#the fake russian series

[effervescentdragon]

he CANT FUCKING DIE HES THE MAIN CHARACTER?!?!?!?!

#shadow and bone spoilers #the fake russian series

[taters169]

OK couldn't stop thinking about this after being reminded by the previous post so here you go, share in the trauma

#lmao this whole series was fucked up #i used to be obsessed with derren brown #saw him live once #the russian roulette one he did ooof #probably all fake but... #Youtube

[nastybuckybarnes]

Comfortable

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Summary: Bucky finds out that you’ve never climaxed during intimacy and he’s not happy about that.

Warnings: Smut, Crying during sex, Overstimulation (mental and physical), Language, Fluff, Minor Angst but not really

Word Count: 2.8K

A/n: Kinda based on life but without bucky coming in and setting things straight lol. I’ve also got the first like 5 parts of a new series written, so that’ll be coming soon hehe. anyway, I hope you guys enjoy, and I love you all very much! 

~*~

“I don’t know, Nat, I just... I guess I’m just never... I don’t know. I’m in my head a lot, I guess.”

The redhead snickers, elbowing her sister and sharing a look with her before both of their gazes return to yours.

“Barnes lacking?”

You shake your head quickly, trying to clear his name.

“No! No, God no! He just... it’s not him, it’s me. I think too much, I’m focused on making sure it’s good for him, making sure he finishes that I... I don’t know.”

Yelena purses her lips, “does he know he hasn’t made you cum yet?”

You swallow hard and shake your head, dropping your gaze to your lap.

“I... I fake it.”

The assassins exchange glances again and you huff a sigh.

“He’s good, he’s really good and he makes me feel good and I get close but... I just can’t... I can’t cum. And it’s not like it’s just him, I’ve never cum with anybody I’ve been with. I just... can’t do it. Maybe I’m broken,” you whisper that last part mostly to yourself, but both women jump in and shake their heads.

“It’s an intimate thing. You probably just want to feel one hundred percent comfortable with the person before giving that last bit of yourself to them. Orgasming with a partner for the first time is... intense. You should talk to him about it, tell him the truth and explain it. Maybe you guys need more foreplay, maybe you need to be in control more, but you’ll only figure it out by talking to him about it.”

You bite your bottom lip and shake your head at Natasha, “I don’t wanna hurt his feelings though, Nat. I just... how the hell do I gently tell him that he hasn’t made me cum and I've been faking it the whole time?”

Two sets of trained eyes dart over your shoulder just as you hear the door to your apartment shut.

Tension pulls your shoulders up and you squeeze your eyes shut, praying that he didn’t hear you.

The way the two Russians in front of you press their lips into thin lines gives you your answer, and you drop your head forward, hating the fact that this is now a conversation you need to have with your boyfriend.

“Well uh, I think we should take that as our cue to leave,” Yelena says awkwardly, pressing on a smile and offering Bucky a small wave as she rises to her feet, Natasha following after.

You stay rooted in place on the couch, refusing to even acknowledge his presence as he putters about in the kitchen, waiting until your friends leave before finally making his way into the living room.

Your eyes don’t leave your hands as he takes a seat on the floor in front of you, his hands, one cold and one warm, finding yours and squeezing gently.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to take deep breaths.

If you were to look at him, you’d see that his face is confused, not angry. Not a hint of anger could be found within him. If anything, he’s upset that you hadn’t told him before. That you didn’t feel comfortable confiding in him and telling him the truth.

The entire time he was under the impression that you were enjoying the sex and getting just as much out of it as he was.

“Why are you apologizing, sweet girl?”

You sniffle and shake your head, fear icing your veins.

You don’t want him to be mad at you and you don’t want him to feel offended.

“I just... I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head and reaches one hand up to cup your jaw, raising your head enough so that you finally, finally look into his eyes.

Your beautiful eyes are filled with tears and it makes his heart ache in his chest.

“Why the tears, honey, what’s wrong?”

You shake your head and sniffle, dropping your gaze only to raise it when he squeezes your chin.

“C’mon, sweet girl, you can talk to me. I... I don’t want you to ever be afraid to talk to me, okay? What’s got you so upset?”

You take a deep breath and squeeze his hand, trying to muster up your courage.

“I just... I don’t want to make you mad.”

He furrows his brows and shakes his head, absolutely flabbergasted at the fact that you think he’d be mad at you for being honest.

“Why would I ever be mad, baby? If you’re upset, I wanna know what I can do to make you feel better.”

You take another deep breath then slowly nod.

“I just... I know that sex is a sensitive topic for a lot of guys. Especially... their performance. And yours is great! The sex is great and I love it and you’re amazing! I just... I haven’t... ya’know. I never have with anyone else either. I’m starting to think that I can only do it by myself,” you whisper glumly, your shoulders sinking in.

Bucky is quiet for a moment. He’d already heard every word you’d spoken to Natasha and Yelena, and, he’s not gonna lie, it punches at his pride to know that his girl isn't enjoying it as much as he is. All he wants is for you to feel your best in every aspect of life.

“Well, why don’t we talk about this a bit more, huh? You said that it’s not just me, but everyone you’ve been with?”

He knows this isn’t about him, it’s about you, but he really hopes that you’re not trying to soften the blow. If other people have made you cum, he wants to know how and when and then he wants to cut their fingers off for ever touching you.

You nod, sniffling. “Yeah, I just... I don’t know if I get in my head too much or if I’m... not comfortable enough, but I just... I can’t.”

He nods slowly, trying to gather his thoughts and figure out a solution.

“What can I do to make you more comfortable, honey?”

You shake your head and push to your feet, hating every word of this conversation.

“I am comfortable with you, Buck. I just... forget I said anything, it doesn’t matter anyway.”

His long fingers wind around your wrist, stopping you from fleeing like you so desperately want to.

“It does matter, honey. It matters a lot, actually. I’m not mad and I’m not offended. I just... I want you to feel the same intimacy that I feel when we have sex. It’s... amazing. And I want you to experience it. So tell me how I can make you feel better.”

Your glossy eyes raise to his and, when you see nothing but honesty and love, you nod slowly.

“I don’t know what’s missing or what needs to happen. You’ve got me really close, but I just.. maybe I think about it too much? I don’t know.”

He cups your cheeks and presses the softest kiss to your forehead.

“You’re gonna need to direct me, baby. Next time, you’re gonna need to tell me what you like, what feels good, okay? And when you get close, you tell me and I’m gonna keep going until you actually cum, is that all right?”

You nod again.

“Okay.”

He kisses your lips gently then pulls you into a tight embrace.

“Okay.”

~*~

The next time the opportunity to be intimate arises, it’s after a small get-together at Yelena’s place.

You’ve already had a sizeable glass of wine, and now all you want is your boyfriend’s hands on your body.

He pushes open the door to your shared apartment, a grin on his lips as you pepper kisses along his jawline.

“Hey, sweetheart. You want something? Hmm?”

You nod, lips not leaving his skin as you push his jacket off of his shoulders.

“C’mere.” His metal arm dips beneath your thighs, hoisting you up, while his flesh arm wraps around your waist, keeping you held tightly against his chest as you wrap your legs around him.

He leads the two of you through the apartment and into the bedroom, laying you down gently on the bed and pulling away to pull his shirt off.

You shimmy out of your dress and toss it to the ground, leaving you only in your matching black lace set.

Bucky’s eyes devour your figure and he’s quick to shed his pants and join you on the bed, crawling between your legs and smoothing his hands over your thighs.

“How you feelin’, pretty girl? You okay?”

You nod, bottom lip tucked between your teeth as he looks at you like you’re the only woman on the planet.

And to him, you might as well be.

“You gonna let me eat you out, baby? Please?”

How could you possibly say no to that?

When you nod at him, he grins, beyond pleased, and slides his fingers beneath the fabric on your hips.

He pulls your panties down your legs and brings them up to his face, holding your gaze while taking a deep breath through his nose.

“Fuck, you smell good. Taste even better, though.” And with that, he situates himself between your thighs and flattens his tongue against you, licking you from your dripping hole up to your throbbing clit.

You sigh happily, fingers tangling through his hair as he works his tongue over your clit and dips two fingers into your heat.

“Just like that...” you whisper, your head digging into the pillows as he plays you like a fiddle.

He continues fucking his fingers into you, pausing when you give a particularly hard tug on his hair then repeating exactly what made you do that.

You can feel it slowly building, each pass of his tongue and thrust of his fingers brings you slightly closer, and you can’t help but feel your heart begin to race.

“Fuck... just like that, Bucky...”

He follows your instructions perfectly, doing exactly what makes you feel good.

He watches your face scrunch, feels your heels dig into his back and your nails scratch at his scalp and - Goddamn is this what he was missing out on? This is what you look like when you’re really about to cum?

It takes all of his self-control to not grab his phone and take a picture of you.

Your chest rises and falls more rapidly and your eyes are squeezed shut as your walls start fluttering around his fingers.

Fuck, you look gorgeous.

It’s such a strange feeling, having him bring you closer and closer to the edge. It’s so foreign yet so right and you tug at his hair and roll your hips up to his face.

“Bucky, I... I’m gonna.... oh fuck, please... I’m gonna cum, please!”

God, hearing that is like music to his ears.

He continues, bringing his free hand up to yours when you reach for it.

You interlock your fingers and grind your teeth together as your release washes over you, far more intense than anything you’ve ever been able to bring yourself.

A sound that’s half-moan half-gasp falls from your lips and you squeeze his hand harder while your walls clamp down around his fingers.

Bliss fills you, sparks flying from every nerve in your body, head to toe, and Bucky watches in awe.

He’s not sure how he believed you before when you were faking. The way you look when you cum is something he’s never going to be able to forget now.

Your body is wound so tight, your thighs clenched around his head and your nails digging into his scalp. Your walls are pulsing and clenching and, fuck, it feels incredible. He can’t wait to feel it around his cock.

He continues slowly fucking his fingers in and out of you while working his tongue over your clit, only pulling away when you tug your hips back.

He smacks his lips together and pulls away, his eyes connecting with yours.

Your chest heaves and your forehead has a light sheen of sweat on it, and you look like the Goddess you are.

“How you feel, baby?” He asks gently, smoothing his hands up your sides and rubbing his thumbs over the soft skin of your stomach.

You only nod at him, your hands coming to rest on his wrists.

“Words, baby. I need words.”

You lick your lips and take a deep breath before speaking.

“I feel good, Buck. I-I feel really good,” you whisper, eyes prickling with tears at the intensity of the moment.

He smiles lovingly down at you and leans in for a gentle kiss.

You taste yourself on his tongue and it makes the moment even more erotic.

“Gonna let me fuck you, baby?” He asks against your mouth, trailing his lips down your neck and kissing your skin gently.

You nod, sighing softly as tears trail back into your hairline.

He pulls back for a moment, just long enough to situate himself comfortably between your thighs and align himself with your entrance.

And then he’s pushing into you slowly, making you feel every single inch of it.

Your mouth drops open and your legs wind around his hips, pulling him even deeper than before. He’s pressing against every sensitive spot inside you and it feels heavenly.

“Fuck, you feel good, baby. Feel so good... God... nice n’ tight... wet... shit you’re like heaven.” He rasps the words against your throat, lips trailing up over your skin to rest on yours for a quick moment before he pulls back to gaze into your eyes.

“I love you, pretty girl. I really do.”

Your heart swells and you lean up to kiss him, gasping against his lips when he pulls his hips back and slams them forward.

He starts a steady pace, smoothing one of his hands over yours and interlocking your fingers.

“I wanna feel you cum for me again. Wanna feel it on my cock, baby. God, you look so pretty when you cum. Wanna take a picture of it and frame it, I swear.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and whine softly, arching your back and groaning when he hits deeper inside of you at the new angle.

“Right there... oh fuck, please...”

He buries his head in your neck, peppering the skin there with kisses while his free hand travels between your bodies to find your clit.

He circles the bundle of nerves with expert precision, lifting his lips to yours to swallow your moans.

You’re barely kissing. No, it’s more of just breathing each other’s breaths and moaning in each other’s mouths, but the intimacy is unmatched and the passion is flaming through your soul.

You wind your free arm around his shoulders, pulling him down to press more of his weight against you, and you can’t help but feel more secure and more comfortable.

“I... Bucky... I’m gonna... oh fuck.”

He nods, showering your face in kisses.

“Cum for me, honey. C’mon, please. I wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

You can’t very well deny him when he’s asking you so nicely.

His fingers move against your clit faster and faster while his hips continue grinding into yours firmly, making your toes curl and your back arch further.

Your chest presses against his and you rake your nails against his back so hard you're sure you’re drawing blood, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.

Not when you’re falling headfirst into the most intense and powerful climax of your life.

Your vision goes white and your ears start to ring, and all you can do is squeeze around him.

Your legs tighten around his waist, your nails dig into his flesh, and your walls clamp down around his cock as fireworks erupt in your belly.

Bucky fucks you through it, keeping his pace steady as you tremble and convulse beneath him, your mouth open as soft whines fall from it.

God, the feeling of you, all hot and tight and wet around him... he’s ready to die happily now that he’s gotten to truly experience the glory that is having you cum around him.

His pride swells and he can't help the way his ego inflates when he pulls his head back to look at your pretty face.

He did that.

He made you feel that good.

He’s the only man, no, the only person in the world besides yourself that’s ever made you cum. And he’s going to be the only one.

And now that he knows how to do it, now that he's gotten you there with his mouth and his cock, he’s never going to get enough of it. He’s gotta make up for lost time, doesn't he?

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #Bucky Barnes x reader #bucky x reader smut #bucky/reader smut #bucky x you #bucky x reader lemon #bucky x you smut #Bucky Barnes smut #marvel smut #Steve rogers #yelena belova #Natasha romanoff #bucky x f!reader #bucky x female!reader #Bucky Barnes fanfic #reader insert

[nnon0]

JJH fic recs

been getting a little hard trying to find long fics to read these days but here are some that i complied in the last month or so :)

(🫀) -personal faves

all these years @domjaehyun

WC: 34.1k

fluff, smut, angst; childhood friends-to-lovers!au, college!au, neighbors!au

Just friends @lonelyharmonies

WC: 22k

Strangers-to-friends- to-lovers!au , college au

what happens when you wake up in someone else’s bed after getting drunk in a party?

(🫀) Only @ppangjae

WC: 21.6k

almost!lovers au

You like to believe crossing paths with Jaehyun after graduation is just pure coincidence. He always comes and goes. But what if he decides to stay? To stick around? To give what was an ‘almost’ a chance?

Romeo roulette @wincore

WC:21.1k

soulmate au, office au, fake dating

if finding your soulmate is the same as a damn game of Russian roulette, you are determined to not pull the trigger at all. except, you know who your soulmate is and he doesn’t—and given a choice to pretend, you find that jaehyun is the lesser of the two burdens to bear.

he fell first and he fell harder @taurusdaylight

WC: 18.7k

Basketball captain!jaehyun, childhood-friends-to-lovers

jeong jaehyun really loves basketball. but also, he’s terribly in love with his childhood best friend of seventeen years, you.

(🫀) all i wanted @yutaholic

WC: 17k

heartbreakers, smut

A year has passed since you last saw your best friend, Jaehyun, but the man who returns is not the boy you once knew and loved. Jaehyun will barely speak to you and you don’t know why, but you both may be exactly what the other needs to mend your broken hearts.

(🫀)The Apple of My Eye @sehunniepotwrites

WC: 17k

school! au , teacher!au , Kindergarten teacher!jaehyun

As a young and handsome kindergarten teacher of two years, Jeong Jaehyun was used to receiving presents during Teacher’s Appreciation Week. This, however, was the first year Jaehyun wanted to give a present of appreciation to someone else—his new and ever-so-lovable teacher’s assistant.

(🫀)song for a little sparrow @ppangjae

WC:13.7k

poet!jaehyun x painter!reader , strangers-to-lovers

As a burnt out painter, you packed one suitcase and flew a one-way trip to Paris in hopes of finding your passion again. In the city of love, the last thing you expected was to bump into a man who doesn’t believe in love. But you do, and you find yourself showing him the wonders of love and falling in love. Just don’t fall in love with him.

I like me better (when i’m with you) @tyonfs

WC:11.8k

friends to enemies to lovers, sports au , smut

there was no one else on the planet that made your blood boil like jeong jaehyun did. you never thought your feelings toward him were anything past pure hatred, but when you were lost in the feeling of his lips on yours and his hands on your body, you couldn’t help but think that maybe a part of you didn’t completely hate his guts. 

Someone to Bring Home @rouiyan

WC: 10.2k

Med student!jaehyun, College au, Brothers best friend , home for thanksgiving

synopsis — “if you’ve been waiting for fallin’ in love, babe, you don’t have to wait on me.” (sanctuary - joji)

Boyfriend material @mochidoie

WC: 6.2k

fake dating au, strangers-to-lovers , slight angst

Although you and Jaehyun had never spoken a word to each other before this class project, he asks you to be in a fake relationship in order to prove to his longtime crush that he is boyfriend material.

Back up Valentine @tyonfs

WC: 2.9k

Spiderman!jaehyun

you don’t have any unrealistic expectations for valentine’s day considering your love life has never flourished, but the least your best friend could’ve done was not summon an intergalactic army of an alien species during your first blind date ever.

SERIES

S.C.S; ayakashi @starlightkun

WC:66.2k

heavily based off yet another otome game, ayakashi: romance reborn ; bc of this, all the lore used in here is inspired by/based on/taken from the lore of the game, not the actual lore of traditional ayakashi/yokai stories

#nct 127 jaehyun #jaehyun nct #jaehyun #jaehyun layouts #jaehyun imagines #nct jaehyun #jeong jaehyun #jaehyun smut #jaehyun au #jaehyun fluff #nct 127 au #nct fluff #nct au #nct imagines #nct u #nct smut #nct 127 #nct #nct x reader #jung yoonoh #jung jaehyun

[mariacallous]

On Boxing Day pro-Palestine demonstrators met customers at the Zara sale in the Westfield shopping centre, in Stratford, east London. They were not there to wish them the compliments of the season.

‘Bombs are dropping while you’re shopping,’ they chanted, as police stood by to make sure the protests did not turn violent. ‘Zara is enabling genocide,’ their placards read.

Quite what they wanted bargain hunters to do about the Israeli forces bombing the Gaza Strip, they never said. Lobby their MPs? Politicians are on their Christmas holidays. Join the Palestinian armed struggle?  It was unclear whether the shopping centre had a Hamas recruitment office.

But on one point the demonstrators were certain: no one should be buying from Zara. Even though the fashion chain has not encouraged Israel’s war against Hamas, earned income from it, or supported Israel in any material way, it was nevertheless “exploiting a genocide and commodifying Palestine's pain for profit”.

Zara, in short, has become the object of a paranoid fantasy: a QAnon conspiracy theory for the postcolonial left.

