shrugging his shoulders.

“It still looks way better, I did a great job,” Alex bragged. Forrest didn’t even deny it.

“You really did, thank you.”

“No problem, now come here,” Alex said, reaching for him with grabby hands. Forrest gave him a fond look and blew him a kiss.

“Give me one second, I need to go get a pair of shorts so the delivery guy doesn’t get scared,” he said. Alex pouted a little exaggeratedly. “I’ll be right back.”

And he was. He all but ran to his bedroom and Alex laughed a little bit. Within a few seconds, he was running back out with a pair of shorts on and jumped onto the couch and onto Alex. Their laughter mixed in the air as they kissed, Alex pulling him as close as he could. He smelled good, his flowery shampoo and the scent of the dye making something just tasteful enough that Alex couldn’t get him close enough.

“Thank you,” Alex whispered against his lips.

“For what?”

“For making me happy,” he said honestly. Forrest smiled, bumping his nose against Alex’s.

“Thank you for doing the same.”

They had to apologize to the delivery guy who had to knock three times before they heard him.

#forlex #forlex fic #alex manes #forrest long #roswell new mexico #my fic #did i really just write 1.5k of straight fluff?#yes i did #here you go friends

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morgana-ren · 4 years

Text

You never had a choice

You guys wanted my shitty Strade oneshots? Here’s one. Don’t you judge me.

Strade/Reader

Boyfriend to Death (18+ ONLY)

Warnings: Extremely explicit, graphic depictions of sex, rape, torture, other terrible shit. Do not read if you are even remotely squeamish. I’m not kidding. Do not read if you’re under 18, do not read if you even have a second thought.

This is a Work in Progress. Has not been uploaded yet. Please take my word for it and do not read any further if any of the game’s content upsets you.

The floor is cold and smells like bleach.

Is it bleach? What would one use to get blood and tissue out of porous concrete? Something sanitizing. Probably industrial strength.

Whatever it is, it’s burning your nostrils.

You don’t make a point to get so well acquainted with people’s floors very often, but Strade isn’t the type of guy who really cares about your floor greeting policies. In fact, he doesn’t seem to care much at all about you, your well-being included.

You’ve learned there’s only one thing going through his mind when he’s sweating over you with that flushed, excitable expression, pupils blown out and eyes half-mast. He’s straddling you, caging you to the floor beneath him like a fucking animal, making sure there’s nowhere to run even if you could. To make matters worse, he’s drooling and rutting against you, deliberately drawing this out because he knows you hate it hate it hate it when he’s touching you.

Normally he’d be halfway to home by now.

He’s looking down at you through greasy clumps of hair, exposing his canines and occasionally running his tongue over them. It would look like a sly, lustful gesture to anyone else, but Strade’s a predator. There’s nothing sly about him.

You know he’s taunting you. Taunting you like a wolf would a little rabbit that was naive enough to let him get too close. Foolish enough to not run the second the lurching feeling in their gut grew strong enough to make them sick, alarm bells screaming in their head. Stupid enough to share a few drinks with it despite that, even.

No, the smile is that of a wolf right before he rips out a giant chuck of sinew from the rabbit’s furry flesh, leaving it twitching and bubbling blood as he chews it up before its convulsing body.

You’re the rabbit, by the way. That’s what he calls you when you please him, right? Hase? It’s been a while, but you think it means bunny or rabbit or some other small animal that he could sink his teeth into without breaking a sweat. A term of endearment that he’s perverted and twisted the meaning until the original was obscured behind his violent brand of love.

You don’t think wolves are supposed to mate with rabbits. You doubt he cares.

You wonder if he’ll let you use whatever he cleans this ugly cement floor with while you take a shower (if you ever even get to shower again, that is) because no amount of hot water and whatever cheap soap he apparently rarely uses is ever going to be enough to get his stench off you. Of everything you’re covered in, of all the dust, grime, blood and other fluids, it’s his smell that makes you want to retch. It lingers on you, making your skin itch and permeating your pores long after he’s left. You swear you’re beginning to smell like him.

It’s too much, and no matter how shallowly you try to breathe, it’s always there. You can’t even breathe through fabric to try and mask it because Strade had made sure to be thorough in “removing” all your clothing a few days prior.

It’s bad enough when you’re alone. It’s even worse when he’s hovering over you, perspiring onto your exposed flesh and grinning like a hyena.

You know it will be even worse this time. He has practically drenched the front of that ugly shirt of his. You can feel his stomach rubbing against your bare navel and you just know he’s going to leave you sticky and disgusting on purpose. You knew he was going to really make this gross and unbearable because he knows you hate him, and he likes that.

He likes that you try to hold your breath around him. Gives him a real kick. You would too, if given the opportunity.

The only saving grace is that he hasn’t forced you to look at him yet, but you know he will. He’s leaning over you so damn closely that you can feel his stubble irritate your chin. His moist breath is collecting on your cheek as you crane your head so fucking far to the left that you begin to cramp. Your eyes are clenched shut because you just know the look he’s giving you right now and if you had to see those horrid amber eyes for one more second, you were going to scream.

However, no matter how tightly you clamped them, you couldn’t block out that fucking smell or the afterglow of his eyes on the back of your eyelids, like you’d stared into a lightbulb for too long. A shitty, horrible lightbulb.

To think you found them beautiful once.

He was groping your chest and breathing so heavily that you could practically taste his breath in your mouth. You resented the fact that he managed to assault all 5 of your senses without even trying. Although, to be frank, you knew it really said something about the state you were in when you could almost smell yourself over the dirty, greasy psychopath worrying your inner thigh with his khaki tented erection.

It had been days and you hadn’t been let up for to bathe yet, and you hadn’t exactly been the cleanest when you left for the bar that evening. You smelled like you had been held captive in a basement. It was a pungent, distinctive smell, like tangy copper and sweat (yours and his, naturally) and something that smelled like raw pancake batter that you really didn’t want to think about. There was something else, another smell that had developed over the last day or so.

You were almost certain now that it was decay.

You wondered if your body had accepted death and was prematurely rotting in acknowledgement of the situation. You saw something like that on a tv show once.

Maybe that’s why he was still so fucking turned on despite the fact you knew you didn’t exactly look like a movie star, and certainly didn’t smell like one. He was insatiable, like a German energizer bunny fueled by pure malice and sadistic urges. You had no idea what had encouraged him this time. Maybe it had been the fear in your eyes when he ran his hands along variously styled handsaws, asking you if you had an opinion on rotary versus hand.

Or maybe it was the fact that the still-weeping cut on your leg was close enough to your entrance for him to use the blood as lubricant as he assaulted you yet again. He seemed to like that sort of shit.

Who knows? It’s tough to say what really gets this guy off, especially considering the first time he used you, it was because you denied his stupid stitches, not wanting him to touch you anymore. He must’ve picked up on that bit, because he force-fucked your face and left a certain appendage in your throat so long that you passed out from lack of air.

He should have kept it there longer. Maybe then you would have died.

Either way, he abandoned whatever plans he originally had and now he’s breathing bastardized English into your ear, growling in German things you don’t understand and frankly you don’t want to. Even if you spoke German, you wouldn’t be able to translate because every fucking ounce of your brain power is dedicated to disassociating and separating yourself from this situation as much as you physically can. You pretend you’re home, asleep. You pretend none of this is real. You pretend that this is all a horrible nightmare because you fell asleep watching your scary que on Netflix.

