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pathologicalreid · 6 months

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buried alive | S.R.

in which the BAU races against the clock to rescue you from a killer team

who? spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

category: angsty

content warnings: kidnapping, case stuff (murder yk), suffocation, being buried alive, hospitals, blood, nausea, CPR, funerals, use of pet names, guns, and drugs. i think that's all.

word count: 2.9k

a/n: okay, so i've been reading so much spencer fanfic and i started writing it and yesterday i realized i have 20 fics written and they're doing no one any good just sitting on my computer. i decided to finally try posting one. i wrote fanfic in high school (so like seven years ago) but this is my first time writing for a TV show. i've also never really posted on tumblr so please bear with me while i try to figure out formatting. tysm for checking out my post.

part two part three

You walked into the conference room and dropped the file on the table, allowing it to land on the wood with a satisfying splat. “The unsub’s burying them alive,” you said, letting the rest of the team know the conclusion you had come to with the medical examiner. “The M.E. found metal shavings and satin threads under the nails of our last victim. The most common materials to make up a casket.”

“There’s no way someone could bury someone alive in a casket alone, we’ve got to be dealing with a team, at least three people,” Emily concluded, standing in front of the evidence board.

It was the team’s third day on a case in Nebraska, four women had been discovered dead. Asphyxiation by hypoxia. Carbon dioxide poisoning.

“Approximately 420 people in the United States die from accidental carbon dioxide poisoning every year,” Spencer said, grabbing the file off of the table and flipping through it, taking a few seconds to read through it.

Rossi looked over Reid’s shoulder to look at the file, “but there’s nothing accidental about these deaths. Who would have access to these caskets?”

You shook your head, placing a hand on the back of Spencer’s chair, “A funeral director seems most likely.” You looked around at the Omaha field office, different agents running about in an attempt to solve these very murders. “They’d have the most access, write it off as displays. It could be hard to match the materials since they’re so common.”

Hotch leaned over the table and pressed the conference phone, “What can I do you for?” Garcia’s bright voice rang through the speaker.

“Garcia, I need you to look into funeral homes within the comfort zone. Look for a director who’s ordered more caskets than they’ve had funerals. Find anything, nothing is too small.” He told her.

“Absolutely, I’ll hit you back when I’ve got something,” she said, hanging up the phone.

There ended up being four funeral homes in the unsub’s comfort zone, so the team split up. You went with two locals to a family-owned business, Garcia had sent you all of the files you’d need on the location. “It looks like the Varn family has been in the funeral business since the seventeenth century,” you read aloud to the two agents you were in the car with.

“Does it mean they’re more or less likely to be the killers if they’ve been in business for so long?” One of the agents asked you, a younger man named Harrison.

You pursed your lips as you continued to look over the files, “I’m not seeing any glaringly obvious stressors before the murders started, but over the years I’ve learned that’s no reason to write someone off. Psychopaths can be tipped off by the slightest thing. Things none of us would bat an eye at.”

Harrison nodded in the passenger seat, looking over to his partner Jimmy, “You and your guy sure do make an interesting pair.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment, so thank you.” You and Spencer never explicitly stated to the field office that you were dating, but you walked into the precinct this morning holding hands. The agents must have drawn their own conclusions.

The younger officer cleared his throat, “It is a compliment, ma’am. The two of you are very impressive, your whole team is.”

You smiled, “Thank you, Harrison.”

The funeral home was run by a mother and her two sons, you held up your credentials for the mother when you knocked on the door. “Are you Sheila Varn?” You asked her, raising your eyebrows.

“Yes, what’s this about?” She inquired. She didn’t really look the part of a serial killer, a middle-aged woman who was running her family business.

Pocketing your credentials, you spoke, “We’re investigating the recent murders in the area and we were wondering if you had samples of the materials your caskets are made out of. Might we be able to come in?” You asked, adding a charming smile for effect.

Something flashed across her face before she returned your smile, opening the door and welcoming the three of you inside. “Hold on, let me get my boys up here. They’re so much more versed in the goings on of the town than I am,” she said, opening the door and calling for her sons. Felix and Joss came up the stairs from the basement, now they definitely had the physique to load dead women into caskets and bury them alive.

“Why don’t you two men come with me? I’ll get you those samples,” Sheila said, motioning for the agents you were with to follow her. To your horror, they followed her around the corner. “Felix, Joss, show this young lady what you know,” she instructed.

You took a deep breath before you looked up at the two men.

They were tall, maybe Spencer’s height, but they were built like wrestlers. There was no way you could physically subdue them on your own.

You passed out before you even had the chance to pull your gun.

Hotch was in full Unit Chief mode, Spencer watched from the corner of the room as he separated people into groups and gave them specific instructions. JJ and Morgan walked into the precinct, “What’s going on?” JJ asked looking around the room.

“The Varn Family is the team; two agents were found drugged on the side of the road and when we went to the funeral home Y/N was missing. Her badge, gun, and phone were all there, covered in blood,” Spencer said morosely, watching as Hotch finished giving orders and called the rest of the team over.

Your picture was up on the evidence board with the word “missing” written in bold letters beneath it. All of your belongings had been put into evidence for the time being. “Reid?” Hotch said his name, causing his head to snap up. “Are you okay to keep working?”

Spencer nodded affirmatively, “Yes.”

“Good, I need you to estimate how much time we have, I want a clock on these screens,” he ordered.

Morgan turned to Reid, “What do you think she has, kid?”

“The tidal volume for the average adult is point five at rest. That ends up being about six liters per minute. The average casket is approximately 886 liters in total volume and the average volume of the human body is 66 liters, leaving 820 liters to be filled with air for her to breathe. If she’s been gone for half an hour already, I’d estimate she has less than five hours of breathable air left.” Spencer explained, doing all of the math in his head while Emily put a timer on the screen next to the evidence board.

After a moment, Hotch continued, “Rossi, JJ, go back to the funeral home. Tear it apart, there has to be something there we haven’t found yet. The rest of us will split the list of cemeteries in the comfort zone and search them.”

“That’s a lot of ground to cover, we don’t have anything else to go on?” Morgan asked, looking at the list of burial sites he had been handed.

Hotch looked at Spencer, but Spencer stayed silent. “That’s all we have right now,” Hotch responded, “hopefully we’ll come across leads as we go.”

It smelled like a garden around you. The memory reminded you of spring with your mother, tending to the vegetable garden.

The only difference was that instead of the sun beaming down on you, it was pitch black. The space surrounding you was so dark that you weren’t totally sure your eyes were open.

Your head was throbbing just above your right temple, and you observed your surroundings. Slowly, you lifted your arm until it hit a ceiling.

Not a ceiling. A lid. You were in a casket. You pressed one hand to your chest and tried to slow your breathing. Chances were that the casket was already buried beneath the surface of the earth, trying to open it could be catastrophic. You patted the pockets of your jeans, only to find your phone missing, so the team wouldn’t be able to trace the location.

Even if you had it, there likely wouldn’t be service six feet under.

Your team would find you. They had to find you.

They found Spencer, they found Emily, and they would find you.

Spencer shifted in the passenger seat of the SUV, “You know, carbon dioxide poisoning is a rather peaceful way to die.”

“Reid,” Morgan said, turning the vehicle onto the main road, they had just finished scouring over another cemetery with still no sign of you.

He sighed and stared at his hands, “No, it’s good. We see so many people killed in so many different ways that it’s good that she won’t be in pain when she runs out of air.” He tried to convince himself.

Morgan cleared his throat, “We aren’t out of time yet, kid. We can still find her. Y/N’s smart, I’m sure she found a way to make more air or something.”

But they were running out of time, less than an hour remained on the timer set on all of their phones.

They pulled into the next cemetery, “There’s some fresh dirt over there, what are the names on the graves of people who were actually recently buried?”

Spencer starts to recite the names, and the two of them start to comb through the cemetery.

You had done enough research on this case to understand what was going on. The light-headed feeling had started not long ago, but now you felt like you were spinning, despite the knowledge that you were stuck in place.

It was a high. Not unlike the good kids high. Except instead of trying to chase a feeling, you were dying.

The timer went off when they were still scouring graves, shovels in hand. Derek stopped in his tracks, but Spencer kept going.

“Wait,” Spencer called out, reading the name on the card next to the fresh grave he was standing at, he moved to start digging. “Essie Dunbar was a thirty-year-old woman who was mistakenly buried alive in 1915,” he said, digging. “This has to be it.”

Derek called Hotch, putting the call on speakerphone so he could help Spencer dig. “Hotch, we got her, but she’s buried.”

“We’re on our way, Omaha police have one of the brothers in custody,” Hotch told Emily to have an ambulance dispatched.

What Reid knew that Derek didn’t was that it could take four hours to dig a grave by hand. The soil had been overturned, so maybe call it three. Your odds were still negligible. He didn’t stop, he didn’t stop when a caretaker came running at them, and he didn’t stop when Derek told him to get his digging equipment out here now.

Derek flashed his FBI badge to get what they needed. He had to physically pull Spencer back from the grave so the backhoe could dig, only going until there was less than a foot between them and the casket.

Spencer crudely attached a chain to the casket and the caretaker's vehicle. Carefully, the caretaker dragged the white container out of the earth and up a slant they had dug. It was locked shut, “Reid, move,” Derek ordered.

He leaned back and Derek fired at the lock, taking it off and opening the casket. Spencer gasped, there was blood on the side of your head, dried and raked through your hair. He was vaguely aware of Hotch and Emily arriving as they pulled you out of your satin prison. You had no pulse, but you were still warm. Immediately, Spencer started CPR.

“Reid let me do it,” Derek insisted.

What he was trying to say is that he shouldn’t have to be the one to try to save your life.

Morgan repeated himself and Spencer pulled away, allowing the other agent to immediately take over. There was a siren in the background, an ambulance. More people showed up, Spencer heard their voices, but he just kept watching you. CPR was effective if it was done shortly after your heart stopped, and even then, permanent brain damage was likely.

It had been eight minutes since they pulled you out of the ground. Clinically, you were dead for eight minutes before you gasped.

Spencer smoothed your hair back, away from your face, while you desperately tried to catch your breath. You weren’t moving, and Spencer started running through symptoms of hypoxia. His biggest fear was brain damage, that they had done more harm to you in bringing you back than they would have had you died.

The EMTs came running over to where everyone had gathered, dispersing the crowd, and placing an oxygen mask over your face. As they were loading you on the stretcher, you started trying to talk, reaching your arm out to your side. “Wait, what’s she saying?” JJ asked.

“Sometimes it’s hard to talk after CPR,” the male EMT said as they moved you closer to the ambulance. He listened to what you were saying, “It’s not coherent.”

Spencer didn’t move, all of the adrenaline that had been coursing through his body all day was leaving.

Aphasia. They were saying the lack of oxygen to your brain was causing aphasia. “No,” Emily said, realization dawning on her features as she strained to listen to you. You were whispering, rasping the same word over and over again. “She’s saying ‘Spence.’”

He stood quickly and looked at you, sure enough, you were reaching out your hand and whispering, “Spence, Spence.” Your voice no more than a whisper.

Grabbing your hand, Spencer squeezed it, “I’m here,” he answered. “It’s okay, it’s over,” he told you, moving your hair out of your face. Spencer secured your oxygen mask over your face as you tried to take it off, “You have to keep this on, angel.”

To his relief, you squeezed his hand back.

You had been instructed to get some rest, but you couldn’t close your eyes. You asked Spencer to go back to the hotel and change his clothes because he smelled like dirt, and it made you nauseous. Your head had been bandaged, you’d been run through an MRI, and you did an EEG, so far, the only brain damage that had been incurred seemed temporary.

According to the doctors, the nausea and fatigue should wear off, but they hadn’t been able to fully assess if any permanent damage was done. At this point, the worst of your injuries had been caused by being given CPR, resulting in cracked ribs.

Despite your headache, you kept most of the lights on in your hospital room, not quite ready to be left in the darkness again. “Hey,” a voice called from your doorway, Spencer stood, waiting to be invited in. He was wearing different clothes, a button-up with a green cardigan thrown over it, and clean pants. “How are you feeling?”

A nasal cannula slightly restricted your movement, but you were sat up in the hospital bed, “Better than I was, but not perfect.”

He shook his head, walking in and taking a seat next to you, “No one expects you to be perfect right now.” Gently, he reached out and took your hand, skimming the pad of his thumb over your knuckles. “They found the mother and the other son, and all three of them are going to go away for a long time,” he told you, speaking in the kind of hushed, reverent tones that are reserved for hospitals.

You sighed and tilted your head back, “Good,” you maundered. “That’s uh, good,” your voice was barely audible.

“So why do you look so worried?” He asked, leaning in closer to you.

In an attempt to dismiss his concern, you joked, “I think I owe Morgan some sort of life debt now.”

Spencer offered you a soft smile, “The two of you tend to trade those off, I’m sure you’ll find some way to make it up to him.” He inclined his head towards you as if to silently say, So what is it really?

You swallowed thickly, “I’m scared to close my eyes, Spence.”

His shoulders dropped, “oh, Angel,” he breathed. “Is there anything I can do for you?” He asked, looping a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. “Wait, what are you doing?” He asked, watching you as you lifted yourself, so you were on one side of the bed.

Shyly, you patted the new empty half of the bed, inviting him to sit next to you.

He had no choice but to comply, he had the hardest time saying no to you. Leaning the bed back slightly, Spencer kicked off his shoes before he laid down next to you, wrapping an arm around you as you set your cheek on his shoulder.

Your body relaxed into his and you sighed, “Spence?” You murmured.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, “Yes, angel?” He whispered back to you.

“Thanks for coming to save me,” you mumbled, slowly relaxing enough to fall asleep.

Spencer exhaled, “I’m always going to come to save you.”

part two

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #derek morgan #penelope garcia #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid angst #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid x you #h writes (hypothetically)

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www-jungwon · 5 months

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in which roommate!heeseung insists on decorating, and you're sure he's up to something (why has he got so much mistletoe?) ୨୧

tw. yellinggg, kissing, idk what rlly went through my head when writing this its kinda cringe bro wc. 887

“ok, i give up.” heeseung looks over in confusion, holding a box of christmas decorations in his hand.

“just tell me! i give up.”

“what are you talking about?” he squints, shifting the box in his arm.

you shift on the couch agitatedly, pausing your tv show. “why are you hanging all these up? like, do you want my room, or you feel bad because you broke something that’s mine, or you’re trying to hint you want-”

“it’s for christmas spirit!”

you roll your eyes. you’ve been trying to figure out your roommate’s obsession with decorating the apartment for the last week, but every time he’s answered with the same response. ‘christmas spirit.’ christmas spirit your ass. you’ll figure it out, you just need a couple more days.

“sure.”

he raises his eyebrows innocently. “i don’t know why you don’t believe me.”

“maybe because in the 3 years we’ve lived together you haven’t ever even lifted a finger to help me put decorations up?”

he shrugs. “change of heart.”

definitely up to something.

–

heeseung is being weird. he keeps trying to hide his decorations when you walk in on him, like he’s scared of you seeing them. even though you’ll see them anyway, because it’s your apartment.

after seeing him drop his box for the third time in two days, it clicks. a party. that explains his controlling of the decorations to look his way, and the secret phone calls he’s been making. you absolutely hate crowds, and your one rule the only time you’ve lived here has been no parties. he’s never complained before, but you suppose he’s finally gotten tired.

you’ve never felt more betrayed. heeseung, the most considerate roommate you’ve ever had, heeseung who keeps track of the amount of chocolate in your storage, heeseung who buys you things just because they reminded him of you, heeseung who is in charge of all the groceries, no discussion. heeseung, who you think you might be in love with, that heeseung, trying to throw a holiday party in your apartment without your permission when you leave tomorrow.

and as you see him emerge from the doorway, his head brushing the mistletoe he hung, fiery anger builds up inside you. how dare he hum, act all normal like you didn’t just watch him try to hide his decorations, how dare he do this secretly, how dare he make you love him while he’s betraying you like this?

so when he asks what you want him to make for dinner, you want to hit him in the face.

“you what?” he asks, and the way his nose scrunches in confusion only makes you angrier, and you snap.

“lee heeseung, i hate you!”

his doe eyes widen in surprise.

“what? i-”

“you’re so stupid! i can’t believe you would do all this just for a stupid holiday party! over me!”

you’ve stepped up to him, him backing up slightly as you walk forward.

“i don't know what-”

“and i wouldn’t have cared if you just asked! i’m not even gonna be here! but i thought that you at least cared about me enough to ask instead of sneaking around.”

“y/n, i-”

“and you find it so amusing when i ask you why, and this whole time it’s been for a party? you’ve been lying to me, sneaking around, just so you can throw a party without my permission? do i mean that little to you,” your words are choked by a sob, “that little, that-”

“y/n, i promise i-”

“that little, that a party is more important to you than me.” tears cross down your cheeks, tracing over the edges of your face.

heeseung’s brows are furrowed now, a concerned frown pushed onto his face. “y/n, i swear-”

how dare he act concerned, when it’s his fault.

a yell rips out of you, “you don’t get to care about me now! not after, not after this, not after i’ve spent three years loving you and you’ve just thrown all my trust away for a party.”

he’s broken now, you can see it on his face in the way his brows are drawn in and you know you’ve hurt him, and you feel awful. he watches you carefully, taking a deep breath before he moves almost imperceptibly closer.

“y/n.”

you sniff weakly, “yeah?”

his voice is soft with hurt. “i love you, too. and i’d never throw a party without your permission, and it wasn’t that, and i’m sorry i was being so secretive but i promise it wasn’t because of that and i think- i think you should look up.”

you hadn’t realized how close you were to him now, your hands brushing his. you turn your head up slowly, your lips almost pressing against his, and you see it.

the mistletoe.

“i love you, y/n. and i thought- i wanted to tell you, before you left and i didn’t know how, but since you were always decorating instead of me doing anything i wanted to do something nice for you, and then i realized maybe if i could put mistletoe up then you would get the hint and i wouldn’t have to say anything.”

his arms slide around your waist tentatively, pulling you into him, and you look down, falling into him as your lips push into his.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

part of winters of us, an advent calendar : day 009 prev

extremely late sry

comment or send an ask to be added to the taglist !

general @bucketofhiros @addictedtohobi @ariadores enhypen @cutesiepatootsie @sammm5225 @eupherbia

#❄️ — winters of us.#enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen heeseung #heeseung x reader #heeseung imagines #heeseung angst #heeseung fluff #enha x reader #enha soft hours #enha soft thoughts #enha imagines #enhypen scenarios #lee heeseung x reader #heeseung #lee heeseung

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vivmaek · 1 year

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ASTROLOGY OBSERVATIONS PART SIX

Harsh aspects to personal planets - Abuse/ neglect from family and loved ones.

Harsh aspects to generational planets - Abuse/ neglect from society and day to day public.

Every emotion can be read in the eyes of a Cancer rising. They try so hard to hide these expressions but that only makes them more obvious.

People with their Moon in the third house deal with a lot of nervous strain, these individuals are very anxious. I’ve noticed that they get labeled as “crazy” because their emotions seem so jumbled and all over the place.

Having Venus placed in the eleventh house at twenty degrees results in having many female friends turn into enemies. People with this placement face a lot of turmoil with their female friends, but also form intensely deep bonds with them. This makes the conflict all the more painful.

Don’t underestimate the investigative qualities of a person who has their Mercury in Virgo. They rarely miss a detail, and will start to question things not because they want to prove someone wrong, but because they’re genuinely confused. They often catch people in lies.

People who have their Saturn in the eleventh house are mainly friends with people born into an older generation.

Having a Libra Jupiter in the sixth house is going to ensure that they move with moral integrity everyday. They never drop their standards. Their reputation at work is immaculate and highly respected.

People who have Mars in the sixth house are attracted to people who can achieve goals alongside them. Getting tasks done together or even chores, is a turn on for these types. They think it's sexy when their partner helps them get the dishes done, literally.

Those who have their Venus in Aries are huge flirts. I don’t even think they realize they’re doing it half the time. Men are very lustful towards women who have this placement. It’s crazy how quickly they attract romantic partners into their lives.

Scorpio placements get jealous fast, you can see it gnawing away at them before they lash out. I think a jealous Scorpio is the most capable of destructive harm, I’ve seen it happen and it's scary to watch. But most likely they’ll just pull off some petty bullshit. They know how to properly irritate people while remaining seemingly unbothered themselves. If a Scorpio friend starts making fun of you out of nowhere and then tries to laugh it off, watch out!

I’ve met a lot of journalists who have significant Scorpio placements, I think it's very common in that field! I’ve looked up a couple famous journalists to see, and I noticed a lot of Scorpio Moons, or Scorpio in the third house.

Having an Aries Midheaven with the North Node in the fourth house is a tough pull between career and home life. They are energized and drawn to the public world, but are needed at home.

If you have Mercury aspecting Pluto within your natal chart and you don’t write, then what are you doing?? These people have the power to transform others through what they’ve written. If verbally expressing some challenging emotions isn’t working for people with this placement, they should write a letter, it will be well received.