The Zara conspiracy is an entirely modern phenomenon. It has no original author. Antisemitic Russians sat down and wrote the Protocols of the Elders of Zion in the early 20th century. There was an actual “Q” behind the QAnon conspiracy: a far-right activist who first appeared on 4chan message boards in 2017 to claim that a cabal of child abusers was conspiring against Donald Trump.

The Zara conspiracy was mass produced by social media users: an example of the madness of crowds rather than their supposed wisdom. The cause of the descent into hysteria was bizarre.

In early December Zara launched an advertising campaign featuring the model Kristen McMenamy wearing its latest collection in a sculptor’s studio. It clearly was a studio, by the way, and not a war zone in southern Israel or Gaza. McMenamy carried a mannequin wrapped in white fabric. The cry went up that the Spanish company was exploiting the suffering of Palestinians and that the mannequin was meant to represent a victim of Israeli aggression wrapped in a shroud.

The accusation was insane. No one in the photo shoot resembled a soldier or a casualty of war. Anyone who thought for 30 seconds before resorting to social media would have known that global brands plan their advertising campaigns months in advance.

Zara said the campaign presented “a series of images of unfinished sculptures in a sculptor’s studio and was created with the sole purpose of showcasing craft-made garments in an artistic context”. The idea for the studio setting was conceived in July. The photo shoot was in September, weeks before the Hamas assault on Israel on 7 October.

No one cared. Melanie Elturk, the CEO of fashion brand Haute Hijab, said of the campaign, ‘this is sick. What kind of sick, twisted, and sadistic images am I looking at?’ #BoycottZara trended on Twitter, as users said that Zara was ‘utterly shameful and disgraceful”’.

To justify their condemnations, activists developed ever-weirder theories. A piece of cardboard in the photoshoot was meant to be a map of Israel/Palestine turned upside down. Because a Zara executive had once invited an extreme right-wing Israeli politician to a meeting, the whole company was damned.

Astonishingly, or maybe not so astonishingly to anyone who follows online manias, the fake accusations worked. Zara stores in Glasgow, Toronto. Hanover, Melbourne and Amsterdam were targeted.

What on earth could Zara do? PR specialists normally say that the worst type of apology is the non-apology apology, when a public figure or institution shows no remorse, but instead says that they are sorry that people are offended. Yet Zara had not sought to trivialize or profit from the war so what else could it do but offer a non-apology apology? The company duly said it was sorry that people were upset.

“Unfortunately, some customers felt offended by these images, which have now been removed, and saw in them something far from what was intended when they were created,” it said on 13 December, and pulled the advertising campaign

That was two-weeks ago and yet still the protests in Zara stores continue. On 23 December activists targeted Zara on Oxford Street chanting , 'Zara, Zara, you can't hide, stop supporting genocide', even though Zara was not, in fact,  supporting genocide. On Boxing Day, they were at the Stratford shopping centre.

Zara has apologised for an offence it did not commit. There is no way that any serious person can believe the charges against it. And yet believe them the protestors do. Or at the very least they pretend to believe for the sake of keeping in with their allies.

Maybe nothing will come of the protests. One could have argued in 2017, after all, that QAnon was essentially simple-minded people living out their fantasies online. Certainly, every sane American knew that there was no clique of paedophiles running the Democrat party, but where was the harm in the conspiracy theory?

Then QAnon supporters stormed the US capitol in January 2021. Will the same story play out from the Gaza protests? As far as I can tell, no one on the left is challenging the paranoia. I have yet to see the fact-checkers of the BBC and Channel 4 warning about the fake news on the left with anything like the gusto with which they treat its counterparts on the right.

To be fair, the scale of disinformation around the Gaza war is off the charts, and it is impossible to chase down every lie. But when fake news goes from online fantasies to real world protests, from 4chan to the Capitol, from Twitter to the Westfield shopping centre, it’s worth taking notice.

Sensible supporters of a Palestinian state ought to be the most concerned. No one apart from fascists, Islamists and far leftists believes that Israel should not defend itself. And yet the scale of its military action in Gaza is outraging world opinion. Mainstream politicians, who might one day put pressure on Israel, remain very wary about reflecting the anger on the streets.

They look at the insane conspiracy theories on the western left and see them as no different from the insane conspiracy theories that motivate Hamas, and they back away.

The Palestinians need many things: an end to the Netanyahu government, and an end to Hamas. But they could also use allies in the West who do not discredit their cause with dark, gibbering fantasies.

[divineecelestial]

Instrument Of War | Steve Harrington x F!Reader

| Word Count — 20k |

| Series Summary — Steve Harrington is in love with you but is convinced you're out of his league and refuses to acknowledge his feelings. But when Dustin Henderson returns from summer camp with a secret Russian code, your lives change completely. |

| Warnings — Use of female pronouns, graphic depictions of violence, d3ath, bodily harm, bl00d, forced dr*g use. All warnings come from what occurs during Season 3 and the Russian base. [Y/N] endures experiences that can be found triggering. If you would like an in-depth warning list, you can message me! Please inform me if I missed anything. |

| Author's Note — This is the first chapter of a series. It contains all of Season 3, which is why it's incredibly long. The series will eventually contain smut. It is a reader insert written in the third person, therefore there will be no physical descriptions such as weight, eye/hair/skin color. And it's for those who want to be the main character and It-Girl so enjoy. |

[Y/N] moved through the effervescent crowd brimming the Starcourt Mall, the smell of deep-fried corndogs and the overwhelming fragrance of perfume samples filling the thick air. She stepped inside the parlor, pushing aside the blushing and giggling teenagers, disregarding their harsh glares and low whispers. She stopped at the counter, her ocean-blue uniform tightly squeezed in her closed hand as she breathed heavily. Steve whirled around, prepared to recite his required greeting when his jaded eyes widened and landed on the glittering gaze of [Y/N]. She was early for the beginning of her shift, earlier than she’s ever been, and he furrowed his eyebrows together as she expelled a heavy sigh and hesitantly peered over her shoulder. He stealthily glimpsed at the damp skin of her heaving chest, the edge of her cream-colored bra peeking from her tight blouse. “I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend for five minutes,” The desperate plea fell from her glossed lips, the flushed pink of skin as she leaned over the polished counter distracted him. “I’ll explain later.” She moved around the counter’s edge, urgently grabbing his arms and loosening them as she forcefully wrapped them around herself. His hand brushed against the smooth skin of her lower back, his fingers touching the fabric of her skirt, and her breasts were pressed against his clothed chest but he could feel the warmth radiating from her. 

A teenage boy accompanied by a group of his friends stepped inside the parlor and his youthful expression fell as he witnessed [Y/N] in the warm, and extremely stiff, embrace of her supposed boyfriend. She smiled as she stood on her toes, pressing a delicate kiss to his blushing cheek as she softly moved a loose strand of his dark hair. The gesture was soft, unfamiliarly intimate as her polished nails moved behind his ear. He blinked owlishly, his softened eyes resembling warm honey as he thought of the sweetness of her gaze. This was nothing but an unexpected and temporary facade, he forcefully reminded himself; completely and unfortunately fake. The teenage boy glared poisonously before storming outside of the parlor. “He’s gone,” Steve’s voice was hoarse as the words fell from him, swallowing a lump in his throat as she backed away, the sweetness of her perfume fading. “Not that I mind, but what was that?” 

[Y/N] walked inside the back room, slamming the swinging door and sliding the moving windows close. From the blurred and textured glass, he could see her remove her small blouse, the clasp of her cream bra barely visible through the glassy haze. She always claimed she wouldn’t wear the dreadful uniform outside of the parlor, so she brought the uniform tucked inside her purse and changed in the back room. Robin didn’t mind and Steve definitely didn’t mind, but the only issue was refraining from sneaking a glimpse. “He wouldn’t leave me alone. I tried telling him I was meeting my boyfriend, but he kept following me. That’s where you come in.” 

The young woman was blessed with the appearance of someone plastered on movie screens, painfully attractive and she always was the center of scrutiny whenever she stepped outside of her house. Everyone stared at her and it was a constant and unwavering occurrence. The issue with looking like her was the occasional creep who was convinced their persistence was going to give them a small chance of receiving her attention. But she didn’t have a boyfriend, which Robin couldn’t understand or entirely believe, but she used the boyfriend excuse constantly and normally the fabrication worked, but there was always the uncommon deviation. 

[Y/N] slid the window open, the warm lighting of the parlor illuminating the sleekness of her hair as she gave him a heart-stopping grin. He leaned against the back counter attached to the sliding window and she peered upward at him through the thick rim of her lashes. She wiped the faint lipgloss stain from his cheek with her thumb. “Sorry, it had to be believable.” The apology was barely heard as his knuckles blanched from squeezing the counter. His mouth opened and closed as she closed the window, disappearing from sight. Steve smelled the fading softness of her perfume and closed his eyes with defeat. She appeared from the back, grabbed the clear trash bag from the overflowing trash can, and disappeared from the parlor without another word. Throwing away the trash was an idle task she did whenever she didn’t want to help any customers. 

There was a small thud as Robin placed the whiteboard on the back counter. “Another one bites the dust,” She said, writing a tally on the ‘You Suck’ section of the whiteboard. “You are oh-for-six, Popeye.” 

Steve sighed heavily as he whirled around on his sneaker’s heel, crossing his arms with an exasperated glare. “Yeah, yeah, I can count.” He said, unamused by her antics. Each tally unfortunately represented another failed attempt or missed opportunity of scoring his dream girl—you. It was embarrassing having every failure on display, having to explain a poorly formulated lie as [Y/N] asked what the tallies meant, and having Robin make teasing remarks every time Steve froze and couldn’t string a sentence together whenever there was a shift in the energy between them.

Robin glanced at the black tally mark. “You know that means you suck.”

Steve nodded languidly. “Yup. I can read, too.”

She raised her thin eyebrows. “Since when?” 

He expelled a slow breath. “It never used to be like this.” He thought of his experiences during high school and there was an ache as he reminisced. He was always the guy taking girls’ breaths away, leaving them on their bedsheets feeling like their hearts were going to tear through their dresses. It used to be easy, a simple adrenaline rush, but now all [Y/N] had to do was breathe beside him and he was putty in her unaware hands.

Robin didn’t understand his cluttered thoughts. “You know, it’s a crazy idea, but have you considered just telling her the truth?” 

Steve scoffed at the sarcastic suggestion. “And risk our friendship?” He had thought about the possibility of revealing the depth of his feelings, he thought about it often, but the overwhelming dread consumed him and he was overcome with the likelihood of their friendship shattering. He didn’t mean for the words to be adorned with the intensity of his emotions, but when Robin’s lighthearted expression faded, he knew he had revealed just how much he cared. There was a moment of silence, or as silent, as an occupied shopping mall could be, and he stared at the streaks on the glass panels. “Or worse, she would tease me about it forever. That would so go to her head.” He joked, attempting to ease the saturation of the conversation, and although Robin chuckled, she knew that there was a thumping heart inside him that wasn’t calloused from high school. 

Robin knew when Steve was focused on conversing with a group of girls, displaying a swoon-worthy smile as he scooped through the variety of flavors. He was moments from earning a tally mark on the ‘You Rule’ and those girls were blushing with rosy cheeks, absorbing his smooth words, but she walked inside the parlor. [Y/N], blissfully unaware of the warmth glowing from Steve’s softened gaze, stepped inside with a verdant green, fur-lined blouse and a noticeably tight and small black skirt, her smooth legs barely visible through the black pantyhose and knee-high boots. Her hair was lazily thrown up, strands framing her grinning face. 

The words falling from Steve’s mouth disappeared into nothingness as she walked toward the counter with a smile that could have stone-cold men collapse to their knees. His eyes followed her, watching as the sunlight poured inside the parlor from the ceiling window and made her glow with golden warmth. His hand loosened and the scooper fell on top of the vanilla ice cream, disregarding the peeved questions from the girls. Robin knew when Steve easily overlooked a group of girls drowning him within their giggling attention as soon as [Y/N] arrived. Robin had never seen him look at anyone like that and he didn’t even seem to care that the group rolled their eyes and departed without another glance. He spoke with pretty girls every day, but not a single one had him ready to throw everything away for a single glance from her. 

When [Y/N] returned, the lingering conversation dissipated and they continued with their tasks. She organized the clear containers of sprinkles and cookie crumbs, meticulously labeling them with a permanent marker. She tossed a cookie crumb inside her mouth, doodling a dainty heart beside the pink sprinkle’s label. Steve languidly swept the back room’s marble floor with a rickety broom. There was a comfortable silence between them as they listened to the faint music that played throughout the mall’s speakers. As she scribbled another drawing, a familiar voice spoke from the register. “I’m Dustin,” He said and [Y/N] froze, a crooked line appearing across the clear container as she listened. Steve’s lazy movements paused suddenly, accidentally spreading the pile of dirt he managed. “Pleasure to meet you. Are they here?” The question broke them from their unsure trance and they disposed of the marker and broom, rushing to the door. 

Steve’s sneakers squeaked as she roughly pushed him aside, choosing to ignore his groan as he slammed into the door frame. He hastily grabbed her shoulder, smushing her face as he moved through the swinging door. His hands were raised in the air, unfiltered elation written on his pale face. “Henderson,” He exclaimed and Dustin laughed, pointing at him with a childlike eagerness. “Henderson! [Y/N], he’s back!”

His arm moved toward the bright logo. “You got the job!” 

Steve was moving with unseen energy. “I got the job!” He yelled with wide eyes, imitating him playing the trumpet before throwing himself into the personalized handshake they made. They made childish lightsaber sounds, pretending Steve’s intestines fell from his stomach as he was supposedly impaled. 

Robin watched the strange scene unravel from the other side of the register. “How many children are you friends with?” She asked, an amused smirk rising on her dark pink-stained lips. 

[Y/N] pushed the swinging door open and purposely shoved her shoulder into Steve’s arm as she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around the younger boy. Dustin was the aggravating sibling she didn’t have, a pesky bundle of unchecked energy she grew fond of. Encircled beneath her embrace, he blushed and his smile widened as he immediately hugged her back. Pulling away, she rushed behind the counter. “Tell me everything!” She listened as he recounted his mind-expanding experience during his summer camp retreat, the prototypes of his inventions, and the budding relationship with a girl named Suzie. She occasionally chimed in as she scooped unusually large scoops in the largest bowl they offered, throwing every topping she knew he would like, and intricately placed three soft waffle cones pieces through toothpicks and tossed a handful of bright red cherries.

She placed the makeshift ice cream boat across from Dustin on the rounded table where the cushioned booth was. “She’s brilliant, too. And she doesn’t even care that my real pearls are still coming in. She says kissing is better without teeth.” He shoved a spoonful inside his mouth, the corners of his mouth stained with different colors. Steve nodded slowly with a slightly disgusted expression, processing the revelation, and she feigned a bright smile.

“That’s really…romantic!” She replied after an unsure pause. A group of customers entered the parlor, and the children’s overexcited voices bounced off the walls. From behind the counter, Robin wordlessly pleaded for some form of assistance. “I’m gonna help out Robin and I’ll be back.” Dustin smiled thankfully as she scooted from the booth and slid the ice cream moving panel open. 

He motioned to the large plastic bowl of ice cream. “So do you really just get to eat as much of this as you want?” 

Steve, resting his forearm on the outer edge of the red booth, nodded. “Yeah, it’s not really a good idea for me, though.” He began, chancing an awkward glance where [Y/N] moved across the room. “I gotta keep in shape for the…ladies.” He explained with a feeble pause. There were no ladies and hasn’t been in quite some time and they both knew this. It wasn’t as if he didn’t try, because he did, but each failed attempt with earning a night out with a pretty girl that walked inside Scoops Ahoy sent his dwindling confidence further a downward spiral. His apprehensive eyes moved toward the smudged glass panel that protected the products from contamination, watching as she scooped a large ball, much larger than the designated size, and smiled as she spoke with a mother and her children. It never made sense to him how easily she charmed every customer like it was second nature, with complete and total ease.

Robin threw an empty cup away near the booth. “Yeah, and how’s that working out for you?”

Steve rolled his eyes at the remark. “Ignore her.”

“She seems cool.” 

“She’s not.” 

[Y/N] removed her sailor’s cap and shoved Steve aside, casually perched beside him as her exposed thigh beneath the uniform rubbed against his knee. There was nothing remotely romantic, or even sexual, about the careless touch, but it was more than enough to have him distracted by the closeness between them. Dustin sneakily watched as Steve glimpsed at her smooth skin caressing him, swallowing the mouthful of words. “So where’s the rest of the team?” She asked, finally noticing the lack of obnoxious teenagers.

Dustin’s eyes closed with a weary sigh, thrusting the spoon inside a sliced banana piece. A flicker of sorrow flashed across his face. “They ditched me yesterday,” He spat, scooping the ravaged banana slice and shoving it inside his mouth. “My first day back. Can you believe that shit?” Although she could completely believe that, she didn’t express the thought. They were all relishing the summer warmth alongside their boyfriends and girlfriends, holding each other’s sweaty hands and stealing quick kisses in the darkness of the movie theaters. “I swear to God. They’re gonna regret it, though, big time when they don’t get to share in my glory.” 

She plucked a cookie chunk from his banana boat. “Glory?” She questioned, crumbs falling against the corners of her mouth. 

There was a glint in the lightness of his eyes as he scooted closer. “So, last night we’re trying to get into contact with Suzie and…” The words faded as he nervously glanced around the parlor and brought his hand to the side of his mouth, mumbling a cluttered sentence of unintelligible words. 

Steve furrowed his thick eyebrows together, leaning closer. “What?” 

Dustin clicked his tongue against his teeth, glancing around the parlor once again before inhaling deeply. He not-so discreetly covered his mouth again, barely whispering. Her brows drew together as her eyes narrowed. “I have no idea what you’re saying right now,” [Y/N] said.

“I intercepted a secret Russian communication!” 

Her head lowered. “Oh, why didn’t you just say that, then?” She paused, processing the declaration. “I still don’t know what that means.” 

Dustin sighed impatiently, unzipping his overflowing backpack. He shuffled through the contents, placing a weathered book on the tabletop. “I just need your help translating.”

[Y/N] grabbed the tattered book, casually flipping through the yellowed pages. The distinct smell of aged paper flooded the air. She stood from the leather booth, her white sneakers squeaking against the polished floor, and she motioned for them to follow behind her. They moved through the counter and stepped inside the back room, disregarding the confused glance from Robin as Dustin trailed after Steve. He dumped his backpack onto the tabletop designated for employee breaks and retrieved his silver recorder, pressing the button on the side before a robotic male voice began reciting a message. The man repeated the message without a waver in his monotone voice. [Y/N] scribbled possible words on a yellow notepad as audio played, again and again, listening to the foreign words as she flipped through the translation book. 