And as he starts running his slimy tongue over your collarbones and up your neck, you pretend it’s anyone else in the world that is about to undo that belt buckle.

His hair is sticking to your neck and it makes you realize just how overheated he is. He’s an overbearing man at the best of times, but when he’s so worked up and covering you like a blanket, it’s absolutely stifling. Panic blooms and rises through your chest and for an instant, you’re certain you’re going to suffocate underneath him. It only takes you a few seconds to realize that’s not possible.

God isn’t that kind.

At least if you choked on the humid air he was so politely providing you, expedited by his tummy pressing into yours and blocking your breathing, your death would be relatively quick. But a God that allowed you to be taken, maimed, and violated by this son of a bitch certainly wasn’t a God that was going to grant you the mercy of a quick death. The devil was probably a fan.

People had died here, in this room. People had died horribly.

A stray tear falls down your cheek as you think on the fact that you’re likely going to be one of them.

Spurred on either by his gratuitously handsy harassment or perhaps your major fuck up of letting yourself cry, he pushes himself partially off you and back onto his knees. You hear the metal clinking of his belt buckle and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears which is funny considering it just dropped through your ass. You know what comes next.

If there’s any mercy, he’ll get it over with quickly.

You doubt it.

You learned that when Strade wanted things done quickly, he had certain ways of going about them, but he was not a man who liked to rush things. He did everything precisely, taking his time to deliberate just how to hurt you. Just where to cut, exactly where to place the drill, how to retie you just so that the new rope burn dug exactly into the pre-existing one.

Fucking you used to be one of those things he did quickly. He would get a little too excited, whip his cock out and go like a blood and khaki colored race car. The longest thing he did was debate exactly where the most degrading place to shoot his load was. You preferred it that way.

Unfortunately, Strade was a quick learner too. In fact, he very quickly learned that the thing you hated the most, one of your most viscerally charged reactions was when he took to touching you. No one likes torture, but the screaming and begging? It gets predictable.

When he took to forcing himself on you, there was no begging. There was only demands.

“Get off me!” “Get away from me!” “Don’t fucking touch me!”

There was no ‘please’ involved.

That was probably pretty typical for the first and maybe even the second day, but beyond that? It was strange when people kept their willpower. Most just became a blubbering, pleading mess.

He realized you must really hate it.

The moment it had clicked in his head, this sickly, nauseating smile crept across his face and you had to resist the urge to hurl.

“You must really have mixed feelings about this type of intimacy!” He’d grunted, slowing his thrusts to a crawl, which you could tell had taken some serious effort on his part. “You seem a little shy! There’s no need to be, not with me. After all, we’re sharing this experience together.”

You could feel every inch of him sliding in and he made a point to begin drawing the entire experience out, huffing and groaning in your ear and making you feel as disgusting and used as possible. You didn’t know it was possible to hate this much. You had reached up, gone from trying to push him off to actively trying to tear his eyes out. He had only laughed, slamming your wrists above your head as the other hand violated every ounce of bruised, swollen skin it could find.

You had thrown up after he left.

The next night, after he’d finished marring your skin, he’d forced you to do all the work. Made you ride him as he waved the knife lazily around your face repeating “You’ll have to do better than that, schön.” He’d even gone easy on you with the blood loss that night. Guess he was looking forward to seeing the anguish on your face as you had to actively work to finish him, or risk what he would do to you if you couldn’t. Worst of all was the fact that you had to expend a lot of energy that you didn’t have, or risk him drawing this out all night, and you truly weren’t sure if you could take that.

He’d held your hips down on him to prevent you from withdrawing as he came. He’d finished inside you. That night, you clawed at your arms, trying to push what was left of him out of you any way you could.

Tears of frustration and hate burn a hell of a lot more than ones from sadness, even more so because you knew it wouldn’t be long until it happened again. And here you were.

He moaned above you and you became acutely aware that his pants had been pulled down around his hips. He was palming himself with the hand that wasn’t stroking your cheek with dirty fingers. He was making a show of everything, and as much as you wished he’d stop, you knew that’s exactly why he was doing it. Trying to build up your dread as much as he possibly could before slamming you under. It was working.

The hand stroking your jaw squeezed and you cried out as he dug his fingers into the soft of your face. “Open your eyes, hase. We’re sharing something very personal and I want to know that you’re paying attention.”

There was no sense in fighting him. If you angered him, it would not only draw this out longer, but he’d probably just cut off your eyelids. He was temperamental like that.

Your forced yourself to turn your head after a moment of what you could call preparation. Your eyes fluttered open just in time to see a bead of sweat roll down off his neck and plop onto the floor right by your face. You swallowed back bile.

Eventually you found his face and he was looking a little too pleased, breathless and heaving even though he hadn’t even begun the main event yet. His face drifted closer to yours and you physically ground the back of your head into the cement below for any chance of inching away even slightly.

“Are you okay, liebling? You’re looking a little green.” He grinned, rubbing himself against you and getting dangerously close to the point of entry. You were still sore and sensitive from yesterday and the days before. Thinking of him entering you now made your stomach churn. “I know it can be a little overwhelming, this connection we have. Things are all happening so fast, and that can make you feel vulnerable.” His hand crept from your cheeks down to your throat, tightening a little as his meaty fingers found a comfortable spot on the rounds of your neck.

Your hands, tied behind your back and trapped beneath your body, clenched an unclenched in an effort to fend off the impending tingling as your blood lost its circulation. You reminded yourself that it was the least of your worries as he rested his head in the crook of your neck, practically slobbering on your shoulder as he left small bites across the exposed expanse. “But you don’t have to worry, hase. What we’re sharing here, it’s bringing us so close.”

He used his knees to kick your legs apart, allowing himself better access as he lined himself up with your entrance. You tried to struggle, tried to buck him off, but he didn’t even so much as move. You hissed and spit, and he just laughed as if it was the most adorable thing in the world. He pressed himself nose to nose with you, eyes lingering on your snarling mouth for too long to set you at ease. You wanted to be invisible. You didn’t want him to be able to look at you anymore. More so, you didn’t want to look at him anymore.

You never thought these words would have any truth to them, but you missed when he used to take you from behind. At least then you could pretend it was someone, anyone else in the world you were with. Needless to say, he cut that shit out the second he realized he was giving you any inadvertent peace. Now whenever he fucked you, he made sure you had a clear, unobstructed view of his face. He made sure you kept your eyes open and on him, so you knew just whose cock was inside you, just whose hand was around your neck, just whose knife was pressed against a tender patch of flesh.

And in those times where your traitorous body tricked you into thinking it felt good, he wanted you to know just who was giving you that pleasure, and that he could take it away if he wanted to.

Not that he gave a fuck about your pleasure. You weren’t dumb enough to believe that. Not after everything you’ve seen. It was just another tool for him to use and wield against you.

You felt his hard member twitch at your opening as he pulled his hand away from situating it. You mentally prepared yourself for the pain. Strade was not a small man, in stature or ‘size’, and he never put any effort into making sure you were even remotely ready to accept him.

You bit your bottom lip, gritting your teeth as you waited for him to push inside. The first few minutes were the worst. If you could just get past those without doing something stupid, he’d eventually finish and tire himself out, leaving you with a few hours to try and recover. At least physically. Maybe tomorrow he’d get around to killing you.

“I feel like we’ve gotten to know each other so well over the last week. You’ve got more energy than most of my guests. Wouldn’t you agree?” He smiled lazily at you, and a mix of terror and fury brewed in your gut. You kept your mouth shut. You didn’t want to provoke him. Or encourage him.