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balladofmyramblings · 1 year

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I’ve seen my fair share of…interesting BOSAS takes (Tigris and Snow’s relationship doesn’t make sense, Sejanus wasn’t important to Coriolanus/Coriolanus’ character, Dean Highbottom was inconsistent, people just called Lucy Gray Lucy instead of LG or something, etc) but never has one irked me as much as people saying the ending was rushed or out of character or didn’t make sense.

The ending is a representation of their whole relationship. Yeah, it’s rushed, because it lasted 3 months and they were prepared to spend their life together after that. No, it was completely in character. Yes, it made total sense, because what else would have convinced Coriolanus to go back, if not the idea that he was safe?

First off, elaborating on the rushed point, be so fr. 1, the book was getting a bit long anyways, and 2, it couldn’t have been long and drawn out. How quick their relationship crumbled and we were shown Coriolanus’ true loyalties shows so much I can’t even begin to explain it, but I’ll try.

It shows how Lucy Gray valued family and trust. She’d already talked about how much trust mattered to her, and she’d been hurt so badly before she needed it. She needs trust, and she doesn’t just need it for herself. She needs to be able to trust him, and she needs him to be able to trust her. When Coriolanus obviously lied about the third person he killed, Lucy Gray realized that neither of those things were there.

It shows how Coriolanus valued himself and the capitol above all else. He was going to, and tried to, kill Lucy Gray. The person who, just 10 minutes ago he was prepared to spend the rest of his life with. He did that because he couldn’t be guaranteed loyalty, and because he realized she definitely didn’t belong to him. Coriolanus’ view of Lucy Gray- that she’s a pet, or something just for him, is entirely effed up and he can’t see that, so he clings to it. He clings to that idea of her being his and when it’s proven false, he can’t let go of it.

Lucy Gray was there when Coriolanus lied to her about the killing, and there was only one person he could have also killed. She was wary of him then, what he was capable of, but she didn’t know for sure where his loyalty truly laid until she saw the look on his face with the guns. She knew then that the Coriolanus standing before her she couldn’t trust, and she knew what that meant, and Coriolanus knew she knew what that meant and he couldn’t deal with the fact she wasn’t completely infatuated with him.

It’s also worthy to mention how easily Coriolanus started to see Lucy Gray differently. He justified his killing of her to himself, as we see in the whole “she’s a victor, maybe Billy taupe was right, etc” page. He thinks that it may have been an act all along, and can’t deal with the fact he fell in love with someone who could turn on him so easily. So he justifies it and makes stuff up and uses all he can to convince himself of the devilish nature of Lucy Gray.

Coriolanus’ deep, unwavering faith in the capitol is shown here so clearly I feel like it’s bleeding into my eyes. He was so ready to leave her (also how he thought she’d be ok with it also proves how he sees her as completely loyal) when he realized he was basically innocent. He is only ever scared of the capitol when it could harm him.

Their whole relationship was a whirlwind, and could never have had a breakup 3 chapters long. It needed to be quick and easy, all ties cut. The fate of Lucy Gray also needed to be a mystery, because nothing else in his life is. The constant worrying of if she’d ever tell, if she’s alive or not, blah blah blah unsettles him just like he deserves it to. We don’t get an answer to if Lucy Gray came back (probably not though), we don’t even get an answer if she’s alive.

In conclusion, the end of BOSAS was very fitting, and though unpredictable and fast, it was right.

#also maybe gonna elaborate on the other takes #ballad of songbirds and snakes #bosas #ballad of my ramblings #coriolanus snow #hunger games #katniss everdeen #the hunger games #lucy gray baird #district 12 #dr Gaul #sejanus plinth #Lucy gray

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misstycloud · 2 months

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Haii!! I've read your work before! And I absolutely adore all your fics < 3

If possible, may I request a yandere actor x background actor reader? (Like they have no speaking role, just their role is to stand there?) And somehow the reader caught the yandere's attention? XD

A/n: sup’ I’ve been gone a while. Sry for not being so active but here’s this.

————-

She didn’t do anything; nothing except standing there quietly in the background, melting into it like one tree among many in a forest. She was worth a penny compared to him- she didn’t even have any lines! So why were his eyes always drawn to her?

Perhaps it was because she didn’t try to cover his attention like all the others. It was offensive, really, how they thought he didn’t notice; they believed he couldn’t se through their over the top compliments and fake smiles.

But it was a small price to pay for such success. ‘You can’t have everything’, his father told him that. ‘You can either be rich, or you can be happy. There is no in between.’

(They were neither, but that hardly seems important)

He had to admit his father’s judgement to be correct.

“Shooting in ten!” Someone yelled.

There was no time for him to ponder over useless things, he was there to work, not to waste away inside the trailer. After having the makeup artist give him a touch-up, the tall man went over to the set(while reviewing the script inside his head one last time) in order to film the next scene.

“It’s all thanks to Gareth’s amazing, awesome, fantastic performance and quick thinking we’ve been able to stay on time of schedule - I really did think we were gonners’ after that last prop broke.” The employee guiltily admitted before his collueges. “But luckily-“ he swung his arm around Gareth’s shoulders “- our dear ‘X- city’s Top Actor’ was here to save us, and to that I propose a toast!”

Gareth held back a sneer. It didn’t matter how enticing it sounded like, he could not do it. Because if he did, then his perfect facade would be torn apart by these…people. That couldn’t happen. Ever. Too much sweat and blood has been shed for his position and there was no fucking way he would let anyone ruin that; that included himself.

Gareth wished for nothing more than to lock himself up inside his trailer and read in blissful silence, however that appeared to be near impossible. The team of employees had all joined forces to throw an ‘almost done’- party, where he was the star. Escaping was not possible.

With a sigh, he drank from his glass of wine. It was not the expensive kind he was now used to, but it would have to do. At least he managed to get some privacy at the party since most were currently drunk, throwing up in the bathroom or busy comverimg about-no doubt- stupid stuff. In a way, it was almost better this way. Despite what his line of work would say, he felt more comfortable when no one was looking at him- searching for faults and broken pieces.

“Enjoying the party?” A curious voice poked a hole in his bubble of isolation.

What surprised Gareth first was the owner of the voice, and secondly that it didn’t sound drunk at all. It was her, the extra from some of the scenes. The third surprise that grazed his mind was the thought:

‘She’s pretty.’

The actor was close to smacking himself in the face. What was he thinking so suddenly? He must’ve had too much to drink as well. Yes, that was surely it. But he found it hard to avoid the kind yet perceptive eyes.

“Ehem,” He cleared his throat, choosing to look straight ahead. “Of course, I enjoy it very much.”

It was but wishful thinking she’d accept his answer and move on.

“Really?”

She sounded genuinely confused now. Why did she sound like the surprised one? It was starting to get on Gareth’s nerves. Who did she think she was, coming here and questioning him?

“Should I not be?” It came off a little harsher than he’d imagined, but if she noticed she didn’t comment.

“Ah, that’s not what I meant, sorry.”

He sighed. She apologised which meant he must do it too if he didn’t want to come across as an asshole.

“No, it is I who have not been in the best mood tonight, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

She laughed in response, pulling some out-of-control hair away from her face. Strangely, a part of him wished she didn’t do that, it was cute and framed her face well. Gareth was always a man of perfection and he enjoyed it on others as well. He was a star, why would he waste time on someone who didn’t even take into consideration to be presentable in front of others. But it’s not like he could voice these opinions to the public, or he’ll be done for.

Maybe he’d still get jobs(celebrities often gets a pass for things), but it would definitely change the view on him.

“I just didn’t think you liked these kind of events- with all the booze and social pressure and fakeness, I mean.”

Gareth turned to her in slight awe, listening as she continued.

“You usually have a detached look in your eyes, like you’re not really there? I don’t know how to explain it, but I just assumed you didn’t like parties. Besides, - I might not be an A-list celebrity- but I can see how it must be hard for you too. People come flocking around you, hoping to gain your favour, and you don’t know who to trust. Who is truly there for you, and who is only there for something else?” The young woman breathed out a sigh of relief. “Sorry if I rambled by the way, it can happen sometimes.”

Gareth, still in awe, stood silently and stared at her. Honestly, what the fuck? How did she- a mere background actor- manage to see through and tear apart the strong wall he’d spent so many hours to perfect? He was an actor for god’s sake, it was his job to pretend, and someone saw the true him anyway. But he was sure he’d never let his face betray him. So, how……?

“Hey are you okay?”

Snapping out of it, the man dismissed any previous thought and focused on the matter at hand. “Yes, I am fine. Thank you.” It was then he recalled something important he forgot to ask. “What is your name? I didn’t ask earlier, how rude of me.”

She smiled back at him, pointing at herself as she said, “I’m (y/n), it’s nice to meet you.” She proceeded to shake his hand politely. When their skin touched, all Gareth felt was the warmth that came with it.

“Yeah, nice to meet you too… (Y/n).”

It was after that night Gareth found himself seeking out (y/n) more. Though he’d tell himself that it was for job purposes and nothing else. He simply wanted to see that there was nothing bad going on and everything was running smoothly. It was a movie he started in, of course it had to be flawless; nothing short of perfect; absolutely splendid.

But whenever trouble arose or someone needed some sort of help, it made it easier for Gareth to sneak off and find his new friend. Were they friends? At least, that’s what he thought. He and (y/n) had shared many more conversations after that fateful party and she never wore a disgusted(maybe he’s exaggerating) expression when talking to him. So they have to be friends, right? It would be strange if they weren’t.

(Y/n) was, in fact, lovely. He’d had that suspicion about her since the beginning and it turned out to be accurate. She always asked how he felt that day, and it wasn’t in the superficial, polite way, she meant it. The thoughtfulness brought a new kind of ache to his chest. It hurt in some ways, yet he couldn’t get enough of it.

Other times she even came to him with a box of home cooked food. She said that he was free to throw it away if he didn’t like it and she wouldn’t hunt him down or anything. Gareth was stunned. Why would he wish to throw out the food she’s so carefully prepared for him? No way. He’d eat all of it. It didn’t matter if he liked it or not, he couldn’t dishonour her like that. It wasn’t polite. (He actually loved the food)

Gareth had at first felt goddy at the prospect that (y/n) willingly spent her free time to cook something for him. He must be special to her then; only that thought was later crushed. The actor was on his way outside to take a breather after a longer shoot, and in the corner of his eye he saw two of his colleagues sitting on a staircase. He paused. In their laps’ were plastic containers - lunch boxes- but that wasn’t what drew in his attention; they looked oddily familiar.

‘Wait a little…this is..?’

Oh, he definitively recognised the pink notes and the same-collection of stickers that attached it to the box. If he looked even closer, he was certain the handwriting would be familiar as well.

How could he be so stupid? Of course (y/n) made lunch for all her close colleagues, not just him. Why would she treat him any special? Yes, he was considered a star on the rise for more success, but he knew that hardly mattered to her. Although he tried convincing himself it hardly meant anything as long as he’s getting good meals and they’re still friends, it made things different. The meals weren’t the only thing he noticed afterwards. There were smiles, plenty of them, all wasted on pathetic nobodies. There were also the affection, the hugs, the hand holding. They were given to crew members feeling down and in need of comfort.

It was good that (y/n) cared about others; a quality many perceived as positive. However, Gareth himself could not see this as a good thing. Instead it left a sour taste in his mouth, just like the meal-donation.

Gareth grumbled over this for a long time and tried to figure out why he felt this way. It was stupid, he thought, that he was this worked up over some woman. Gareth a couple months ago would scoff at his current situation and tell him he was being ridiculous and had to stop grovelling in the dirt over some background actor.

The Gareth from a few months ago wouldn’t believe he had the ability to resort to something so childish, either. He was avoiding her like the plague, and barely glanced in her direction. If he absolutely had to talk to her then his answers would be curt and ‘don’t-bother-me-like’. What the hell was he doing? Giving (y/n) the silent treatment, like a child not getting the attention from his parents as he would’ve liked. He could tell the change in his behaviour made her sad, and she probably didn’t understand why either, which was even more sad. But the saddest part of all was that Gareth’s pride was stronger than his feeling of guilt.

A result from the prince-treatment he’d been getting for years.

It wasn’t until the day she approached him during break and said, “I wanted to say goodbye.” that he broke out of his bubble.

“What do you mean?” He asked, immediately straightening his back.

(Y/n) smiled melancholy, “the scenes I’m in-standing in the background, that is- are all over. It’s time for me to go home now. There’s nothing else for me to do here.”

The gears turned in the actors head. She was leaving? This place? Him?

“No, you can’t leave.” He blurted out without thinking. It came off as desperate and breathless, like a whining kid. He hated himself.

(Y/n) chuckled lightly, “Yeah, I wish I could stay longer, but I’m just a background character. I don’t have that privilege.”

Gareth though he heard her mutter under her breath, ‘-not like you.’

“Well this is goodbye then, it was fun to get to know you Gareth and be your friend.” She said before turning around and leaving him alone.

It wasn’t true. They hadn’t been friends at all the last weeks, and it was all his fault. Because he felt some petty competitiveness. And now (yn) was going away forever. What if he never gets to see her again? The idea hurt more than anything he’s felt before. It definitively hurt more than the time he broke his toe, or the time he slipped and got a concussion. None of it was close to the pain he experienced with the thought of losing her.

His sweet little background actor.

Now he understood. It was love. All of it was love. That’s why he was threatened by others taking up (y/n)’s time and why he enjoyed her company so much. He loved her. It was that simple.

There’s no way he could let her slip out of reach now. Not when she belongs to him.

#oc #male yandere #obsessed #yandere oc #possesive #toxic #misstycloud oc #Gereth #actor x reader #actor x female reader #yandere actor #background actor reader #male actor

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hopeyarts · 6 days

Note

Are you on that Starboy crap?

I’m going to assume that you don’t like Starboy. If you do actually like him, then I don’t detect it anywhere here. It’s things like these that make me backoff from sharing stuff about Starboy, because in truth I like the idea of it. But ultimately, I can’t please everyone so whatever.

Firstly, I’d like to address in defense of those who love Starboy and as said from Star’s section in the concept book, the first phase was a series of Star in various human forms. Star’s young Sabino form is the THIRD phase. So don’t try to use the excuse of ‘Starboy being Sabino’. Read, please. Respectfully.

Anyways, if you haven’t already figured it out, I like to look at different routes. I can’t stick to just one, so I make multiple routes with multiple scenarios and storylines and characterizations. So I guess this is a good time to address both my opinion on Starboy and my ideas for Star in general.

I think Starboy would’ve been an adorable addition. He’s great, the ship between him and Asha is great, and every redesign I’ve seen of him just makes me love him more. I’m aesthetically drawn to characters at this point, which is a reason I like designing. The only thing that I question about Starboy is his own story. I don’t typically like the idea of him being *the* wishing star, but rather an extension or ‘child’ of the Blue Fairy. Him being childish and curious would be supported by that idea, because you can’t really rely on a higher power if that higher power is reliant on you teaching him about Earth.

So I like the idea of Starboy, but not the story of him being the sole wishing star. He can be childish and curious under the circumstances that the Blue Fairy is highest power/wishing star. I mentioned this in my illustration of the Blue Fairy, so.

Anyways, ideas for Star!

Because I see a lot of people already have the idea of Asha x Starboy in their works (love them all 💖), I decided to think of more paths we could’ve taken with Star in general. You can refer back to the Art of Wish book for all of his forms, but I’ll go into ones that I’m renovating into my own ideas.

• Starchild: I have two ideas for this. A: What if Star was a child? When we were younger, we wished for many things and dreamed of many dreams. Maybe Star could’ve been a child, because of my idea with Star being a ‘child’ of the Blue Fairy, Asha calling down Star right then and there could’ve been the start of his new life. It’s like him being born when he’s sent down to Earth. And it’s a reference to how wishes and wonder can seem childish, but good-intentioned. His magic is almost chaotic-like, so it could add on. Then B: What if Star was a younger version of ASHA? Don’t really know how this would work, but really Star would’ve been a manifestation of Asha’s younger self (typically when she wished for her father to get better). It’s like connecting with your inner child and rekindling your dreams. That’s just a small idea.

• Platonic Star: Could be of any gender, I don’t really care. But what if Star was just platonically involved with Asha? I know Wish was never going to be a romance story, so they could’ve just of had Star be humanoid but have them still be friends. I’m sure someone already has this idea for a rewrite somewhere.

• Sole Star: An idea where Star *is* the wishing star but is mature and an adult and with no specific gender. Maybe a little feminine to act as Asha’s maternal figure? If I wouldn’t go with this idea, then I’d have had the Blue Fairy be Asha’s maternal figure. Sorry, Sakina (I should make a rant post about Sakina and Sabino 💀🙏🏽 I kinda got beef with them).

I’m okay with Star being the thing we got officially, but come on. They could’ve added more to the character. Like depth? Clarification about what exactly it is? A star sure, but what else? The one star song didn’t answer any of Asha’s questions nor ours. Was it just born when Asha wished upon it because she’s the first one to do so? Sighing. Disney.

Favorite Star concepts:

Least favorite…:

What a jumpscare.

Despite the possible dislike of Starboy, thank you for the ask. 💖

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cherrycocaineee · 1 year

Text

32. Joker - Tell Me Again

* Warning: I incorporated characters from both Suicide Squad and Gotham, some violance, attempted sexual assault, some blood, kissing, legal age gap, bullying, whatever else is considered a warning because I’m bad at warnings *

* Paisley’s p.o.v *

Wet sneakers squeaked harshly against the tiled school halls as students made their way through the building. It was the end of the school day, and rambunctious teenagers were shuffling their way out of the building to enjoy the start of their weekend plans. I was shoving books into my backpack while listening to Freddy go on and on about his family’s plan to travel to Long Island and visit their ailing grandmother. Freddy had mentioned to me, through tears, that he wasn’t sure when she’d pass so they wanted to spend as much time with her as physically possible. Even though I knew I should have been listening more closely, I wasn’t really interested in hearing Freddy tell me about his weekend plans for the third time today. Instead, I just kept placing my belongings into my bag while mindlessly tuning him out, only humming once in a while to make him think I was more interested than I actually was.

“You aren’t really listening, huh?”

“Mm-hm.”

The sound of my locker door closing snapping me out of my daze as my eyes widened at the realization that he had asked a question. He was watching me with a slightly arched brow.

“Sorry,” I apologized, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

“No apology needed,” he laughed, “I’ve been going on and on about my weekend plan, I never really asked you what yours was.”

“Nothing really. Probably just sit at home, watch some boring drama, and read.”

Of course I had plans but they were with the Joker so I couldn’t just give that out. I’ve done pretty well so far in hiding my relationship with the criminal clown and I planned on keeping it that way.

“You could always come with me to my grandmother’s, if you want,” Freddy offered.

“That’s okay,” I assured him, smiling kindly, “sometimes it’s nice to spend the weekend alone. I’m able to relax and ease the stress from the week.”

“I can understand that. You know it’s only been a month since you’ve been allowed to come back to school. I never asked how you were feeling.”

He didn’t ask, so I never bothered telling him. Honestly it was stressful; there were a lot of things I had to catch up on even though it didn’t feel like I’d been gone for long, and despite the class load I was catching up on, there was also the problem with Daniel and his friends eyeing me down every chance they got. One time I even thought they had followed me so I made a detour from my house to the police station.

“Maybe it’s just me,” I muttered, “but since I’ve been back I feel like Daniel and his friends have been watching my every move.”

As if right on que, just as Freddy and I walked out of the school building, we saw Daniel standing by his friends staring at me. His arms were folded across his chest, and while most of his wounds had healed, there were still some deep, purple bruises on his face. The bad bruises would take longer than a month to completely go away.

I could hear Freddy visibly gulp as well as gripping the straps of his own book bag.

“He might still be mad at you,” Freddy said, causing me to look at him, “you know, because you embarrassed him when you beat him up.”

“He started it.” I couldn’t even stop the childish words coming out of my mouth even if I wanted to even if it was technically true.

Freddy and I started walking towards the street so we could head to my house and do some homework. He didn’t have homework, no one normally did during the weekend, he was just kind enough to help me with the work I missed. It wasn’t that I needed the help, honestly I could finish the work all alone, I just didn’t want to. On the way back to my house, we stopped at Starbucks to get a little pick me up since it’s been such a long, drawn out day. Freddy got his normal order which was an iced coffee with almond milk and caramel drizzle while I got my typical, boring order: a vanilla, iced latte with caramel drizzle. I guess we both loved caramel. With our coffee in hand, Freddy and I made our way down the block to my place. I was fortunate to have a Starbucks so close to where I lived; it made it easier to get a cup before my therapy sessions or when I wanted to study, a nice place to relax outside of my bedroom.

I pulled my keys out of my bag and unlocked my door, letting Freddy go before me so I could relock the door once inside.