There were a handful of pages discussing the Russian alphabet and they screwed the cap off an erasable marker, transcribing the foreign symbols onto the freshly cleaned whiteboard. Dustin pressed the pause button. “So what do you guys think?” 

Steve, with a thoughtful expression, peeled a banana and took a large bite as he rummaged through his thoughts. “It sounded familiar,” He eventually said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “The music right there at the end.”

Dustin’s mouth snapped shut as he watched Steve casually munch on a banana, his patience dwindling. “Why are you listening to the music, Steve?” He asked, his voice rising as he jutted an index finger at the recorder. “Listen to the Russian! We’re translating Russian!”

Steve’s cheeks extended as he spoke, his mouth full and muffled. “I’m trying to listen to the Russian, but there’s music—”

The swinging door flew open as Robin appeared, her freckled cheeks flushed with glaring frustration. “All right, babysitting time is over. One of you needs to get in there.” She aimed a scooper at them accusingly before her eyes narrowed when she saw the information of restocking on the whiteboard was erased and replaced. “Hey, my board! That was important data, guys!”

Dustin shrugged nonchalantly, unbothered by the sudden outburst. “I guarantee you what we’re doing is way more important than your data.” 

She quirked an unimpressed eyebrow, cocking her head to the side. “Yeah? And how do you know these Russians are up to no good anyway?” 

The younger boy’s eyes widened, peering upward at Steve who stiffened beside him. “How does she know about the Russians?” Steve merely shrugged his voice a garbled mess from the fruit. “You told her about—”

“Why do you automatically assume it was me?” Steve questioned, pointing an accusatory finger at [Y/N]. “Maybe it was [Y/N]!” 

Her glossed lips fell slack. “Of course, you’d find a way to blame me—”

“Hello, I can hear you.” Robin interrupted, her arms crossed. “Actually, I can hear everything you say. You three are extremely loud. You think you have evil Russians plotting against our country, on tape, and you’re trying to translate, but you haven’t figured out a single word because you didn’t realize Russians use an entirely different alphabet. Sound about right?”

[Y/N] glanced at the pink ink seeping through the notepad, some of her translations circled and crossed. “Not completely right,” She muttered, circling a single word with the glitter pen. “I’m pretty sure this says yellow!” As enthusiastic as she was for the only translation she managed to complete, she wasn’t completely certain that it was correct.

Robin’s harsh glare softened as the corners of her lips curved. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty,” She said, but there was no mistaking the lightheartedness behind her words. [Y/N] grinned, knowing it wasn’t entirely a compliment, but she never complained when someone mentioned her appearance. Robin hastily reached forward, barely missing the recorder before Steve snatched the device away. “I wanna hear it. Maybe I can help. I’m fluent in four languages, you know?” 

“Russian?” Dustin asked, hopeful.

“Ou-yay are-yay umb-day.” The three of them proclaimed, impressed with the foreign sentence. She rolled her eyes. “That was Pig Latin, but I can speak Spanish, French, and Italian, and I’ve been in band class for twelve years. My ears are little geniuses, trust me.” She pulled a chair beside [Y/N] as the silver bell beside the register rang through the silence. “Come on, it’s your turn to sling ice cream, my turn to translate. I don’t even want credit, I’m just bored.” Steve reluctantly took the scooper from her grasp and gave her the recorder.

The emptiness of the Starcourt Mall was unsettlingly quiet. Most, if not all, of the other shops, were cleaned and closed for the night, but there were four people remaining inside an ice cream parlor. The bright lights were still on, the only source of life inside, and almost every counter was wiped and the floor was swept. “The week is long, the silver cat feeds when blue meets yellow in the west.” The four of them read the unusual sentence aloud, but there wasn’t even a flicker of understanding in the depths of their minds. “See, I told you yellow was in there!” Dustin gave an unimpressed side-eye before grabbing his duffle bag and stuffing his torn book inside.

The four of them were exhausted, their thoughts echoing with the Russian recording, and their supposed translation didn’t make sense. “It just can’t be right,” Steve said, pulling the metal gate over the entrance of the parlor and securing the lock. 

“Honestly, I think it’s great news,” Dustin said, walking ahead. 

Steve, with an unnecessary force, dropped the lock. “How is this great news?” He chuckled humorlessly. “So much for being American heroes. It’s total nonsense.” He knew he was behaving slightly dramatically, but the promise of becoming something more was enough for him to throw his entire self into the task. And maybe, just maybe, [Y/N] could have seen him as something more. 

They moved through the desolateness of the mall, occasionally glancing at the locked stores. “It’s not nonsense. It’s too specific. It’s obviously code.”

Steve thought about the suggestion for a moment. “What do you mean code?” He asked.

[Y/N] intently examined a bright pair of heels displayed on the other side of a glass window. “Like a super secret spy code in the movies?” 

Steve rolled his eyes as he lightly bumped his shoulder with hers, unconvinced with the possibility. “That’s a total stretch.” 

Robin half-shrugged, humming. “I don’t know.” She began, “Listen, just for kicks, let’s entertain the possibility that it is a secret Russian transmission. What’d you think they were gonna say? ‘Fire the warhead at noon’?” 

“Exactly, that would defeat the purpose of being a secret,” [Y/N] said, “So maybe it is some kind of weird code and they’re specifically using weird words to hide their true message. Only people who have something to hide would use code to mask their message.”

Dustin high-fived her. “Exactly! You’re on a roll today, [Y/N].”

“So I guess that confirms your suspicions,” Robin said, clutching the strap of her helmet. 

Dustin gave her a knowing look. “Evil Russians.”

Robin smiled, gobsmacked that everything they were saying was making sense. “I can’t believe I’m about to agree with this strange child, but, yeah, totally evil Russians.” She giggled.

The four of them slowly walked through the mechanical animals. “So how do we crack it?” 

“I guess we translate the rest and hopefully a pattern emerges.”

Dustin’s expression grew serious. “Maybe ‘silver cat’ is a meeting place.”

“Or a person.”

“Or a deadly weapon.” [Y/N] paused, throwing a mischievous glance behind her shoulder, but Steve wasn’t there. Her smile dwindled. “Wait, where’s Steve?” She turned, furrowing her brow as she found him. He was standing beside the mechanical horse, digging inside his uniform’s pockets. He pulled a small handful of coins, some clattering to the floor as he searched for a quarter on his palm. “What are you doing?” 

Steve moved the coins around, shaking his head softly. “I need a quarter. Do any of you have a quarter?”

[Y/N]’s eyes crinkled with a light smile as she jogged toward him. “I want a turn!” 

He ignored her, motioning for the rest of them to quicken their slow place. “Quarter!” Robin chuckled but threw him a coin regardless. He placed the coin inside the metal slot and the plastic horse began moving, a child-like tune playing. He shushed the three of them as they laughed at Robin’s muttered joke. “Will you guys shut up and listen?” 

There was a moment of silence as Dustin’s wide smile fell, realization dawning upon his face. “Holy shit. The music,” He shrugged off his bag and unzipped it, hurriedly pulling out the recorder. “It’s the same exact song on the recording.” The Russian man’s voice played from the recording and the music was the same.

Somewhat unconvinced, Robin shook her head. “Maybe they have horses like this in Russia?”

Steve, crouched by the mechanical horse, pointed at the coin slot. “Indiana Flyer? I don’t think so,” He said, “This code didn’t come from Russia. It came from here.”

Steve appeared from behind a bush of large green leaves, a pair of black binoculars pressed against his concentrated eyes as he surveyed the crowded mall, with Dustin beside him. He wasn’t certain how inconspicuous they were being, especially with how noticeable his bright uniform was. “Do you see anything?” The younger boy questioned, peeking from the crevices of the leaves.

Steve moved his gaze across the food court, watching as people chewed their grease-filled food, then where a group of middle school girls gossiped at the water fountain. “I guess I don’t totally know what I’m looking for.” As soon as the midafternoon began to slow at Scoops, the three of them began investigating the bustling crowds roaming the inside of the mall. But, something that the younger boy seemed to forget, neither of them knew what exactly they were searching for.

Dustin peered over his shoulder. “Evil Russians. Tall, blond, not smiling.” He answered simply as if the answer was glaringly obvious. “Also look for earpieces, camo, duffle bags, that sort of thing.”

He hummed a distracted response before his eyes widened. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Steve declared, blinking repeatedly as if the twisted sight before him was an unfortunate mirage. “Anna Jacobi’s talking to that meathead Mark Lewinsky. Jesus Christ, whatever happened to standards? Lewinsky never even came off the bench.” He said, watching with disgust as Mark pretended to throw a basketball, smiling with pride as Anna giggled.

Dustin narrowed his eyes. “Dude, you are the worst spy in history.” He yanked the binoculars from his grasp and shook his head disapprovingly. “Besides, I don’t get why you’re looking at girls. You have the perfect one right in front of you.” He said, pressing the binoculars against his face as he motioned across the food court. 

Steve sighed exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Seriously, if you say [Y/N] again—”

“[Y/N]. [Y/N]. [Y/N]. [Y/N].”

“Stop, no. No!”

“[Y/N]. [Y/N]. [Y/N].”

“No.”

“[Y/N].”

“No.”

Steve chanced a softened glimpse where [Y/N] was casually perched between a cushioned booth, drinking a milkshake through a thick straw as she cautiously glanced around the area. This, although it was simple and didn’t require any exertion, must’ve been agony for her. She always said she would never wear the sailor’s uniform outside of the ice cream parlor, but she made the ‘sacrifice’ for them, as she said. So there she was, sipping her milkshake with a displeased expression as she searched for anything that wasn’t supposed to be there. But, as she soon realized, there were many strange people inside Hawkins and she wasn’t given specifics on characteristics to be searching for. And Steve, who was watching her with rose-colored glasses, didn’t bother disguising his blatant staring. He also watched with distaste as several guys purposely roamed the area, speaking in hushed whispers as they watched her from a distance. “Dude, no. I’m not her type. I’m nowhere in the ballpark of what her type is.” He dismissed the idea, but Dustin could hear the gloom laced in his words. 

Although the words weren’t explicitly expressed, Dustin knew that was as close to a verbal confession he was going to receive. Steve, though his friend, wasn’t acknowledging his feelings for her and Dustin wasn’t completely certain as to why. “So, what you’re saying is you’re not her type, but she’s your type?” The question was a simple and straightforward one, and easily could have been answered, but Steve hesitated.

That’s exactly what Steve was saying and that was the underlying reason he wouldn’t acknowledge his feelings. Because acknowledging he knew he wasn’t what [Y/N] wanted would only confirm he wasn’t good enough for her and he wasn’t sure he endure that feeling again. “Look, I missed my chance back in high school,” Steve eventually said, deciding that answer was more than enough for the time being. “She could have any guy she wants. She’s got a line waiting for her. Literally, there are, like, seven guys waiting to make a move on her as we speak. I lost what I had back in school. She’ll never go for me.” 

Dustin removed the binoculars and gave him a pointed look. “Now that you’re out of high school, which means you’re technically an adult, don’t you think it’s time to move on from primitive constructs such as popularity?” He didn’t understand where the obsession with popularity and social acceptance came from, but he knew where it was supposed to end and it was supposed to have ended when he crossed the stage with his diploma.

The bitterness from Steve’s expression dissipated as the question fell from his mouth. “Oh, primitive constructs?” He mocked, “That some stupid shit you learned at Camp…Nothing?” 

Dustin, entirely aware he was deflecting, rolled his eyes. “Camp Know Where, actually.” He corrected, “And no, it’s shit I learned from life. Instead of thinking you’re never gonna have a chance with her because you’re not the cool guy in high school anymore, why don’t you just forget about high school popularity and leagues, and be with somebody you actually like? Like me and Suzie?”

Steve despised knowing every word he spoke was undeniably true, he despised knowing the words of wisdom were coming from a thirteen-year-old middle schooler whose girlfriend probably didn’t even exist. He feigned an agreeing nod. “Oh, yeah! ‘Hotter than Phoebe Cates’ Suzie? And let’s think about how exactly did you score that beautiful girlfriend? Oh, yeah, with my advice. Because that’s how this works, Henderson. I give the advice, you follow through. Not the other way around, all right, pea-brain?”

Dustin rolled his eyes, disregarding the name-calling, and continued looking around the mall, his gaze moving across each and every face. It wasn’t long until he found someone matching his description. “Target acquired.” He said, watching the tall man with long blond hair push through the crowd with a dark blue duffle bag and sunglasses. “Ten o’clock. Sam Goody’s.”

Steve grabbed the binoculars, brown eyes widening as he saw the man walk with a stoic expression. “Shit,” He didn’t know any Russians, but that man was the exact image Dustin had listed earlier. He stood, whistling a specific sound and [Y/N] froze, looking up from her milkshake and meeting Steve’s flailing arms. She sipped a large gulp from the straw before throwing it away, rushing to the boy’s sides. “Let’s go!” 

He grabbed her hand, an unnecessary gesture, and pulled her through the conversing crowd and up the escalator, nearly tripping on her stained sneakers. She mumbled a string of apologies as some people yelped as they were pushed. “Slow down,” Dustin demanded, struggling to keep up with Steve’s speed. “You’re getting too close.” His shoulder bumped into a man, mumbling an apology as the guy yelled at him but the man they were following stopped, hesitantly peering over his shoulder at the ruckus. The three of them moved from his line of sight. Dustin grabbed the payphone, feigning a monotone conversation, and [Y/N] and Steve moved behind a large potted plant. She lowered her head, the fabric of his uniform caressing her cheek as he watched behind the leaves for the man to turn around. She could feel the buckle of his belt pressed against her stomach and the sudden warmth of him seeped through his clothes. Her unsure eyes moved upward, watching as his jaw clenched. Steve, noticing the softness of her lips inches away from him, glimpsed down at her, suddenly aware of how close she was to him. His mouth became dry as she stared at him with those gleaming eyes. “Steve, not now!” 

They blinked before continuing with their mission. They trailed him to a Jazzercise store and watched from behind a pillar as he dumped his duffle bag on a counter, unzipping his bag to reveal a stereo. “All right everyone, listen up!” He shouted, “I just have one question for you. Who is ready to sweat? That’s right!” The group of brightly dressed women cheered excitedly as he unzipped his jacket, revealing his muscular arms. “Let’s start it nice and easy. Let’s move our thighs. Yeah, ladies, warm it up! Come on, ladies, show me what you got!” The music began playing and Steve’s mouth fell slack as the women wearing tight spandex moved their hips slowly. 

[Y/N] rolled her eyes, smacking his shoulder. “Let’s go.” The walk back to Scoops was filled with bickering between Steve and Dustin. As they stepped inside, the smell of sweetness and floor cleaner filling their noses, Robin sprinted outside, jumping on the edge of the fountain. She circled in one spot, mumbling to herself. [Y/N] raised her brow. “Robin, what are you doing?” 

She smiled. “I cracked the code.”

“Are you serious? I just did my hair.” [Y/N] could faintly hear the sound of her displeased voice through the pouring rain and crackling thunder. She zipped her waterproof jacket and threw on the hood, pulling the two strings as far as she could manage. The gravel crunched beneath their sodden shoes as they slowly moved across the mall rooftop. Their wary eyes checked the surrounding area for any late-night employees. “So we’re looking for Imperial Panda and Kaufman Shoes?” She asked, elbows perched on the edge of the roof. 

  Dustin uselessly wiped the glass lens of the binoculars with his drenched sleeve. The air was unusually cold and each breeze chilled her skin, goosebumps rising. “They’re with that whistling guy, ten o’clock.” He said, subtly pointing at the man wearing a yellow raincoat, pushing a red cart with large boxes. The Imperial Panda logo was printed on the sides.

Steve rubbed his palms together, his attempts at warming them were futile. “What do you think’s in there?” 

“Guns, bombs?”

“Chemical weapons?” Robin suggested as a crack of thunder and lightning tore through the sky. 

[Y/N] ’s bottom lip quivered as another breeze crashed against her. “Whatever it is, they’re armed to the teeth,” Dustin said, eyeing the large weapons clutched in their hands.

Steve wiped the heavy droplets from his face. “Great,” He mumbled, “That’s just great.” The thunder rumbled within the darkness of the clouds and [Y/N] instinctively shifted closer to him, her shaking hand squeezing his crouched knee. Her quivering touch, although ice-cold, ignited a flash of warmth through him. There was something comforting knowing she searched for some form of release within him. 

An armed guard unlocked the large double doors. “What’s in there?” Robin asked, unable to decipher much of anything through the downpour. 

“It’s just more boxes,” Dustin answered. 

Steve reached over and attempted to snatch the binoculars from him. “Let me check it out.” 

“No, I’m still looking.” The binoculars were tugged between them, both of the boys muttering profanities. They both lost their grip on it and it slammed onto the metal tube they leaned against. An echoing slam reverberated through the truck’s delivery area. “Duck!”  

The four of them tossed themselves onto the gravel of the rooftop with the backs of their head pressed against the brick of the roof’s edge. [Y/N] smashed her soaking cheek against Steve’s raincoat, interlacing her hand with his. They breathed heavily, their frightened eyes wide as the thunder rumbled. From the double doors, a guard screamed something in Russian. She blinked away the raindrops and glanced at their quivering hands. “We need to get out of here.” She said over the rainfall. They all nodded in agreement, rushing to the rooftop entrance.

Their footsteps echoed throughout the descending staircase, the bottom of their sneakers squeaking from the water as they pushed open the employee’s entrance open. The warmth of the corridor enveloped them like a heated blanket. “Well, I think we found your Russians, Dustin.”

[Y/N] scrutinized the polish on the table as she listened to Dustin speak. “The keycard opens the door, but unfortunately the Russian with this keycard also has a massive gun,” He explained the information he uncovered when he returned to the rooftop the following morning. She had scolded him as a mother would, even providing the dreadfully disappointed expression, when they were fueled by anger. “Whatever’s in this room, whatever’s in those boxes, they really don’t want anybody finding it.”

Robin fiddled with her ice cream scooper as Steve spun his sailor’s cap with his index finger. “But there’s got to be a way in.” She said, mostly to herself, as she considered the possible options. There couldn’t be one entrance and if there was, that would’ve been a severe fire hazard. 

Steve casually tossed his cap onto the table. “Well, you know, I could just take him out.” He nonchalantly suggested. And that was an egotistical portion of Steve speaking—a portion of him that was also stupid.

[Y/N] stopped messing with the silver chain of her necklace. “Take who out?” She knew she shouldn’t have asked the question because, although removing the guard from the equation would’ve been a good idea if one of them were bulletproof, she knew he was being sincere. 

“The Russian guard. Haven’t you been listening?” 

She squeezed her eyes closed, an incredulous smile curving her lips. “Yeah, I’ve been listening. Just trying to process this amount of stupidity.” 

“Oh, come on. I sneak up behind him, I knock him out, and I take his keycard. It’s easy.” And it was because of the delusion he made, entirely convinced he was some Terminator that could overpower a trained Russian guard, that she couldn’t help but laugh at him. 