“Oh, come on now, liebling. I thought we’d been getting on so well. Don’t go cold on me now.” You didn’t have to see him pull the knife from the holster to know that he did, and when you felt the sharp point push into your collar bone and little rivulets of blood begin to fall, you panicked.

You nodded at him, dragging your head up and down in faux enthusiasm, unable to keep your lips from pursing in disapproval. He didn’t really care what you thought, he just loved having that power and control over you.

“I’m glad you agree.” He pulled the knife away, but not before sharply tugging it across a bit of skin that wasn’t covered in cuts or hickeys already. Even knowing it was coming, you couldn’t help giving a sharp inhale at the prickling pain.

He brought his mouth down to the freshly made incision, sucking and tonguing at the cut enough to make your eyes water, lapping at any stray droplets of blood that fell. Your face scrunched, and you tried to jerk your head away again.

“Schau mich an!”

All pretense of friendliness was gone from his voice, and you didn’t have to speak German to know what he was saying. Reluctantly, you looked at him again, noticing his eyes were low, flashing dangerously in the light. You had agitated him. “This is something personal between us, and I want you present and in the moment.”

You nodded again, making sure to look at him directly, no matter how much it made you sick. As much as you hated to admit it, you’d much rather it be him inside you than that knife, and he could switch that strategy any moment.

He gave a smile of approval, danger fading from his face for the moment. “Good! I’m glad this is as important to you as it is to me.” He gave a hefty sigh, letting his sweaty forehead rest against yours. You resisted the urge to close your eyes again. “I wasn’t lying. There’s a connection between us, and I want to explore it. I want to push it as far-”

He thrust inside, moving too fast to allow you to adjust yet too slowly to bring you any semblance of comfort, just enough to drag out the agony and make you dig your nails into your palm. A stinging pain shot through your nether at invading force and you gave a wordless cry, mouth opened in distress.

Strade, on the other hand, gave a long, exaggerated gasp of pleasure, testing the waters and shoving himself further in until you felt he might tear you in half. His bulbous head twitched inside you, pushing against your cervix. He pushed in until you cried out, trying to keep the tears from falling.

“-as it will go!” He planted his face onto yours, shoving his tongue into your mouth. Whimpering, you felt another tear slide down your temple, and you were grateful that for a moment his attentions were occupied.

He bit down on your lower lip, tugging and biting as if to warn you that he expected participation. You let your tongue tangle with his, if only to placate him for the moment. Keep him busy, make this quick.

He jerked his hips around for a moment, settling himself inside you as you tried to cry as silently as you could. The tearing pressure between your hips was nearly overwhelming you. Your sore walls yielded to him against their will, clenching tightly around him as if trying to push him out.

“Fick...” He hissed under his breath, pulling his face from yours. Instead, his head dropped gracelessly to your injured shoulder, making you wince. The knife clattered to the floor beneath you as his hand found your waist instead, bruising grip holding you in place as he thrust once as a tester. You swallowed another cry, knowing it would only egg him on.

He didn’t need that knife to do damage. You knew that.

“Always so tight, schatzi.” He let out a ragged breath, keeping his hand firmly on your throat but allowing his thumb to travel upwards to your mouth, padding invasively at your lower lip. “It’s as if your body was made for me.” He sighed, chuckling darkly as he pushed his thumb into your mouth. “Almost like it doesn’t want to let go of me.

Frustration welled with the helplessness in your throat and it took every ounce of willpower in your being to keep from crying harder. You swallowed, blinking upward through your lashes to try and dissipate the tears that were forming beneath your lids. Trying, in a way, to give yourself over to the fact that there was nothing you could do against him, and any amount of struggling would only result in more pain for yourself. It was easier to just let him say, and take, what he wanted.

He knew what he was doing.

He exhaled heavily on your neck, dragging your pliable body down onto him with an iron grasp on your hip as he thrust into you again. He was starting slowly, and some part of you was grateful for that. As much as it was easier to get this over with quickly, when he took his time at first, you at least had a little leeway when it came to mentally preparing yourself for whatever sick shit this psychopath was about to do. He was talented at finding new and exciting ways to make this as unbearable as possible.

He rolled his hips against you experimentally, pulling out only slightly before sinking back in. He was uncharacteristically gentle, but you knew well that it was a farce. He liked to do that sometimes. He would make mock gestures, almost with the sole intention of perverting something that was supposed to be done from love and care. The way he would talk to you as a friend, even as he caused you persistent and overwhelming pain. The way he called you pet names that should stay between intimate friends or lovers as your flesh and bone broke beneath his fingers. How he would kiss you slowly, even as his body demanded access to yours against your will and tears would stream down your cheeks as you would beg him to stop.

He tortured you not only physically, but mentally. He wanted to break you entirely.

A deep, debasing grunt left the base of his throat, exaggerated by his hand slipping from the curve of your hips down to the underside of your thigh, hiking your leg up around his waist to angle you just so that he could hit so deeply that it pushed on the limits of what your body could take. His face contorted in pleasure, hissing in incoherent sentences as he forced your leg up and around his burly body. It was a strain for him to slow his pace, but he did his best, focusing instead on the mixture of hatred and despair on your features to spur himself forward.

He pulled you closer, fingers digging into the plush meat of your thigh as he worked at you again and again. “Mein maus.” Nuzzling his head into the crook of your shoulder, he pushed his thumb fully into your mouth. You knew better than to bite down. You had the fresh bruise of a hard slap across your cheek to attest to that. He had warned you not to try it a second time, or you would lose your teeth. You listened and adhered, even as the calloused and dirty skin of his digit pressed deep against your tongue and created a terribly uncomfortable sensation. You weren’t even entirely sure he enjoyed it, but he would damn sure do it.

He made sure your leg stayed wrapped around him, allowing him access to the deepest parts of you, oscillating his large thumb in and out of your mouth as he slowly and torturously maneuvered in and out of you, dragging it on so much so that you were almost certain neither one of you were receiving any real pleasure from it other than his sadistic need to see you broken. With his head cradled between your neck and shoulder, his lips kept busy either licking tenderly, or sometimes biting hard on a small patch of skin enough to make you yelp out against your will, often drawing a small chuckle from him.

Strade was easily entertained. You knew he could make this last hours, if he so chose.

Gritting your teeth, you opted to think of other things. Anything else, really. Anything that could make you forget that a German serial killer was fucking you on his basement floor with his hands that had been Gods know where deep inside your mouth. Could anything really distract you from that? All you could do was pray that it would be over quickly, and that perhaps he’d get bored of you and your body eventually and end your suffering quickly.

How had this happened exactly? A few days ago, you’d just gone out looking for a drink and maybe some entertainment for the night. Perhaps meet a few new people and sort out your place in the universe. Instead, you’d ended up here.

That was the last time you took advice and tried to be social.

You felt him shudder on top of you, and you knew instinctively that he was beginning to lose control. It was only a matter of time now before he lost it and pounded you like an empty oil drill in the desert. If you could just hang on, just make it through this.

“You know liebling, I wait for our time together all day.” He drawled, eyes closed and mouth wandering down to the crux of your breasts. “You really give a me something to look forward to. I appreciate that.” His thick tongue licked a stripe up from the bottom of your chest up the fatty tissue, pausing on a nipple as he took it into his mouth. His sharp teeth dug a little too hard into the tender flesh and you winced, eyes twitching briefly. “This bond we share. It means a lot. You know what I mean?”