For the next few hours, Freddy and I tackled the piling pieces of school work that was crowding my bedroom desk. Fortunately for me, we were able to get most of it down because Freddy remembered going through them in class and was able to tell me about it. By the time he had to leave, I had ten more assignments to do out of the thirty. So overall, it was productive and time well used. When Freddy was gone, I stayed in my room waiting for my dad to come home. He always came home before going back to work and spending the next two days there.

I picked up my phone and went to my messages with the Joker, silently thanking that my dad wasn’t the type of parent to snoop through my phone when I was asleep. As I smiled down at the previous message he’d sent me, just a simple goodnight, I sent him a new one. It had been a while since the last time we spoke; a week if I remembered correctly.

Paisley: Where should I meet you tonight?

It was short and to the point which was the result of many of our messages. And unless he was busy working, he always messaged back incredibly fast. A little ding came from my phone, the flashing light telling me that I had a message.

Mister J: The park.

Short and to the point.

He didn’t even have to tell me which park, I already knew he meant Gotham Park. It was normally dead in the evening time, no one bothered to go there because the woods made it incredibly eerie for the average person.

Just as I finished reading his message, the front door was opened and closed. I could hear the sound of my dad’s heavy shoes assaulting the carpeted ground as he made his way into the house. He’d be here for almost an hour so he could make himself a lunch box that would last for the next two days, gather some clothes in case he started smelling too ripe for his and his colleagues liking, and whatever else he’d need. I left my phone on my bed and made my way down the stairs, just wanting to see him before I couldn’t.

He stood behind the kitchen counter already preparing himself a sandwich. His eyes looked up at me when he noticed I was standing at the entrance.

“How was school?” He asked.

There was no warmth in his words, and I knew he wasn’t asking because he cared, he simply wanted to make sure I wasn’t stirring up trouble again.

“It was okay,” I answered, “I’m catching up on everything I missed.”

“Good.”

He turned around and opened the fridge, pulling out the Dijon mustard then going back to his sandwich. I sat down at the kitchen table and folded my hands in front of me. I liked our relationship more when neither of us spoke to each other. It was almost as if we were normal, that we didn’t harbor any dark secrets from our friends. It was almost as if he loved me again.

“I’ve been thinking,” he muttered, catching me off guard, “maybe we should leave Gotham.”

My eyes widened in shock. I pushed a bit of my blonde hair out of the way.

“Wh-where would we go?” I questioned.

“Back to Texas.”

“What about mom?”

I could see his bicep flex as he clenched his jaw which was a normal sign that he was getting annoyed with all of my questions.

“Don’t worry about your mother.”

“Don’t worry about mom? You’re talking about leaving Gotham! Does that mean you’re leaving her too!?”

“Paisley!”

“No! You always do this! You never want to tell me anything and that isn’t fair. It’s normal for me to have questions! That’s a normal family!”

He slammed his butterknife down and glared at me, “we aren’t a fucking normal family!”

He came around the counter inching closer and closer to me. I took several steps back until I was standing in front of the kitchen entrance again. My tiny fist balled into a fist as I felt waves of anger and fear. It was never my intention to piss him off, I just did that naturally by still existing. I watched as his nostrils flared, his dark, cold blue eyes staring down at me before a quiet sigh left his mouth.

“Go to your room, Paisley,” he said, “I don’t want to see you.”

“You never do,” I muttered, turning on my heel and running up to my bedroom.

I laid on my bed, my arms spread out as I stared up at my rotating ceiling fan, listening to the noises coming from downstairs as I waited for him to leave. In the meantime, I thought about what he said about leaving Gotham. There were so many things running through my head: Would mom be coming with us? Would he be divorcing her if she can’t come home with us? What about my siblings? What about the Joker? He surely wasn’t going to be okay with that at all. He’d made it pretty clear that I wasn’t allowed to leave, that I practically belonged to him now. But I couldn’t not tell him, he’d find out eventually if my dad was serious about the move. There was also the question as to whether or not everything would go back to normal. Would I be beaten almost everyday like I was here? Would everything be normal again? I just didn’t know and he wasn’t going to tell me.

About an hour later, I finally heard my dad leaving the house. He wasn’t going to tell me bye, and I was use to that, so I waited until I heard him pulling out of the driveway. When he was gone, I peered over at my alarm clock and saw that it was almost nine o’clock. Who would have thought time would go by so quickly?

I shot the Joker another message saying that I was heading to the park, not even bothering to check his message when I heard the ding echo throughout my bedroom. Instead, I brushed out any knots in my hair and touched up on the small amount of makeup I’d chosen to wear today. Opening my drawers, I took out some clothing for the weekend and placed them into my bag. I just used my school bag, it didn’t make people wonder why I was out so late; they either thought I was heading to the library or coming home from the library. People in Gotham were nosy. After I sprayed myself down with some of the Joker’s favorite perfume, a perfume that he kept in stock in case I ran out which was nuts considering it was pricey, I gathered the rest of my staying the night items and headed out the front door, locking it behind me. I peered down at my phone, reading the message the Joker sent me, before being on my way. For the first time in a long time, I was happy and there was a genuine smile on my face.

Halfway to the park was when the real problem started.

“Well, well.”

My body froze and I refused to take another step forward. I immediately recognized the voice, and I nearly cursed myself outloud for not paying better attention to my surroundings. Turning slowly, I came face to face with Daniel and only one of his four friends. That was a relief in itself.

“Paisley Mayflower,” he chuckled, “what are you doing out so late?”

“Fresh air,” I lied, “not that that’s any of your business.”

The longer it took for me to see the Joker, the more aggravated I grew. Which I’d learned wasn’t a good thing, even my therapist noticed it when she tried to hint at something I didn’t want to talk about. Boys, my family, my dad.

“That mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble one day,” he hissed.

“What do you want?”

“Payback really. Getting your ass kicked by some psycho freak who’s barely even 5’5” does some harm to your reputation.”

“Especially when that person’s a girl,” his friend added, not really helping much.

Daniel glared at his friend, who merely shrugged his shoulders. I rolled my eyes. There wasn’t enough time in the day for me to deal with this. And even if there was, I didn’t want to. However, taking my eyes off the violent person in front of me was never a good idea so I had to mentally cuss myself out again when I felt a hand wrap around my neck. He was squeezing pretty tight too, and I could feel the air being pulled from my lungs. They felt like they were on fire too, a burning sensation covering my entire body as my vision started to blur. Mustering as much energy as I could, I slammed my knee into his crotch making him drop me. A sharp pain shot through my wrist as I landed on my ass, catching myself with my hands. My bag slipped off my shoulder momentarily but I just shoved it back into position. Daniel was cradling his crotch as his friend tried to make sure he was okay. It was a tough blow. While they were distracted, I climbed to my feet and took a few steps back.

“Stop fucking worrying about me,” Daniel hollared, “and grab that bitch!”

“Right.”

When his friend looked up at me, I took off running. I could hear the sound of their shoes slapping against the pavement as they chased after me. I was surprised that Daniel was even able to run after that.

I could feel a bruise forming on my throat, a burning itch in my skin even when I swallowed, trying to moisten my dried esophagus. People watched as I was being chased by two much larger men, no one stepping in to do anything. I just needed to reach that damn park.

As if my prayers had been answered, I made it to Gotham park. I didn’t think they’d follow me in, no one ever came here in the middle of the night. I barely stopped running when I was tackled to the ground, pain bolting through my body as someone heavy sat on top of me. Daniel turned me to face him, throwing my backpack to the side while pinning me down with only one of his arms. His friend, seeming frightened once he realized where they were, stood behind him panting.

“Get off of me!” I screamed, thrashing myself around.

“You’re gonna fucking regret that, bitch!” He sneered, “Guess you need to learn a lesson.”

He started lifting my shirt up and as I tried to scream and pull away, one of his hands clamped over my mouth. My screams were muffled, tears started to spill from my eyes. It was too dark for anyone to notice, and no one would because they avoided the area completely. All I could do was wait. This would either happen before the Joker got here, or he’d walk in on it. Until then, I tried to fight him off as his hands wandered over my exposed chest before trailing down to my jeans. I squeezed my eyes shut, everything going numb until the sound of a gunshot rang throughout the park. Daniel’s movement stopped as birds took off from the trees. Daniel turned around and I peered over to see his friend on the ground with a bullet through his head.

“Holy f-fuck,” Daniel whimpered.

Standing beside the deceased was the Joker; his gun pointed at where the other boy had stood, his arm still hanging in the air as his dangerous eyes stared deeply into my own. I could feel the inside of my chest throbbing painfully.

“Joker,” I choked out, my voice strained from the lack of air and screaming.

It was loud enough for Daniel to hear but not loud enough for the whole world. Daniel turned his attention to the tattooed criminal standing an inch or two away from one of his closest friends' unmoving body. His scared eyes widening at the sudden realization of who murdered his buddy. The Joker’s eyes wandered over to him watching as Daniel tried to put some space between himself and the clown. I pulled my shirt down, wincing at the sudden movement as I felt the aftermath of being tackled and manhandled. Pulling myself into a standing position, fighting every urge to burst into tears with each aching movement, I looked at Mister J. My face felt sticky and wet with fresh tears. The Joker let his hand drop as he made his way closer to me, Daniel watching every step with fear. Getting up to run would be a bad idea, it would just make the Joker kill him instantly. Though I guess it didn’t really matter because he was going to die either way.

Mister J lifted my chin up with his rough hands, they were cold to the touch. His eyes looked over my entire body taking in all the damage. They lingered a little bit at my neck before he used his thumb to wipe something off my face; I thought it might have been tears he was wiping away but when he pulled his thumb away, I saw fresh blood. He pulled his hand away, and despite his hand being cold, I missed the subtle touch, wanting desperately to pull his hand back to my face. The Joker turned his attention to the still frozen high school boy.

“Mmmm,” he hummed, approaching Daniel like a predator, “What do we have here?”

Daniel couldn’t even talk, his mouth was only hanging open but no sound came out. I didn’t blame him, up close the Joker was incredibly intimidating. Mister J squatted down beside him, close enough that he could reach out and grab him. His decorated gun grazed the tip of Daniel’s shoe. I wiped my face feeling the blood under my nose.

“Cat got your tongue?” The Joker muttered, tapping the gun against the tip of Daniel’s shoe.

“We…we were just messing around,” Daniel said, his voice quivering, “isn’t that right, Paisley?”

Daniel’s eyes shifted over to me, pleading for me to save his life. The Joker craned his head back waiting for me to answer Daniel’s question.

“Well doll?” He questioned, “Should I let the poor boy go because you were only playing?”

I couldn’t help myself and inadvertently rolled my eyes.

“What a stupid question?” I snapped, gesturing to myself before crossing my arms, “Do I look like I was playing around?”

“P-Paisley,” Daniel stated, “come on. We were just fooling around with you.”

But I ignored him, instead, I went over to my discarded backpack and picked it up then swung it over my shoulder. Joker reached over and ran the gun against Daniel’s chin, his painted red lips stretching into a wider, mischievous smile. His silver teeth sparkling in the bright moonlight.

“Hmm. I think I’ll take ya home with me. Have a little fun with ya. After all, I can’t have you running around terrorizing my sweet, little girl.”

Daniel was quick to his feet and started taking off towards the street, his eyes darting back ever so often to see if the Joker was following him. And Mister J wasn’t. He didn’t run after his prey, that just wasn’t him. So I was surprised when Daniel ran right into Frost and some more of the Joker’s henchmen. I couldn’t help but wonder where they came from. Were they waiting over there this whole time? Frost lifts a black pillow case up and wraps it around Daniel’s head before allowing one of the other henchmen to knock him out, using the butt of their gun. Daniel’s body crumbled to the ground and all Frost did was point, telling them to deal with him. No one argued, they just did what he said. While they did that, Frost nodded his head towards Mister J and walked away with the others. That left Mister J and I alone.

“Let’s go, doll,” he stated, not even looking at me as he headed over to his parked, purple Lamborghini.

I didn’t argue, I just ran after him ignoring the waves of pain bolting through my body.

* Joker’s p.o.v *

The entire car ride back to my place, I watched Paisley out the corner of my eye as she tenderly touched the forming bruise wrapped around her neck. The darker it got, the more it looked like a handprint. Just the sight of it made my fingers tighten around the steering wheel. She hadn’t told me that prick had been bothering her, and now look, she was all marked the fuck up. And that wasn’t even the concerning part of it all; if I hadn’t showed up when I did and came to her rescue, that piece of shit would have done more than just fondle her. I didn’t keep the bastard alive because I wanted to save Paisley from seeing me kill him, no, he was only alive because I planned to do all sorts of heinous things to him. Before he died, he was going to beg me to kill him.

When we arrived, I told Paisley to wait for me upstairs in the bedroom as I went with Frost and the others to my special room that I normally kept prisoners in. Just as he began to wake up, Frost had finished tying him to the chair and removing the black hood off his head. He blinked a few times as he searched his surroundings, his eyes finally landing on me and Frost.

“What’s his name again?” I grumbled, approaching him.

“Daniel Anderson,” Frost answered, “he’s that boy from the video that was on the news a month ago.”

That much I knew.

I gripped his dark brown locks between my scarred fingers and yanked his head back so that he was looking into my eyes. There were fresh tears forming over his waterline as he tried to force himself not to burst into tears. It was very manly of him.

“Almost in tears,” I grinned, “I have to applaud you for trying so hard to be brave despite the position you’re in. Though manliness won’t be getting you out of it.”

“P-please,” he pleaded.

“P-please,” I mocked, laughing menacingly, “pathetic.”

I threw him back causing him to topple over in the chair he was strapped to. A quiet thud filled my ears as I heard the sweet sound of my new toy whimpering, silently praying that he’d be saved. Unfortunately for him, no one, not even Batman, would be coming to his rescue.

In my bedroom, I saw Paisley staring at the large window that overlooked a lot of the city. My house was far from Gotham but not far enough that you couldn’t see it from my high up window. It was a pretty view but definitely not as pretty as the one I was staring at right now. At the sound of my footsteps, Paisley turned to me with a grin on her face. I didn’t move, instead, I extended my arms out welcomingly and she ran into them. Her arms wrapped around my neck while her legs tightened around my torso.

“Even all bruised up you look pretty,” I chuckled, “shame I had to get you this way though. Poor girl.”

Her fingers ran through my styled, green hair causing it to come undone. Her pretty, ocean blue eyes never tore away from my own eyes, her smile never leaving her face as she took in everything at once.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered, her lips dangerously close to mine.

“I’ve missed you too, doll,” I muttered, leaning forward, letting my lips graze hers, “How long do we have together again?”

“Two days.”

“Not long enough.”

And just like that, I saw the light in her eyes disappear as she dropped to the floor. Her hands stayed securely on my chest as she looked away from me. I lifted her chin, forcing her to look up at me. We didn’t say anything just yet, I just walked causing her to move backwards towards the bed. Sitting down on the edge of the thick, king size mattress then pulled her to sit on my thick thigh. She was so much smaller than me, barely even covering up my leg when she was sitting.

“Something the matter?” I questioned.

“My dad,” she answered, learning a while ago that I didn’t like liars, “he wants to leave Gotham and go back to Texas.”

My grip on her thigh tightened causing her to flinch a bit in pain but she never pushed my hand away. I grinned, remaining as calm as possible.

“He can leave all he wants,” I stated, “but you aren’t going anywhere. You made a promise.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” she replied, “I was hoping you’d have a plan to keep me here.”

“Of course I do.”

Of course I did. If that bastard was planning on leaving Gotham with her while she lived under his roof, then I was just going to have to snatch her up right underneath his nose. Slowly but surely I’d just have to move her in, have her disappear so that no one could find her. Anything to keep her here with me.

“But we’ll talk about that later. Right now, just relax.”

Paisley nodded her head, her blonde hair bouncing at the sudden movement. A smile returned to her face as she tackled me to the bed with a soft laugh leaving her lips. I chuckled softly, letting her have her moment on top of me. The smile on her face never left as she played with my hair once again. After ten minutes, I flipped us over and pinned her onto the bed; one hand tangled into her hair so she couldn’t look away while the other caressed her chin as my elbow kept me from putting all my weight on her.

“Mister J,” she said, her voice soft.

“Hmm.”

“I love you.”

Her words made my heart throb, it was a different feeling compared to before Harley died.

I leaned forward, letting my nose touch hers, our lips incredibly close.

“Tell me again.”

“I love you.”

There was no hesitation when she said it, it was like she already knew what she wanted and she wasn’t afraid to claim it. I let my lips touch hers fully. She moved them in sync with mine, her eyes fluttering close as we kissed. I swiped my tongue over her bottom lip, earning a sweet moan from her. Her fingers tugged at my hair as the kiss deepened. I pulled away, causing her to whine a little.

“Again, doll.”

“I love you, Mister J.”

I sighed contently before dipping my head back down, allowing my lips to engulf hers all over again. I pulled her close to me, her chest pressing against my own and I couldn’t help but notice her size all over again. God, she was so little against me. When I pulled away again, I noticed that a bit of the red from my lips rubbed off on hers. I just ignored it, nudging my head into the crook of her neck and pressing wet kisses against it. Her fingers dug into my bicep.

There was a knock at my door and I growled against her skin, opening my eyes and seeing the red on her purple neck.

“What?” I growled loudly, keeping Paisley pressed against me.

“Boss,” Frost’s voice called on the other side of the door, “you shouldn’t keep your prisoner all night. Someone will be expecting him home, so we have to get rid of the body quickly.”

“It’s always something,” I muttered, hauling myself off of her, “I’ll be right back. Stay put.”

Paisley nodded her head, not moving from her position as I walked towards the door. I straightened myself out before opening the door. Frost wasn’t standing in front of my door when I opened it so I assumed he went back down to the prisoner. That was fine with me.

“One more time,” I said to Paisley.

She sat up, placing her hands prettily in her lap as she crossed her legs.

“I love you.”

*Tag list* @w4nt-h1s-d1ck @leaveitbythewave @ellatitanium @gaymistakeboi @erika-solic @amirra88

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fisherpon · 2 years

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Tumblrpon Retrospective: 1-16/16 “The Shared History”

First and foremost, let me get this out of the way: I’m not leaving. This is not a goodbye message, this is marking the end of the Great Draft Dump with a look back upon my time in Tumblrpon. This will be a very long post, hence the pagebreak.

Comic sprites commissioned from @darkfiretaimatsu Final art commissioned from @askmovieslate Background vectors by BonesWolbach Editing by me

Credits for each drawblog are after the page cut.

A long time ago, I had a saying. “Ten days online is like a year IRL.” What I meant by that is that so much stuff happens online and so quickly that if you go away for a couple weeks and come back, things may look completely different. Just think of the addition of ‘blorbo’ to Tumblr vocabulary, for instance. My point is, on that measure, I’ve been a part of Tumblrpon for 408 Fyears (Fandom years). Considering the oldest trace of Tumblrpon we could find is 415 Fyears old and the show itself is 438 Fyears old, it’s safe to say I’ve been around for a while. And, like any old dragon, I've lived through a lot and got some stories to tell.

The Beginning

When I started, Tumblrpon was small, but vibrant. There were drawblogs, indeed; the First, Applebloom; the Drunkard, Berry Pnuch; the Musician; Octavia, and surely others I have forgotten. In these very early days, Tumblrpon was mostly roleplayers. Among them, the Second Queens, the Lawlicorn Diarchy. This was the age of magic anons, of KA-THINGY spells and the invention of the word ‘ponification’. Aside from the drawblogs, here I have remembered some of the more prominent roleplayers of the era, many of whom were, and are, my dear friends. Many of them are still roleplaying in the depths of Tumblrpon, long since overshadowed by drawblogs. I still think they’re the core of Tumblrpon, though; more on that later.

Eventually, however, one drawblog would appear that would change everything. Easily the most influential Tumblrpon drawblog of all time, and perhaps the most deserving of the title Queen of Tumblrpon. The Third Queen, Pinkamena. Before her entry, grimdark elements like Cupcakes and Scootabuse were frowned upon, even hated. Pinkamena rose up and destroyed that barrier. She was by far the best-drawn drawblog up to that point, and pulled no punches when it came to blood and gore. And in doing this, she became famous outside of Tumblrpon. Her art spread to Ponibooru and other pony outlets online, and seeing what she was doing here brought many, many, many other artists to Tumblrpon. She arrived 3 days before me, and within a year of her arrival there would be hundreds of drawblogs. Her presence was brief, but her influence ever-lasting. This was the beginning of our finest era.

The Golden Age

Over the next few years, Tumblrpon thrived. This was also the golden era of the fandom as a whole, the period from Season 2 to roughly 6 or 7. With every new episode, drawblogs would pop up out of the woodwork. With each new character, multiple drawblogs would appear, often with variants. Tumblrpon-wide memes happened; Misty’s Hoodie, Rainbow Chubbie, Yellow vs Blue Pegasi, Ghost Trixie’s Memorial and the Somboom were but a few of them. Collab drawblogs appeared that were simply ‘put all the drawblogs of this one character in the same house’. I went to my first Bronycon (thanks to a charity drive by my Tumblrpon artist friends) and was part of the first of many Tumblrpon panels, through which we brought even more artists into our community. In the midst of all this, I jokingly called Raikissu the Queen of Tumblrpon, and it ended up turning into a massive injoke among our group of friends (which, because it included a lot of influential drawblogs, turned it into a Tumblrpon-wide injoke). They're the only one who really got to experience that title, making them the Fourth Queen. They were also the last, since eventually people didn’t realize it was a joke and started getting uptight at them about it.