“Stevie, I think you’re forgetting the part where he has a massive gun and you’re not bulletproof.”

His expression deadpanned. “No, [Y/N], I remembered that part. That’s why I would be sneaking.” He slowly moved his two fingers as if they were a person creeping around the corner. 

Dustin narrowed his eyes, his forearms crossed over each other. “Well, please, tell me this, and be honest, have you ever actually won a fight?” There was a silence for a moment as the three of them thought of when they had pressed an ice pack against the flushed bruises blossoming on his face and throwing away bloodstained tissues. 

“Okay, that was one time—” 

[Y/N]’s eyebrows rose at the understatement. “Twice with Jonathan.” She interrupted.

He rubbed his forehead. “That doesn’t count.” 

Her face was screwed with confusion. “That definitely counts because, and I’m sorry to break it to you, he kicked your ass. Like, definitely beat the shit out of you.” Steve attempted to protest, but she continued. “You had a busted lip and your eye was swollen and there was a gross amount of blood—” 

Robin’s eyes gleamed as she constructed an idea as the three of them bickered. She stood from her chair, the metal scraping against the floor, and grabbed her belongings. She pushed the back room door open and shoved her hand inside the clear tip jar. “What are you doing?” [Y/N] asked, watching as she jogged outside the parlor with a handful of cash. 

Robin paused. “I need cash!” 

Steve’s expression drooped as he saw the cash in her palm. “Well, half of that’s mine!” He nearly whined. “Where are you going?” 

She placed her helmet on, clicking the strap on. “To find a way into that room. A safe way.” She shouted from across the room. “And in the meantime, sling ice cream, behave, and don’t get beat up. It’s her day off, she’s not allowed to help you, dingus!” 

“It is fascinating what twenty bucks will get you at the County Recorder’s Office. Starcourt Mall. The complete blueprints.” Robin said as she unrolled the blueprints, flattening the blue and white paper on the table. “So, this is us, Scoops, and this is where we want to get.” She said, dragging her finger across the table. 

Steve examined the detailed outline, shaking his head. “I don’t see a way in.” He said.

“There’s not if you’re exclusively talking about doors.” She removed the top layer of the blueprint, revealing the mall’s ventilation. 

“Air ducts,” [Y/N] mumbled to herself.

Robin smiled brightly at her. “Exactly,” She said, grabbing a red marker from her whiteboard. “Turns out, this secret room needs air just like any old room. And these air ducts lead all the way here.” She traced a specific duct with the bright red ink, circling their final destination.

Steve grabbed the metal latter, firmly pressing it beneath the air vent near the ceiling. He accepted the screwdriver from [Y/N] and hurriedly unscrewed the screws securing the metal sheet. “Flashlight,” He said, extending his hand outward as he placed the ventilation sheet aside. He pressed the button and the air duct was illuminated with yellow light. “I don’t know, man. I don’t think you can fit in here. It’s like super tight.”

Dustin seemed unphased. “I’ll fit. Trust me,” He said as Steve descended the latter. “No collarbones, remember?”

Robin scrunched her face with confusion. “Um, excuse me?” 

Steve hopped off the latter. “Oh, he’s got some disease. Uh, Chry-Chrydo…something. Yeah, I dunno. He’s missing bones and stuff. He can bend like Gumbo.”

Robin gave him a dirty look. “You mean Gumby?” 

“I’m pretty sure it’s Gumbo.”

Dustin shouted from the vent, his voice echoing. “Steve, shut up and push me!” Steve rolled his eyes and stepped on the bottom step of the latter, pushing the bottom of his feet. “Not my feet, dumbass. Push my ass.”

“What—”

“Touch my butt! I don’t care!” Steve groaned with disgust as he climbed higher, apprehensively placing his palms on Dustin’s butt. “Come on! Harder! Push harder! You’re playing with my legs.”

Steve tossed his legs over his shoulder. “I’m not playing, I have terrible footing.” Dustin screeched with frustration as there was hardly any movement. “I’m just gonna shove you, okay? One, two…” And he shoved him, but there was only a creak in the vent.

Robin and [Y/N] watched the spectacle with disappointed expressions. From the register, the bell dinged repeatedly. “Ahoy, sailors! All hands on deck.” Erica pushed the small button on the bell over and over, motioning for someone to come around the counter. “Get over here and serve me some samples.”

[Y/N] and Robin shared a knowing look before dragging the little girl to the back. She protested, exclaiming she was going to tell someone to fire them, but once she saw Dustin descending the latter, she was intrigued. He handed her the flashlight and she stepped on the latter, climbing until she reached the top. The beam of light filled the vent as she briefly examined it before climbing back down. “Yeah, I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know if you can fit?” [Y/N] asked.

Erica’s face screwed with annoyance. “Oh, I can fit. I just don’t know if I want to.” 

“Are you claustrophobic?” Robin asked, unamused. 

She snickered. “I don’t have phobias.”

“Okay, what’s the problem?” 

She slammed her palms on the table. “The problem is I still haven’t heard what’s in this for Erica!”

Erica was easily convinced if she were given free ice cream for the remainder of her life, which they readily agreed because they were only going to have this job for the remainder of the summer, and memorized the outline of the ventilation blueprints until the Starcourt Mall closed. The four of them rushed to the rooftop, leaving Erica in the Scoops Ahoy back room. The radio static popped from the walkie-talkie as Robin pressed the button. “Erica, do you copy?” 

The young girl hummed in response. “I copy,” She responded, “You nerds in position or what?”

The four of them leaned against the rooftop’s edge, intently watching the loading dock and delivery area. “Yeah, we’re in position. It’s all quiet here, so you’ve got the green light.” Robin said softly. The loading dock where the group of armed guards was the other night was ominously empty. 

“Green light, roger that.” Erica said, “Commence Operation Child Endangerment.”

Robin rolled her eyes. “Can we maybe not call it that?” 

“See you on the other side, nerds.” [Y/N] sighed as the bottom of her sneakers scraped against the gravel of the rooftop. The fabric of her black bellbottom jeans was stained with dust as she scooted beside Steve. The minutes progressed and there still wasn’t a response from the young girl. The child endangerment possibility was becoming glaringly conceivable and the anxiety was coursing through. “All right, nerds. I’m there.”

Robin’s tense expression eased. “Do you see anything?” 

There was a pause. “Yeah, I see those boring boxes you’re so excited about.” 

“Any guards?” 

“Negative.”

“Any booby traps?”

There was another pause, almost deadpanned. “If I could see them, they’d be pretty shit traps, wouldn’t they?” 

Robin, knowing Erica was right, only slightly smiled. “Thank you for that.”

There was a loud bang, a grunt escaping her lips as she kicked the ventilation sheet from the wall. “I’m in.” Steve ran both of his hands through his hair as he breathed out a nervous breath. There was an alarm signaling the double doors were moving and Erica appeared from the room with a satisfied smirk. She placed a hand on her hip. “Free ice cream for life.”

They rushed to the delivery area and glanced around, ensuring there weren’t any wandering guards in the shadows, before closing the double doors behind them. Steve pulled out a pocket knife, flipping the blade out and slicing the tan-colored tape on the boxes. He yanked back the box flaps and opened it, revealing a strange metallic box with a handle with a small engraving that showed to twist it clockwise. Steve expelled a breath before twisting the handle, a low hiss escaping with a light fog flowing in the air. There, inside, were four smaller handles. “That’s definitely not Chinese food.” He glanced at the five of them. “Maybe you guys should stand back.” Robin rolled her eyes but moved away regardless of the theatrics with Erica beside her. Dustin remained put. “Dude, just step back.”

“No.”

“Step back.”

“No.”

“Seriously, step back.”

Dustin smacked his hand away. “No!” He shouted assertively. “If you die, I die.” The spectacle was theatrical, somewhat endearing as the younger teenager glared with an acute finality, but also unnecessary. 

[Y/N] pushed Steve’s hand aside. “So dramatic,” She mumbled, interlocking her hand around one of the handles and pulling it out, another hiss emitting. When the item was fully out of the box, it was a thick glass vial with a neon green liquid inside, almost moving within. “What the fuck is this?” 

There was a menacing rumble as the hinges and screws creaked as the small room shook. The five of them paused, glimpsing around the room as if there were something going to emerge. “Was that just me, or did the room move?” Dustin questioned, nervous shifting his weight on his feet. There was a thunderous mechanical whirring as the room rumbled again.

Robin’s expression was plastered with unease. “You know what, let’s just grab that and go.” She demanded, snatching the green vial from [Y/N]’s loosening grasp, and moved toward the double doors. Dustin flipped open the control panel, pressing the glowing blue button that said ‘Open Door’. He pressed the button again when there wasn’t an immediate response. The doors didn’t open.

The room filled with an obnoxious clicking sound as he repeatedly smashed the glowing button. “Which one do I press, Erica?” 

She glared at him as if the answer was obvious, which it was. “Just press the button, nerd.”

He pressed the button once again. “Which one,” He blinked, wondering if he was seeing things incorrectly. “I’m pressing the button, okay? I’m pressing ‘Open Door’.” 

Steve, exasperated with the lack of any progress, shoved him aside. “Press the other button!” He demanded, pressing his thumb against the same button as earlier.

[Y/N] appeared by them, pressing the glowing green one. “Maybe it’s this one?” 

He gave her a look of disbelief. “That says ‘Close Door’, why would it be that one?” 

She tore her harsh gaze from the control panel and glared at him. “I don’t know, Steve, maybe the Russians got confused with the translations!” She moved to press the wrong button again, but he gently smacked her hand away from the panel. “Would you just let me do it?”

“No, you clearly don’t know what you’re doing—” Steve slammed his palm on the smallest button in the middle of the panel and the double doors were barricaded by a scarlet-red barrier. The fluorescent lights flickered before a mechanical whirring trembled the room. There was a stomach-churning drop. This was an unfamiliar speed, something from a rollercoaster, and there weren’t any restraints. “We’re going down! We’re doing down!” Steve screamed, covering [Y/N]’s cowering figure.

She crouched beneath his shrouding arms, her hair flowing upward. “Really, Steve, what gave you that idea?!” Her back was pressed against the metal shelves as Steve enwrapped his arms around her as much as he could. Her hands crumpled his uniform as she gripped the fabric tightly. 

Dustin slammed the random buttons. “Why don’t these buttons work?” He screamed, his voice frightened and high-pitch.

Erica rushed forward. “Push the button!”

“What do you think I’m doing?!”

The room jolted with a shattering finality and the five of them collapsed onto the floor with a pained scream. [Y/N] shrieked as she landed on top of Steve, her knee accidentally shoving into his crotch. He groaned, his pale skin reddening as her forehead bumped into his. “My groin,” He strained out, “You fell on my groin. I need you to get off me, please.” If the situation were different, and they weren’t locked inside a Russian base’s elevator, Steve would savor the weight of [Y/N]’s body on top of him, her hair brushing against his face, and have her lips inches away from him. But, the dull pain of his groin being squished clouded his thoughts. 

She glanced down where her knee was pressed against and scrambled off of him. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” He released a strained groan as she stood, carefully pulling him from the floor. “Are you okay?” 

Steve grimaced as he straightened, concentrated ire on his face. “Yeah, I’m great, now that I know Russians can’t design elevators!” He charged ahead and quite literally tossed Dustin aside, slamming the control panel open with a bang.

“I think we’ve clearly established those buttons don’t work,” Robin said, her chest heaving as she wiped the dampness on her forehead with the back of her hand.

Steve threw his arms into the air. “They’re buttons. They have to do something!” 

“Yeah, if we had a keycard!” Robin interjected, “It’s an electronic lock. Same as the loading dock door. If we don’t have a keycard, it won’t operate.”

[Y/N] examined the thick wall concealing the double doors warily. “Meaning we’re stuck in here.”

Erica stepped forward. “Just so you nerds are aware, I’m supposed to be spending the night at Tina’s, and Tina always covers for me. But if I’m not home for Uncle Jack’s party tomorrow and my mom finds out you four are responsible, she’s gonna hunt you down, one by one, and slit your throat.”

Steve, unconcerned by the blatant threat and whining of the small girl, slammed his palms onto the discarded cardboard boxes. “I don’t care about Tina or Uncle Jack’s party! Your mom’s not gonna be able to find us if we’re dead in a Russian elevator!” He shouted with a glower. 

Erica recoiled from the severity of Steve’s tone and Dustin jutted an index finger at the evacuation hatch on the ceiling. “What if we climbed out?” 

Steve chanced a small glance where [Y/N] spoke with Robin across the elevator, the exhaustion swirling inside her droopy gaze as they analyzed the control panel. He couldn’t decipher exactly what they were whispering in hushed tones, but there was a glimmer of hope they were talking about him. He caught Robin leaning close to [Y/N]’s ear, stealing a noticeable glimpse toward him when she thought he wasn’t looking. He couldn’t see [Y/N]’s reaction to whatever was said.

He stood from the floor, wiping his palms on the fabric of his uniform, before climbing the shelves beside the evacuation hatch. As he neared the opening, he could hear Dustin speaking into the walkie-talkie and repeating the same sentence he had been saying for an hour. “Gotta take it easy on that thing. You’re going to drain the battery.” 

Dustin whirled around, facing Steve’s ascending figure. “The mall just opened. Someone can be in range.”

His face scrunched with annoyance. “What do you think? Petey the Mall Cop is gonna rappel down here and save the day?” The metal of the elevator creaked as Steve swung his leg over the opening and stood on his feet. 

The younger boy scowled at the harsh sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Why are you such in a bad mood after getting to spend the night with [Y/N] ?” 

Steve’s eyes widened as his voice traveled between the walls. He brought his index finger to his mouth and shushed him loudly. “Jesus Christ, will you stop trying to play matchmaker? It’s never happening.”

“I heard you guys talking all night,” Dustin said much quieter, unphased by the theatrics.

“Dude, you were listening in on our conversation? We were just trying to figure a way out of here.” He corrected, slowly maneuvering his way over the elevator’s wires. Which wasn’t a complete lie, just not the entire truth. “After eight hours, we’re still exactly nowhere, which is probably just a little bit of the reason I’m feeling just a tad cranky.” He hopped, undoing his belt and unzipping his shorts. 

Dustin’s eyes widened with horror. “What are you doing?” He asked, his voice echoing.

Steve peered over his shoulder, eyebrows pressed together. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking a leak. Look away!”

[Y/N] and Robin spoke in hushed whispers as they tried analyzing the control panel. [Y/N] spun around, handing her Steve’s switchblade that fell from his pocket. Across the elevator, a stream of liquid poured down the wall. She narrowed her eyes with confusion, then disgust. “Move your dick over there, your pee is gonna leak onto the floor!” The trickle of urine moved in away in a jagged line. A clanking sound filled the room and [Y/N]’s eyes widened as Erica was attempting to crack open the green vial. “Are you trying to kill us? We don’t even know what that is!” 

Robin snatched the tube from her hand. “Exactly. It could be useful.” Erica protested. “We can survive down here a long time without food, but if the human body doesn’t get water, it will die.”

“Thank you, Erica, but I took third-grade science, and drinking this will probably kill us faster. It’s obviously not water.”

As the two girls bickered about the science of water consumption, Robin noticed a distant electrical humming approaching. She pressed her ear against the metal wall, her eyes widened as she heard the faint sound of voices. “We’ve got company,” She whispered, the three of them rushing to the hatch. Upon noticing their concerned expressions and quickened pace, Steve pulled them up, hurriedly closing the hatch before the elevator’s door opened. Two men entered, sniffing the air as they spoke in Russian. One of them blew a puff of smoke from his cigarette as they grabbed and moved some of the Imperial Panda boxes. As they returned back onto their small car and drove away, Steve yanked the green vial from Erica’s grasp and jumped down the hatch, throwing himself onto the floor and placing the green vial between the floor and closing the elevator door.  

“Hurry up, let’s go!” He tossed Erica’s backpack under the small crevice, pushing her by the bottom of her shoes, doing the same with Dustin and Robin. But as [Y/N] scooted beneath the elevator door, elbows rubbing against the floor until they burned, the green vial began to crack. Steve gave her one more shove and she rolled over onto her stomach. Pushing herself onto her knees, she pulled Steve’s arms and successfully got him out before the vial shattered with a hiss. A green ooze splashed as the glass splintered into pieces, burning the floor with smoke. Whatever was inside the vial was extremely acidic and seeping through concrete.

“Holy mother of God,” Dustin mumbled beneath his breath and they turned to face his direction, expressions frowning as the only path was a long corridor and they couldn’t see the end. The corridor was illuminated in blue fluorescent light, making it much more ominous.

Their skins were damp with sweat as they trudged forward, the blue light enveloping them as they moved forward inside the long stretched hallway. They all spoke about a variety of different topics as they walked through the corridor that didn’t seem to end. But it wasn’t until they began speaking about why Hawkins was chosen for some secret lab, that Steve, Dustin, and [Y/N] realized this might have been connected with the Upside Down.

Hours must’ve passed after they fastened their pace, somehow approaching the end where the corridor split into two different directions. Steve stepped forward, moving around the corner of the wall before someone drove past in a small vehicle. He quickly disappeared from view and pushed them behind a small storage unit, hiding from sight. They waited until the vehicle’s engine disappeared into nothingness before Steve peeked around the unit, motioning for them to follow him. “Okay, clear.” He whispered, “Come on, let’s go.”

“That was close.” Robin breathed out.

“Too close,” Dustin whispered.

Steve, although distressed from the close encounter, eased their concerns. “Relax, nobody saw us…” His voice trailed off as they turned around a corner, their breaths hitching as their adrenaline spiked. There, merely a few feet away, was what appeared to be the center of the underground lab, suffused with armed guards and scientists with pristine lab coats. The voices echoed through the large space, everyone wearing some form of uniform as they moved with casualness. When a guard on the upper section glanced their way, his hands wrapped around a large gun, they threw themselves behind a red cart. 

[Y/N] crouched behind the cart, her face inches from Steve’s as they slowed their panicked breathing. “I saw it. First floor, northwest.” Erica whispered, “The comms room.” 

[Y/N] slightly peeked around the handle of the cart. “Are you sure?” She asked, trying to find something that resembled what she was picturing as the comms room. She couldn’t see much through the roaming scientists and guards.

Erica nodded. “Positive. The door was open for a second and I saw a bunch of lights and machines and shit in there.”

“That could be a hundred different things,” Dustin whispered, incredulous.

Robin swallowed nervously. “I’ll take those odds.” 

They peered around the corner and once they all knew where the location was, they moved back. “We’re gonna move fast, we’re gonna stay low,” Steve whispered and they all nodded in understanding. Crouching, they nearly crawled behind a large metal crate, waiting as the Russian voices walked across the room, then behind a bulky machine. A scientist unlocked the door and ignorantly walked away, his eyes focused on his file. Steve waved the five of them over. “Let’s go.” He shoved his hand between the door and successfully prevented it from closing. He silently closed the door as soon as they were all in behind him. 