Every instinct in your entire body was screaming to tell him to go to hell, call him every name in the book and threaten his delicates if you ever got out of these bindings. But you’d been past this chapter already and knew exactly where it led. More of your blood, less of his patience, and even less of a recovery time before his mind came up with some new and exciting way to make you wish you were dead. The best answer was no answer at all, at least until you could get a read on what he wanted to hear.

Thankfully, he was more preoccupied than the last time you had opted to ignore him, and he either didn’t really notice or care that you had kept your mouth closed. “I’ve known a lot of interesting people in my time here, but you-“ He panted, huffing between words. “You’re special.”

“I bet you say that to everyone you kidnap.” You spat, unable to hold back the tide of resentment. He found it cute.

“Only the special ones.”

He began increasing his pace, but instead of just jackhammering into you as he normally did, he started rolling his hips, angling you further upward so that the fleshy skin of his pelvis was stimulating your most sensitive area. Caught completely off guard, you let out a gasp, taken by surprise at the sudden burst of pleasure as he spurred into you. He let out a heinous cackle, triumphant at the reluctant noise he had coaxed out of you. He pulled his thumb from your mouth, hovering it above your lips.

“Oh? That’s new!” He giggled, placing his face close to yours once more. “It seems like maybe you’re beginning to enjoy this!”

A renewed wave of anger washed over you, temporarily relieving you of your better senses. “Get fucked!” You hissed, gritting your teeth and doing your best to ignore the pleasurable sensation that was slowly building as he bucked into you, inadvertently rubbing against the tender bundle of nerves at your apex. He took it in stride, snickering again as he let his newly freed hand travel down your body, stopping momentarily on the low of your stomach.

“I am.”

He continued on for a moment, seemingly perusing his own end as you willed yourself to push down the tide of unwanted heat swirling around in your abdomen. It wasn’t until you felt his hand slowly creep further downward and his thick finger gently prodding at the tops of your folds that you started to panic. Strade didn’t do gentle, and anything he did, it was always with malicious intent.

That was why you nearly choked on your own spit when you felt his thumb pad at your clit, pushing down and swirling, using your own excess saliva for lubricant.

You made a noise that was comprised of half shock, half moan, and a deep, animalistic growl rumbled from within Strade’s belly. Almost against your will, you clamped your eyes shut once more, utterly disgusted with yourself. How is there any way that you were enjoying this, even on a primal level? A few swift touches and your body turns full Benedict Arnold, almost playing directly into his hands? There had to be something wrong with you.

Strade, on the other hand, was absolutely delighted at the betrayal he elicited from you. A deep, horrible smile carved its way across his face, and his slimy tongue ran across his teeth, practically drooling as he continued to fuck you.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Liebchen.” Grunting, he nipped on your ear, sucking gently. His sweat and yours had begun to coat your body and the rhythmic slapping his nether region was making against yours was obscene. You tried to block it out, tried to will it all away, but his hands were too much against you, and it wasn’t long before both his precum and your wetness coated his navel and the inside of your thighs. White hot pleasure coiled inside of you, and soon even his brutal pistoning was contributing to the fire kindling between your legs.

You had always liked it a bit rough. Much like everything about you, he was using it against you now.

His harsh grip on your thigh relinquished and he brought him arm up, letting himself relax onto his elbow, fingers finding your throat again and clenching on either side. For once, he wasn’t cutting off your airway in cruelty, but asserting his dominance and delaying the blood flow to your brain. You felt your mind go light, lolling your head to the side as your eyes fluttered open again. Vision blurry and sanity slipping, your leg clenched around him of its own volition, and from your mouth escaped a breathy sigh, and your last effort was pretending you didn’t hear his name pass from your lips.

As if a switch in his brain flipped, his thrusts became punishing and cruel, slamming into you again and again until you knew there would be bruises. It would have hurt, been agonizing even, if you weren’t as needy as you were now. Instead, your body welcomed him, gripping him and allowing him to withdraw, albeit unwillingly. He never once ceased his ministrations on your swollen nub, maneuvering and manipulating your body better than even you could. His teeth found your lower lip, biting and tugging, and in your haze, you returned feverishly, allowing your tongues to tangle as your head was yanked violently back and forth by the force of his movements.

His face had turned a deep shade of crimson and he was staring at you with eyes that would have terrified you had you been in your right mind. Dilated and wild, with promises of pain to come, and yet you didn’t care. He chased his pleasure, and you kept pace with him, thrusting your own hips in time to meet his. Your heartbeat became a dull thud in your ears and the world around you became fuzzy, unable to separate what was happening from the overwhelming bliss spidering throughout your body and rendering you null and empty. Eventually what was left of your grip on reality left you, and you became incoherent. Begging, pleading, even demanding him. Pulling him with the limbs you had control of, clenching the extremities you didn’t. You needed more.

You continued this dance for a while, though no one in the room could tell you how long. You might have been deranged in that moment, but even then you noticed that after a bit, something in Strade had snapped as well. His movements were no longer calculated to hurt you, and while it wasn’t as smooth, his hand never stopped against your center. His head was dipped down and resting on your bouncing chest, hair wet and mangled by the sweat he was working up. He was cursing and muttering under his breath, fingers clenching on your throat but never strangling you. Occasionally when he did work up the strength to look up at you, his eyes were heavy lidded and greedy, but almost placated and content instead of malicious.

He almost looked human.

Eventually, it became too much, and your orgasm ushered him to his own. You gave up your hold on what little dignity and pride you had left, crying for him as your head threw itself back, legs spasming and thighs twitching. Your cunt clenched him, milking him through to his own end as he bit deep onto your shoulder and spilled inside of you, allowing the excess to spill out onto your thighs and into a small puddle beneath your heaving bodies. Your moans echoed off the walls and reverberated into your own ears but it sounded like someone, anyone but you. Even though somewhere deep inside you, you knew you should feel shame and hatred and utter self-loathing, you couldn’t muster the energy anymore. He had sucked it all out of you.

He didn’t pull immediately from you like he normally did. He instead allowed himself to collapse on top of you, gulping in air and softening inside you. Your mind was a haze, still comatose in your post-orgasmal bliss, and you didn’t fight him as he pressed his lips to yours again. Your innards ached, and your arms and fingers were on fire from the lack of circulation, but you kissed him back as if the circumstances weren’t so weighted against you. You felt his sweaty body chafe against your already raw torso and could smell your own blood and viscera on him but your body relaxed into him, allowing him to take what he wanted rather than fight him. In turn, he was gentle, almost kind as he whispered in your ear.

“Du gehörst mir.”

When he finished, he finally pulled from you, letting his hand fall from your neck and zipping his pants up, looking rather disheveled. He almost seemed confused for a moment, before his normal smile returned and you felt your sick returning with it.

What have you done?

Your world began to spin and you began to feel queasy. Your throat burned and nausea raged within you as if you were about to puke out every single organ one by one. Adrenaline pumped through your veins and returned some semblance of your sanity. At least what you could understand, with your stomach still in butterflies and his cum steadily dripping from you at your behest. Your eyes watered and in anger, you began to kick and snarl and you swore you would do anything if you could to keep this horrible, clawing feeling from ripping out your heart and mind. You had asked for this. You wanted this.

He ignored you, seeming positively giddy as he skipped from the room. You could hear his booming footsteps clomp up the wooden steps and the heavy door shut behind him. He left you alone, at least for a moment, and despite what you’ve been through, it’s the worst moment of your life.