As for me, running Fisherpon was a lot of work. I had separate categories of tags that I would search through, some daily, some weekly, some monthly and some yearly, and I would fully tag and put everything into the queue. I had to make a second Tumblr account and move Fisherpon to a secondary blog so I could bypass the 300/day post limit to handle all the content! But it was too much, and eventually I burnt out. I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but I think it was sometime in 2016. After that point, I stopped trawling the tags as much. I was following most of Tumblrpon (often running into the following limit of 5000 blogs), and through them I often saw new drawblogs (which I reblogged) and good pony art (which I tossed into the drafts, for when I’d eventually get around to processing it). Most of my blog’s activity turned into liveblogging new episodes, and Tumblrpon itself left its growth phase and plateaued.

Bit of a side note: In early 2017, a very dear member of the community passed away. He’d been there since the beginning, had one of the most unique ‘draw’ blogs, and was a close friend to a lot of us. Despite not liking alcohol myself, I still raise a toast in his honor on every anniversary of his passing. I still miss you, Rusty. You wise old bastard.

Anyhow, on to the most prominent event in Tumblr’s history:

The Purge

When the news dropped, I was travelling abroad in Korea so I wasn’t watching Tumblrpon closely. However, when all my Discord groups exploded, it was pretty hard to ignore. I feared that it would be the end of Tumblrpon as a whole, and wrote a dissertation about Tumblrpon’s history and my memories from the site. That goes into more detail on my origin story, if you’re interested in that.

And, as I expected, it did a lot of damage. Many drawblogs that were already on hiatus used it to justify finally ending their blogs, and a lot of ones that were active found themselves struck out of the sky by a stupid bot that couldn’t recognize boobs if it motorboated them. Tumblr gained a reputation as being unfriendly to artists, especially for those grimdark and risque artists Pinkamena had attracted to Tumblrpon in the first place. I’ve heard that roughly 30% of the site’s users left entirely, and in no place was it more obvious than my dashboard. Despite following thousands of accounts, there were and are days where I catch up on my dashboard to where I was the previous day and have to wait for new posts to appear. That would never have happened back in the Golden Age. Tumblrpon had already been slowly declining, but watching Tumblr shoot its foot off and strangle Tumblrpon (among other fandoms) was very depressing and radicalizing.

However, despite the purge, Tumblrpon lived on. There was talk of migrating to Pillowfort, NewTumbl or Mastodon, but they never caught on well enough to seriously shift the userbase. Despite everything, some new drawblogs popped up, and some of the old drawblogs that survived the purge kept on ticking and gained new prominence (or were simply no longer overshadowed) among the ruins. Things clearly would never be the same, and yet not everything had been lost. It was reassuring, in a way.

Meanwhile, outside of Tumblr, another great star was nearing the end of its life. The show itself, our source of fuel. It whose whims had given birth to thousands of drawblogs during the Golden Age, and whose fancies had caused no end of trouble for drawblogs whose canon counterparts went through big changes (cough Twilicorn cough). Nothing can last forever, and Season 9 would be the last season. Generation 5 was still at least a couple years away, so I decided to finally lower my standards and bring myself to post pony art without proper tags. I know, it sounds silly now, but I took great pride in my post organization and it took a lot of willpower to override that. I made a post telling people about my plans for the Great Draft Dump and started posting again, dripfeeding Tumblrpon with a post (almost) every hour from my reserves.

The Present

And now, here we are. A year past my original ending estimation and a couple weeks short of 3 years since it began. I could have pushed it to 3 years, but today is also the 12th anniversary of the very first episode that started it all so I figured this would be a better ending point.

Tumblrpon is still recovering from the Purge. They’ve dialed back the bot, and that combined with Twitter imploding (or something?) has helped bring artists back to some degree (or perhaps it’s due to COVID stuffing everyone inside), but there’s still a long way to go. We have new horse content again, and while it doesn’t seem to have the same spark G4 had it has breathed some new life into the fandom which is nice to see. There’s even been a handful of G5 drawblogs that have appeared, even though we still don’t seem to have any for Zipp or Hitch which is weird (especially in comparison to the dozens of drawblogs each Mane 6 member had back in the day). And yet, I’m still reminded of times long past. With most of the drawblogs gone, a lot of the activity on my dash is made of roleplayers once again. They’re not the same roleplayers as back in Oldest Tumblrpon, of course, but I feel as long as they continue roleplaying and interacting with each other Tumblrpon will never truly die.

And that is my history lesson. They may not be aware of it, but the new generation of drawblogs and roleplayers carry on a 415-Fyear-old legacy, part of which I’ve included in this comic. Just as we were Tumblrpon, so are you. To every blogger who ever drew a pony answering a question, and to every roleplayer who by interacting with others helped knit Tumblrpon together, I am deeply grateful. Undoubtedly, in the making of this comic I’ve forgotten ponies who should have been included, and to those I deeply apologize as well.

As for me? I’ll still be here. Ever-watching, ever-promoting, though perhaps not as much as I used to. The tanks are dry now, and everything I post will be from the present rather than the past. I’ll probably just toss it all into the queue and have it post whatever it gets a few times a day. Thanks to Tumblrpon, I gained a lot of horse friends, and it’s always great fun meeting up with them at conventions or hanging out with them in my personal Discord server (the Tumblrpon Block Party). If you made it all the way to the end of my tale and you want an invite to it, or if you have a new drawblog you want me to promote, or if you just want to chat, feel free to message me. After all, like I said at the beginning:

I’m not leaving.

Blogs featured in the comic (Queens bolded): Again, if I forgot you, my apologies. My memory’s far from perfect and there’s only so much space on the billboard.

Beginning (Panel 2): @askapplebloom-blog (archive of the original one) @vindicarthehippogriff @faithful-student @rainbowdash-answers @askberrypnuch @askrustynail (RIP. Survived by @techmomma) @askoctavia @ask-reginald-dragon @asklyra @queenfrau @draggity @ask-nightmaremoon @mythic-swirl @trollestiaanswers-blog-blog @stilllunaanswers

Early Golden Age (Panel 3): @askpinkaminadianepie @askmlcblobs @ask-doctorcolgate @ask-sadistic-rarity @ask-dr-adorable @thetalesofwildcard @askterry @asklittlepip @askhotbloodedpinkie @ask-misty-wonderbolt-blog-blog @raindropsanswers @ask-sapphire-eye-rarity @askprincessmolestia @askcharliefoxtrot @junes-pony @askfluttershyandpinkiepie @spittfire @asksirlintalot @ask-glittershell @ponyhawkesho @askdeadrainbowdash @askpiratedash @askvelvet @askstonedtrixie @asksurprisearchive (archive of the original one) @ask-jappleack @askspirit @sweetiebotreplies @askthenightguards @ask-grimdark-bigmac @askpalette-swap @just-flutterguy-replies @susie-queen-of-the-vampireponies @seaponyluna @askbadbloom @askmeaniebelle @ask-scootabot (sequel to the original)

Late Golden Age (Panel 5-7): @raikissu @vocationaldeathcruise (Somehow, this is still up) @askstalkerloo @asklaura-and-naki @outofworkderpy @ask-dinky-dawberry-doo @ask-doctor-dimension @ask-cyberpunkspitfire @ask-thaumaturge-pony @luna-afterdark @ask-dolly @askmovieslate @cmcnext @thehorsewife @askflufflepuff @questionpinkamena @lilmissrarity @fiddlesticks-archives-blog @darkfiretaimatsu @askfirestarterspitfire @fristart @under-renewal (Ask the CMC) @ask-acepony @pinkiepiesolutions @askshinytheslime @reversal-mushroom @askpun @askloona @ask-de-writer @askresearchertwilight @ask-king-sombra (Somboom reflected in window) @ask-fillytwilight (has since been taken over by a russian pornbot) @ask-ikea-pony @askbananapie @askseriousrainbow @motherlyscootaloo @butters-the-alicorn @thecoopontlc (the first collab drawblog) @ask-canterlot-musicians

Post-Purge (Panel 11): @rainbowdashsmailbagthings @thelunararmy @aerialaim @whirlwindflux @ask-louvely @unlocktheaskblog @adorkabletwilightandfriends @askburningstream @glimglamandpals

Now (Panel 13): @askalbinopie (Fellow Keeper of the Past, except that they also have the art skills to do it justice. If Rai hadn’t abdicated and killed off the Queen system, I’d prolly make Alby the 5th for their art skills and their understanding of our history.) @askjetstream @questionthedoctor @twila-bloggin @ask-izzy-moonbow @askquartzandcord @askdrunktwilight @darkreplies @sunny-and-sparkle @ask-narratordoe @ask-pippamena (What did I say earlier? Pinkamena’s legacy lives on.) @asklostcelestia @a-spoonful-o-generosity @askcharmingshadow @ask-shutter-ghost Here’s a funky fact for those of you who came alllllll the way down here. In late 2011/early 2012, right when Tumblrpon started expanding, there was a lot of Homestuck on my dash as it was still updating at the time. Because of that, I have approximate knowledge of many parts of the mid-to-late part of Homestuck, and also because of it I considered opening up a second Fisher blog for Homestuck material. Fisherstuck. Who knows how things would be today had I done that? Who knows....

#fisher #fisherpon #tumblrpon #my little pony #mlp #drawblog #detailed #very detailed #epic #beautiful #wallpaper #magnificent #masterpiece #ngl james drew me kinda swole #not that I'm complaining #tumblrpon retrospective

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sonic-adventure-3 · 1 year

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more-or-less finished my sonic ocs, carrion the cat and squabble the pigeon! they’re part of a trio of freelance postmen/hitmen

+ alt reference, doodles, and more under the cut

jacketless when off-duty + their bases. their colourations are based on karpati cats and lahore pigeons, respectively, though ability-wise squabble is actually a homing pigeon. side note; do you know how many pigeon breeds there are? there are a truly insane amount and some of them are so fucking wild to look at. highly recommend looking up fancy pigeons

concept sketches + two carrion sillies. i had a pretty solid idea of what i wanted for carrion, but the only thing i knew about squabble was her name and species for the squab pun, until i doodled a design and was instantly captivated. i just had to stick with the newsie-amelia aerheart cosplay-ema skye-razputin thing she had going on

i think the squabble in the very upper lefthand corner is the cutest thing i’ve ever drawn in my life

various things about them i should mention:

i’ve yet to design these, but they all have mailbags as part of their uniform, and squabble has a pair of heavily modified skate type extreme gear that have wing accessories like the ones on her head as a reference to hermes, messenger of the gods. also they have a plane. a mail plane? still working on that

not set in stone yet but carrion is abt 16-17 and squabble is 11-13

carrion is a trained assassin, born into it, skilled in close quarters combat, they’re proficient in all kinds of weapons including firearms, they also really like knives and keep a collection of all sorts. she’s probably a cat. they don’t speak all that much. incredibly skilled at many things, especially combat related. skilled tactician but doesn’t care to tell anyone anything anytime so they suck as a leader. just generally doesn’t care to say anything. carefree and more-or-less easygoing; they’re just kinda vibing 90% of the time. perma-blep. poker-faced, will do everything with the same blep expression. very protective of the ones he loves, cares about squabble more than everything else in the world, would and has killed for her. will play along with any bit. ultimately: he stays silly

squabble is an untrained pilot, scout, and mechanic, as well as an enthusiast of mail delivery and explosives. she really really likes explosives. has killed before and will kill again, carrion and rig aren’t completely sure she knows that they’re assassins—she does, she just has such a completely out of whack sense of morality and common sense that it’s hard to tell. she has an infectious joy for life that creeps into everyone around her. she’s the beating heart of the trio, and the one who came up with the idea of the matching jackets. is a homing pigeon, has magnetoreception, and therefore makes an excellent navigator and scout. she always knows the way back home, and her home is with the other two. has a completely out of whack sense of danger, is something of a thrill-seeker, but real serious danger she is very acute to. is a mechanic, but not quite an engineer; she repairs, maintains, and makes heavily illegal modifications to machinery, but she doesn’t build her own completely original designs and tends to stay away from electronics. comes off as a little klutzy bust she’s rather proficient in various things.

the third of their trio who is now designed and named rig is a sniper. she’s a fair amount older than the other two, somewhere around 22-24 i’m thinking? the delivery service was just euphemistic for their assassination services before the other two walked into her life. doesn’t pay taxes

chaotix-like in many ways

they’re a weird non-traditional colleague-family. they’re family-ish :] they love and care about each other, despite it all :] THEYRE FAMBLY!!!!!

they fully do kill people, but also a good portion of their hit missions tend to be for robots or to cause non-lethal commotions instead of straight up assassinations

they have a reputation for this and often take on odd jobs that very loosely fit their job descriptions

they get super suspicious job requests like ‘please “retrieve” “my” ““parcel”” from this heavily secured gun base and deliver it to this super secret off-grid address xoxo~’ and fully deliver on them

thank you for reading about my sillies! i’m bad at talking about ocs cause i never can tell what’s interesting or what i’ve shared, but i like thinking about them a lot :]

#i’m still hashing out a lot of details. many things i’ve yet to design or think about sufficiently #but i like talking about them #thank you very much for the feedback yesterday! it really helped!#my art #doodles #oc posting #ocs #squabble the pigeon #carrion the cat #sonic ocs #sonic oc #sth #tiny sonic cameo in there too lmao #i feel like the whole assassin thing is barely necessary but also i really like assassins #and what’s the point of sonic ocs if not to indulge in the things you like wholeheartedly?

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xxavengingangelxx · 6 months

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Somewhere Only We Know 1/?

This is part of a series: Long Way From Home. Graves gets ahold of 141's translator and demands she give up information she knows about 141.

Graves still has Val in this continuation. This continuation includes the events of MW3 so 141 will find out Graves is alive and they will learn where Val has been this whole time ;) MW3 SPOILERS Thanks to @unicorngirly1 for talking ideas with me!

Taglist!

@bellgraves, @unicorngirly1, @lily-lily131313, @shepgurl. If you'd like to be added and/or if I left anyone off, please let me know!

Triggers/Warnings: Mentions of torture, dubious consent, brainwashing, mentions of suicide. More will be added as the story develops.

“Un-fucking-believable,”

You were across the dark room, not visible to the camera, but Soap’s voice drew your attention and your head snapped in that general direction.

You’d been given orders by Shepherd and Graves: you can be in the room but you were not to move, not to make a sound and certainly not to approach the camera. 141 still thought you were dead, remember?

Consequences for approaching that camera? A return to a room similar to that cold, terrifying room where you’d spent your first week with Shadow Company being tortured for information that you eventually gave up. That was all you needed to hear. You in no way, under no circumstances, wanted to go back there so you’d do what you were told. Besides, you’d been more tired than usual, not feeling like yourself, like you were on the verge of getting sick, so it’s not like you even had the energy to put up with that. You wouldn’t be able to mentally handle it, either.

You’d make a third attempt on your life if you were returned to that room. Of that you were sure.

“Soap!” You heard Graves respond. “Ya miss me?” Graves laughed coldly. “Well technically you did, didn’t you?”

“Laswell, if you’re tracking this,” Ghost’s voice interrupted, “let’s call in an airstrike.”

“Ghost that is not nice,” Graves chided, almost as if he was speaking to a toddler. It made you wonder how he would be around kids.

“And Val?” Soap demanded.

“Now her ya did kill, Johnny,” Graves sneered. “Shame. I liked having her around.”

“Go fohck yerself. What’re you up to?” Soap’s voice snapped at Graves.

“I’m up to doing my fuckin’ job, kid. Maybe you should try it sometime,” Graves shot back.

“My fucking job is to kill the enemy. Guess what you are,” Soap spat back.

“Let’s keep this professional, boys,” Shepherd interjected. “Cap’n let me pain you the bigger picture. You need Makarov in a pine box. I’ve got the nails.”

The rest of the conversation was faded out because that name, Makarov…Makarov scared the shit out of you. Graves had told you that Vladimir Makarov liked petite, little, innocent-looking things and that like they’d done before with other male targets they might use you to help draw him in or distract him. You were Shadow Company’s femme fatale after all. You’d drawn in men before.

But the idea terrified you. Makarov was a different kind of monster. A psychopath. What was stopping Makarov from taking you like Graves took you? And Makarov you knew would not be nearly as ‘nice’ as Graves had been. Makarov would haul you to Russia and torture you himself. And he would get off on it. Unlike Graves Makarov wouldn’t hesitate to use rape as a weapon.

“Val,” Graves’s voice drew you back to the present.

“Graves,” you responded, shaking your head of the chilling thoughts that had occupied your mind only seconds before.

“We gotta meet 141,”

You sighed. Got teary eyed. What if they took you from him? So you said something. “They’re gonna take me from you,” you sniffled.

“We’re gonna have a fucking problem if they do,” Graves snapped. “We’re not moving forward until I get you back if that happens. They think you’re dead, Val. Remember that.”

You sighed again. “They better. I’ll raise hell ‘till they give me back.”

“I know it sucks,” Graves conceded. “But this is moving quick. We need Makarov. The quicker it’s done, they quicker we never see any of ‘em again.”

Makarov. That name. It gave you chills. You had the worst feeling about him.

Graves then gave a series of commands: wear both vests (we don’t know if they’ll try to kill you), wear your mask, wear your combat goggles, wear a helmet, wear a uniform. Do anything you can to hide your identity. Do not come within an arm’s length of them. You’re going to have a sidearm, your rifle, and a knife. And it all else fails? Run.

You followed orders and got dressed exactly how you were told to in the morning. You were exhausted. You hadn’t been sleeping well and your body ached.

It had been decided to meet in an abandoned warehouse. No electricity so it was easy to sweep for bugs. That meant no heat. It was raining and the dropping temperatures promised snow. It was miserable but at least all the layers you were wearing kept you warm.

You could feel 141’s eyes penetrating you.

You tried to tell yourself it was because out of a group of men you were by far the smallest one. The only female, obviously.

Price, Laswell, Shepherd, and Graves were in a room sealed off from the rest of you. Shadows were in that same room protecting Graves and Shepherd. Graves had wanted you in the same room as him but that risked Price recognizing you since the room was so small. The meeting would be quick, Graves promised. You only hoped it wouldn’t be drawn out.

That left you in a large room with Soap, Gaz, and Ghost. You stayed as far away from them as possible. You had your rifle hanging from your shoulder. You had your sidearm ready to go. The only problem was there was no damn way you could shoot any of them. You only prayed they’d stay across the room.

You didn’t like this. In fact you hated it. Why couldn’t another Shadow have stayed with you? Actually no. That Shadow might shoot at 141 and the last thing you wanted was to have them hurt.

Soap met your gaze. You had a soft spot for Soap. You two had been close. A little more than close but that was a story for another day.

“What’s your name, lass?” Soap called out. “Didn’ know he had female Shadows.”

You didn’t answer. You were scared your voice would give you away. You just pointed at your tag: P-80.

“I can’t read that,” Soap replied. “You can’t talk or sometin?”

You shook your head no. Duh. Of course you could talk. You just chose not to. Your voice was a lot softer than any of these men’s. It stood out. And they’d recognize it for sure.

“Your mannerisms remind me o’ someone I was close to,” Soap added. “Real pretty lass. Had a lotta fun wit her. But smart as ‘ell. Dangerous, too.”

“That you, Val?” Ghost asked.

“L.t.,” Soap whined. “I was gettin’ there.”

“I think it is,” Gaz added.

You shook you head no again. Tears pricked your eyes. This was getting to be too much. You didn’t care that you’d been told to stay out of that briefing room. You wanted to be in the same room as Graves.

“I know that’s you, Val,” That person, Ghost, calling your name was like someone lighting a fire under your ass. Graves had conditioned you to RUN from them if he wasn’t close by. You shook your head before taking off running, following Grave’s orders.

You were so frazzled that a flight of stairs presented too much of a challenge for you and you tripped, hitting the landing hard and slamming into the wall sideways, your head hitting the wall with force. You had a helmet on thank God but the hit still rattled you. Voices were scrambled and everything got blurry for a few seconds. You were about to get up and keep running when someone grabbed you by your vest and dragged you back up the flight of stairs you’d just tripped over. You fought not to scream to be let go.

Ghost had grabbed you. You knew because he was the roughest one out of the group. Only because he was incredibly protective of his men. After dragging you back up the flight of stairs he released you onto the concrete landing.

You tried to get back up. You were shoved down.

“On your knees,” Ghost demanded. Rifle raised.

“Ghost,” Soap started. “Don’t—”

“I’ve got this, Johnny,” Ghost retorted.