A guard swiveled around and his eyes widened as he saw them inside the room, tearing off his thick headphones. He stood on his feet, confused eyes moving between the five of them. His hand hastily encircled around his holster. Robin instinctively rushed forward, her palm extended outward, shouting something in Russian. [Y/N] recognized the Russian words from the message they decoded. The man froze, responding and appearing even more confused. Robin tried again, the desperation evident on her flushed face but the guard wasn’t convinced by the nonsense she was spewing. He unbuttoned his holster, yanking his gun out.

Steve moved before he could even process what his body was doing. He shouted an animalistic sound, sprinting forward at full speed and wrapping his arms around the guard, slamming him into the counter where he was working. The guard pulled him off his waist and tossed Steve onto the table beside them, throwing a heavy punch Steve barely dodged. The man latched onto fingers onto Steve’s uniform, throwing him onto another table. Steve shot his elbow out into his rib, grabbing a metallic phone before smoothly moving it to his hand and colliding it against the guard’s temple. The man groaned as he fell back and smashed his head onto the table behind him, blood staining his skin as he collapsed onto the floor. 

Steve breathed heavily as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Dude! You did it,” Dustin yelled with a wide grin. “You won a fight!” The exhilaration was flowing through him as his body ached and his chest burned with every breath. He didn’t even process Dustin’s exclamation until he tore his exhausted gaze from the unconscious guard. He expelled a heavy sigh as he took in the wide-eyed sight of [Y/N] . And as she rushed toward him with a small, yet amazed, smile, he knew it was worth it.

Dustin stole the keycard from the guard’s belt and [Y/N] inspected Steve with worried eyes. Her shaking hands checked his face, pushing his hair away as she analyzed him as Erica and Dustin argued. “Are you okay?” She asked, still unconvinced there was some injury. 

Steve grabbed her wrists gently. “Yeah, I’m okay. I promise.” He couldn’t contain the small smile at her concern.

Robin nearly tripped down the stairs from across the room. “Guys, there’s something up there!” They ascended the staircase and a bright, flickering blue glow seeped through the square window on the door. Steve opened the door and they slowly entered after him. 

The sight was something pulled from a sci-fi movie; a huge glowing machine that hummed loudly as it spun, scientists wearing lab coats and radioactive gear walking around the machine as they inserted the green vials into the crackling machine, and it oozed with electricity as a bright beam shot at the concrete wall, a portal tearing through. “It’s the gate,” [Y/N] mumbled, closing her eyes as terrifying reality hit her; the Russians were opening The Gate. “We need to get out of here.”

There wasn’t any objection from any of them as they opened the door and descended the staircase. “I don’t understand. You’ve seen this before?” 

“Not exactly, just know this isn’t good.” [Y/N] could feel the familiar fear coursing through her as she nearly tripped on the last step. “We need to do something. A lot of people are going to die if we don’t!” She shouted, her quivering hand squeezing Steve’s shoulder.

“And you know about this how?” 

Erica glimpsed at the area where the guard lay unconscious and all there was left was a blood stain. “Uh, Steve? Where’s your Russian friend?” 

As soon as the words were said, an alarm blared and a flashing red light filled the room. Steve cursed, sprinting to the door and opening it. Across the room, a group of armed guards huddled around the stumbling and bleeding man. They screamed as they noticed Steve from the doorway. He slammed the door closed. “Go! Go! Go!” They sped up the staircase and stormed the portal room, ignoring the questioning glares they earned from the scientists. 

The guards shouted at them as they chucked the scientists aside and followed the five as they ran along the machine’s walkway. They could feel the heat of electricity crackling and they could barely hear anything over the blue beam shooting into the wall. “HOLY SHIT!” Dustin screamed as he nearly stumbled off the pathway before [Y/N] yanked him back by his collar. 

Steve circled around, spotting another path down a small staircase. “THIS WAY!” They thoughtlessly followed him as he shoved a guard over the railing. A pair of guards appeared from an entrance and [Y/N] screamed, slamming her body into a pile of metal barrels at them. The barrel collapsed onto them and they were squished on the floor. Steve pulled her to her feet and they continued sprinting until they poured into an empty room. Steve planted his sneakers on the floor, struggling to keep the guards from opening the door. 

Dustin and Erica lifted a loose panel on the floor, revealing a small escape route. [Y/N] pressed her back into the door, her boots squeaking as the force of the pounding guards was slowly pushing her. “Guys, let’s go!” Dustin shouted, helping Erica and Robin into the secret passage. 

“No! Get out of here!” 

“Steve, come on!” 

Steve exchanged a worried look with [Y/N], who was moments from being thrown from the door, and she frowned, nodding. “Just go get some help!” Dustin hesitated but jumped inside the passage and yanked it closed. As soon as they disappeared from view, the guards gave one final shove and the two of them were thrown onto the floor. They barreled in, aiming a variety of weapons at them. [Y/N] attempted to shove her face into Steve’s arms, knowing it was futile and it wasn’t going to help them, but a guard grabbed her hair, dragging her away from him. She screamed, scratching at his hands but his grasp only tightened. Steve lurched forward, but a guard’s boot kicked his jaw.

Specks of blackness clouded her blurred vision. The pain was unbearable as they jabbed [Y/N]’s stomach until the air was seized from her lungs, punched her face until saliva and blood trickled down her chin and stained her clothes, and slapped her until there was a red handprint bruised on her cheek. She knew she should have answered their questions, she should have explained this was an entire misunderstanding, but something told her she wasn’t going to leave regardless. They interrogated her until the questions were seared into her brain and she flinched as soon as the man inched closer. Tears streamed down her bruised cheeks, mixing with the dripping blood. She sobbed, each erratic breath felt like she was breathing in burning flames. She didn’t know how much time had passed when she grabbed her arms, pulled her from the chair, and dragged her down a hallway. To scream and plead seemed useless as they all continued with their idle tasks as she wept.

They opened a door, carelessly releasing her limp body onto the floor with a harsh thud. She struggled to breathe as her face collided with the floor and her restrained hands were raw from how much she uselessly tugged on them. Beside her laid Steve, bloodied and unconscious. She groaned as she pushed herself off the floor, crouching close to his face she tried nudging him. “Steve? Steve, come on, wake up.” Her voice was hoarse as she spoke, the desperation for him was seeping through her. She had never experienced this intensity of fear as she attempted to nudge his limp body again. He wouldn’t respond, his eyes were swollen and unreactive. She was hoping he would rustle awake, and mutter something about her breath smelling horrible, but he didn’t move. She couldn’t even check his pulse.

A loud buzzer was heard as the military-grade door opened, revealing an older soldier. The way he entered the room and the medallions were sewn into his uniform told her he was dripping with power. She glared at his approaching figure with undiluted hatred. “What did you do to him?” The words burned her throat as she screamed at him and he was momentarily surprised she finally spoke. But he eyed her as if she were nothing but a speck of dust, an inconvenience. She groaned as he backhanded her, ordering the two guards behind him and besides the doorway.

Two small chairs were swiveled to the middle of the room and the guards clumsily placed them both on the seats, back to back, and fastened a secure restraint around them. [Y/N] tried to wiggle free, but she could barely move her own limbs. The older soldier gripped Steve’s damp hair, pulling his bloodied face upward. “Don’t you fucking touch him!” She sneered with venom. The crimson blood stained her teeth as she bared them. He tsk’d and shook his head disapprovingly, releasing Steve’s hair. He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the blood and sweat from his hand. “Steve, Stevie, can you hear me?” 

“I think your boyfriend needs a doctor. Good thing we have the very best” The soldier said, circling around to face her. He rested his palms on his knees, leaning inches away from her face until she could smell the tobacco from his breath. “I’m so glad you choose to speak now.” [Y/N], although barely functioning from the pain, spit on his face. She watched with hazy satisfaction as the bloody saliva trickled down his face and stopped his cruel laughter. He wiped away the mess from his face with the white cloth, his wrinkly eyes flaring with fury. “You’re going to regret that, little bitch.” A wide and twisted smile rose on his thin lips as he straightened and exited the room without another word, locking the door behind him.

Her breathing was slow and deliberate as she looked around the desolate room, faintly wheezing with each exhale. The warm blood cascaded down her bruised skin. There was a silver tray across the room beside the examination bed and a moveable lamp. As she glanced around, evaluating the large locks on the door, she was overwhelmed by the hopelessness coursing through her. She couldn’t move with numbing restraints and each movement ignited a blistering ache. Her eyes glistened as she smelled the copper stench from behind her as Steve’s loose mouth leaked. She squeezed her eyes closed, the tears streaming down her face. She remained like that for what felt like hours but must’ve been minutes, and leaned as close as she could to him.

There was a faint shuffle behind her. “You okay, princess?” Steve mumbled.

Her eyes flew open at the unexpected sound of his low voice and gasped with relief. “Steve, Oh, my God,” Her soaking tears fluttered as she tried peering over her shoulder to see him. The agony was still rampant, unwavering, but something eased within her knowing he was okay. “Are you okay?” 

His breathing hitched as he listened to the hoarseness of her voice. “My ears are ringing, and I can’t really breathe, my eye feels it’s about to pop out of my skull, but you know, apart from that, I’m doing pretty good.” He knew there was something seriously wrong if she was sobbing behind him, quivering as if the room were filled with ice, and the potent stench of blood filled the air. 

She chuckled, choking back a threatening cry. “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.” She said, but she wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince him or herself. “They’re calling us a doctor.” She informed sarcastically, almost laughing despite the severity of the situation. 

Steve swallowed, glimpsing around through the blur. “Is this his place of work?” He asked, chuckling at his own joke. “I love the vibe. Charming.” 

She laughed, which sounded more like a huff of air, and realized how much she needed to hear him. The unknowing of his well-being, wondering even for a split second if he was even alive, was the worst terror she had ever experienced. But they weren’t going to survive here, so they needed to escape. “What I’m about to suggest is going to hurt, but we’ve gotta work together. There’s a table to your right and there’s a pair of scissors, if we move at the same time, we could maybe get over there and knocked them onto your lap or something.”

“And I could cut the binds.” 

She struggled to smile at the vitality in his voice. “Exactly. See, you’re not just a pretty face.”

“Those morons left scissors in here?” 

“Definitely morons.” She wheezed a small laugh, and she coughed a thick blood clot, not bothering to care about the blood dripping down her face. “Okay, on the count of three, we’re gonna hop.” 

Although she couldn’t see him, she could feel him nod to himself. “Okay, good, hop on three. I gotcha.” 

“One, two, three.” They used their remaining strength to hop and inch to the side. “Okay, that worked! Let’s do it again. One, two, three. Holy shit, it’s working! Again.”

They hopped, but the weight was unbalanced and they landed wrong. The chairs slipped and they collapsed onto their sides. [Y/N] groaned as her temple smacked the concrete. Steve breathed out a wavering sigh and she choked on the threatening sobs. He froze, struggling to peer over his shoulder. “It’s okay, princess.” His soft voice reassured her. “Don’t cry.”

A small puddle of blood pooled beneath her cheek. “It’s not okay, I’m practically choking on my own blood here, we don’t even know if the kids and Robin got out, and we’re going to die in this fucking secret Russian underground base.”

His eyes closed as he listened to the bleakness behind her words. “We’re not gonna die,” He said, but he wasn’t certain he believed his own words. “We’re gonna get out of here, okay? I promise I’m going to get you out of here.” This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to be American Heroes, plastered on the newspapers for saving the country, but [Y/N] was broken and bleeding. The only woman he’d ever known to literally radiate sunshine was shattering beside him. 

A soul-shattering weep tore through her, the putrid smell of her own blood seeping into the air. She tried to slow her breathing, focusing on her thoughts and memories instead of the blinding pain. “Do you remember our first conversation back in sophomore year?” She apprehensively asked. He muttered something beneath his breath. The question was random, but he knew she was asking to tether herself to reality. “You were at basketball practice, I was at cheerleading practice, and you guys kept throwing the balls in our section of the court. I think you guys were trying to get our attention, but you only pissed us off. I yelled at you, calling you every name I could think of and all you did was smirk and tell me to go back to shaking my pom-poms. You were such an asshole around your friends.”

Steve closed his eyes, listening to the story. “I know.” He said softly.

“But it didn’t even matter because you showed up at my locker the next day and apologized. You, Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington, waited all morning by my locker so you could say sorry.” The slice on her lower lip stung as she smiled, remembering the spectacle of Steve Harrington casually against her locker with all the confidence in the world. “I told you to go fuck yourself and you still cheered me on during my cheer solo at the game. I don’t know how we became friends, but I think it was because you liked that you didn’t have to be so uptight with me. You got rid of your ‘King Steve’ facade and you were just my Stevie. You weren’t concerned with all that popularity shit and you were just you.” 

Steve didn’t speak immediately, only remembering the words Dustin had told him earlier. He was enthralled with his appearance, his clique, and basketball that he didn’t even consider anything that made him genuinely happy. “It just baffles that everything that people tell you is important, everything that people say you should care about, it’s all just bullshit. But I guess you gotta mess up to figure things out, right? ” He chuckled humorlessly. “I wish I wasn’t such an asshole to you back in high school because maybe, just maybe, we could’ve become friends sooner and things would’ve been different for both of us. I needed you to shake me and yell in my face, ‘Steve, none of this shit matters. Get your life together and maybe instead of being here, I’d be on my way to college right now.”

He could hear the curve of her lips as she spoke. “And I’d be in fashion school and wouldn’t be scooping ice cream with some asshole.” 

Steve laughed, ignoring the sharp pain. “Gotta say, though, I liked being your Stevie. It was fun while it lasted.”

Her smile wavered. Your Stevie. She hadn’t even considered how much she liked hearing him say that. “It was.” 

The buzzer rang through the room and the door unlocked, revealing the older soldier. He examined them laying against the floor and chuckled at the sight. “Where were you two going?” He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. The two goons easily picked them up from the floor, returning them back to their original position. He leaned closer to Steve’s bruised face. “Try telling the truth this time, yes? It will make your visit with Dr. Zharkov less painful.” He nodded for the doctor to commence with whatever their plans were. He stepped aside, moving closer to where [Y/N] was seated, and cocked his head menacingly. “You can sit and watch this time. You are too sick.”

She didn’t even have time to process what he’d meant by ‘too sick’. A man wearing white medical attire raised a gun-like machine, displaying a large needle with a vial of blue liquid. Steve screamed as the man punctured his neck, the vial injecting into his bloodstream with a hiss. “Honestly, I don’t feel anything.” He blinked away the dwelling tears away. “I feel kinda good. Morons messed up the drug” He revealed, erupting in a fit of giggles.

His cheeks began to throb from how much he was laughing. A wave of nausea overcame her as she struggled to keep her eyes open. “Something’s wrong,” She muttered, licking the dried blood from her lips. The buzzer sound came and the door unlocked, revealing the same crew. The doctor slammed a black bag onto his table, removing the contents one by one. 

The soldier glared at Steve, his hands behind his back. “Let’s try this again,” He said, “Who do you work for?”

“Scoops,” Steve struggled to keep the laughter inside. “Scoops Ahoy.” 

“How did you find us?” 

Steve chuckled. “Totally by accident.” The soldier spat something Russian and Dr. Zharkov retrieved a tool from his array and attached the end to Steve’s fingernail. “Wait, whoa, wait, wait!”

“It was a code!” [Y/N] shouted, “We heard a code! ‘The week is long. The silver cat feeds when blue meets yellow in the west. You can’t be surprised someone overheard that stupid shit because you broadcast it all over town and we cracked your dumb spy code in a fucking day! How does that make your ego feel knowing a couple of stupid kids who scoop ice cream cracked your code and now, people know you’re here!”

His face flushed with rage. “Who knows we are here, little bitch?”

She sneered, sweat beading around her forehead. “Guess you’ll find out, you cunt—” Dr. Zharkov embedded a small makeshift knife into her thigh. She screamed like a wailing banshee as the blade tore through her skin and her eyes were blinded with darkness as the suffering was unlike anything she’d ever felt. The blood trickled down her skin, and the fabric of her clothes was damp with her own blood. 

“Who knows we are here?!”

Steve glanced over his shoulder with wide and paranoid eyes. “Dustin knows,” Before she could strain through the black specks overcoming her and scream for him to keep his mouth shut, he continued. “Dustin Henderson knows”

“Dustin Henderson,” The soldier said, his accent thick. “It is your small, curly-haired friend?”

“Oh, curly-haired. Great hair. Small. Kind of like a ‘fro.” Steve knew all of this was wrong, but he couldn’t stop talking. The words were barely forming inside his jumbled head before they escaped him like vomit.

“Where is he?” 

“He’s long gone, you big asshole. And he’s probably calling Hopper, and Hopper’s calling the US Cavalry. They’re gonna come in here, commando-style, guns a-blazing, and kick your sorry asses back to Russia. You’re gonna be two pieces of toast.” An emergency alarm began blaring throughout the base, a flashing red light catching their attention. The soldier straightened at the blinking lights and his expression hardened before he disappeared out the door. 

Moments passed when the door was slammed open and Dustin sprinted inside, shoving an electric stick into the chest of Dr. Zharkov. He convulsed before collapsing onto the floor. “Henderson!” Steve exclaimed, “That’s crazy, I was just talking about you. Look, you gotta help [Y/N].” 

Robin appeared from the doorway, her eyes widening with fear as she took in the twisted sight of [Y/N] soaked with blood, bruised, and basically broken. She collapsed onto the floor, hastily undoing her restraints. Erica stepped inside the interrogation room and the constantly annoyed facade dropped as she saw Robin’s shaking hands covered with dark scarlet. As soon as the restraints around her hands were removed, [Y/N] brought a weak hand toward the blade protruding from her thigh. She weakly wrapped her hand around the handle, squeezing her eyes tightly until the tears streamed down her face. Before she could begin thinking of the pain, she yanked the blade out and screamed until her throat ached. “We’re gonna have to run, okay?” She could barely hear Robin speak over the constant thumping in her head. She latched her loose arm around her shoulders, guiding her through the maze of corridors. The walls were blending together, a dark and hazy mush as she limped.

Dustin struggled to keep Steve upright as they rushed through the flashing red light. Robin gripped onto [Y/N] tightly, her hands slipping from her grasp occasionally as the blood made it slippery. She whispered reassuring nothings as they moved through the corridors, telling her they were only a couple of feet away and to keep her eyes open. She stopped moving as they neared the small vehicle they had stolen, carefully opening the back door and placing [Y/N] inside. Dustin, however, tossed Steve into the back of a red vehicle and didn’t waste any time driving as quickly as they could. 

[Y/N] brought her clenched fist to her mouth to refrain from screaming out as they jolted against the metal barrier on the back of the vehicle. “Jesus, slow down!” Steve slurred. 