You cry, because it’s the one thing you can do. Sobs heave their way out of your chest, and you cough and sputter onto the floor, acutely aware of the smell of bodily fluids and sweat that permanently stains your skin. You inhale and you can feel him again except this time it’s like you’ve placed a welcome mat. His fluids are seeping into your skin, enveloping in your body, and you struggle and tear at your bindings because you want to claw him out before he seeps too deeply inside of you and leaves no semblance of the original you behind.

You’ve accomplished nothing but ripping open old wrist wounds by the time you hear the heavy bootfall against the steps again. You don’t know if you can bring yourself to look at him right now.

He makes you.

Strade pulls you up by your hair to your knees as you hiss in pain as sets you upright, grabbing your chin and squeezing until you obey. Rightfully, you’re afraid. You should be, you remind yourself.

“I have a gift for you.”

He’s got something hidden behind his back, and you prepare yourself for the worst. A knife in your throat, a blade to your neck. You might die.

A nail to your temple, a bucket of water to breathe. You were going to die.

Gasoline and a match, a saw to your face. You were ready to die.

You were terrified, even as you prepared for almost anything, steeling yourself against the terror that was battering your resolution. This would never end unless he let it. He was giving you an out. Take it. Let it all end.

You closed your eyes as he reached toward you, clenching your teeth, saying your last laments and asking forgiveness from the universe. No more pain, you begged. You had been through enough. Seen enough. Seen enough of yourself. You were so tired. Let it end.

You felt the cold touch of steel kiss your neck as something was clamped around your neck, and for a second, you thought nothing of it. At least until you felt Strade’s warm hands adjusting it, maneuvering your face around and tightening it, adjusting and soothing it down almost lovingly. A pit of despair welled inside of you as you opened your eyes as you wiggled beneath the constraints, unsure of what was happening.

Strade had a knife in one hand and a small object you couldn’t quite make out in the other, and you flinched as he leaned in. You felt the press of a blade against your palm and only relaxed as he sawed your binds off, instinctively flexing your wrists as they fell free. The painful static of numbness raced through your arms even as you stared at him, cowering and awaiting whatever unpleasant fate he had planned. He only reached his hand out to you for you to grab, a gentle smile on his face even as he clutched the knife in his opposing hand.

Hesitantly, you reach to him, just as he knew you would.

As if you ever had a choice.

#strade #boyfriend to death #btd #strade x reader #Please heed the warnings #Work in progress??#I had an alternate ending with like 5000 more words where you get pregnant and strade is fucking ecstatic #I've been working on this off and on forever and just wanted to get it out here #gods im so sorry to the creator to keep twisting your creation like this #picture at the top belongs to her #it used to be a lot more depressing believe it or not

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set-phasers-to-whump · 3 years

Text

“run. don’t look back.”

prompt: “run. don’t look back.”

whumpee: marius josipovic

fandom: sneaky pete

what is up i am back with beating marius up!!! its been a hot second since i’ve seen the show but hopefully these two are in character. i had a great time writing them, and i hope you enjoy!!

He doesn’t like having her here. She’s got too much of a future ahead of her to be getting herself even tangentially into shit like this. But it’s not like he asked her to come. No. She’d smuggled herself along in the trunk of his car.

Seeing as how he was already going to be late for this meeting, Marius hadn’t been able to drive her home. He’d settled for leaving her in the car and telling her that she’d better stay put or else he’d tell the family what she’d done, and that he was betting they’d ground her. There was a party this weekend she wanted to go to, so he’d been pretty sure the threat was a good one. She’d stay put.

Which is a fact he’s immensely grateful for right about now, as a fist slams into the side of his face. He tastes blood, and spits it at his attacker, who only hits him harder in response. The sharp edge of a ring digs into his forehead, dripping blood into his eyes. Another punch comes straight for his nose, and this time Marius tries to duck, but simply catches the punch in his throat instead.

For a horrible second, he can’t breathe, can barely see through the black spots in his vision, but he manages to take a gasping breath just in time for the air to be knocked right back out of him with a punch to the stomach.

He stumbles backwards with the force of it, landing hard on his ass, which is a pain that hardly registers compared to everything else. A boot presses into his chest, forcing him backwards farther still, until his back is flat against the ground. And then it lifts, and Marius immediately tries to scramble to his feet, but the boot comes back, kicking into his chest with more than enough force to break a few ribs, pinning him again to the ground. He really can’t breathe now.

He tries to focus on his attacker, tries to think of something to say, but for once he’s rendered completely speechless, courtesy of that last kick to the chest. He takes a wheezing breath, tries to say anything at all, and then the boot kicks him under the chin, snapping his jaw shut.

Blood fills his mouth again, and he nearly chokes on it. What’s the game here? he wonders desperately. This was supposed to be a simple business meeting, a sort of getting-to-know-you between a conman and a rich man too stupid to know how to be a conman. He doesn’t even fully know what this guy wants - had wanted, he figures - from him. He’s lost. He may very well be facing his death, or at least his severe injury, and he has no idea how to stop it.

There’s a scuffling sound from in front of him and from behind his attacker. Marius squints against the blood in his eyes to see what it is.

No.

Carly.

He finally manages to regain the power of speech long enough to choke out, desperately, “Run. Don’t look back.”

He sees Carly turn, hears her rapidly receding footsteps on the gravel, and half wishes the man still pressing a boot to his chest would follow her. If he does, then Marius can get up and tackle him, and the two of them will both be relatively okay.

But he doesn’t. In fact, he hardly even seems to have taken notice of Carly, evidently unconcerned about the prospect of her doing something as reasonable as calling the police. Which Marius really hopes she doesn’t do. That would be just what he needs.

The man bends low over him, and Marius raises a fist to strike at him, which is easily grabbed and twisted with a horrible crunching sound that makes him scream, a sound quickly muffled by the man’s hand over his mouth.

He’s about to do something with that, but before he can think of what there’s a horrible clanging sound, as of metal hitting flesh, and the man suddenly falls on top of him. Marius feels what little breath he’d had leave him in a rush at the sudden weight, but he quickly shoves the guy off of him and looks up.

Carly stands there, a look that’s a mix of pride and shock on her face, a length of bloody metal pipe in her hands. “Got him,” she says, a little breathless.

She drops the pipe on the ground and cautiously approaches Marius and his unconscious attacker - who Marius hopes is only unconscious. The last thing they need right now is a dead body.

Carly holds a hand over the man’s mouth. “He’s breathing,” she says. “Should I call the police?”

Marius shakes his head, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “No,” he says, his voice scratchy but firm.

Carly doesn’t question it. She nods resolutely, then extends a hand. Marius looks at it for a second.

“Gimme your hand, dumbass,” Carly says, impatient. Marius finally reaches up and takes it, trying and failing not to wince when she pulls him to his feet with surprising strength.

He wavers for a second once he’s standing, feeling dangerously close to passing out, but Carly wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him along back to the car.

She unlocks it with keys that Marius hadn’t even noticed she’d taken from his pocket, and leads him to the passenger seat. When he tries to protest she smacks him on the head. “You really think you can drive like that?”

“Ow,” he mutters at her, though the smack hadn’t hurt that much. She has a point, anyway, he knows, although he doesn’t especially like the idea of her driving his car.

Carly starts driving, with directions home pulled up on google maps. She focuses intently on the road ahead of her, and Marius watches her, half-afraid he’s still going to meet his death or severe injury today, but in the form of a car crash.