You sighed and dropped to your knees with hands held out.

“Helmet,” Ghost demanded.

You unclasped your helmet and took it off.

“The goggles and the mask,” came the next command.

“Fuck,” you mumbled to yourself.

You complied and took both off, dropping them to the ground next to you.

“Hoooly shit,”

You recognized it as Soap’s voice.

You shook the bangs from your eyes and glanced up.

Gaz was not far behind and approached. And you couldn’t do this. You couldn’t. You decided long ago you would never go back to them. They’d either kill you or send you to a military prison for the rest of your life.

Worst of all, Graves had said, you’d never see him again. You knew for a damn fact you couldn’t handle being separated from Graves.

So you pulled your sidearm and put it against your head.

The effect was instant.

141 backed off. Ghost dropped his rifle, leaving it to hang off his shoulder.

Immediately.

“Back off,” you stood up slowly.

They were speechless.

“What happened to you?” Gaz asked, eyeing you with stunned, wide eyes.

“Nothing,” You responded.

“Val, we’re not leaving,” Soap stated simply, his hands in front of him to show he was not reaching for a weapon. “Put the gun down, Jesus Christ.”

You didn’t respond. You lowered the gun from your head. Little did they know you’d rather die than be separated from Graves. In your panic you didn’t notice Soap was no longer in front of you. You raised the gun in their direction.

Yet not one of them reached for their weapon. You wondered if it was because despite how much you had changed they could see it in your eyes that you couldn’t shoot any of them.

“Let me go,” you warned, taking small steps backwards. “I’ll call him and they’ll come running.” Your mind flashed to that first night in Las Almas when Graves had ordered you to call out to 141. You being your stupid self had refused. Now you were actually threatening to scream to get Graves’s attention.

Then.

Your worst nightmare.

Someone grabbed you from behind. He placed a heavy, calloused hand over your mouth preventing you from screaming, from calling out to Graves. His other hand gripped your right wrist on such a way that you dropped your weapon. Your gun dropped to the ground. Soap expertly kicked it away from you. You were then flat on the floor on your stomach, the sudden movement aggravating the ribs that had been broken several times over now. Your rifle was taken. Your knife was taken. You were about to say, “Fuck you, let me go.” But duct tape replaced the hand that had been on your mouth.

They were treating you exactly like Graves warned you they would. You screamed into the tape because what else could you do? You were flipped onto your back and you immediately starting swinging fists, kicking, trying to scratch, anything to get them away.

Soap clearly was overwhelmed because he just stared in horror and how hard you were fighting. For what? To go back to Graves? To go back to the man who had inflicted that cut on your face that had scarred?

“Thas’ enough ‘o that,” Ghost said lowly. You’d forgotten how big he was because when he stood over you, he terrified you. He looked like the grim reaper. Zipties went around your wrists after your arms were pulled in front of you. But not before you put up a hell of a fight. You tried to scratch but only got Ghost’s Kevlar and uniform. Zipties brought back bad memories.

“You swing at anyone again,” Graves knelt in front of you while a Shadow ziptied your hands in front of you. You were lying on the floor, beat halfway to unconsciousness by said Shadow. “I’m leaving you in those with a broken arm,”

“Fuck you, sadist,” you mumbled as you lost consciousness.

Price, Graves, Shepherd, and Laswell were still in that small room. Talking about what you had no idea. You tried to use your hands ziptied in front of you to break the window of the SUV they were dragging you to.

You struggled, tried to be dead weight. Your worst fear was coming true. You were being taken from Graves. And you couldn’t scream because they’d taped your mouth shut.

But then you got an idea. You got into that SUV willingly because you had a plan. They’d removed the tape from your mouth provided you promised them you wouldn’t scream. The skin on your face was still red, though. Just wait until Graves finds out what they did to you.

I feel like this isn't as good as Long Way From Home. :( Idk why! But please let me know what you think! If you have ideas, message me! I'm thinking of opening an ask box :D I wanted to post a longer chapter but character limits got me!

#phillip graves #cod mw2 #cod mwii #phillip graves x reader #graves x reader #cod mw3 #mw3 141 #john soap mactavish #gaz mw2 #cod ghost #price call of duty #kate laswell #general shepherd #longwayfromhome

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assortedseaglass · 1 year

Text

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Nine

Tom Bennett x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Language, sexual assault, World on Fire spoilers.

Word Count: 7K

Note: Oh boy, this chapter is a *juicy* one. I’ve put in the warnings sexual assault, the scene will not be graphic but the warning is there. Please take care if you find this sort of thing triggering. Here we go pals…

New Year’s Eve 1939

The tinkling of laughter drifted through the open bedroom door, and Cora giggled from her seat at the vanity table.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it? Hearing them altogether.”

Bess hummed and watched her sister carefully tuck hair behind her headscarf. She looked just like Etta. It was 8 in the morning, and the two girls were readying themselves for a day of work. Dot was dressed and downstairs, talking to their father and Albie, the third Vaughn child, returned from war.

On the bed, Bess sat with her feet curled beneath her bottom as she read Tom’s last letter for the hundredth time. It was dated 13th December 1939. He had written it the day the Exeter was hit.

“Makes me less scared of dying. I’m just one bloke.”

What if he was dead? Had he been scared? Was it quick or did he die in a drawn-out frenzy of screams and terror? Bess screwed her eyes shut and pinched the back of her hand. The tears that threatened to fall disappeared.

“I’ve told the lads all about the dark-haired Vaughn girl and they’d love to get a look at you. You know you’re gorgeous –“

From behind the letter, Bess revealed the photograph of Tom. He thought she was gorgeous. Him, with his mischievous blue eyes and boyish smile, the curve of his lips and his broad shoulders. His height and his strength. His iron will and cocksure swagger. Tom Bennett thought Bess Vaughn was gorgeous. She blushed and looked at the mirror to examine herself. Cora was looking back at her.

“No telegram is good news, Bess,” she seemed to know what Bess was doing, what she was thinking. “We all miss him.”

Bess placed the letter in the biscuit tin, shoved it under the bed and ran downstairs without a word. When she entered, Albie moved a plate of toast towards her.

“Not for me,” though she kissed the top of his head all the same. “What are you doing with your day?”

“Going to see some of the other lads. Might pay poor Walter Watson a visit, see how he’s holding up.” The Vaughn children smirked, for Fergal had no idea just how Walter had broken his arm. “Then, of course, the new year dance.” Albie grabbed Dot and swung her around the kitchen, her shrieks and laughter near rattling the china.

“You enjoy yourselves my darlings.” Fergal said from his perch by the stove. His face was pale and his eyes were tired. He had been to see Douglas Bennett the night previous and had returned home on the milk float. Still, he was happy to have Albie home and that was all Bess could ask for. Almost.

Cora edged down the stairs, lipstick and hair perfectly in place. Ever since Roger came along, Cora had been glowing. Bess smiled at the sight of her older sister. She was in love, and my God, did she deserve it.

“Ready, Vaughns? Minus you Albie, of course.” Cora called to the kitchen at large.

“Can’t believe they’re making you work on New Year’s Eve.”

“No rest for the wicked,” said Bess, shouldering her satchel.

“And you’re the wickedest of them all,” Albie said and Bess pinched his belly. From the corner of the kitchen, Dot sniffled. They all turned to her.

“It’s so good to have you home, Albie.” She burst into tears. Bess and Albie laughed as he moved towards his little sister.

“Stop being soft. You’re eighteen now!” He wrapped his arm around her. “Come on, I’ll walk you to work.” And together, the five Vaughns stepped into the December day, each feeling the hope of the new year more fully than ever before. From across the street, Lois watched the family smiling and laughing together as they walked to work arm in arm. Behind her, Douglas sat at the kitchen table, the newspaper and cereal before him untouched.

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“It’s so wonderful to have all the boys back, isn’t it?” Queenie Warren’s girlish voice carried across the canteen, echoing Cora’s sentiment from the morning. Bess stared at her spam sandwich and placed it back in its brown paper. “Well. Most of the boys.” Queenie corrected herself and dabbed away a crocodile tear. Bess’ mouth curled in disgust at her overt display of despair for Tom, and Roberta elbowed her in the ribs.

“How’s Frank, Queenie?” Roberta asked her.

“Hm?” Queenie looked across at her, unused to being addressed by the fearsome girl. “Oh, he’s grand. Taking me to the dance tonight. Will you both be there?” Bess and Roberta nodded. “And Hattie too? I’m looking forward to meeting this fella of hers. Shame Jude can’t be there. Who are you two going with?”

Queenie knew full well that no men had asked Bess and Roberta. “My brother.”

“Oh,” Queenie said sweetly. “Isn’t that lovely.”

“Christ,” Roberta muttered and Bess laughed sadly.

The bell rang, signalling the end of their lunch break, and the three women made their way back to the warehouse floor. Bess inched closer to Roberta and whispered in her ear.

“If I push her off the wing, you run her over with the truck.” Roberta guffawed and Bess winked. “See you later.”

If she discounted Queenie’s girlish social commentary, the rest of the day passed in relative ease for Bess. The foreman had a gramophone brought into the warehouse and played Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman on repeat. Bess loved American big band and was enjoying its gradual emergence in the dancehalls of Manchester. Her mind had been so filled with thoughts of Tom Bennett for the past two weeks, that she felt guilty for the anticipation growing in her stomach. But the prospect of dancing, and drinking, made Bess quiver with excitement. Maybe, for an hour or two, she could play make believe. Pretend to be happy. The remaining hour of her shift was spent imagining the compliments she would get for the dress already hanging at home. Imagining swaying in someone else’s arms, with no obligation but to share a dance with them. The bell rang.

“Bess!” Roberta was already waiting at the door. Bess jumped down the ladder from the wing, stored her tools and strolled towards her best friend. Queenie hurried passed.

“See you later, girls.” Bess gave a mock salute.

“At least with the boys back, she’ll leave us alone.” Roberta said as she offered Bess a cigarette. They exited the factory gates. The air was crisp and across the horizon, smoke funnelled from the factory chimneys. Bess admired the bleak beauty of it all, and her eyes fell on a solitary figure leant against the gate. Douglas Bennett, collar turned up against the cold, ready to pedal away on his bike, Peace Paper tucked into his bag. Seeing him there made Bess think of a Lowry painting, and she was just wondering whether she would populate the painting with more gloomy figures or leave Douglas the sole subject when Roberta shrieked.

“Albert Vaughn, put me down!”

“Good to see you, Bobbie.” Albie laughed and placed her back on the ground.

“Silly beggar,” Roberta huffed as she clutched her chest. Bess smacked her brother’s arm and left them to catch up. When she approached him, Douglas touched his cap the way he always did and Bess was utterly charmed by him.

“How are you?” she asked him. He fidgeted with the handlebars of his bike.

“No news is good news.” Behind them, Albie and Roberta laughed.

“I’m sorry, Douglas, about Albie-”

“Nonsense.” He cut her off firmly. “Don’t you dare apologise. It’d be selfish of me to wish away your happiness. God knows I’ve had enough sadness not to press it on other people.” The honest vulnerability of his statement took Bess’ breath away, and she covered his hand with her own.

“Douglas,” Albie appeared at his sister’s side and shook hands with the older man. Bess turned and saw Roberta striding down the road.

“Good to see you back, lad.” Douglas smiled warmly, and Bess was amazed at how genuine it was.

“Hop on, Bess.” Albie gestured to his own bike. “Give Douglas a break from carting you around.”

Bess opened her mouth in mock offense and Douglas laughed. “Ah, she’s alright.”

“You don’t have to lie to me Douglas, I know she’s a lump-” Bess hit his arm harder than before and Albie laughed with Douglas. She sat gracefully on the handlebars and leant back. Even through the multiple layers of coat and jumper, Bess could feel the bones of her brother’s chest. The war wasn’t being kind to him, no matter how jovial he tried to seem. In an odd way, she wished she was on Douglas’ bike instead. Bess loved resting against his broad shoulders as he cycled her home at the end of a shift and, if the wind was in the right direction, she could smell the detergent Lois used. The one that smelt like Tom.

Douglas and Albie cycled side by side the two miles from the factory to their street. At just two o’ clock, the brisk afternoon was still bright, and Bess relished the kiss of the cold on her cheeks as they sped down the ginnels and backstreets of Manchester. Albie made a point to hit every cobble, pothole and bump in the road, and Bess was giddy with glee when they turned into their street. Douglas smiled next to them as her laughter pealed through the grey day. The sound of Bess’ voice had become such a source of comfort to him over the months since Lois and Tom left. With Lois home, he hadn’t heard it for a while, and his chest swelled. Never did he think he would miss the company of quiet Bess Vaughn, or that a woman like her would want his. He took his eyes off his path for a moment to revel in Albie and Bess’ youthful joy. A flash of blue and yellow skirted his periphery. His head whipped around and the bike slammed to a halt as his foot skidded off the pedal. Shocked by Douglas’ sudden loss of control, Bess looked at him. His eyes were glazed and though she couldn’t hear, she saw him mouth one word as she and Albie passed on their bike. She gasped and followed Douglas’ eyes.

“Oh my God,”

“Christ, Bess!” Albie shouted, for Bess had tried to dismount the still moving bike. She lurched off the handlebars as it stopped unexpectedly, stumbling a little. At the sudden commotion, the source of their scuffle looked up.

Beneath the cap and sweep of blond hair, blue eyes gleamed with barely supressed satisfaction. A roguish grin spread across the man’s face, recognition flickering there as he realised he was the cause of the fuss. Moving slowly from Douglas, to Albie, his eyes landed on Bess and she blushed. The sailor pushed himself off the wall to greet the stunned party.

“Tom,” Douglas came to a standstill before his son.

“Alright, Dad? Brought you a canary.” He held up the cage and the silent trio glanced at it. Tom smirked at their confusion.

“What the fuck is that!?” Albie was first to break the silence, laughing as he grabbed Tom in an enthusiastic hug.

“Found a bird in Argentina.” The friends laughed as Douglas unlocked the door, glancing at his son every now and again in shock. Bess hadn’t moved. Couldn’t move. He was alive. Bright and brilliant and alive. And stood in front of her. Over Albie’s shoulder, Tom caught Bess’ distant, disbelieving gaze and smiled at her.

“Hi,” he said, looking her over just a little. Fuck, his voice. Fuck, he was handsome. Simultaneously, Bess wanted to kiss and slap him.

“Hi,” she breathed giddily.

“Tom,” Albie’s voice sharpened Bess’ senses and she swayed a little on the spot, arriving back at reality. “New Year’s Eve dance tonight? Your Lois is singing.”

Tom looked at Bess as he replied. “I wouldn’t miss it. What time are you going?”

“We’re leaving around eight.” Albie hadn’t seemed to notice that Tom was ignoring him. Instead, Tom’s blue eyes bore into Bess’ brown ones.

“Eight o’clock,” he whispered.

“Tom?” Douglas motioned for him to come inside.

“See you then,” he winked at Bess and disappeared. She turned and marched through their own front door.

“You alright?” Albie called up the stairs.

“Yeah, just tired. Gonna lie down.” Bess slammed the door to the small bathroom, grabbed a flannel from the linen closet and ran the faucet. She swiped the cloth under the cold tap and fumbled with her slacks and shirt. Stripping down to her underwear, she took the cloth and held it to her chest, a few trickles of icy water running between her breasts. Bess shuddered and moved the flannel between her thighs. Her head tipped forward and she fought to still her erratic breathing.

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

She gripped the sink and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Despite the cold of the day and the water dripping down her legs, a pink flush covered her chest and face. Her eyes were heavy and she could feel every feather-light hair on her neck standing to attention. Slowly, she dragged her weary body into the bedroom and collapsed on top of the turned down bed. Without hesitation, without warning or without care, Bess began to laugh. Fat, salty tears welled in her eyes and fell into her hair. Hysterical sobs wracked her body and she buried her face in her pillow.

He was alive.

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“Think we’ll have to go with one rasher each.” Douglas stood frying bacon over the stove, his back to his son sat smoking at the table.

“Don’t worry, double rations when you’re under fire.”

Douglas chortled. “Give over,”

“I was cooking all the way through the battle,” Tom smirked, glad to be home and have a moment of normalcy with his dad. “Slice of my fried bread sunk a U-boat.”

Douglas flipped the bacon and remembered his own experience of war. “You don’t have to pretend to be brave for me, lad.”

“Good,” Tom spoke almost before Douglas had finished. “’Cos I’m not going back.”

“What?”

“I’m not going back, I’m deserting.” Douglas’ smile faltered. Tom wasn’t joking. “S’why I came home to you, cos I knew you’d be the one to help me.”

Ignoring the sizzle of the pan, Douglas turned to watch his son. Tom’s head was bowed as he looked at him through blond lashes, eyes sad.

“God, you look like your mother,” Douglas whispered.

“Dad. Please. Will you help me?” The sincerity of Tom’s voice scared him. Memories of nightmares clouded his mind. Images of Tom drowning. Of being shot. Of being blown into a million irrecoverable pieces. Douglas placed his hands in his pockets.

“Give me a day or two, to think of a plan. Just enjoy yourself for now, and let it from your mind.” He turned back to the stove, and the men were silent.

✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼

It was almost as if the war was not happening. From the kitchen below, the three Vaughn girls could hear the warble of the wireless and rumbling laughs of Fergal, Albie and Roger. Roger wore his dress uniform for the occasion, powder blue and spotless. Albie, in his usual suited slacks, tie a little skewwhiff but handsome all the same. Dot had finally mastered her curling tongs and persuaded Cora into using them on her too. As ever, Bess sat smoking a cigarette in the window.

“You look like a film star,” Dot said dreamily, and Bess blew her a kiss. She knew she looked incredible. The waist of the red dress she had chosen was gathered dramatically, the skirt tightening over her bottom and falling in a straight line down her legs. It stopped narrowly above her ankles. The halter of her bodice highlighted the curve of her breasts, the Grecian straps of the capped sleeves trailed fabric down her back and revealed a daring square of pale skin. Her hair was fluffed and parted to one side (she had seen a picture of Rita Hayworth pinned up in the foreman’s office) and swept back off her shoulders. Rouge was mottled lightly on her lips, as though she had just been kissed; what with her hair and the dress, one could have too much red. The black trench coat she made last winter was hung on the door, she had seen Lauren Bacall wearing one similar. The dress she had picked before she knew Tom was home. The rest; the hair, the makeup, the severe coat and heels, she had decided on that afternoon. It was New Year’s Eve, the boys were home, and Bess Vaughn was dressed to kill.

Dot wore the dress Bess made her for her eighteenth. Pastel pink, bias cut, and adorned with a beaded flower brocade. Cora was elegant in black, waist cinched below the bust with red carnations at the hip. The Vaughns, despite their little money, were the most fashionable girls for miles. A great cheer rang from the kitchen.

“That’s Tom!” Dot cried and ran excitedly downstairs. Cora gave herself one last glance in the mirror then turned to Bess.

“What?” Her sister asked.

“Oh, nothing.” Cora winked. “Don’t forget your coat.” She left the room. Bess put out her cigarette and took a deep breath. Walking to the mirror, she donned her coat and smoothed her hair. Trying to disguise the nerves threatening to take over her body she winked at herself, grabbed her cigarettes and lipstick, and made her way into the kitchen.

“All the nice girls love a sailor, all the nice girls love a Tar,” Cora was singing affectionately as Tom twirled her around.

“We’ve got a full set tonight!” Fergal laughed. “Pilot, soldier, sailor-”

“Who’s the tinker and who’s the thief?”

Everyone turned to Bess and Tom swallowed with difficulty. At sea, he frequently imagined Bess. More often than not, he imagined her sat at the piano or sewing by the kitchen table. Sometimes she was sat smoking on the front step or giggling with her sisters. When he did something stupid or made a mischief of himself, he heard her make some sarcastic comment. But not once had he remembered her this way. Stood there on the stairs, hair glowing from the flicker of the fireplace, she looked like a goddess. Tom adjusted his trousers and took a subconscious step away from Fergal.

“Off we go!” Albie stood and clapped his hands.

“See you next year, Dadda!” Dot gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Get away with you,” he laughed. One by one the group spilled into the street. Dot chattered to Albie the whole way to the dancehall, with Cora and Roger linked arm in arm, totally unaware of anything outside their loved-up state. Bess lit a cigarette and watched the people she adored most in the world. Tom, noticing her fall behind slow his steps. His hands were in his trouser pockets as usual, though he had left behind his worn brown slacks for a navy suit.

“I know the men are always fighting over you-”

“I doubt it since I shouted at Walter Watson.”

“Don’t interrupt,” Tom said lightly and Bess smiled, glad to be back to their old ease with one another. “I know the men are always fighting over you, but save a dance for me.”

“You going soppy?” She nudged his shoulder in a feign of nonchalance, but her heart was already skipping with anticipation.

“No, but I told you, I’ll be saving my dances for Dot tonight. I owe her for her birthday.”