“Dustin, watch out!” Erica shouted as he crashed the vehicle into a pile of barrels. 

[Y/N]’s head clashed against the metal barrier and she groaned as she leaned into Steve’s chest. The three of them hopped off the vehicle and unlocked the door. “Come on, let’s go!” Dustin shouted, confused as to why Steve wasn’t in any rush to leave.  He yanked on Steve’s ankle, dragging him out and Robin carefully pulled [Y/N] from the back, nearly slipping on her blood. “Here goes nothing,” Dustin muttered to himself as he shoved the keycard into the slot for the elevator. The light turned green and the elevator door opened. The five of them hurried inside and the room immediately began jolting upward.

Steve stood on a metal platform with wheels on the bottom, struggling to balance and remain upright. “Dustin, I’m surfing!” The three of them ignored Steve’s antics as Robin pressed onto her thigh, apologizing as she applied pressure. Erica pulled a sweater out from her My Little Pony backpack and Robin swiftly cut the fabric with Steve’s pocketknife. She wrapped the fabric around her thigh, pulling tightly and making a tourniquet. 

“This is ridiculous! You’re still so pretty even all bloodied and bruised. That shouldn’t be possible.” Steve spoke, confused as to what was even happening. Everything was moving quickly and he couldn’t think properly.

[Y/N] struggled to move closer to the elevator wall, a wave of nausea moving through her. “You got a thing for blood and tears, Harrington?” She questioned through clenched teeth, avoiding looking at the bloodied wound.

He giggled. “If it’s on you, then yeah.”

Erica watched him behave erratically. “He seems drunk.” She commented.

Robin wiped the blood from her hands as much as she could manage. “Why would he be drunk?” She asked absentmindedly, her attention centralized on the redness stained on her skin. He misplaced his footing on the moving platform and he slipped off, collapsing onto the floor with a thud. Robin kneeled beside him, placing her hand on his forehead. “He’s burning up.” 

Steve didn’t even seem to be understanding the severity of the situation. “How am I burning up? She’s the hot one!” His limp hand pointed at where [Y/N] leaned against the wall, breathing shakily. Her skin was blanched, damp with sweat as she struggled to keep her eyes open. But she chuckled lightly at the delirious remark.

Dustin leaned beside him, ignoring his complaints as he pried his hands away and forcefully pulled his eyelid upward. “His pupils are super dilated.” He said. Steve booped the tip of his nose as Dustin slightly slapped his cheek. “Come on, knock it off.”

[Y/N] gripped Robin’s hand, her weak grasp wavered as she released a shaky breath. “He was drugged.” She mumbled, her mouth suddenly felt dry. “They injected him with something.”

“How many times, dad? I don’t do drugs. It’s only marijuana.” Steve slurred, struggling to blink normally.

Robin swiped the beads of sweat on [Y/N]’s pale forehead. “I think she’s internally bleeding.” She commented and the harshness of their reality intensified as she realized her friend was slowly dying on the floor of a Russian elevator.

Steve smiled widely. “That’s good! That’s where the blood’s supposed to be.”

The amount of crippling stress flowing through Dustin wasn’t something a thirteen-year-old boy was supposed to experience. One of his best friends, someone he even considered an annoying older brother, was drugged and could possibly overdose. Another one of his best friends, someone he thought of as an older sister who would do anything for him, was bleeding out on the floor and there wasn’t anything he could do. He shook his head. “They’re going to be looking for us up there, so we need to know where you parked your car.” He asked Steve.

Steve booped his nose again. “Can we make a pit stop at the food court?” 

“Yeah, sure, whatever. You can have as much food as you want, but only if you tell me where you parked your car.”

Steve’s face fell. “The Russians took my car keys,” He said, emptying out his pockets to reveal nothing inside them.

“Shit.”

There was only one rule Steve was given: watch the premiere of the movie and don’t go anywhere. Dustin and Erica were supposed to be babysitting him, perched only a row away from him, while Robin tried to clean [Y/N] as much as she could inside the restroom. But when Robin apprehensively left her alone to call for Dustin’s assistance, Steve inevitably became bored with a movie he didn’t understand. He stole a small glance where the three of them spoke in hushed whispers and when he saw they were distracted, he snuck out of the movie theatre. It wasn’t until long before the blinding lights and nausea overpowered him and he could feel the chunks of popcorn threatening to come out. He sprinted inside the bathroom, completely overlooked [Y/N]’s near-unconscious body, and vomited inside the toilet.

As he flushed the chunks of throw-up, he flopped onto the floor and rested his head against the bathroom stall. “Did you puke it all up?” [Y/N] questioned, propped against the tiles of the bathroom wall. She watched as he wiped the vomit away from his mouth with a piece of toilet paper.

When his sober gaze landed on her, a wave of blinding rage and concern crashed through him. He had seen her condition when they were in the back of the vehicle, zooming through the base’s corridors and bumping their skulls because of Dustin’s driving, but he was barely registering everything. “I don’t know,” He mumbled, his eyes moving across her. She was pale, her eyes sunken eyes were bloodshot and smudged, her face bloodied and bruised. There was a large handprint across her face, her bottom lip split, and there was so much blood staining her skin.

She swallowed the lump lodged within her throat. “That bad, huh?” She whispered, briefly closing her eyes. She had never seen him stare at her with such emotion before.

“You’ve never looked better.” It was such a blatant lie, horrifically untrue, but she was so thankful for the moment of normality. 

She clutched her side pathetically. “I don’t think you threw up all of that drug.” She said, the corners of her bloodstained lips rose.

He pushed himself from the tiles of the bathroom floor and scooted across the small distance, sitting beside her. She placed her temple on his shoulder, leaning against him as she encircled her arm around his. “Test it out yourself. Ask me anything.” He didn’t know where Robin or Dustin was, probably trying to devise a plan where they could escape alive, but he knew he was all she had at that moment.

He was expecting a lighthearted question, something to distract her from this unfortunate reality while they waited, but as she glanced upward at him, peering at him with her doe-eyes and exhaustion, she asked him something he didn’t think he would have to answer: ‘Have you ever been in love?’ 

Steve thought about the question. The answer was simple: Of course, he had and everyone knew of his heartbreak when she chose another guy over him. So he sighed and interlaced his hand with her bloodstained one. “Yeah, Nancy Wheeler. First semester, senior year.” Thinking of the memories with her, it felt like lifetimes ago. 

And she asked the question he didn’t even want to think of: ‘Are you still in love with Nancy Wheeler?’ He thought and the revelation was like lightning coursing through his veins. He could feel the depleting warmth escape her hand as she held him tightly as she waited for his answer. He glanced down at her and it was like he was seeing her for the first time, and despite being covered in darkening shades of lilac and green, the darkness of her own blood drenched on her skin, she was painfully beautiful and his stomach lurched. He didn’t love Nancy Wheeler anymore. So he answered truthfully. “No.”

Her dazed gaze appeared almost expectant. “Why?” 

The question was simple and he already knew the answer. He had known the answer for years and it was looking straight at him. “I think it’s because I found someone who’s a little bit better for me.” He reluctantly admitted, “Ever since Dustin got home, he’s been saying, ‘You know, you’ve gotta make a move. You gotta make a move.’ And the girl I like is someone I never would have talked to in school because she was so out of my league. And I didn’t, I crushed on her from afar, until she cussed me out at basketball practice in front of all my friends and I was a goner. I never should have tried to move on from her with Nancy. I should have just made a move with her.

Because she’s so funny. I feel like, this summer, I have laughed harder than I have laughed in a really long time. And she’s brave, way braver than me. She took a beating from a Russian soldier and cussed him out after. And she’s so pretty and when she looks at me, I forget how to breathe. She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met before.” He glanced down at her, eyebrows furrowing with concern when he noticed her eyes were closed. He shook her gently. “[Y/N]?” A flicker of concern flashed through him. 

Her eyes fluttered open at the movement. “I was listening, just trying to stop the room from spinning.” Her voice was soft as she spoke and she carefully laid her head against his thighs, whimpering through clenched teeth at the pain the small movement made. “I think this guy is on Russian drugs and isn’t thinking straight.” 

Steve smoothed the loose strands of hair on her head. “Really? Because I think he’s thinking a lot more clearly than usual.” This wasn’t exactly how he wanted this conversation to happen. If he ever did manage to discover the courage to reveal his feelings for her, he didn’t think it would happen because she was slowly losing consciousness after being beaten by Russian soldiers. 

Her eyes slowly blinked as she breathed a shaky breath. “You’re unbelievable, Steve Harrington.” She mumbled, focusing her bleary gaze on the stitching of his stained uniform. She squeezed his hand as tightly as she could manage and chuckled breathlessly. “You’re going to tell me this all over again when we get out of here, okay? You’re going to pour your stupid heart out to me when I’m not dying on a bathroom floor.”

He smiled, ignoring the sharp pain from his split lip. “I’ll write it down and everything.” 

She opened her mouth to respond, but the nausea was intense and she quickly straightened, wincing as she hastily crawled against the floor to the toilet. Leaning against the porcelain of the toilet seat, she vomited. She gagged violently, tears stinging her eyes as the water sloshed around. Steve rushed ahead, gathering her hair from her face, and soothingly rubbed her shoulder as she continued throwing up. She yanked a strip of toilet paper, wiping the remnants off her skin. Her eyebrows pinched together with confusion as the stains on the paper were tarry, unusually dark. The chunks inside the toilet were black, unlike anything she’s ever vomited before. 

The bathroom door slammed open and Dustin, Robin, and Erica appeared in the doorway. Steve peered over his shoulder, his wide-eyed expression fully indicating something was wrong. [Y/N] flushed the toilet as she turned to face the three. “I’m internally bleeding.” She informed them confirming Robin’s suggestion from earlier, remembering the pictures she had seen in her health textbooks. “And judging by my throw-up, it’s really bad. I’ve got a few hours.” She shuffled her weight as she struggled to stand on her wobbly legs. The wound on her thigh throbbed, feeling like a splinter as she tried to steady herself. Steve immediately grabbed her arms, gently helping her stand.

The worry on their faces was evident as Dustin nodded firmly, a newfound determination moving through him.  “Okay, we need to get out of here, let’s go.” He carefully opened the door, peering outside at the wandering crowds departing from the finished movies. “Blend in.” They stepped outside, [Y/N] subtly clutching onto Steve’s arm for balance as she tried to conceal her limp. “We just have to get on the bus with the rest of these plebes, and home sweet home, here we come.”

Steve’s face blanched. “Uh, Dustin,” He hesitantly said, “We might not wanna go to your house. I might’ve told them your full name.” 

Dustin’s eyes widened as he turned to glare at him. “What is wrong with you?” 

“Dude, I was drugged.”

“So?”

“So?!”

“So, you resist. You tough it out. You tough it out like a man.”

[Y/N] gnawed on her lower lip to restrain the threatening whimpers as she teetered through the crowd. Everyone was enthralled in their own conversations about the movie, accidentally bumping and shoving her arm as they walked towards the mall exit. As they walked around a corner, there was a line by the entrance as a group of men examined everyone’s ID. “Guys,” Robin said, stopping Steve and Dustin from continuing onward. One of them locked eyes with them and started walking toward them.

“Abort,” Dustin said, whirling around and sprinting in the opposite direction. The five of them ran toward the escalators, cursing as the escalators were blocked by a velvet rope and no longer in service. Robin slipped in between the slide-like sheet between the escalators, sliding down with ease. They all mimicked her, Steve helping [Y/N] step onto the platform.

As they landed on the bottom of the escalators, they moved as quickly as they could behind a counter of a pizzeria at the food court, pressing their backs against the compartments behind the counter. [Y/N] squeezed Steve’s hand as she perched beside him, trying to calm her erratic breathing as the Russian guards spoke into his device. The five of their knees were pressed against their chests as they listened to the sudden silence. 

The display car near the center of the mall alarm wailed, honking in a pattern as the metal creaked as it shook in place. The guards spun around, weapons aimed at the shaking car before it was thrown across the food court, colliding with the group of Russian guards and shattering everything it was thrown into. The five of them apprehensively peered over the countertop as the car hissed, glass shards collapsing onto the floor as the guards bled out. There, on the top floor, was the rest of the group. 

[Y/N] sighed with relief as they moved around the counter, limping towards the approaching group. Dustin sprinted toward El, a wide smile on his face. “You flung that thing like a hot wheel!” He wrapped his arms around Mike and El.

Erica furrowed her eyebrows with bewilderment. “Lucas?!”

Lucas mimicked her reaction. “What are you doing here?!”

She jutted her thumb towards the three older ones. “Ask them. It’s their fault.” 

Steve gently placed [Y/N] on one of the food court’s benches. “True, yeah. Totally true. It’s absolutely our fault.”

Robin glanced between the upside-down car and the group. “I don’t understand what happened to that car.”

Dustin pointed at Eleven. “El has superpowers.”

“She threw it with her mind. Come on, catch up.”

“Who’s El?” 

Nancy inched forward, eyeing Robin with uncertainty. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I’m Robin, I work with Steve and [Y/N].”

“She cracked the top secret code.”

[Y/N] tightened the cloth around her oozing thigh. “Which is how we found out about the Russians.” She breathed out, cleaning her stained hands with the napkins on the tabletop.

Jonathan glanced at her with confusion. “Russians? What Russians?”

“Those were Russians?” Max asked, looking over where the dead men laid.

“Didn’t you hear our code red?” Dustin asked.

“Yeah, and I couldn’t understand what you were saying.” 

“Goddamn low battery!”

“How many times do I have to tell you about the low battery?” Steve exclaimed, slapping his hands together.

Dustin rolled his eyes. “Well, everything worked out, didn’t it, Steve?”

Erica extended her arm toward [Y/N]. “Worked out? [Y/N] is literally dying.”

[Y/N] covered her mouth with her trembling hand, losing the remaining strength she contained, and collapsed onto the floor. Her knees crashed against marble flooring and she braced herself with her hands. She hurled, tarry chunks of vomit spreading across in a muddy puddle. The group rushed toward her, avoiding the vomit, and Steve gripped her hand. She fell to the floor and Steve cradled her in his arms. “What the hell happened to her?” Nancy said, pressing her two fingers against her wrist. Her pulse was there, faint and she missed it the first time, but still there nonetheless.

Nancy had never seen her as anything other than annoyingly perfect, but here she was, deathly pale and barely lucid as she mumbled something beneath her breath. The chilling spectacle was nerve-wracking and she was overcome with the sudden possibility that she was going to die in Steve’s arms. 

Steve moved the hair from her damp forehead. “She was tortured by the Russians,” He stuttered, remembering the words she had uttered earlier. “She said she had internal bleeding.”

Robin tucked her hair behind her ears. “She was bleeding out from her thigh. I tried putting a tourniquet around it.” 

Nancy pressed the open wound on her thigh, grimacing as the blood oozed between her fingers. Her blood was warm, but her skin was unusually cold. “Shit, she’s dying from blood loss.” Steve didn’t even think about the possibility of blood loss, but as he thought of it now, it was glaringly obvious. She was brutally beaten and he didn’t even know how much blood she lost during that and her thigh was seeping the entire time they escaped the Russian base.

Jonathan examined the pulsing wound, barely noticing something inside. Whatever she was impaled with, a piece of it was still inside her. He pushed himself off his knees. “Keep her talking. Keep her awake, okay?” He gave one final look at the girl, sprinting across the food court without another word. 

[Y/N]’s eyes drooped as she struggled to breathe. “Hey, hey, hey, stay awake, [Y/N]. You gotta keep your eyes open.” Steve’s voice wavered as he caressed her cheek, eyes dwelling with burning tears as he shook her head. Her eyes temporarily fluttered open at the sudden movement and she blinked repeatedly, trying tyo stay awake.

Jonathan appeared, crouching to the floor, and grabbed her leg. “[Y/N], there’s still a piece stuck inside your leg and this is gonna hurt like hell, okay? But I need you to stay still.” He applied plastic gloves and gave Steve the wooden spoon. “You’re gonna want to bite down on this, okay?” The group watched the frightening scene unfold, their hearts racing erratically. 

Steve placed the wooden spoon between her teeth. Jonathan grabbed the handle of the heated knife and brought the knife’s edge toward her skin before he hesitated, glancing at [Y/N]’s near-unconscious expression. He closed his eyes before he sliced the skin wide enough for his two fingers and [Y/N]’s eyes shot open, screaming loudly at the searing pain. When the wound was large enough for him, he shoved his gloved fingers inside. [Y/N]’s nails dug into Steve and Robin’s hands as she screamed as the tears streamed down her face. His fingers slid around as he tried to find the shrapnel of the blade she was stabbed with and [Y/N] was certain she was seconds from blacking out. After a few seconds, which she was convinced was an eternity, he retracted his hand from beneath her tissue and tossed the piece of the snapped blade onto the floor. 

When [Y/N] awoke, she was carefully placed on the back of Nancy’s station wagon and surrounded by concerned children. Her eyes slowly blinked open, revealing the bright neon lights around the Starcourt Mall. She weakly glanced around as the doors closed, Nancy and Jonathan in the driver and passenger’s seats. “Where’s Steve?” She whispered, her mouth dry.

Max grabbed her feeble hand, squeezing reassuringly. “He’s taking Robin, Dustin, and Erica to Dustin’s radio thing. We’re all going to meet up later at Joyce and Hopper’s friend’s house.” She looked down at her thigh it was properly bandaged with clean gauze and the bleeding seemed to have ceased. Max noticed the questioning glance. “Jonathan cauterized it. It was the only way to stop the bleeding. You’re going to have a badass scar.” 

Nancy twisted the key inside the ignition but the engine pathetically sputtered. Her eyebrows puckered together and she tried again but to no avail. “What’s wrong?” Jonathan asked as he watched her twist the key again and again.

“You can’t be serious. Come on!” Nancy exclaimed as the engine fizzled.

“Didn’t your mom just buy you this car?” Lucas apprehensively asked.

“Yes! I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Did you leave the lights on?” Will asked.

“No.”

“Do we have gas?”

“Yes!” She twisted the key again. “Come on!”

Jonathan stopped her, yanking her hand from the ignition. “Stop! Pop the hood.” The two of them quickly stepped outside the car, lifting the hood as they inspected the inner workings. [Y/N] pressed her temple against the glass of the window, her gaze moving to the sudden light across the parking lot. The headlights of a car in the distance flashed on as the engine revved almost tauntingly. 

Nancy slammed her palm against the window, demanding them to leave the car and rush back inside the building. She yanked open the door and pulled each of the children from the backseats, ushering them inside through the entrance. She grabbed [Y/N]’s arm, threw it over her shoulders, and helped her inside. Once back inside the empty mall, she placed her down on a bench. They all began with their own personal tasks; Mike attempting to reach Steve and Dustin over his walkie-talkie, Nancy finding a suitable gun on the dead guards, and Lucas readying his slingshot. Will gave [Y/N] a water bottle, figuring she must’ve dehydrated, and opened the cap for her. She smiled at the gesture and accepted the bottle. 