Both of them relax when they reach the familiar roads of Bridgeport. Carly finally speaks, having been unnervingly silent in her concentration.

“What was all that back there, Uncle Pete? Did you do something to that guy?”

Marius shakes his head. He’s not entirely sure how much his observant young quasi-cousin knows about him, and he’s not about to give her any more fuel to feed her interest. “Never met him before.”

“Really?”

It’s honestly true. They’d talked once, over the phone, very briefly, but until today he hadn’t ever seen the man face-to-face. Not that he’d done a whole lot of seeing anything once the blows had started coming.

“Really,” he says, and then figures the least he can do is give her something, all things considered. “It was a meeting. First one. Dunno what he wanted.”

Carly makes a noise of agreement as they pull up to the house, and Marius realizes with a spark of joy that there’s no one else home. He’d really been dreading having to explain all of this.

As it is, though, the two of them get inside, Marius still leaning on Carly, who pulls him into the bathroom. She begins rummaging through the cabinets, pulling out a variety of medical supplies, half of which look like they’ve been here since before she was born. She grabs a washcloth from a second cabinet and sets it on the bathroom counter. “You fix that up,” she tells him, gesturing to his face. “I’m gonna go see if you dripped any blood on the floor.”

Carly leaves Marius to clean up his wounds, which he does, rather painfully, with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and the washcloth.

Once the blood has been removed from his face, Marius turns his attention to the rest of his body, grateful to find it dirty and bruised all to hell but free of blood. He takes a quick and painfully hot shower to remove the dirt and puts on the clean clothes that Carly had left outside the door with a shout of, “you better not have bled on the bathmat!”

He hadn’t, and he quickly cleans up the blood that he had dripped into the sink. He puts away all of the supplies, fitting the last few in haphazardly, then grabs the bloodied washcloth to throw it away.

“And don’t you dare throw away that washcloth,” he hears Carly warn from where she’s evidently standing right outside the door. “We’ll bleach it and nobody’ll ever know.”

He sighs and opens the door, coming face-to-face with Carly, who points him in the direction of the laundry room, following along behind him after stepping into the bathroom and looking around.

“Satisfied?” Marius asks her as the two start a load of laundry consisting solely of the washcloth.

“No blood anywhere,” Carly confirms. “You did a shitty job putting everything back, though.”

He shrugs, wincing when the movement agitates his aching chest. “There’s too much of it,” he tells her, though he’s glad they have all of it.

“Just put it back better next time,” she says.

“Next time?”

“Oh please, like this is the first or the last time in your whole life you’ve gotten beat up,” Carly says, exasperatedly. “You’re just lucky I was there, though, or it might have been the last. That dude looked pretty scary.”

He had looked pretty scary, Marius agrees, particularly from the ground with his boot on your chest. “Thanks for that back there,” he says. “Quick thinking.”

“Does that mean you’re not gonna tell anyone that I snuck along with you? Considering I saved your life and all.”

Marius laughs a little at that. “I won’t tell,” he says. “I think we’re even.”

thanks so much for reading this!!!!! i know it’s been a while since i’ve posted anything for this fandom but this reminded me how much i love it....

#febuwhump2021 #febuwhumpday15 #sneaky pete #marius josipovic #run. don't look back.#beat up #supported #my writing #i say things

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moonb-eam · 4 years

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I loved the skate park one shot you did with Robbe and Eliott! It was adorable 😍. I can actually picture Eliott and Sander being friends! Or brothers / cousins as I have seen others say in the wtfock tag. I would love to see a Sander/ Eliott fic of some kind as friends or family! Maybe Sander could go to Eliott and Lucas for advice cause he thinks he really messed up and he has no idea how to fix this! Or something? ... I love everything you write and I just want to see them interact! ❤️

okay, here’s the dealio, anon.

i have so many other prompts to fill but since i first saw this ask i kept thinking about it. it just wouldn’t let me go, because firstly, i had no idea that people were talking in the tags about eliott and sander being friends or cousins, which blew my damn mind what a Concept

but secondly, one of the main reasons i started posting skam france fan fiction was as a coping mechanism for shit that was going on in the show that made me angry and sad

this is all to say, i took the prompt and wrote 3.7k with it ✨

hope you like 🧡

He thinks about him, and the charcoal in his hand slips, a slow, even curve that goes jagged, a thick black line breaking his canvas in half.

He wants to knock the canvas to the ground. He wants to tear it to pieces. He wants to ignite it with a match.

The skin over his eye still pulls, the bruise along his cheekbone still stings.

Everything fucking hurts.

Sander drops his piece of charcoal down to the easel and turns away from the canvas, running his hands up the back of his head and scrubbing them through his hair, not caring that he’s getting black fingerprints stuck in the bleached strands.

He can’t even draw. That’s been taken away from him, too.

Not taken away. There’s a voice in his head, a voice that sounds like rocks against windows and cracking ice. This hasn’t been stolen from you, you lost it didn’t you, you lost him, you lost your heart, you lost your mind—

He doesn’t stop walking until he reaches the far wall of the empty studio, leaning his forehead against cold glass, his body slumping forwards. He tries to take deep, even breaths, tries to find something to centre himself on, but when he closes his eyes all he sees is Robbe.

He dreamt about him last night, about the space at the base of his neck, right above his collarbone. He dreamt about pressing his face into that spot, surrounded by soft, warm skin and that clean cotton smell that’s always attached to Robbe’s clothes. He dreamt about feeling the vibrations of Robbe’s gentle laughter under his cheek, about Robbe running his hands through his hair and saying, Sander. I love you.

He woke up sweating, tangled in threadbare sheets, faced with the early-morning blackness of Antwerp. He’d wanted nothing more than to sink back into that dream, and to never leave it.

Being awake is a curse.

He takes another breath, pressing his forehead further into the glass and he’s listing off different shades of black in his head to try to find something to focus on, and it’s working, a bit.

pure black, onyx, eigengrau, xiketic

“Sander?”

He startles, knocking the side of his head against the wall as he stumbles back, whipping around to the studio doorway.

That French guy is standing there. The exchange student. The one with the annoyingly perfect blending technique.

Eliott, his brain supplies.

Eliott has one hand gripping onto the strap of his backpack and he’s staring at Sander with his eyebrows furrowed, his mouth turned down at the corners.

“Is everything okay?” He asks, then bites down on his lip, regretful, like he knows there’s only one possible answer to that question when you find someone collapsing into a wall in an empty studio on a Friday afternoon.

Sander blinks. “I didn’t think anybody would still be here,” he says flatly.

Eliott shrugs. “Yeah, well.” He gestures vaguely to the hallway behind him. “I had to finish some stuff and I needed lots of space for it…” Then he grins, bouncing on the spot. “And anyway I have to wait for Lucas. He’s coming here from the train station.”

Right. Lucas. The famous boyfriend back in Paris.

His name is Lucas, Sander heard him gushing to Greta one day in class, excitedly scrolling through the camera roll on his phone. He’s a science student, still in Lycée. He’s amazing. He’s so smart and funny, and he’s so thoughtful, but he doesn’t always let people know that.

Out of curiosity, Sander had craned his neck forward to see the screen of Eliott’s phone. And yeah, not bad. Cute. Really cute, actually, with wide, clear eyes and a full, teasing smile. But, personally, Sander has always preferred brown eyes over blue.