“Yes you do!” Dot called back to them. Tom laughed as Bess chastised her for listening. After she playfully chased Dot up the road, they fell back into step. This time, the air was heavy. Neither knew what to say.

“No Roberta tonight?” Tom rubbed his neck. He normally had more game than this…

“She’s meeting us there, with Hattie and Glen.”

“Oh yes, Hattie’s farmer fella.” The silence resumed as they rounded the corner and a throng of people appeared. Over the din, Bess heard the first few bars of a tune she didn’t know and began to tap her feet as they shuffled into the hall. Dot turned back from her position at the top of the steps and called for Tom to join her in a dance. He saluted with a smile, and made to stand next to her, when Bess caught his wrist.

“Tom,” her voice was quiet but firm. He looked at her long fingers clutching him, and the skin there prickled. “I’m glad you’re back.” Bess’ eyes were wide and teary.

“It’ll take more than the Jerries to finish me off.” Tom winked, took Dot’s hand and escorted her inside.

To Bess’ delight, the band played some of the new American hits amongst their regular tunes and, accompanied by Lois’ gentle singing, she danced the night away. Mostly, with Albie, Roger and Glen, switching with Cora and Hattie after every other song. Roberta danced only a few with her best friends, before disappearing. Breaking for a cigarette, Bess spotted her across the street sharing a close embrace with a woman she recognised as the teacher at the local primary. She smiled and left them to it. Dot still stole dances with Tom, and Bess noticed that many of the men were eyeing him warily. Clearly, they hadn’t forgotten the last time Tom Bennett graced the dancehall. She joined her brother at the bar, who was deep in conversation with Frank Smith and Walter Watson. As she approached, Walter glared and left. Albie gave Bess a look that clearly told her to play nice, and as she took a whisky from the bartender, she spoke.

“How are you, Frank? Where’s Queenie?” He looked a little sad, if Bess really considered him. His eyes were downcast in a way that reminder her of a Bassett Hound, and he was swilling the dregs of his beer around his glass.

“Oh, I can’t keep up with Queenie when it comes to this kind of thing. She’s having a dance with Tom Bennett.”

Bess turned so quickly that she hurt her neck. Sure enough, in the centre of the dancefloor, Queenie Warren was clinging onto Tom’s shoulders, pressed indecently close to his body. He was speaking in her ear and Bess sincerely hoped the closeness was due to the proximity of the dance. Whatever he said, Queenie clearly found it highly amusing as she tipped her head back and giggled. The act exposed her neck, and a little of her cleavage and Bess’ stomach lurched. She looked back to Frank. He smiled sadly. Obviously, he was just as jealous of Tom as she was of Queenie. Bess downed the whisky.

“Steady on,” Albie half laughed, half warned. “Ah, talk of the devil and she shall appear,” he muttered as Queenie Warren bounded to the bar and kissed Frank’s cheek with another giggle. Tom raised his eyebrows to Albie in relief, as though he had just diffused a bomb.

“Your turn, Miss Vaughn.” He held out a hand.

“I see the navy has turned you into a gentleman,” Bess said, eyes lowered to his hand.

“They’re trying. My God, they’re trying.” Tom smirked, and when she didn’t take his hand, he leant to take her own, eyes never leaving hers. As they walked silently to the dancefloor, both trying to hide their smiles, Lois’ voice spoke above the gentle tinkling of Connie’s piano keys.

“A slower one now, before we pick up the pace as we head towards 1940.” The crowd cheered. “I know this one will mean a lot to many of you. I think I speak on behalf of everyone here when I say how glad we are to have some of our boys back, my own brother among them.”

Bess squeezed Tom’s hand and, from the back of the hall, someone shouted, “And you, Lois!” A wolf-whistle rang out.

“You’ll be lucky to make it to 1940, Walter Watson,” Lois teased and the crowd laughed. Lois nodded to Connie, and together they led the band in a moving rendition of We’ll Meet Again.

Let's say goodbye with a smile, dear Just for a while dear we must part

Don't let this parting upset you I'll not forget you, sweetheart

Tom placed Bess’ hand on his shoulder and brought the other to wrap around her waist. Her face had turned serious, though she had not realised it. All Bess’ effort was focused on staying upright and remembering to breathe. She almost forgot both at Tom’s next statement.

“You look gorgeous.” The hand that had been on her waist moved to brush some hair from her shoulder, before going to its original position. This time, he moved Bess closer to him so that their legs were entwined as they swayed to the music.

We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day

Without thinking, Bess placed her head on Tom’s shoulder and his palms grew sweaty. He caught Albie’s eye at the bar, one eyebrow raised. Slowly, Tom steered them to avoid the soldier’s scrutinising gaze. With his cheek against the top of Bess’ head, he could smell the vanilla of her shampoo and the spice of her perfume. Chanel No.5. Another present from the Manchester Atelier, worn only on special occasions.

Keep smiling through Just like you always do 'Til the blue skies chase those dark clouds far away

Tom hummed the chorus lowly in Bess’ ear and felt her shudder within his arms. Oh fuck. He marvelled at the effect this had on her and promised himself he’d do it again. Tantalisingly slowly, he ran a finger down the exposed curve of her spine. He heard it that time. The stuttering exhale. Once again, when his hand reached her waist, Tom pulled her closer.

“I was so scared,” she whispered into his shoulder. What the fuck was he meant to do? He was no good with this sort of thing. Feelings. Emotions. Romance? But he longed to hear what Bess had to say. Tom stilled a little but held her tight.

We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day

She sniffed and looked up at him. Her eyes were brimming with tears and suddenly any trace of quiet, confident Bess vanished and she looked like that little, bullied girl again. It was too much. Queenie’s incessant laughter, the eyes of her siblings, the chatter of couples and the swell of the brass section. The scent of Tom’s cologne and the heat of his hands against her body.

“Bess-”

“This song…sorry-”

“Bess-”

“Makes me so sad. I’m sorry-” And with that, she broke away from Tom and hurried to the exit.

✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼

Bess’ hands fumbled for her cigarette case. Her coat was still inside the dancehall, and the cold December air did nothing to ease the shaking of her hands. The alley behind the stage door was empty. Under the glow of the lamplight, Bess leant against the brick wall, the cold piercing her exposed skin but rooting her in reality.

“You look gorgeous”

She took a steadying breath and tried once more to extract a cigarette.

“We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when”

The spot where Tom held her still burned, and as she played over the last few minutes, she recalled that he had been trying to tell her something. Her hand slipped.

“Fuck,”

Bess reached down to retrieve her cigarette case, the enamel of which had split, but another hand got there first.

“Let me help you.” It was Walter Watson. Bess straightened as she watched him pull a cigarette out and hand it to her. From his own pocket he produced a lighter and struck it so that she might light her cigarette.

“Thank you,” she whispered. They said nothing more, but Walter looked at her with a wolfish gleam in his eye. Looking up and down the alley, Bess saw they were alone and fear twisted beneath her ribs. It’s just pathetic Walter Watson, you’re fine. “Your arm is looking better,” she tried.

Walter nodded and gestured to his arm, still cast but without a sling. “Yeah, not long until I’m sent back. And I can dance now.” Bess smiled, not knowing what else to do. “You owe me a dance, Bess.”

“When I’ve finished my ciga-”

“You’ve danced with every other person in there, man and woman. But you’ve avoided me.”

“Don’t be stupid, Walter, I haven’t been av-” Walter took a sudden step towards her and Bess’ head hit the wall as she tried to step away.

“Dance with me now.” At this close distance, Bess could see the slight glaze of his eyes and smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Not now, Walter. And certainly not here.” She gestured to their surroundings. “You’re drunk.” He paid her no heed, gripped her waist roughly and pulled her against him, slinging one arm around his neck.

“Just one dance,” he slurred.

“Fine,” Bess said through gritted teeth. He stumbled around, head on Bess’ shoulder, turned towards her neck; he was humming some indistinguishable tune. Walter’s weight grew heavy as he slouched against her.

“Walter, stand up.” She hissed.

“Sorry, sorry-” He grinned dopily at her, and when he stood to his full height, his eyes grew clear. He seemed to have remembered who was dancing with. “Bess Vaughn,” his eyes were dark and his smile widened. The hand that was resting on her waist slid downwards and he harshly gripped the flesh of her bottom.

“Walter,” She tried to push him away but his hold tightened. He squeezed her backside again and white-hot fury raged in her chest.

“Never thought I’d be in this position with Bess Vaughn,” he laughed a little. “That little freak from school.” Bess struggled to push him off her again. “Then you came back from Manchester with this-” Both hands grasped her bottom now. “And these,” They came to grope at her breasts. With his hands on her chest, Bess was finally able to push Walter away. He stumbled only a little, and Bess had no time to move before he grabbed her by the face and shoved her into the wall. “And thinking she’s so high and mighty. That she can make fun of me,” he spat. His face was so close to hers she could barely see, the self-satisfied smile he wore now a vicious grimace.

“Please, Walter-”

“Shut up.” With one hand gripping her jaw, the other fumbled with the skirt of her dress. She clamped her legs shut. “Fucking bitch,” he hissed. “This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn, all you will ever be good for.” A leg forced her own open and she whimpered. Just as one of Walter’s fingers found the hem of her knickers, his weight disappeared.

Bess opened her eyes. Beneath the reach of the lamplight, a lump was writhing on the ground.

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Her!” Every word was punctuated with the harsh cracking of knuckle against skin. Tom Bennett was straddling Walter, who was cowering beneath him. He had Walter’s broken arm pinned above his head, using his other hand to pummel any bit of the man he could find.

“Tom,” Bess whispered, finally moving from her position against the wall. Tom landed another blow to Walter’s jaw. “Tom!”

He whipped round. Her dress was wrinkled, make up a little smudged and hair messy but the serious glower of her eyes had returned. She looked like she was about to spit fire. Tom’s chest swelled with pride. Standing up, he made his way to her, not without a swift kick to Walter’s stomach. “Shut up!” He shouted as Walter groaned. Under the light, Bess saw the frenzied fierceness of Tom’s eyes, the heavy breath from his flared nostrils and the delicious twitch of the muscles in his neck. She placed a hand on his chest to calm him. “I’m taking you home, wait here.” He said to her, and she felt for a moment as if she was being scolded. He turned back to Walter.

“You so much as look at her,” his voice was a low growl. “And I’ll break your fucking skull.” Without another word, he strode through the stage door and out of sight. Bess looked at Walter cowering on the ground like a stray dog. She approached him, and he look at her feet.

“You’re pathetic,” she said, and spat on him.

“Here,” Tom was at her side, holding out her coat. “I’ve told the others.” He steered her away from Walter and into the street towards home.

They didn’t talk a while and every now and again Tom jittered, still humming with energy from the fight. When they neared the dockyard with its silent cranes and slap of water against the quay, Bess found her voice.

“Tom?”

“Hm?”

“What were you going to say to me? When we were dancing?”

Tom wanted to shrink but instead puffed out his chest. “Do you know, I can’t remember.” Bess deflated, and Tom caught the change in her demeanour. Thinking it was to do with Walter Watson, he asked her whether she was ok.

“Hm?”

“Are you ok? You know, what happened back there.”

“Oh. Oh!” Recognition dawned on her. “Yeah, I’m fine. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Right.”

They walked a few more steps and quite unexpectedly, Bess giggled. Tom looked at her.

“Everything alright, Bess?”

“This is ridiculous,” she said, looking at him frankly. “We’re never this quiet!”

Tom laughed. “If only I was. Would save the fellas some gip.”

“Tell me about it. How are the other boys?” She regretted asking immediately. Tom eyes darkened and he looked up at the night sky.

“Well, Norman and Terry are fine. I imagine they’re out celebrating somewhere too. Sorry I didn’t bring Norman for Dot.”

“I’m sure she’ll forgive you.” He smiled at her kindness. By now they were departing the industrial landscape of the docks and entering the suburb of the estate.

“But, er, Vic-” Tom took a deep breath through his nose. “He, um-” His chest was rising quickly and his throat constricted. Bess’ hand slipped into his.

“It’s ok. You don’t have to tell me.” He nodded, though it seemed to be more in the aid of calming himself than responding to Bess.

They turned into the ginnel behind the Vaughn’s home. “We got hit.” Tom said suddenly. “We were in the gunroom, me, Vic and Henry. And I don’t know, there was this explosion and when I came round it was all dark and Vic-” His voice faltered again. “His face, it just-” He took a deep breath. “It was gone.”

A tear fell from Bess’ eye but she wiped it hastily away. This time was for Tom, not her. “It won’t surprise you, Bess, but I’d had a fight with Henry just before it all happened. Though Henry was winning, can you believe. And Vic was trying to calm me down. The siren went off and I refused to shake his hand. I was so angry and blind and I don’t know,” He shrugged. “One of the last things Vic said to me was that I wind everybody up, and then I didn’t shake his hand. So maybe, yeah, it would be best if I was a little quieter.” Tom laughed a little, though Bess couldn’t see anything funny about what he had told her. He caught the silent horror in her eyes and smiled.

“And now you’ll never get your chance with him.” Bess laughed and leant against the gate to the yard.

“And you’re stuck with horrible old Henry.”

“Ah, he’s not so bad. Lost an arm, actually, in the battle.” Bess said a quick prayer of thanks. It was a miracle he was stood before her. “You know I told you we were betting on when Vera laid an egg?” Bess nodded. “Well, Terry was closest, jammy bastard. But he wouldn’t take the money. Said we should give it to the widows-”

“Is Terry single?”

Tom gave Bess a pointed looked but smiled all the same. “I gave it to Henry. The others were getting at me for keeping it. I never would have done, but I wanted to make sure it went to the right person. Bit of a peace offering really.”

“Did the others leave you alone?”

“I asked Henry not to tell anyone.” Bess beamed at him. “What?”

“You’re a good man, Tom Bennett. Even if you pretend otherwise.” He placed a hand on his cheek in mock shyness, then laughed brightly. “You should smile more too! Less of this-” Bess squared her shoulders and swaggered around him, pouting her mouth and squinting her eyes.

“Oh ho! Is that what I look like to you?”

She laughed then flung her arms around his neck. The action took Tom by surprise but his hands instantly hugged her waist. “What’s this for?”

“For being in one piece. For being here. I was so scared.” She pulled back to look at his face. They smiled and studied each other a moment.

“Henry’s a ginger too, you know.”

“I’m not ginger! It’s-”

“Auburn, yes, I know.” And it was true. Her hair was a colour he had never seen before, dark and glimmering like Alexandra Park in autumn. Then a memory came to him, and he realised he was wrong. He curled a strand round his finger.

“Just before the explosion, when we’d been hit, these great flames came down the turret. Ever so slow, like. And for a moment, they reminded me of your hair.”

He looked from the strand of hair now coiled around his finger to Bess’ face. Her lips, the lipstick now worn away, were parted. The dark eyes that he so often thought of flickered to his mouth, and when they reached his eyes again, he noticed that the pupils beneath her thick lashes were wide. Realising that this was the first time he had been alone with Bess, without the threat of a family member bursting in on them sent heat prickling up his neck and chest. From one of the houses, a muffled cheer called out.

“Happy New Year,” he whispered, his hand cupping her neck.

“Tom-” What she was going to say emptied from her mind, for no sooner had his name left her mouth was he kissing her. Slowly and sweetly, Tom kissed her. Bess grinned into his mouth as she thought of those full, curved lips finally kissing hers and she sighed. The noise stirred something in Tom and his tongue lathed warm and languid over her lips. Bess’ hands wound their way into his hair and he groaned, pulling her flush against him. Bess whimpered at the noise and pulled away. Tom’s eyes were still shut, and the look of hunger in them when he finally looked at her made her head spin.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the day you came back from Manchester.” A hand left her hip and he ran his thumb over her bottom lip, before he kissed her once again. He pushed her against the gate and granted kisses along her neck. “I missed you so much, Bess.”

She brought his face to hers. “I missed you too,” she whispered into his mouth. Tom’s head was spinning and he laughed.

“Fuck,” he said, looking at Bess’ swollen lips and giddy smile. “Fuck!” They got the giggles, and Tom tucked his head into Bess’ shoulder to keep from hysterics. A light from the house flicked on.

“Shit! Dadda’s already home,” Bess laughed some more and Tom covered her mouth, looking down at those big brown eyes of hers. When she stilled, he removed his hand and kissed her gently.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said and pressed something cool into her hands. Bess looked down. Sixpence.

“What’s this for?”

“A gift from Henry. Get a picture taken for me.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him with a smile. She couldn’t get enough.

“’Oiled up at the factory’?” she whispered seductively in his ear.

Tom groaned. “Don’t tease me.”

Bess opened the gate and snuck into the yard. Turning back, Tom was stood exactly as he was in his picture. Collar turned up, hands in his pockets, but with the unmistakable smirk of the cat that got the cream. Slowly, she closed the gate.

“Goodnight,” she whispered.

“Goodnight,” Tom said back. Bess’ face peered at him through the crack between the wall and the gate, and he followed. “You have to shut the gate,” he teased.

“I know,” she felt like a lovesick schoolgirl.

“Goodnight, Bess.”

“Goodnight, Tom.” The gate clicked shut. On the other side, she heard Tom’s footsteps down the ginnel as he whistled We’ll Meet Again. She wanted to cry out with happiness, and when she walked into the kitchen to find Fergal and Douglas by the fire with a glass of whisky, she beamed at them.

“Happy New Year, Bess.” Douglas said.

“You’re back early. Did you have a good time, my darling?” Fergal turned in his seat to face her.

“The best, Dadda. Goodnight.”

Note: Below is the inspiration for the girls’ dresses. Come through Tom beating Walter to a pulp. Come through Tom talking about feelings. Come through Tom and Bess finally getting together! Beginning the next chapter immediately. Boy, have I got some stuff in store for you guys…

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @anditsmywholeheart @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris

#ewan mitchell #tom bennett #tom bennett x ofc #ewan mitchell x reader #world on fire #the seamstress & the sailor

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ladykailitha · 1 year

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Ser Stephan of Harring’s Town Part 2

Just remember that 20 slots for tagging is the max.

Part 1

The next day Steve had barely been up for a twenty minutes when there was a knock on the door.

He opened it to reveal a very nervous Will on the other side.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Will said with a sigh of relief. “I was worried I came over too early.”

Steve laughed. “Can’t get rid of the early wake up call from sports. Come on in. You have breakfast yet?”

Will shook his head.

“I was about to make some scrambled eggs. You want any?”

“Sure,” Will said with a furrowed brow. “You don’t have to.”

Steve smiled. “I know.”

He made them some scrambled eggs and poured them both a glass of milk.

“Where did you learn to cook like that?” Will asked.

“PBS,” Steve said.

Will raised an eyebrow.

“Seriously?”

Steve shrugged. “I didn’t have anyone to teach me and my parents weren’t around.”

“I would have that thought that with all the money, you would be ordering take out and fast food all the time,” Will said with a half shrug. “I would have.”

Steve smiled tightly. “I probably would have, too. But that much junk food and shit makes for a shit poor athlete and I was in three sports.”

“Three?” Will asked. “I knew about the basketball and swimming, but what’s the third?”

“Baseball,” Steve said. “All of the seasons lined up so I could be in one right after the other until almost the end of the school year. Kept me busy until I was old enough to take care of myself.”

“Wow,” Will said. “Your parents really didn’t like you, did they?”

“Nope!” Steve scoffed. “I’ll be right back with my art stuff.”

When he came back downstairs Will was waiting for him in the front room. He had two sketch pads both have finished.

“I only took a couple of art classes in high school to fill out my electives. So like I said they aren’t anything special.”

He handed them to Will.

Will took them from him and began flipping through. “A lot of static poses, but not bad. You’ve got the basics down and you can tell they’re all different characters.”

Steve blushed. “You’re just saying that.”

“No, really,” Will said, coming up to sit next to him. “Here let me show you what I mean.”

And he did, after he was done, Steve was feeling better about his art.

Will picked up the other drawing pad and a slip of folded paper fluttered to the ground. He frowned as he opened it. Inside was a very good likeness of Eddie.

“Wow,” Will whispered. “That’s really good.”

Steve frowned and then looked over Will’s shoulder. He resisted the urge to snatch the drawing from his hands.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Steve muttered.

“Why?” Will asked, confused. “It’s the best thing I’ve seen so far.”

Steve brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “It’s only good, because if you draw the same thing over and over again, you can’t help but improve.”

Will looked down at the drawing of Eddie again. “How many times have you drawn him?”

“I have seven drawing notebooks, and those are the only two that aren’t filled with drawings of Eddie Munson.” Steve buried his head into his knees.

“Do you like boys, Steve?” Will asked gently.

Steve lifted his head slowly. “I think I like both.”

“Wow,” Will muttered. “It is true what they say.”

“What do they say?” Steve asked, furrowing his brow.

“That like attracts like,” Will said. “That in a small town all the weirdos and queers flock together even subconsciously because they can sense it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t a little strange, that you’re bisexual, me, Eddie, and Robin are gay, and that likely others in the group are some variation on that theme?”