Jonathan called him over to where they all stood behind the damaged display car. They were going to try and flip it on its side and take the ignition cable from beneath the hood. They all groaned as they pushed with all their strength. The car did move, but not enough to make a difference with its position. El stepped forward, extending her hand outward but nothing happened. Horror transformed her face as she realized her powers were gone.

Mike made the suggestion they use the golden poles from the velvet ropes blocking the escalator to push the car’s side. When they all pushed at the same time, the car flipped over. Nancy popped open the hood with the hatch beside the steering wheel and Jonathan searched for the cable. Will nervously touched the back of his neck and glanced around, feeling the Mind Flayer’s presence. 

From outside of Starcourt mall, there was a distant rumbling as if heavy footsteps were shaking the building. [Y/N] struggled to stand from the bench, peering upward at the large glass windows from the skylight of the mall. There was a dark figure approaching the windows, the glass cracking from the weight of the figure. The figure’s face loomed closer, revealing the distorted image of The Mind Flayer. [Y/N] grabbed Mike and El’s hand, who also dragged Max, pulling them away from the cracking skylight. She disregarded the throbbing pain with each step she took and pushed them behind the counter of one of the food joints. She threw her body over them like a protective veil as the Mind Flayer collapsed through the skylight and landed in the center of the food court. Small shards of glass landed on her clothed back as the rumbling thump shook the floor. She closed her eyes tightly as the thunderous snarl from the creature echoed through the walls.

She could hear Dustin from the discarded walkie-talkie, requesting they inform him of their safety, but the Mind Flayer grabbed the device with its tentacle protruding from its mouth, roared, and threw it against the car where it shattered into pieces and the transmission garbled. The Mind Flayer stomped across the food court, nearing the counter where she was covering the kids. She could hear the vulgar sloshing of its flesh as stopped, scrutinizing the area as its opened mouth dripped. The squelching of its footsteps dissipated as it stomped away, moving across the room as it tossed the corpse of the guard.

Mike carefully peered over the counter before falling back. “It’s turned away. If we go up the stairs now, we’ll make it.” He whispered, pointing to the escalator. 

Max shook her head. “No way, not with their conditions.” 

“We have to try—”

El latched her hand onto Mike’s forearm. “There’s another way to get out,” She whispered, “Through The Gap.” [Y/N] searched for the clothing store and upon seeing how close they were, she nodded. Max gripped her arm, pulling her from the floor and they rushed across, silencing their footsteps. As they stepped inside the entrance of the store, El crashed into a display. The display collapsed onto the floor, the thud echoing. The Mind Flayer roared and stomped toward The Gap, its thick leg blocking the entrance and clawed tentacles protruding from its flesh. They moved close to the floor as they searched for them. There was a deafening shriek as the monster latched onto a mannequin, tossing the plastic figure aside when it realized it wasn’t a person.

[Y/N] concealed them as much as she could manage behind the register counter, tears streaming down her cheeks as she heard the smaller screeching from the tentacle approaching where they were cowering. She could smell the rotten flesh as the squelching became louder. But, Lucas with his slingshot, popped a balloon in the distance. The Mind Flayer shrieked before stomping to find the source. [Y/N] ushered them to the employee corridor behind the register once the creature was far away enough for them to move.

They navigated through the employee corridors and [Y/N], who never would thought she would admit this, was grateful for taking the position at Scoops Ahoy because she never would’ve known where the emergency exits were if she hadn’t been through here before. She pressed the emergency door open, keeping it open as the three younger teenagers barged ahead. They exited the mall and through the gate that prevented non-employees from entering. [Y/N] stopped them, throwing her arm out as Billy glared at them from across the parking lot. His skin was covered with throbbing black veins and he was sweating from the heat of the flames escaping from beneath his smashed car’s hood. “Get back inside,” She demanded, pushing them away from the opened gate. 

[Y/N] slammed the glowing red button beside the gate which commenced the whirring of the gate, slowly closing as she turned back around and limped inside. The lights of the employee corridors flickered as they moved as quickly as they could manage. They eventually stopped at the elevator and Mike repeatedly pressed the button on the bottom of the panel. El leaned against the wall, taking the weight off her injured ankle. 

“Billy, you don’t have to do this.” Max pleaded from the corridor. Her eyes watered as she tried to bring him back from the Mind Flayer’s influence. “Your name’s Billy Hargrove. You live on 4819 Cherry Lane. Billy, please, I’m Max, I’m your sister—” He backhanded her with a shocking force and she fell to the floor, immediately unconscious. Mike, in a moment of panic, rushed forward with closed fists but he was easily thrown aside, dropping to the ground as he crashed against a wall of pipes. [Y/N] stood before El, covering her as she lurched forward, Steve’s pocketknife displayed. She sliced his arm before he grabbed the blade from her hand and studied the slash on his skin curiously. He cocked his head as his blank gaze returned to her. His black-veined hand wrapped around her throat and slammed her against the elevator door. She choked on her depleting breaths. In one fluid movement, he stabbed the bruised skin of her abdomen. She inhaled a strangled gasp as the blade tore through her flesh and his vacant stare never wavered from hers as he twisted the blade.

El screamed as she saw the darkness of her blood flow between Billy’s fingers before he yanked the blade from her stomach, releasing his tight grasp on her neck. [Y/N] fell to the floor with a whimper as she landed on her own bloodstains. Billy stepped over her limbs as if she were nothing but an inconvenience and merely slapped away El’s hand, smashing her head against the wall before throwing her unconscious figure over his shoulder and leaving the elevator room.

[Y/N] brought her trembling hand to the gushing wound, her drained gaze flooding with warm tears as she saw the redness coating her fingertips. From her peripheral vision, she could see the puddle of blood expand beneath her and the warmth seeped through her clothes, expanding and covering her like a scarlet blanket. 

She thought of everything leading to this moment; from the cheerleading practice she endured where she was introduced to Steve Harrington, the Upside Down nearly destroying her town, and the unbreakable bond she formed with the pesky group of teenagers that she loved as if they were own blood. She never thought that cussing out Steve for throwing basketballs at her squad would’ve brought her to her death. But, despite feeling her life drain from her, she wouldn’t have changed a single thing. 

She closed her eyes and listened to the thunderous explosions from the fireworks, wondering what the bright colors looked like as they exploded against the Mind Flayer, and allowed the darkness to comfort her.

Steve Harrington descended the escalator as the Mind Flayer collapsed onto the floor, lifeless as The Gate closed. Smoke from the extinguished fireworks clouded the air and scratched his throat as he breathed. He knew the monster was dead, but he still avoided the corpse as he walked beside Robin and checked the surrounding area. Billy was dead, bleeding black ooze, Max was wailing in El’s reassuring embrace beside her brother’s corpse and Mike’s exhausted figure, and the remainder of the group was on the upper level of the mall. “Where is she?” He questioned, glancing around the rubble and debris with concentrated eyes. He couldn’t see her and he knew she had to be around here somewhere. “Guys, where is she?” He was confused. She should have been right there with them.

Mike hesitantly removed his gaze from the puddle of inky blood soaking Billy’s clothes and his sympathetic eyes connected with his. Steve furrowed his eyebrows as Mike didn’t speak, but as he closed his eyes tightly, a teardrop dripping down his cheek, his silence told him everything he needed to know. Steve fought back the crashing wave of tears as he softly shook his head, his broken expression shattering as he refused to believe that she was gone. She was just here an hour ago, barely alive, but alive nonetheless. Robin wiped her damp cheeks as she wept at the revelation. She backed away, nearly stumbling into a large piece of debris as she clutched her aching chest.

The remainder of the group descended the broken escalators and tragic words weren’t necessary to reveal the loss they experienced. Nancy apprehensively loomed closer, softly touching his shoulder. “Steve…” She whispered gently. 

Steve whirled around, pushing her hand away from him. “Don’t.” No one, not even Nancy, had ever seen him like this before. This wasn’t just mourning, it was hatred and crippling guilt and torment. “You’re not dead, you’re not dead.” He mumbled to himself as if he said the words enough they would become true. He glanced at Mike’s crying figure. “Where is she?” 

Mike reluctantly made eye contact with him. He shook his head softly. “Steve, I don’t think you wanna see her like that.” Because he didn’t want to see her like that but he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t want to see the woman who babysat him and his friends as he grew up lifeless and surrounded by a pool of her own blood. But as Max woke him up and the first thing he saw when his droopy eyes opened was his friend dead. That unfortunate image was seared inside his cluttered mind. 

Steve nearly collapsed onto the floor at the words. “Where is she?” His voice cracked and his bottom lip quivered. Mike didn’t speak, only peered over his shoulder where Scoops Ahoy’s broken sign flickered. Steve sprinted inside the parlor and pushed through the employee corridors, frantic eyes searching every section. 

When he stepped inside the elevator room, the warm air was pulled from his lungs and he could smell the distinct smell of copper. He always thought dead bodies were supposed to be brutal and grisly, enough to make his stomach churn from the sight, but she still looked like [Y/N]. She looked almost peaceful and if he closed his eyes enough, she could have been sleeping on a bed of roses. But she wasn’t sleeping and the crimson wasn’t blossoming roses. He couldn’t stop the burning tears from streaming as he collapsed onto the floor beside her corpse. Her dark blood stained his knees and his socks as he kneeled. Apprehensive, he carefully touched her cold skin and pushed her hair away from her face. He sobbed at the undeniable truth beneath his shaking touch. He should have been there for her. He loomed closer, pressing a small kiss to her pale temple. He wrapped his arm beneath her legs and his other steadied her back. Her lifeless arm dangled as he carried her bridal style through the flickering corridor. Soon he was crossing the ice cream parlor and the food court where the remainder of the group waited for him. 

The helicopters and military stormed the debris of the Starcourt Mall. They escorted him from the premises and brought him where dozens of military troops were stationed outside in the parking lot, ambulances with EMTs preparing IV bags, and some media and news reporters flashing their cameras. But Steve didn’t care. Everything was a blurred haze as he stepped outside of the mall with the woman he loved lifeless in his arms as the sky cried for the earth’s loss.

Someone pulled her from his grasp and a flash of ire coursed through him. He tightened his hands around her, spewing a string of curse words at the person. Robin rushed beside him, a fuzzy blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and muttered something to him about calming down. And he knew he shouldn’t have become angry at the concern she was giving him, but how was he supposed to calm down? She was gone. She died alone. She bled out alone and he should have been there. None of this should have happened. She was supposed to go to fashion school and listen to him pour out his stupid feelings for her after he wrote it all down.

Sam Owens appeared from the drizzle of the rain, the helicopter’s spotlight illuminating him as he stopped where Steve stood. “Come on, son. You’ve got to let her go.” He couldn’t, though. Because releasing her would mean this wasn’t some vivid nightmare and he wasn’t going to wake up and throw on his uniform and start throwing ice cream scoops into waffle cones as she teased him about how bad he was at pouring the sprinkles. “We can help her, but you’ve got to let her go.”

So in a moment of fiery guilt, he let her go.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x fem #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things x reader #stranger things x y/n #stranger things x you #steve harrington smut

[mockerycrow]

Undercover I (Soap x GN!Reader)

undercover series masterlist — next

Summary: You’re apart of an undercover joint task force between the CIA and MI6, meant to invade Makarov’s operations. Your entire mission goes up in flames once Task Force 141 takes you in for interrogation after finding you beaten and bloody in one of Makarov’s warehouses.

A/N: i hate the ending of this part but it issss what it isssss… This was originally a male reader so I might change it back to male!reader later on. the fake name is as gender neutral as possible. ALSO THANK YOU FOR 200 FOLLOWERS WTF??

[WARNINGS: Gore, descriptions of injuries, descriptions of torture, near death experience(s), mentions of drowning, near drowning/waterboarding, medical inaccuracies.]

The POV switches a couple of times!

The operation fell apart the second my boss did not bother to inform more than my task force of our mission. My death sentence was written into existence the moment I stepped into that conference room with several other high-end individuals—we all worked undercover operations before. We’ve all have had our deaths faked, our lives torn apart and restitched for the perfect narrative for any mission necessary. We have been called for a mission at the darkest of hours to do the dirtiest of work. If no one serves in the dark, then no one can live in the light, right?

We hold up this facade, this mask—for years. You go into an undercover operation with an estimate of a couple years as the duration, how quickly your team is capable, and by the time you’ve done a couple of these missions; you know you have to take the estimate and double it, at the very least. You learn to live with the mountain of bodies you collect over the years, a giant pool of thick blood slowly getting bigger at my feet. My shoes stain with the blood—we all bleed the same, no matter your creed, your race, your gender, your sexuality. If that’s the fact, then how do we tell guilty blood from innocent? Where do the lines blur together, everything looking the same?

It gets dangerous working undercover for so long, but we have to keep going.

Some people lose themselves to the faux identity they’re playing, the fake family, the head of the household—the fake childhood, fake friends.. Sometimes, the faked life is preferred to the real one.

Not me, though.

I remember exactly who I am.

With a combat knife in my hands, circling a table with a map on it, with several marked places—I am Zhenya Antonenko, surrounded by the very people I’m working against in secret.

When I’m alone, I’m myself. I’m me. One of the very few people burdened with the duty of collecting information and intelligence and surveying it back home—back to my Captain, Tyler Hudson. The one person I can trust through this entire operation.

I know I have to trust my other teammates to an extent, but when you’ve seen so many men and women fall to the other side? It gets rough.

Shooting someone who you previously trusted with your life is.. I cannot even begin to describe the feeling.

Melancholy, perhaps?

Even then, I have to be careful.

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful who we pretend to be.”

“..status?” “alive…”

Throbbing pain. Searing. Rough hands on you—

“..one of his..” That accent—it’s not Russian. What?

Did the.. did the operation go tits up?-

No. This accent is Scottish. You didn’t work with any Scots.

…You’re in rough shape, to say the least.

Soap’s hands untie the harsh ropes digging to the skin of your wrists, ignoring how the rope is stained with your blood. You’re one of his—And you’re alive. You won’t be for long if he doesn’t act fast, though. Your skin is paler than usual, you’re soaked in freezing water and your own blood—Soap didn’t wince at your wounds, though. He had no empathy for anyone working with Makarov.

“Let’s get them on our truck, let’s move.” Price said, his tone rough and serious as always. He watches as the rope falls away from your hands and feet, and Price chooses to walk over to your unconscious from. His hand grabs your chin and lifts your head to take a look, and what he sees earns a hum from himself. You took quite a beating, which made Soap curious. “‘Wonder what th’bastard had to do to earn all o’that.” He comments, taking a good look at your face.

Your lips are slightly parted; cracked and stained with your own blood, probably from accidentally biting your tongue. Your lip is split open, definitely requiring a few stitches. Your nose absolutely has to be broken, dried blood all over your skin, your chin—mouth, lips, down the front of your shirt. No one would be surprised if your jaw wasn’t broken—or at least fractured in some way. Your eye is swollen shut and your eyebrow is split open—your hair is damp, both from blood and water.

Soap left you untied; even if you woke up, you wouldn’t be a threat. He puts the sling of his rifle over his shoulder and he hooks an arm under your knees, the other supporting the weight of your back. He grunts as he picks you up, leaning you into his chest. “Light,” Soap comments.

Ghost and Gaz come from a different part of a warehouse, documents and a laptop in hand. “He left in quite a hurry, sir.” Gaz murmurs, holding up a few pieces of paper. “These were scattered around, we nearly caught them by surprise.”

Before Price can ask his question, Ghost answers it, like he can read his Captain’s mind. “Makarov was here.”

The silence is deafening as the four men make their way out of the warehouse, documents, technology and an asset in their hands—you.

Soap ignores the way your blood is soaking into his clothing as they get back their truck and hauling into in the backseats.

For a moment, I thought I died. I really did; I thought Makarov and his goons truly beat me to death, sending me straight to the fiery pits of Hell with every wound they inflicted on me.. And I kind of wish they did, honestly.

But that scares me—I’ve never craved death before. Have I lost it already?

Or is it the burning pain that’s bubbling under my skin?

Nothing in particular wakes me up, but when I do, my tongue is heavy and dry; cotton like. I can’t taste anything besides maybe some blood acts dried around my lips. It takes all of my strength to lick my lips and—nevermind, blood and a weird sour taste. Like the kind you get after sleeping for longer than you should.

My head feels.. fuzzy, like there’s electricity bouncing inside of my skull. Or is that the distant ringing I hear? Or is it the insistent pressure behind my eyeballs?

My body feels so heavy. I feel like an anchor from a ship, being dragged through the bottom of the ocean. Both the weight, and the relatable feeling of like it’s crashed into everything in my path because hOlyfuckpainpainpain-

“They’re awake.” A low and rough voice drawls out; British. Can’t place the region when my fucking body is screaming for relief—

My eyes.. scratch that, eye opens because the other is swollen shut and I nearly regret waking up at all because of the fucking luminescent bulb in front of me, burning my corneas. A gloved hand grabs my jaw which make some cry out because something is wrong, terribly fucking wrong with my jaw—oh, shit, this guy is scary.

I’m forced to peer at the tall man with stocky shoulders and a wide chest, wearing a black balaclava with a skull painted on it. His eyes—they’re brown, but, but they’re so fucking empty, like they’re peering into my damn soul and ripping apart every action I’ve ever committed.

These guys aren’t Makarov’s. What?

I take a sharp inhale as I try to look over any more part of this guy’s uniform, but his grip isn’t letting me. Skull-face holds up a black leather booklet—my fucking I.D. “Zhenya Antonenko,” He spits out, almost mockingly, looking between the small photo of me and me, myself. I can’t bring myself to do anything like I usually would to stay in character; spit, slur out a curse or anything. My body aches.

“Zhenya Antonenko,” Skull-face repeats once more, letting go of my jaw, allowing the burning pain deep in the bone to sizzle down to a dull throb. My head nearly falls forward but I keep it up with the little strength that remains in my neck muscles. “You’ve worked for Makarov for a number of years, hm? Makes me wonder what’a little birdie on his shoulder has ta’do to make the big man leave ‘em for dead.”

I keep my mouth shut. That’s something I had to learn early on when I joined my team—no matter what, do not. let. them. break. you.

Makarov didn’t break me, and I certainly won’t let these guys break me when the entire population of countries are riding on my shoulders. I furrow my eyebrows and maintain eye contact with the big man, mustering the worst glare I can at the moment which probably isn’t very noticeable.

Fuck, I want to puke. My head is swimming, my entire body is just—I only feel pain, and by this point I can only guess where the sources are. It’s all blending together into the worst concoction.

I gasp as a stinging sensation blooms over my cheek—he smacked me.

“Pay attention.” Skull-face hissed, walking over to a tray nearby. I let out a shaky breath as I follow him and then when I see the other men present in the room. Skull-face’s friends.