“Right,” he says to Eliott, and he doesn’t know what else to do, so he walks back to his easel, taking his canvas down and propping it up in the corner of the room reserved for unfinished works.

There’s the sound of a phone going off and Sander turns towards it, heart soaring, but he sees Eliott pulling his phone out of his pocket and he’s smiling down at the screen, rapidly typing out a reply, and Sander's heart sinks back down to the bottom of the ocean. He crouches to the ground and gathers his charcoal back into its box, securing it with an elastic band, his face burning.

What was he even expecting? Why would Robbe message him when he knows, he knows Robbe saw Britt’s Instagram post, and he heard Robbe was at that party which means he saw them together and he must hate him but that was what Sander wanted, wasn’t it?

“Hey. Sander.”

Sander glances up from where he’s packing his bag and Eliott is staring back at him, tapping his phone against his chest.

“I don’t want to be…prying. But you, uh, you seem like you’re having a hard time right now. So, if you want to talk about it, we can. Talk about it. And if you don’t want to, then…we don’t have to.”

Eliott is fumbling through this speech, giving it in stops and starts of heavily-accented English but he holds Sander’s eyes the entire time, and Sander has always respected straightforward people, but more than anything else, he’s struck by the care colouring Eliott’s words into soft pastels across the harsh white of the studio, the concern painted clearly across his face in shades Sander had forgotten existed.

He really doesn’t know the last time someone worried about him.

Apart from Robbe.

This is why, while Sander’s first instinct would normally be to make a lame joke or change the subject completely, instead he sits back on his heels, takes a deep breath and asks, “Did you ever…hurt anyone?”

Eliott tilts his head. “Because you tried too hard not to?”

“No. Because you meant to.”

Now there’s something dawning behind Eliott’s eyes, something that looks a bit like reluctant understanding. Or, perhaps, undesirable understanding.

Eliott asks, “Does this have something to do with that boy? The one that came at the end of class.”

For all that Sander’s brain has thought of nothing but Robbe, Robbe, Robbe for weeks, it’s nearly impossible for him to say his name aloud. “Yeah. Robbe.”

He doesn’t think he deserves to say it. The word is too sweet on his tongue. It tastes too much like the last time he said it, when Robbe was swaying towards him on his bar stool and flashes of blue and purple light were playing tag across his face and he was so beautiful, so delicate and so mesmerizing and somehow, impossibly, he was Sander’s.

He was.

Eliott sighs, and leans against the doorframe, his backpack sliding down his arm to the floor.

“It never works the way you think it will.”

Sander’s head snaps up. Eliott is staring at a spot just over his shoulder. There’s a faint line between his eyebrows.

“At one point,” Eliott says at length, “I didn’t think I could ever have what I have with Lucas. I didn’t think that sort of thing was meant for someone like me.”

“That sort of thing.” Sander echoes dubiously.

Eliott’s eyes snap over to him. “Love.” He says simply. “Being in love. Being loved. Without any, uh…” He waves a hand out, searching for the word. “Inconditionnel.”

“Unconditional.” Sander nods. “Yeah. It’s similar in English.” He sees a loose thread in the knee of his jeans and he tugs at it, tearing a hole open at the seam. He’s hoping Eliott will keep going, will give him something solid to latch onto, but he seems to be waiting Sander out now, like he knows Sander’s only given him the prologue to the story.

Sander wants to tell him. And he doesn’t want to. Because saying it aloud will make it more real, in a way. It’s as if, as long as the words stay buried inside of him, there’s still a chance that this is a dream Sander will wake up from, and when he wakes up he’ll be a different version of himself. One who’s normal and can love and be loved like a normal person and won’t have a built-in self destruct button.

“I…” He keeps his eyes fixed on the hole in his jeans, pulls harder on the thread. “I hurt him. Because I needed him to hate me.”

Eliott’s voice is very soft when he asks, “Why?”

“Because being with me…it was ruining his life.” The words feel dramatic coming out and Sander drops the thread, falls back onto his ass and throws his arms out, palms flat. “I know how that sounds, but it’s true. He was so messed up from kissing me that he…he said shitty things. He said he thought I drugged him, as if I could ever—and then, then, we, one night we went out and we…” Without even realizing it, Sander’s hand has drifted up to his eye. He lowers his hands to his thighs, digging into the muscle there. “Something happened. Something that was really bad and he got hurt and I. I can’t see him hurt like that. Ever again.” He drops his head to his knee, eyes shut tightly. “From the moment he met me, his life went to shit. I was ruining him. I was.” He doesn’t realize he’s crying until his voice breaks on the last word and there’s something wet sliding down to the tip of his nose and he wipes it across his jeans, coughing to try and mask the sound.

God what a fucking mess Sander has made. He’s fucked with everything good in his life and now he’s crying in front of a French guy he barely knows and it’s all just…a fucking mess. There’s no way out.

“D’accord.” Eliott says quietly from his post at the door. Sander hears him shifting on the spot, then his phone buzzing in his pocket, and for a brief moment, Sander hates him. He hates his buzzing phone, hates how Eliott gets to wait for someone and Eliott gets to message someone and Eliott will get to kiss someone today, probably. Someone he loves. Someone who loves him. The jealousy is a violent flash of lightning that surges through him, makes his fingers tremble.

It makes him spit the rest out coldly, bitterly, pure black tar from between his teeth.

“We were victims of a hate crime.” He says. “These two guys, they saw us kissing and they beat the shit out of us, left us on the street. And do you know what I did? I abandoned him. When he really needed me. I got back together with my girlfriend. I stopped responding to his messages. I let him see that we’re back together.” He laughs and the sound hurts on its way out. “He must wish he never met me.”

He’s expecting Eliott to leave at this, to realize this is way more fucked up than he thought it would be when he first decided to play the caring classmate. Maybe he’ll shoot Sander a look of disgust for good measure. What he’s not expecting is for Eliott to take a step away from the wall, a step towards Sander, his face marred with worry.

“Wait. What the fuck. A hate crime? Did you report it to the police?”

It sucks the lightning storm out of Sander’s veins, that worry. His head drops down on his shoulders.

“It wouldn’t do anything.” He says. I can’t, he doesn’t say. I’ve been in the wrong place at the wrong time before and it’s not good for me, he doesn’t say.

Eliott is shaking his head. “It would. Saying it out loud means it happened. It’s real.”

And fuck if Eliott isn’t tapped directly into Sander’s head. It makes him shiver.

“I’m so sorry.” Eliott says. “No one should ever have to experience that.”

Before Sander realizes what’s happening, Eliott is coming over, he’s kneeling down onto the floor in front of him and he’s pulling him into an awkward, long-armed hug, and he’s saying it again, “I’m so sorry.”

Out of every possibility Sander considered for this conversation, he didn’t imagine this.

It’s like his body can’t decide if it wants to pull away or fold in closer, locking up in indecision and leaving his arms hanging limply at his sides.

He hates that a relative stranger is comforting him like this, seeing him so broken and vulnerable, so laid bare, but at the same time it feels so fucking good to be held, to be looked after, that he doesn’t ever want the hug to end.

Then Eliott is the one pulling away, planting his hands on Sander’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, in a rush, “I shouldn’t have done that without asking. But it really looked like you needed it.”

Sander stares at him. He thinks his mouth might be hanging open.

Eliott squeezes his shoulders. “You need to know: what happened to you wasn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything to cause it, and you did nothing to deserve it.” Eliott blinks and his own eyes are wet. Sander looks down to break his gaze, everything feeling to raw and too wrought for him to handle.