Steve looked at Will for a moment. “Oh.”

He felt this weight lifted off his chest. And then it really hit him.

“Eddie’s gay?!”

Will laughed. “I was wondering when you were going to pick up on that.”

“Oh that makes perfect sense,” Steve said with a laugh. “I thought he was teasing me. Turns out he was flirting with me.” He just started laughing and couldn’t stop.

Will started laughing too. “You really have to stop using your head as a shield man if it made you this slow.”

Steve shook his head. “Tell that to the rest of the world, man. Because I don’t like doing it anymore than you like see it.”

“I was never going to be the normal one,” Will said, “even before the Upside Down and the bullying. But it’s nice to meet other people like me and not feel alone. Because yeah, my mom and Jonathan are always going to have my back they’ll never understand. Not fully. So it’s nice that I know that there are people I can go to, people who are like me.”

Steve wrapped his arms around him. “I’m glad I got to be one of those people, Will.”

“Me, too,” Mike said with a watery chuckle. “Because it’s gonna piss Mike off so much.”

Steve looked at him, wide eyed. “Am I hearing that right? Will Byers isn’t defending Mike Wheeler? I think I might need that hearing aid after all.”

Will chuckled. “Eddie pointed out that I can disagree him from time to time. I don’t have to stick up for him when he’s being a little shit, because it just encourages him to continue his bad behavior.”

“Sounds about right,” Steve said, sitting back. “You fight with friends and lovers. That’s just what happens. It only becomes a problem when you fight about the little stuff as well as the big stuff. And if you’re fighting over every big thing than man, find someone who likes you. Because they really don’t.”

“Is that what happened to you and Nancy?” Will asked.

Steve pursed his lips. “I don’t know what happened between me and Nancy. Was it the Upside Down? Was it not being right for each other? Was both? Neither? I just...just don’t know.”

“I heard that she couldn’t even say she loved you,” Will murmured.

“Where did you hear that?” Steve asked, rounding on him.

“I eavesdropped on Nancy and Jonathan after the fight,” Will admitted.

Steve’s eyebrows went up. “Really? What else did she say?”

Will looked at him. “I don’t think you want to know man.”

Steve looked at him for a second. “No, no. You’re right.”

Suddenly there was a knock on the door and they turned to each other.

“You expecting anyone else today?” Will asked.

Steve shook his head and got up to answer the door.

He opened the door and was surprised to see Eddie standing there looking a bit sheepish.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” Eddie said.

Steve laughed. “Early riser me. Come on in, I was just showing Will some of my drawings.”

Eddie perked up. “You draw? Lemme see!”

Steve prayed that Will was fast enough to hide the drawing of Eddie before the man himself came bounding through the hallway.

“Eddie!” Will greeted cheerfully, standing up to hug the older man.

“How come you got to see a Steve Harrington original before me?” Eddie teased. “Kidding, kidding. I know you draw too.”

Steve come up from behind them. “We all draw, right? Eddie’s little cartoons, Will’s epic masterpieces and my little hobby.”

“Oooh!” Eddie said bouncing. “We should form an art group.”

Steve laughed. “For some so anti-establishment, you sure like clubs.”

Eddie frowned. “You don’t have to.”

Steve ruffled his hair. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to. I just think you’re weird. In the best way possible.”

Eddie’s expression went from confusion, to mollified, to embarrassed. “You keep talking like that and I’m going to think you’ve got a crush, Harrington.”

Will and Steve looked at each other and then burst out laughing.

“What?” Eddie asked.

Steve ran his hand down Eddie’s arm. “I’ll you about it later. But come see my art work.”

Eddie flopped on the floor and began rifling through the notebooks.

He stopped at one and cocked his head to the side. “I didn’t know you liked ‘Labyrinth’, Steve.”

Steve and Will leaned over to see which picture he was talking about. It was one of the ones that Steve had actually colored. And it was of the ballroom scene clothes.

“Doesn’t look much like David Bowie, though,” Will admitted.

Steve bit down on his lip.

“And I thought his hair was blond in the movie,” Eddie said. “This is brown.”

Steve began actively chewing on his lip.

They both looked up at him for an explanation.

Steve scratched his cheek and pushed his hair back. He sighed and closed his eyes.

Will and Eddie shared a look.

“Why don’t you want to tell us?” Will asked.

Steve tilted his head back, rolling his eyes. “Oh god. Fine. Turn the page. Maybe that will clue you in.”

Eddie and Will frowned but did as he asked. There in a male version of Sarah’s ballgown was Steve.

Eddie looked up at him wide-eyed and then back to the other page.

Will caught an faster than Eddie did. “Oh shit.” He glanced at Eddie and then back at Steve.

Eddie caught the panicked look on Steve’s face and then back down at the drawing pad.

“It’s me.”

“This was back before...” Steve waved his hand, “before.” Will and Eddie nodded. Before Eddie fell into Steve’s life. Back when he was just the kid’s DM. “Robin wanted to watch it. And it struck a cord with me you know. I felt like you’d stolen the kids from me. I had to go through so much to get them to like me and you just waltzed right in and were instantly adored. So you became my goblin king.”

“And the fact that it’s a love story...” Eddie asked.

“It’s not though,” Steve said with a frown. “He’s obsessed with her sure. But if he loved her he wouldn’t have hurt her. Would have...I don’t know.” Steve threw his arms in the air. “I think the message is that you aren’t beholden to someone because they say they love you. You are your own person. If you want to love them back, if you can love them back, that’s okay. But it’s not on you to cater to those feelings. It’s in his speech at the end. About her doing everything he tells her and he’ll be her slave? Love doesn’t work like that. Or at least it shouldn’t.”

Eddie blinked. “Wow. You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?”

Will was staring up at Steve with new appreciation.

“You caught me, I’m a romantic at heart,” Steve said with a heavy sigh. “I guess I always will be.”

“Do you have other pictures like this?” Eddie asked holding up the notebook. “Where you draw your friends as movie characters?”

Steve shook his head. “Not really. It was just something I felt in the moment.” He pointed at Will. “That’s more Will’s thing than mine.”

Eddie turned to Will. “You’ve drawn the party members as characters before?��

Will blushed. “Sometimes. Mainly it’s Mike.”

“Ah.” He moved to stand back up when he saw something sticking out of the cushions of the sofa.

Steve watched in slow motion as Eddie pulled out the paper and unfold it. He watched as Eddie gasped, covering his mouth with his hand as the other hand began to shake.

“Eddie?” Steve asked, his voice higher with worry.

“I’ve never seen myself drawn like that before,” he whispered.

“Like what?” Will asked, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Eddie ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the drawing. “Like I matter to someone.”

He looked up at Steve. “When did you draw this?”

Steve’s heart was racing in his chest as he fought to get the words out. “Remember that night when I came early to pick up the kids. The night you guys finally convinced me to play?”

Eddie nodded. “Can I keep it?”

Steve could feel the weight being lifted from his chest. “Yeah, sure.”

“Hey, Eddie,” Will said, trying to break the tension, “why are you here? I mean it’s been fun, but you can’t have come over for Steve’s art, because you didn’t know he drew until today.”

Eddie looked between Steve and Will in confusion a moment as they waited for his answer. “Oh! Right, I had an idea for your character and wanted to talk to you about it. But I got so excited that I just drove over here without thinking.”

Steve laughed and even Will smiled and shook his head.

“So let’s hear it, then,” Steve said.

And soon the air was filled with discussions of the campaign.

Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Tag List: @itsfreakingbats @marvelousforlife

#My writing #stranger things #steddie #dnd #steve's hidden talents #ladykailtiha writes

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threadsun · 8 months

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Anonymous Asks: "barry knows one of my weaknesses. i love froyo. he'd hand me cup and i'd go 'thanks!' before passing out *head in hands*

{if you get an idea from this hey i don't mind 👀 may not be a barryfucker but i live and die by the bit}"

Content: drugging, noncon, bondage, cockwarming, throatfucking, creampie, blackmail, somnophilia, dacryphilia, non-consensual recording, multiple orgasms, forced orgasms, bodywriting

The aftertaste of the froyo clings to your tongue. That slightly salty, slightly bitter taste that had been so subtle after each bite now coats the inside of your mouth. It’s the first thing you’re aware of as you slowly return to consciousness. The second thing you become aware of is just how much your body aches. Your throat feels raw, your limbs feel heavy, and you feel…

Shit. The third thing you become aware of is a cock stretching you. You’re seated on someone’s lap. The next few realisations come in quick succession as you shake off the last of the drugs. Your arms and legs are tied to the chair. The person sitting under you is lazily bucking their hips into you on occasion, hands wandering across your naked body to feel you up. You’re in Barry’s office, sitting at his desk in front of his computer.

“Oh good, you’re awake!” Barry sounds as chipper as ever, giving your thigh a squeeze. “I was worried I got the wrong dose.”

You open your mouth to speak, but it comes out more as a croak than anything. Raw, scratching air that communicates nothing. You try to move your hands, but your body still feels heavy. You’d have a tough enough time trying to escape the ropes at your best. Still half drugged? No chance.

“There’s no need for that,” he gives the same infuriating laugh that he does when he tells you he can’t possibly approve your time off, because then who would work the counter? “I’ve got something to show you. I think you’ll find it very interesting…”

There’s the click of a mouse and your attention is drawn to the computer screen. It’s covered in boxes, each one too small to make out without effort. He’s showing you the security cameras. Though, you struggle to come up with a reason he would be. At least, until the audio starts kicking in.

It’s layered, each camera feed just a fraction of a second off, but you can hear Barry’s voice. He’s saying something, though the layering makes it hard to understand. And your brain still feels stuffed with cotton balls. It’s easier to try to focus on one camera than look at everything. So you squint and try to make out what’s going on in the centre feed.

“See that?” Barry’s finger hovers over the screen. “That’s you. Fast asleep on my couch! Don’t you look sweet? All limp, and pliant, and drugged out of your pretty little mind?”

He’s right. You can see it now. The froyo cup slipping out of your hand as you lay unconscious on the couch in his office. Your eyes raise for just a minute to stare at the actual couch before he draws your attention back to the screen with a tap. He’s approaching you, kneeling down next to you. You can hear him saying something else, but once again it’s too garbled to understand.

“This part was fun, though I think I should make a few adjustments to your uniform. Make it easier to remove. Don’t you think?”

He speaks like you’re on the same team here. Like you wanted him to strip you the way you’re watching him do in the footage. He’s not gentle, but not rough either. Merely methodically stripping your limp body and stashing your uniform in the corner. You almost wish he’d been more aggressive about it. More excited and eager. He looks like this is simply another aspect of his job as your manager. And somehow that feels even worse.

“I think you’re starting to understand now, aren’t you?” Barry’s hand rubs your thigh, cock twitching inside of you. “But don’t worry, I’ll let you watch the whole thing. To remind you of exactly what we did.”

The word “we” sends a shudder through you, stomach turning at the implication that you were somehow involved. Anything more than just your limp body being used. And as you watch the cameras, you can see just how thoroughly he used it.

He starts with your mouth, fucking you in quick thrusts. His hands wrap around your throat, holding your head still as he violates your mouth. Your own hand twitches to feel your neck. The ropes stop you from moving. But you can still feel the ache in your throat from how roughly he’d treated it. You keep watching him fuck your face, expression almost bored as he cums down your throat and in your mouth. That explains the taste at least.

“You know, I think that’ll be more fun when you’re awake. I barely heard any gagging, and you didn’t struggle for breath at all. I think we should try it again some time, don’t you?”

His tone is disgustingly conversational. His hand still rubs at your thigh. You wouldn’t know he was enjoying himself if it weren’t for the way his hard cock throbs inside of you, hips rocking against your ass as he watches you watch him violate you. He’s silent, no little moans or even hitched breaths. His control is almost impressive. Though the idea of being impressed by any of this revolts you.

In the video, he moves on. His hands explore your body, his cock ramming home into you with one sharp thrust of his hips. He has no care for your comfort, and you don’t stir from your drug-induced slumber even at the rough treatment. From where you sit now, impaled on his cock, your hole still aches from the initial stretch.

He fucks you like you’re nothing more than a toy, letting your head hang off the edge of the couch as he holds your hips up to reach deep inside of you. There’s a moment where his hips slow to a lazy roll, grabbing you and hauling you onto the desk. He fumbles around for a marker, drawing a line on your stomach. Your eyes flicker down. There’s tally marks. Seven of them.

“I wanted to make sure you knew how many times you let yourself cum on my cock.” Barry’s finger traces each line in turn. “It’s permanent marker. You’ll have to work hard to scrub it off. You’ll be looking at those for quite a while…”

You feel more and more nauseous as you watch. Barry pounding into you, drawing line after line on your stomach. There was no way you’d cum that many times… Though the dull ache of overstimulation says otherwise. Even just cockwarming him is sending shivers of horrible pleasure through your body.

Soon enough, you’re watching him slide you onto his cock and tie you to the chair. Your stomach knots at the realisation that he didn’t cum inside of you. No, he’d made you cum over and over again on his cock, and hadn’t finished himself. Dread trickles down your spine.

“Now, I don’t think either of us want anyone else seeing these videos, do we?” This tone is familiar, the same one he uses when you try to negotiate for a raise. “Though, I suppose I could delete all the ones with my face in them. Ask a friend to confirm I was meeting with them at the time these were being recorded. Then only you would be implicated… Videos of you letting yourself get used all over the internet… That wouldn’t do, would it?”

“What do you want?” Your voice is tight, teeth gritted as you glare at the computer screen.

“Oh, I’m not sure yet.” Barry begins to rock his hips under you in earnest, thrusting up into you. “I wanted to wait until you were awake to cum inside you. Other than that? Well, I guess we’ll just have to see what I ask of you, won’t we?”

It’s worse than getting a straight answer. Knowing you’ll be under his thumb for as long as he pleases. Knowing he’ll hold this over your head until he’s done with you. If he’s ever done with you. The uncertainty makes your eyes well up, a few tears of frustration slipping out.

“Oh, that’s good.” Barry hums in approval, licking the tears from your cheeks. “You’re much more fun when you’re awake. Go on, you can cry as much as you need. It won’t change anything.”

He fucks up into you as you sob, letting out all the pent up emotions you felt while watching yourself get violated. You can feel his tongue on your cheeks, drinking your tears like they’re nectar. His cock is hard, pounding into you relentlessly as your traitorous body reacts to each and every thrust. Soon enough, you’re shaking in his lap as you cum again.

“That makes eight,” Barry’s voice is thicker than before, even as he reaches out and grabs the pen, adding another tally mark. “You’re enjoying yourself~”

You don’t have time to question whether or not he’s right. Are you enjoying yourself? Your brain is still a little hazy from the drugs, and your body is tingling from your orgasms. You can barely tell what’s going on, let alone whether or not you’re enjoying it. All you know is that you shouldn’t be.

But you don’t have time to think about it too hard. Barry’s hips press up into you, his hands holding you down on his cock. You can feel him cum inside of you. It’s warm, sticky, disgusting. It drips down your thighs as he fucks you through his orgasm. His lips never leave your face, moaning at the taste of your tears. You hate it. And you cum again.

“See?” Barry’s voice is a low murmur, nuzzling into your neck as he catches his breath and adds a tally mark to your stomach. “You love it, really. Now, I’m going to untie you. But remember, you’re mine now. Now and forever.”

#swwsdj #something's wrong with sunny day jack #barryposting #barry the manager x reader #gn!reader #18+ only #sunshine #dark side of the sun

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ghosttotheparty · 8 months

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a mess of holy things 4 also on ao3 // prev. // next playlist | pinboard cw: brief implied sexualisation of a child

Steve sets his chin on his knee, twisting back and forth in his desk chair. His eyes sting from focusing on his textbooks and lined paper for so long. His handwriting is awful now, the letters looping more than usual, overlapping and scribbling and lifting off the blue lines on the paper as he writes without looking, his left index finger tracing a line in his textbook.

He chews on the back of his pen after finishing the line he’s writing, pulling the textbook closer to the edge of his desk as he reads, and after a moment he sets the pen down with a quiet clatter before he lifts his hand to his face and bites his fingernail. His parents always scold him for biting his nails, even though he’s explained countless times that he doesn’t do it on purpose; he barely notices himself doing it most times.

Until he tastes blood on his tongue.

He flips the page of his textbook. The pages of this one are stiffer than he expected, and it makes a crinkling noise as it folds over, the light of his lamp shining through it. His curtains are drawn even though it’s bright outside, the clouds fluffy and white, the sun blinding. He prefers the dark, and the warm golden glow of the lamp.

He can hear people outside. Laughing and shouting at each other, but he can’t understand the words they’re saying. They sound kind of childish, joyful and free while Steve’s head starts to ache from reading for so long. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here, but his butt is sore from the chair and his hand is sore from gripping his pen, and he’s written more pages than he can count.

He startles when the phone rings, his eyes widening as he looks over at it, and he sighs as he pushes himself away from the desk, rolling across the ground on the chair. He’s still nibbling at his nail when he picks it up.

“Yes?”

“I don’t think that’s how you answer the phone.”

Steve snatches his hand away from his mouth like his mother just walked into the room.

“I— I’ve been working for a while, I wasn’t thinking, sorry. Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, Stephen. How are your classes?”

“Uh, they’re okay,” he says, glancing over at his textbook and notes. “A little, uhm, challenging but I… I’ve got all my assignments in on time and I’m working ahead on other stuff.”

“That’s good,” she says absently, and he can see her in his head, sitting on the small couch in the hall next to the landline, lounging against the armchair with a magazine in one hand and coffee on the table next to her. “Any friends?”

Steve hesitates. Eddie’s face flashes in his head, grinning and bright and pierced.

“Uh, no,” he says, blinking his eyes hard. “No, I’ve been… focussing on my classes.”

“That’s alright,” his mom says, her voice still absent like she’s not really listening. “Might be for the better.”

He nods even though she can’t see him, pressing his lips together, and then he lifts his hand back up to his mouth, biting his nail again.

“What day does your Christmas break start?” his mom asks after a quiet moment. “The eighteenth?”

“Uh, I think so.” Steve pulls his hand away, wiping his finger on his leg. “I can check one more time, but I’m pretty sure it’s the eighteenth.”

“Let me know,” she says lightly. “I’m making plans.”

“What plans are you making?” Steve asks, drawing his feet up onto the chair, his knees against his chest, making himself small. He focuses on the sound of her voice, of her breaths. Tries to find comfort in it the way other people find solace in their mothers’ voices. It doesn’t work.

“Dinner plans, Mass,” she says. “You know Benjamin and Sharon are coming for the holidays, so I need to sort out the guest room—”

“Wait,” Steve interrupts, faltering. “Benjamin and Sharon are…”

“They arrive on the twentieth and they leave on January third.”

“I didn’t… You didn’t tell me they were coming. I thought it was just us and Dad.”

“Well, Steve,” she says briskly, haughtily. “I’ve been very busy, I can’t be expected to remember every little thing to tell you on the phone.”

“No, I— I know, sorry, I just… Sorry.”

“You’re not going to play up that attitude you had with Sharon last time she was here, are you?”

“I…” Steve exhales slowly, trying not to huff. “I wasn’t trying to have an attitude with her, I just…”

“I don’t care what you were trying to do,” she says sharply, and he winces. “You were very disrespectful to her, Stephen, and it won’t be tolerated this year.”

“Yes ma’am, I’m— I'm sorry.”

“I don’t want an apology.”

Steve bites back another sorry. He’s quiet for a moment, listening to her breathe, watching her flip through her magazine in his head.

His Uncle Benjamin is his mother’s brother. He isn’t all that bad. He used to bring Steve presents every time he visited. It was always something Steve didn’t really want, something like a watch that didn’t fit his wrist, but it was always nice to get something anyway. He always treated Steve like a man, which, for a time, he loved. He wanted to sit at the grown-ups table, to be part of the conversation even though most of the words they used had too many letters for his young brain, and Benjamin always made him a part of it.

Benjamin’s wife Sharon is…

Well.

Steve doesn’t like her. He’s never understood what Benjamin sees in her.

He first met Sharon when he was eleven years old; she’d followed Benjamin into the living room of the Harrington house, holding Benjamin’s hand and waving bashfully. Steve’s eyes had caught on the cross hanging from her neck: it was gold and shiny in a way he’d never seen on a cross. They were always modest, small and inexpensive, passed down from family member to family member. But hers was flashy, reflecting the sunlight coming through the windows, and Steve didn’t like it.

He also didn’t like her hair. It was too big, tall and teased and frizzy like she’d curled it into tight coils and then brushed it out, but her bangs were straight, falling to just above her eyes. The difference in the curls and the carefully straightened bangs had made Steve’s skin feel itchy as he looked at her and listened to her say, “I’m your Aunt Sharon,” even though she and Benjamin weren’t even married yet. (They are now; the wedding was a child-free event, which Steve couldn’t even be upset about. He’d gotten to stay home for a whole week, alone to his own devices, and he’d watched more television than he’d ever watched in his life.)