All he can say is, “Yeah. Well. Maybe.”

“And you should know,” Eliott continues, “that you’re not helping him by deciding he’s better off without you. You can’t decide for other people what will make them happy. You can’t decide what’s good for them.” He drops his hands from Sander’s shoulders, and falls back, mirroring Sander’s posture. “I tried that, with Lucas. I tried to push him away because I thought he would better off without having to deal with me. I thought he wouldn’t be able to handle what being with me is really like.”

Sander shifts on the spot, a bit uncomfortably, because there’s that feeling again. It’s like Eliott can see the inside of his head, can take the tangled web of his thoughts and unravel it to something tangible. Flawed and tragic, but true.

“I didn’t trust him.” Eliott says. “I underestimated him, which is something I did a lot in the beginning.” A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “But he keeps surprising me.”

“How could I ever fix this?” The words pour out of Sander in frustration, curling around his face like smoke. “I’ve fucked up too much. Too much to be forgiven.”

“Robbe may surprise you, too.”

Fuck.

The very idea of it, of seeing Robbe again, of explaining himself to him, of Robbe forgiving him.

The very idea of being able to hold him again.

It sets Sander afire from the inside out.

“You need to be completely honest with him.” Eliott says. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he slowly stands from his spot on the ground, brushing off the back of his jeans. “And with yourself. You need to show him how you feel but you also need to tell him. You need to make it right. For both of you.” Eliott bends down to retrieve his backpack. “And Sander…” He pauses. “Maybe it’s not my place to say this, but I think you really need to report that attack. Together.”

Sander feels a bit like crying, and a bit like laughing, inappropriately enough. There’s too much happening inside of his head, there is always is, but it’s too much in a way that feels like being awake is necessary. It’s important.

“How did you do that?” Sander asks, staring up at Eliott. “How did you know exactly what to say to me? You don’t even know me.”

Eliott smiles, and it’s sweet and bitter. “Maybe, but I think we’re very similar, actually. I think we both try to…hm. Comportement autodestructeur.”

“Self-destructive.” Sander fills in automatically.

Eliott nods. “We are both like that, and it made us lose the best parts of ourselves. Lucas, he fought for me. He fought for us, and so we found each other again. I don’t want to imagine what it would be like for me if he hadn’t. I don’t want to imagine that for you either, if Robbe makes you feel the same way Lucas makes me feel. So. You have to fight for him. That is what I’m saying.”

Sander digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

“I don’t mean to—”

“No.” He cuts Eliott off, pushing himself up from the ground. He’s shaky as he tries to stand. “No, it’s. You’re right. I know you are. It’s just a lot.” He takes a long, deep breath, and he’s listing off shades of brown in his head for something to focus on, something to keep him from crumpling back down to the ground.

chestnut, raw umber, taupe, wenge, robbe’s hair, robbe’s eyes

“Hey.” Eliott’s interrupting him again, driving a wedge in front of the runaway train of his mind. “How about you come with me? You can meet Lucas. Get a drink with us, and we can talk. He can give you advice on how to be brave.”

Eliott’s grinning as he says it, a look in his eyes like he’s kidding but he’s also not, and Sander knows he’s not, because he actually could use some pointers on being brave right about now, when all he’s wanted for the last week is to disappear from the face of the Earth. To do nothing but go to sleep.

It’s so much more difficult, being awake.

“Will he mind?” He asks, sliding the strap of his messenger bag onto his shoulder.

If anything, Eliott’s smiles grows wider. “Nope. He’s been saying for weeks that he wants to meet my Belgian friends.”

Friends.

Yeah. Sander thinks he could really use some friends right now.

Eliott and Sander are outside of the school’s entrance for only a few minutes, watching the sun set and sharing a cigarette, and then there’s a tiny blur crashing into Eliott from out of nowhere, latching its arms around his neck and climbing onto his back, nearly knocking Eliott over with the momentum.

Sander flicks the cigarette towards the ground, and watches with a small smile forming on his face, what feels like the first in a long, long time.

“Eliott!” The blur cries happily, and then he’s speaking in rapid-fire French, his metropolitan accent managing to sound lazy and rushed at the same time, his vowels melting together to form one long stream of exclamations.

Sander manages to catch something about a nightmarish train ride, a desperate need to eat something, and then, when his feet are back on the ground and Eliott has turned around to face him, I missed you so much. My love.

They kiss, and it’s slow, soft and intimate and Sander looks away, taking a drag off the cigarette. He checks his phone but the only notification is from Britt, telling him that he left a sweater at her place, and she doesn’t want to keep it but she also doesn’t want to bring it to him, so he’ll have to drop by to pick it up himself.

Sander sighs.

I’ll come by tomorrow, he replies. He wants to tell her she can just give it away, or throw it out, he doesn’t care, but he can guess that for her, it’s for closure. Something she can do to tell Sander that she’s over it, over him, and Sander doesn’t want to take that away from her.

He owes her that, at least.

“Hello.” Another heavily-accented voice is saying to him, cutting through his thoughts. His head snaps up and the boy/blur himself is standing in front of him, offering a hand to shake. Eliott is next to him, an arm draped across his shoulders. “I am Lucas.” He announces, like he’s the king of France declaring himself to a pauper, and Sander already likes him.

“Sander,” he says, shaking Lucas’s hand.

“Eliott says you are coming with us for drinks?”

Sander shrugs. He flicks the cigarette to the ground and smothers it with the toe of his boot. “Yeah.”

Lucas squints at him, biting down on his lip. Sander tilts his head to stare back at him, not sure what Lucas is looking for, if he’s measuring him up to determine if he’s worthy to be Eliott’s friend, or if he’s trying to extrapolate on the inner workings of his heart just from what’s written across his face. Sander wonders if Lucas can read wasteland somewhere along the lines of his forehead or in the hollows of his eyes. When Sander woke up this morning, that was all he could see when he looked in the mirror.

Lucas must find something satisfactory in his appraisal, because he’s nodding, and Eliott leans close to whisper something into his hair and Lucas smiles, something soft and sad, and he says, “Ah, oui. D’accord.” He slips out from Eliott’s arm and steps froward, gripping onto Sander’s wrist. “Come on. You will pick the bar and Eliott will pay for the drinks.”

Eliott makes an indignant, protesting noise at this, but Lucas waves him off.

“It’s an emergency, Eli! We have to get him vodka and make a plan.”

Sander is staring down at Lucas, feeling a bit like he’s being pulled into a tornado. “A plan for what?”

“For how you will fix it.” Lucas says, as if it’s obvious. Sander throws a look at Eliott over his shoulder, wondering just how much of Sander’s private life he’s shared, and Eliott shrugs like maybe he overstepped but he’s not sorry about it.

Lucas is practically yelling into his ear. “We need somewhere with good food and cheap alcohol.”

And Sander, who’s thinking about being brave, being honest, being vulnerable and being able to hear Robbe’s voice, to press his cheek to that spot at the base of his neck, he points down the street, towards the centre of town.

“That way,” he says.

“Good.” Lucas says. He reaches back for Eliott’s hand, pulling him along with them. “Let’s go.”

#asks #anon #also anon thank you so much for your kind words you’re so sweet!!! ily 💞💞💞💞#filed under #prompt fill #also filed under #fic tag #uhhh oh god #skam fr fanfic #elu fic #????#wtfock fic #robbe x sander fic #help????#cross-universe hoopla

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