And he especially didn’t like the way her eyes scraped him up and down as he stood from where he was doing homework on the floor, and the way she said in a voice that was a little quieter, a little less friendly, “Oh, you’re going to be real handsome when you’re bigger, aren’t you?”

She kept doing that. Looking at him. Saying things like “handsome” and “good-looking,” and Steve had never once thought about what he looked like, but after she left, he couldn’t stop. He’d looked at himself in the mirror that night while brushing his teeth and then after. He’d wondered what it was that would make him handsome. Maybe his chin, or his eyes, or the span of his shoulders. He’d wondered if he would look like his father someday, and then a little part of his mind said, “I hope not.” And that night, he prayed that he would be handsome someday, but not as handsome as Sharon expected him to be.

He also didn’t like hugging her. Her arms were a little too tight and they lingered around him a little too long, and her perfume was much too strong, like she’d doused herself in it instead of daintily spritzing it the way Steve’s mom does.

Last time he saw Sharon, he’d refused a hug. It had hurt her feelings. He’d had to hug her anyway. She’d squeezed harder than usual.

“Alright,” his mom says a little too loudly, her sign that she wants to hang up. Steve glances at his watch. Not even five minutes. But he isn’t complaining. “You check what day you can come home and let me know, alright? Pack your church clothes and bring your manners.”

“I will,” he says.

“Alright. Bye, Stephen.”

“Bye, Mom.”

They hang up.

Steve drops his head to his knees.

He doesn’t want to see Sharon. He really doesn’t want to see Sharon.

He’s bigger than he was last time he saw her, and he doesn’t know if he’s handsome or not, but he doesn’t really want to find out. He kind of wants to hide, to wrap something around his head to cover his face, to cover his body in clothes that will hang off of his frame and disguise the way his shoulders jut out, the way his chest is shaped.

Steve’s arms wrap around him tightly, and he exhales shakily, shuddering. He takes a moment before he pulls himself toward his textbook by holding the edge of the desk again, and he picks up his pen. Chews on it as he tries to find his place in his book. But the words are swimming, flipping inside out and upside down and doing somersaults as they laugh at him. He huffs, groaning in frustration, because he was doing so well today, and he throws the pen across the room so hard the cap snaps and hits the ground, sliding under the bed. He huffs again.

And then he gets up, slides his shoes on, snatches his jacket and keys off the wall, and he leaves after switching off the lamp, letting the door slam echo in the dark.

His hands are shoved into his pockets as he hesitates outside Eddie’s door, looking at the dead rose. He’s curious about where it came from. Who put it there.

He knocks after another moment of hesitation, his knuckles hitting the worn wood tentatively once, twice, then three times, and he steps back so far he almost stumbles over the top step. He waits, shoving his hand back in his pocket, hoping Eddie is home, hoping Eddie heard him, hoping he doesn’t have to leave or knock again. He feels like he’s about to fall over as it is. It’s another few moments before he hears something behind the door, and then the door swings open. Eddie tilts his head out the door, his eyes finding Steve before he opens the door wider, and Steve glances him up and down.

He’s wearing a pair of shorts, black with a drawstring, hanging low on his hips, and his shirt looks like it’s been cut in half, the sleeves chopped off as well. It’s also black, with METALLICA across the chest in a spiky font. But Eddie’s socks are colorful, knit and striped mismatched and crinkling around his ankles.

Steve’s eyes linger on Eddie’s legs for a moment, eyeing the tattoos he hasn’t seen until now. Around one of his knees is a skull, the jaw detached to be placed under his kneecap, and around his other knee are leaves that almost resemble a laurel, reaching from his shin and curving up around the sides of his legs. Above his knee, between the leaves, are the words dust to dust in bold, handwritten lettering.

“Hey,” Eddie says, looking at Steve like he’s looking for something. “What’s up?”

“I, uhm…” Steve looks at his face again. He’s still wide-eyed, shoulders stiff. His hair is tied up into a ponytail and Steve can’t decide if he likes it up or if he wants Eddie to take it down. “I kinda… feel like— like shit.”

Eddie blinks, taken aback.

“Did something happen?” he asks.

“Kind of? Not really? I just…” He shrugs weakly, shaking his head, and his eyes are burning suddenly.

“Shit,” Eddie says softly, and something flashes across his face for a split second, something like anguish, like he’s going to cry too, just looking at Steve, and Steve must look pathetic here, cheeks rosy from the chill outside, tears shining. Like a lost puppy. “Okay, just…” Eddie pauses, glancing over his shoulder inside. “Gimme just a minute, alright, sweetheart?”

Steve swallows, blinking tears back, and he nods.

“Okay.”

Eddie gives him one more nod, eyebrows raised, eyes wide and earnest, and then he closes the door again. Steve hears his voice distantly, muffled by the walls between them, and he blinks.

Of course he would come over randomly when Eddie already has someone over. Steve exhales roughly, lifting a hand to his mouth, biting his nail absently. He could just leave. But Eddie looked so worried just now. He could knock again, tell Eddie not to worry about it. But that…

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, his jaw clenching as his throat tightens, and he waits. His hands are shaking.

The door finally opens after a moment, and Steve lifts his head from where he’s staring at the ground between his shoes. But Eddie isn’t there, and instead a man steps out, pulling his hood up over his head and ducking his head to hide his face from Steve. Steve blinks, stepping aside so he can pass, and he glances back as he starts to ascend the stairs before Eddie’s voice reaches him.

“C’mere, Stevie.”

Steve steps inside, and Eddie is already taking his jacket, gently tugging it down his arms as Steve lets him, his mind spinning.

“Was that…”

Eddie avoids his eyes, reaching to hang the jacket up.

“Are you okay?” he asks, redirecting, but Steve doesn’t let him.

“Was that your boyfriend?” Steve asks in a weak voice, looking at him. Eddie blinks at him, his mouth opening silently as he takes a breath, but Steve looks down, covering his face. “God, I’m so— I’m so sorry, I should have called before I came over, I—”

“Steve,” Eddie says, his hands landing on Steve’s shoulders. “Hey.”

Steve looks up at him (pathetically), dropping his hands, and Eddie is smiling at him, eyes shining with amusement.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Eddie says. “I don’t… I don’t have a boyfriend. Okay?”

“Oh,” Steve says quietly. Relief floods him, and he exhales, blinking at Eddie. The tunnels in his earlobes are red today. “Then who…”

“He just…” Eddie’s cheeks flush pink and he looks away again, letting go of Steve’s shoulders even though Steve kind of wishes he wouldn’t. “Okay, I, uh… I haven’t mentioned this to you because I… quite frankly, I want you to like me, so—”

“I do like you,” Steve interrupts. Eddie looks at him, smiling a little bit.

“I, uhm.” He pauses to clear his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, and Steve’s eyes drift to where the side of Eddie’s shirt is hanging open, exposing his pale midriff that’s marked with dark ink. He wonders if all of Eddie’s tattoos are only in black. “I sell drugs.”

Steve blinks.

“That guy, he was— he was here to get some, uhm.” He cuts off, tilting his head. “So. Yeah.”

“Oh,” Steve says eloquently. He pauses, glancing at the closed door. “Did you… Did you finish, or…”

Eddie looks at him for a moment like he’s confused before, “Yeah, no, he— he paid me and everything. He just… The knocking freaked him out and then I rushed him and everything.”

“Oh,” he says again. “Sorry.”

Eddie shakes his head, smiling again.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” His smile fades. “Are you okay?”

“I…”

Steve looks at the ground, and there isn’t anything to distract him anymore, and Eddie is looking at him with his shiny doe eyes again, worried and curious, and the bitter aftertaste of Steve’s mom’s voice is still in his head, and his eyes flood with tears before he can do anything. He squeezes them shut, stifling a sob, but Eddie can already see everything, and before Steve can even wipe his cheeks, Eddie is wrapping his arms around him tightly, his cheek pressing to the top of Steve’s head.

“I got you, Stevie,” he says softly. “‘S alright.”

Steve takes a gasping breath, his eyes squeezing shut so tightly it might give him a headache, and he reaches up to wrap his arms around Eddie’s neck, shaking. Eddie holds him tightly, swaying, shushing him gently as he cries harder, as he starts to take gasping, hiccuping breaths.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs, and he lifts him up. Steve gasps, his arms tightening, and Eddie slides his hands down to Steve’s legs, guiding them to wrap around his hip. Steve hides his face in Eddie’s neck, his shoulders shaking as he sobs, and Eddie carries him gently. “‘S okay, let it out.”

He sets Steve down on something soft, and Steve opens his eyes to see Eddie’s living room swimming in his vision. Eddie kneels on the ground in front of him, his hands warm and steady in Steve’s waist. Steve closes his eyes again, taking a shuddering breath.

“God, I— I’m sorry,” Steve chokes, but Eddie clicks his tongue.

“Don’t apologize to me.”

He wipes Steve’s tears away. His fingertips are rough with calluses, but he’s so, so gentle. Almost tender. Like Steve is delicate, like his skin might shatter.

“What happened?” Eddie asks when Steve finally stops crying.

“Just…” He exhales slowly, looking away, dropping his hands to his lap. “My— My mom called.”

Eddie sighs.

“What’d she have to say?”

“She…” Steve’s eyes catch on Eddie’s chest, exposed by the draping collar of his tank top. His skin is pale with dark hair dusting the center of his chest, and he has another scattering of tattoos: a bend of barbed wire around his collarbones, a spider under his collarbone, its legs sharp and menacing looking, a head under it with its hair blowing across its face. A crow on the other side of his chest. Its feathers look soft.

“She asked about my… my classes,” Steve says softly. “And she asked if I— if I have any friends yet. And then she…” He huffs, dropping his head and closing his eyes, and his chest aches as Eddie touches his head, running his fingers through his hair gently. “She talked about Christmas break.”

“What’s happening for Christmas break?” Eddie whispers.

“I’m going to my parents’ ,” Steve grumbles. “And we’re… having dinner, and going to Mass, and my—” He huffs again. Eddie rubs his legs. “My uncle and his wife are coming.”

“You don’t like them?”

“Benjamin’s fine, just… Sharon is…”

He laughs humourlessly, and Eddie tilts his head, raising his eyebrows.

“I don’t like her,” Steve says. “She’s annoying, and weird, and I hate how she hugs me, and I…” He doesn’t know how to explain the whole handsome thing, and he shakes his head.

Eddie sighs.

“I’m sorry, Stevie.”

“They’re staying the whole time,” Steve complains. “And I— I thought maybe I could just distract myself when we hung up, but I—” His throat tightens, and his eyes sting, and he looks away, exhaling as Eddie’s hands tighten on his legs. “I was doing so well today,” he says adamantly. “I studied for hours, I— I got so much done, and then she called me, and when we hung up it was like I— like I couldn’t read anymore, and I just…”

“Stevie,” Eddie says gently, firmly. “I think you needed to take a break.”

“I didn’t want to,” Steve says, almost whining, and he knows he sounds like a child right now, but Eddie is blurry in front of him and Steve can’t help it. “I was doing so well.”

“I know, sweetie, but you gotta go easy on yourself,” Eddie says. “You said hours, right?”

Steve nods, biting his lip to keep it from quivering.

“That’s enough for today,” Eddie says, smiling softly. “Okay?”

Steve looks at him. Exhales. Lets himself melt a little bit.

“Okay.”

Eddie’s smile widens. He reaches up and touches Steve’s chin, holding it and wiggling Steve’s head playfully in a way that makes him smile bashfully, his cheeks flushing with warmth.

“What are you gonna do about the break?” he asks after a moment, dropping his hand, still looking up at Steve from the floor. Steve shrugs, sighing, suddenly tired.

“Deal with it,” he says softly. “Pretend it’s all fine until I can leave.”

The corner of Eddie’s mouth quirks in sympathy.

Steve looks away, sighing, blinking his eyes.

There are plants around the living room, one on the windowsill, the leaves cascading to the ground on thin vines, one on the bookshelf, atop a stack of books. A tall one next to the television set, sending shadows in the shape of its leaves across the floor. The rug is faded and worn, the colors mixing like it’s crochet.

“Have you eaten today?” Eddie asks.

Steve looks at him again. Shakes his head. Eddie lets out a breath, and the corner of his mouth twitches again, but it’s in disappointment this time, and Steve’s stomach twists.

“‘M sorry,” Steve says, wincing. “I just— I was so focused on studying, I didn’t—”

“Stevie, hey,” Eddie interrupts. “I’m not mad, sweetie, I just don’t think being hungry is gonna help if you’re upset.” He’s smiling now, like he’s amused, but there’s a lining of worry shining in his eyes. “Okay?”

Steve just nods.

“Come on, I’ll make something for you,” Eddie says, beckoning with a tilt of his head.

“You don’t have to,” Steve says quietly.

“I know. I’m going to anyway.”

Steve can’t argue with him, and Eddie stands, tugging at his hand and pulling him to the kitchen. Steve leans in the entry of the kitchen as Eddie goes to the sink to wash his hands, and his eyes drift, watching his legs. There are more birds on the back of one of his legs, frozen in flight, their wings outstretched, and on his calf is a sword, the handle ornate and somehow shining despite being black ink.

“So no friends yet?” Eddie asks, shutting off the water, looking at Steve over his shoulder. Steve tears his eyes away from his legs only for them to get stuck again on his arms, watching the way his tattoos shift as his muscles move.

“Nope,” Steve says, shaking his head exaggeratedly. “Not a single one.”

Eddie sticks his tongue out at him. Steve grins.

“Not really,” Steve says, actually answering as he watches Eddie work. “I guess there’s this one girl in one of my classes, but we haven’t actually hung out except in class.”

“What’s her name?”

“Robin,” Steve says, smiling fondly. “She sat next to me because we were both wearing stripes, and she just stuck around. She’s pretty great.”

She’s funny. She’d sat next to Steve on that first day, just slid right into the seat next to him even though there were plenty of empty seats, and when Steve looked at her curiously, she’d just met his eye and dryly said, “Stripe gang.” And Steve had choked out an abrupt laugh, covering his face to muffle it as she lowered her head to the table because other people turned to look at them.

They’d played tic-tac-toe until their professor started the lecture, a game prompted silently by Robin, who just reached over and drew the grid on Steve’s notebook. Steve had won the first game and Robin had pretended to stab his hand with her pen.

“Steve…” Eddie says slowly, and Steve looks up at him, his smile faltering. Eddie’s eyes are wide, and he’s spinning a spatula in his fingers. “Why are you smiling?” he asks slyly.

“She’s funny,” Steve says, shrugging.

Eddie raises his eyebrows, grinning childishly.

“Do you like her?” he whispers loudly.

“Ew.”

Eddie lets out a loud Hah! and Steve snickers, wrinkling his nose.

“I’m assuming that’s a no,” Eddie says lightly.

“That’s absolutely a no.”

Eddie laughs to himself, turning back to the stove.

“Ew. You’re such a child,” he says, looking back at Steve, who makes a face childishly. It makes Eddie laugh again, and Steve feels so much lighter than he felt ten minutes ago.

He feels sleepy again, like the last time he waited as Eddie cooked, leaning against the doorframe, and he says Eddie’s name before he can stop himself.

“Yeah, Stevie?”

“Uhm. Can I, like… borrow a hoodie, or something?” He plucks awkwardly at the hem of his shirt, and Eddie glances at him.

“Yeah, ‘course. Go take your pick, sunshine.”

Steve smiles bashfully, cheeks warm, and he turns on the ball of his foot to go to Eddie’s room. It’s still messy, and dimmer than the rest of the apartment, and Steve finds himself eyeing the bed, the tousled blankets and soft pillows and he wants to curl up and close his eyes. But Eddie is in the kitchen making food just for him, and Steve’s shirt is uncomfortable.

He goes to Eddie’s closet and slides it open. Looks at the hoodies and shirts that are hung up on hangers, rifles through them, runs his fingers over the fabric. He pauses when he tugs one off its hanger, looks at it. The chest says BLACK SABBATH in purple, and there’s an illustration under the text: a face, a bare woman leaning over some kind of creature. Steve looks at it for a few moments.

And then he sets it on Eddie’s desk chair, tugs his shirt over his head and shakes his hair out of his head before he pulls the hoodie on and shakes his head again. The inside of the hoodie is soft in his skin, and it smells like Eddie: vague cigarette smoke (which Steve finds that he doesn’t mind), some kind of cologne that’s rich and earthy and masculine. Steve lets the sleeves fall over his hands, takes a deep breath. He feels almost lightheaded.

Eddie grins at him when he sees the hoodie.

“That’s a good look for you.”

“Shut up.”

“You wanna watch a movie?” Eddie asks as he’s serving Steve, scooping pasta into a bowl.

“Sure. What movie?”

“I can check out what I have,” Eddie says lightly. He hands Steve the bowl and then reaches into a cabinet for a glass. Steve watches as he fills it with tap water, and then he takes it hesitantly. “I’m assuming you’re not hydrated. Drink up.”

“Thanks,” Steve says dryly.

Eddie looks through his movie collection as Steve sits on the sofa, sitting cross-legged with the bowl in his lap, sipping the water. He watches Eddie lean over, watches the hem of his shorts ride up a little bit to expose a tattoo on the back of his thigh, text that’s small and messy like they’re handwritten, reading lucky you.

Steve suppresses a smile, scrunching his nose.

“You seen Labyrinth?” Eddie asks, waving a movie at him, and Steve shakes his head, leaning to set the glass on the ground.

“I haven’t seen most movies.”

“Well this one,” Eddie says, moving to turn on the television, “is a mandatory one. Everyone has to see it at least once.”

“Okay,” Steve says, smiling, taking a bite of the pasta. It’s warm.

Eddie stands after pressing play, and he turns to Steve, smiling excitedly. The hem of his shorts has folded a little bit, exposing a tattoo on the front of one of his thighs, and Steve’s eyes get caught on it, his chewing slowing. It’s a church, the cross at the top of the building almost menacing, but the threat is lessened by the flames surrounding the building, emerging from the window. Steve almost expects them to start flickering.

“Oh,” Eddie says, following Steve’s gaze, tugging the hem of his shorts up a little bit to look at it.

Steve can’t tear his eyes away from it, even as Eddie steps closer, and he lifts a hand, reaching out to touch it without thinking anything through. His fingertips brush over it, over his soft skin that’s covered in soft hair. Soft, soft, soft, despite the sharp angles of the church windows.

“Pretty,” Steve says, finally pulling his hand away, his face burning. “Sorry.”

“‘S okay,” Eddie says kindly. “You like it?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie sits next to him. They watch the movie.

When Steve finishes the pasta, Eddie takes the bowl wordlessly, touching Steve’s head gently as he stands, and then he goes to the kitchen. Steve waits for him, hugging his knees to his chest, watching the movie even though he’s a little distracted by Eddie’s absence. Eddie comes back during the next scene, carrying two mugs, and he hands one to Steve as he sits down again.

It’s tea. The mug is hot, and Steve lets the sleeves of his hoodie cover his hands as he cradles it, letting the steam drift into his face. It smells kind of spicy.

The tea does not help his sleepiness. When he finishes it, he leans to set the mug on the ground next to Eddie’s, and then he finds himself bundling into a smaller ball, like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. His knees are drawn to his chest, his arms around his legs, and he pulls the hood over his head after a little while. Lets it cover his peripheral vision. And he finds himself leaning toward Eddie, smiling absently as he watches creatures dance on the television screen.

“You okay?” Eddie asks softly when Steve’s knee bumps into him. Steve blinks, realizing his eyes are drifting shut.

“Yeah, sorry,” he says quietly. “‘M really tired.”

“‘S okay to be tired.”

Steve nods, and he finally lets himself fall against Eddie, who lets out a quiet huff of laughter and then reaches his arm across Steve. Steve lets him in, lifting an arm so Eddie can rest his arm across Steve’s lap, holding the side of his leg.

Steve hugs Eddie’s arm to himself, resting his cheek on his shoulder and letting his eyes lower lazily, looking at Eddie’s tattoos. There are a few bats flying up his forearm, and Steve traces them lightly. He can feel Eddie looking at him, but he doesn’t mind. Somehow he doesn’t feel embarrassed about looking at Eddie anymore. Maybe because he knows Eddie doesn’t mind him looking.

He only feels kind of bad about missing the rest of the movie. And when he partially wakes up to blearily look over to find static on the television and Eddie with a book in his lap, Steve can only close his eyes again and shift closer, his arms tightening around Eddie’s.

♡ permanent taglist: @estrellami-1 @theplantscientist @spectrum-spectre @carlprocastinator1000 @starman-jpg @romantiklen♡ holy things taglist: @stevesbipanic @pearynice @ao3whore @slowandsteddie @swordsandflowercrowns @dragonmama76 @mikeys-thoughts @sofadofax @cyranyx (comment to be added/removed to/from either list!!)

(also here are my drawings of steve and eddie)

♡ buy me a coffee ♡

#im slightly early but its almost midnight idc #love u all mwah mwah mwah #steddie #steddie fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #a mess of holy things

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