The first man I see has dark skin, fairly young to be in squad like this. Capturing folk, I mean. He has a noticeable scar under one of his eyes—or I think..? It’s a scar? I can’t see that far, especially with that blinding light in my eye. He’s kind of bulky, but his shoulders are nowhere near as large as Skull-face’s. One of the other men are across the room, leaning against the wall, watching me closely with a hateful glare—like he wants to gut me, watch my intestines spill out and watch me die. He has a bucket hat on, military fatigue colored. He has mutton chops and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but whoever he is, is the only person I’ve seen whose been able to pull them off.

The fourth guy, aside from Skull-face and his friends Mutton Chops and Basic Boy, is staring me down. He’s fairly average height, stockier than Basic Boy, you can tell he’s strong by the way his forearms look. His hair is shaved into a mohawk—the sides need to be a bit more shaved as it looks more grown out. He has a little more than a stubble type beard, but I can vaguely make out a scar on his chin.

I grunt as Skull-faces hand connects with my cheek again and fuuuck, my jaw—

“I won’t fuckin’ say it again. Pay attention or I’ll do what Makarov did to you but tenfold.” Skull-face’s eyes are dark as I look back at his face, the throbbing pain in my face subsiding again after a few seconds. My shoulders slightly tense under his gaze; he’s not kidding. I can’t afford another beating, especially not after.. what he did.

Fuck.

Being stuck between a rock and a hard place, I force myself to nod, not once do my eyes leave his form. No matter what, I can’t break. “What was Makarov doin’ in that warehouse?” He gruffs out, grabbing a few documents off of a nearby metal table that I didn’t notice before. He sifts through the documents as I purse my lips together, muttering a weak, “я дал присягу.” I took an oath. Look, these guys clearly don’t work for Makarov, but I can’t fucking afford to give up any information.

“Stick to your story, no matter what. Unless I intervene, you have to keep going. Even if you’re on the verge of death.”

Hudson’s words flood my brain as Skull-face doesn’t respond to me. I feel a bead of sweat drip down my temple and face—sweating from the pain.

My body just.. fucking aches.

“An oath, huh?” Skull-face mutters, turning back to me with a document. “You took an oath for a terrorist?”

Oookay, this guy does not like Zhenya.

Me. He doesn’t like me.

My eyebrow twitches in response, but I keep my lips sealed shut. Skull-face holds up a document in front of me, and of course it’s all in Russian. “You know what this is?” He barks, his deep, Manchester accented voice bouncing off of the walls, echoing. “This is Makarov making arrangements to get his hands on biological weapon warfare.”

I keep silent—I know that it is, and my heart drops to my stomach from the thought of what could happen if Makarov manages to go through with it. Skull-face stares at me like he expects me to answer, and of course, I never give him one.

I gasp sharply as within seconds, my shirt is lifted and his knife rips through some stitches they’ve must’ve given meeeEE—holy fuck, shit shit oh fuck—

Blood gushes from my stomach, earning a choked noise from me. Pain blooms in my abdomen, and I can feel the warm liquid of my own blood dribbling down onto the spandex of my pants that hold them onto my hips. I immediately feel like my world is spinning again, Skull-face borderlines multiplies in front of me. He grabs my jaw which makes me cry out again—fucking let go—and he leans in real close to my face. “There’s obvious context missin’, yeah? Fill in the gaps and we’ll let the medics work on’ya.”

I force myself to breathe through my nose, with every heavy breath I force out, comes another wave of nausea.

“Мне нечего сказать.” I have nothing to say.

“I don’t think ya understand the’situation.” Mohawk seethes, approaching me from where he was standing. Scottish. He was there—he took me.

I blink sluggishly in an attempt to focus my eyes on the man who replaced Skull-face. I get a clearer view of his face. Tan skin for a Scot, probably spends a lot of his time in the sun—his eyes are so fucking bright blue—I can see every detail of his face from how close he is. Mohawk is angry and he’s one beautiful man. Maybe if I was tied up in this chair for a different reason, I’d be willing give up some of that information—

I keep quiet and stare him in the eyes. The burning flames of anger behind his eyes towards me; thank God I’m not Makarov. I hear a door open and I glance towards it for just a second—Mutton Chops is leaving. I quickly look back at Mohawk and shake my head, although speaking my refusal was probably a smarter idea because now my head is swimming again.

“Do’ye not understand that ya fell fer a trap?” He barks, grabbing the front of my shirt. I wince as I feel the fabric pulling away from my open wounds. “Makarov does not care aboot you!”

My breath hitches as the door slams open, my eyes tracking to who it is—Mutton Chops is back, wheeling in a… big bowl of water. Big enough to hold a head under.

Fuck.

Fuck, oh fuck!

They must’ve caught onto my reaction, which I didn’t really notice them doing as all I could focus on was my pounding heartbeat, but I heard a vague laugh. Mohawk grabs one of the legs of the cart, carelessly pulls it closer and his other hand grabs a chunk of hair on my head, pulling my head back. My lips part and a faint noise of pain leaving them. He says something, which I don’t register—and then he pushes my head under the water.

I immediately struggle as I instinctively took a gasp for air under the water, the water filtering into my lungs, my body screaming that it isn’t supposed to be there, that it’s wrong, that you’re drowning, you’re drowningdrowningdrowningdrowningdROWNING-

The water rushing in my ears doesn’t make this any better, the pure fucking panic in my gut worsens by the second as I can’t fucking breathe, lET ME GO, I ALREADY WENT THROUGH THIS ONCE—

I kick my feet, trying to find the cart, Mohawk, someone, anyone, shit, hElp-

Suddenly my head is ripped out of the water and my eye is closed and I’m sputtering water, my body desperate to cough the remaining in my lungs up, the water from my hair soaking the top of my shirt again, dripping into my mouth—

I still can’t breathe. I think I’m fucking dying.

My lungs are begging for air as I weakly gasp for it, my hands that are tied behind the chair grasp at the air, for anything to ground myself. I weakly kick at the air like that’ll help me, I don’t even know what’s going on anymore—fuck, I’m dying, my chest aches, my abdomen fucking hurts, I can’t hear anything, are they going to just stand there and watch me die?

Like Makarov did?

Are they going to fucking resuscitate me like he did?

Makarov held me under the water until all of the air in my lungs was replaced with ice cold water. I only remember waking up and spitting water out all over myself, laying on my back on the concrete floor of the warehouse, with a dark chuckle from him, murmuring, “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

He did it twice. Maybe a third time? If he did, I don’t remember.

My head is ripped out of the water and I gasp for air so harshly I choke, and then I’m suddenly out like a light.

#undercover⛈️🗯️ #call of duty #call of duty mwii #mw2 2022 #modern warfare ii #mw2022 #cod #cod mw2 #soap #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish #john mactavish x you #john soap mactavish #john soap mctavish #john soap mctavish x you #john soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x you #john soap mctavish x reader #modern warfare two #modern warfare 2 #modern warfare #modern warfare soap #mw2 fanfic #cod mw soap #mwii #mw2 x reader #cod soap #inspired by: #no russian

[abramswife]

HALF OF ME (ii)

SUMMARY: When Soldier Boy doesn’t return from Nicaragua, Vought creates a bullshit lie, talking him up as a hero who died in a devastating, world-saving accident. You’re handed down the mantle of leader as Payback, and spend your time trying to live up to how Ben had lead them, while also attempting to figure out what truly happened to him.

WORD COUNT: 2945

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI. Vought’s corrupt behaviour, typical Soldier Boy behaviour, death, gore, vomit, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, sexual content, smut; descriptions of sex.

SERIES MASTERLIST / MAIN MASTERLIST

Ben didn’t come home from Nicaragua.

Blown to pieces by some Russian laser weapon (what the fuck?), the.. chunky remnants of his body were taken away in a helicopter. Presumably to be experimented on.

It made you sick. Ben might’ve been an asshole, a deep rooted cunt, but he didn’t deserve to have his corpse be defiled like that. Maybe you’d just gone soft for him, that’s all. Maybe his hushed, sweet words and gentle touches, in his last few days, had softened your heart.

But you spent nights grieving your loss, hyperventilating in your room as you felt his fingers tracing your hips again. If you closed your eyes tight enough, you could see him.

You’d never planned for Ben to die. Hell, he hadn’t even planned to do. He was supposed to be ageless; a man who didn’t die. Vought would hide him away when it became suspicious, and he’d live peacefully… as peaceful as he could get, anyway. That was what was supposed to happen.

But his guts were strewn across the base camp in Nicaragua, and you’d never see him again.

It only took Vought three months to create a bullshit cover story.

After all, they couldn’t tell America their beloved Soldier Boy was actually at the site of a cocaine smuggling operation when he was blown to bits. No, that’d taint his image that Vought had spent literal decades moulding. He needed to die a hero. A man that would live gloriously in textbooks and stories.

A nuclear reactor meltdown is what they came up with.

Fucking bullshit, really.

The man was practically immortal (which did raise the question of, how the hell did the Russians kill him in the first place?). Some radiation wasn’t going to take him out. You’d watched him take two full magazines from an assault rifle, and get back to his feet like nothing happened.

And now he was dead. You didn’t know how. You wished more than ever that he’d let you accompany Payback on this godforsaken mission. Because you were utterly clueless as to what had gone down, and no one was answering your questions, tearing up whenever you mentioned the place.

You wanted — needed — to know how this was possible.

You knew Ben, better than anyone else on the team, even Crimson, who stood up on stage, talking about how good of a man Ben was.

Ben was a good man — to those he thought deserved to see that side of him. He was reserved and harsh and rude. And, yes, he was naturally an asshole. But, there was a part of him capable of respect and kindness and love. It was just stuffed deep within.

You’d been drawing it, slowly and carefully. You’d dug your hand in and grasped onto it, worming that side of him out of his heart with every night you’d spent cuddled into his chest. And he’d been warming. His touches had been gentler, his words softer, his eyes more admiring. You’d made him that. You were the only one he’d deemed worthy of his love and trust and respect.

Crimson had never seen that side of him. She’d never even come close to opening him up, seeing who he truly was.

As she talked fake stories of their blinding romance, about how he was such an incredible boyfriend, you just rolled your eyes in the audience. The only time Ben spent with Crimson outside of the public eye was when he was balls deep inside of her. And, even then, he liked to say she was a terrible fuck.

He also liked to say you were a good fuck. It was his favourite compliment; as funny was that was. As he railed you against his mattress, his hands keeping you firmly where he wanted you, he muttered praises.

That was different to the Ben the other women got. He’d degrade them: call them every name under the sun as he practically broke their pelvises. With you, sure, he was rough, but he complimented you; whispering and grunting softly, making sure you felt pretty and loved as he violently fucked you into unconsciousness.

And he always made sure you were okay afterwards. Ben giving aftercare was not something you’d expected, but he was damn good at making you feel safe and secure. He was a man of many talents.

The country was honouring him, as you begged for any kind of rational answer from Payback, from Edgar, from Vought. You were close to falling to your knees and pleading. But they didn’t care. Too busy basking in the boost of popularity that came from Ben’s death.

So, they upped their game.

And, when Vought erected a statue of Ben outside of Vought Tower, you threw up in the bathroom. The night you were named the new leader of Payback, you threw up again.

Apparently, it’s what Ben wanted. Which was bullshit. He wanted you in his kitchen with a dinner plate (lovingly, he’d told you that night. How could something like that be a compliment? You didn’t know, but it was Ben, so you guessed it was possible). But, you couldn’t fight it. So, nearly exactly three months after the last night you saw him, you took his place.

It felt wrong, and disrespectful, and you were lost and out of place. You had no knowledge on how to lead a team of asshole supes, that didn’t respect you or really like you that much.

Ben did this so easily. He lead Payback like a natural born leader. You lead like a baby giraffe learning to walk.

But you did it anyway.

“Soldier Boy was a national icon.” You held the microphone with shaking hands, willing them to stop, staring out at the gathering of civilians. It was wrong; America was mourning a death they’d all been lied to about. You swallowed your bile and pushed on. “And I am honoured to be taking his place as the leader of our brave and dedicated superhero team, Payback. I will be leading in his image, and his honour, and I hope that my work would make him proud.”

It was all bullshit.

You hadn’t written a word of this shit.

Edgar had shoved it into your hands and pointed you onto the stage. No warning. No cooperation. No opinion. Just… here you go, now go put on a show.

But, the audience was eating it up, and Edgar and your PA were giving you a thumbs up from backstage. They liked your performance. Ben, however, would be gagging in his mouth hearing this. He’d probably mock you, and claim you’d be better off just blowing his dick. He’d be right. Every word that was coming out of your mouth was corporate propaganda.

Your hands curled tighter around the microphones, knuckles whitening. You didn’t want to be here. You wanted to be home, as far away from Vought and these grieving people as fast as possible. “Soldier Boy was a respected, beloved hero, within your hearts, and Vought’s.” God, what cliche, sappy horseshit. “He was a good man, who lost his life saving millions.” You held back your scoff. “Vought will forever live in his shadow. We ask that you give us time and space to grieve our loss. Thank you.”

The audience applauded, loud and roaring, as you walked off stage.

The rage bubbling up in your chest was ready to burst, overflowing. This was all fucking sickening. No one was telling you anything. And they expected you to get on stage and do these speeches? To sit, cry and look pretty as you grieved the mighty Soldier Boy?

Fuck that. You were going to get answers.

There was some dark shit happening behind the scenes, and it had Vought’s grubby handprints all over it. The cover story. Payback’s silence. Edgar’s lack of care. None of it was adding up.

The moment the audience could no longer see it, your mouth curled to a scowl, heels clicking as you stormed up to Edgar. You were going to get answers, even if you had to physically get them. You’d find out what happened to Ben in Nicaragua, even if it cost you your head.

Stan Edgar, despite knowing he was now on the receiving end of your anger, stood tall. Cocky bastard. You could kill him with ease. But, of course, he didn’t care. There was only one person you’d ever seen Edgar cower from — Ben. To be fair with the guy, though, anyone would cower if Soldier Boy was screaming at you, inches from your face.

“What is going on?” Despite your rage, you kept your voice to a low hiss, not wanting to attract attention to your anger and frustration. “Can someone fucking explain to me, what is happening?” He began to walk away, and you followed. your words still flying out. “Why am I taking Ben’s place? How did he even die? You were in Nicaragua — what happened? Why did it take you so long to come up with that shitty reactor meltdown story?”

He turned to face you. You abruptly stopped, almost smashing into his chest with the suddenness of it, taking a stumbling step backwards. “I understand you’re upset.” You rolled your eyes at his professional tone, hands linked behind his back. Typical. “But I cannot answer those questions.”

“No, I deserve to know” You demanded. It was a losing battle, and you already knew that, but it doesn’t mean you wouldn’t try your hardest. “What. Happened?”

You weren’t getting an answer from Edgar. And that became clear when he turned his back to you, engaging in a conversation with his secretary, and leaving you in the dust. Glaring at the back of his head, you muttered obscenities.

If you weren’t getting it from Edgar’s lips, you’d get it another way.

Namely, breaking into his office that evening.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

Now, you weren’t a seasoned criminal, but Ben had taught you a thing or two. He was, very much, a criminal, and knew things you were never too curious to ask about. Like picking locks. Which was the most normal of his odd knowledge. (The fact that man has known the recipe to make a bomb was… terrifying.)

Picking a lock wasn’t in your expertise, but you remembered enough from what he’d shown you. Enough to kneel down in front of Edgar’s office door, and use a bobby pin to turn the lock until it clicked.

You grinned, internally thanking Ben for his… strange teaching techniques. Glancing down the hallway, both ways, you ensured it was empty; that no one was about to see you going against every rule in the book. Once it was cleared, you slipped inside the door with practiced ease, and shut the door behind you.

The sun was setting over the horizon — the golden hour hue lighting up the room enough for you to make your way over to Edgar’s shelves. You were determined to find something. Anything.

Something was going on. Something sketchier than Vought’s usual dirty work. And you were going to figure it out.

Your index finger skimmed the folders, peeking at the names. Until you found Ben’s — a cream folder with ‘SOLDIER BOY’ written across the front. Pulling it out, your eyes locked onto the bright red ‘DECEASED’ stamped under his name, your heart squeezing.

Swallowing thickly, uncertain, you flipped it open. Reasons over the contents, your eyes narrowed in concentration and then narrowed further in frustration.

It was nothing you didn’t already know. His past. The human trial experiment. Comp V. Ben had already told you all of this.

You glared at the deceased marker on the front of it, and then slid the folder back into the right spot. Alphabetical order, you noticed. You continued flicking through the files, trying to find something that could be labelled as suspicious.

Your ears perked at the sound of sudden buzzing from across the room. Like a dog to a squeaky toy, you rushed over, watching a piece of paper print out of the fax machine.

You snatched it up the moment it came out.

BCL-RED was the title word.

What the fuck was that?

You’d never heard of it before. It had to be an acronym, but your mind came up blank, as you racked it for any familiarity. Cursing internally, you scowled — damn fucking code words.

Before you could read ahead, a voice floated into the office from outside.

“Shit.” You hissed under your breath, suddenly very panicked. Returning the paper to the machine, you dashed for the door, poking your head out just enough to peek down the hall. You spotted Edgar just a ways down, facing away from you, talking to Black Noir. Quickly and silently, with expertise learnt on the field, you crept out of the office, taking off down the hallway in the opposite direction.

All the way back to your room, you muttered the words to yourself.

BCL-RED.

… BCL-RED.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

It wasn’t in any folders documents anywhere. Not even your PA knew what a BCL-RED was.

You felt like a dog chasing its tail. Going in circles, trying to find any clues as to what happened to Ben. Every day your suspicions rose. Something wasn’t right. Edgar was having hushed conversations. Payback was having meetings that excluded you.

Your trail lead you to Grace Mallory.

The young woman handed you a cup of coffee, hands scarred and calloused from her days at war. Quietly, you thanked her, sat comfortably on her sofa, cradling the coffee. “I have to respect your strength. Putting up with Soldier Boy every day.”

You cracked a smile, sipping the steaming coffee. “He was a… acquired taste.” Your laugh was breathy and quiet, thinking back to Ben and his unique personality. “What happened in Nicaragua?”

Grace sighed as she settled back. She was pretty. No doubt Ben tried to get in her pants while he was there. “It happened quickly.” Your brows furrowed, sitting forward, elbows on your knees. “We were ambushed. Your team couldn’t find their guns from their asses.”

“Sounds about right.” You murmured. “I told Ben he needed me out there. The stubborn dick wouldn’t listen. Looks like it bit him in the ass, eh?”

“Big time.” Grace agreed. “There was an explosion. It knocked me out.” You listened attentively, frequently sipping the coffee. “When I came to… your team were in ruins. Half of ‘em were dead, the other half injured.”

You chewed your lips for a few beats. “Black Noir still hasn’t recovered. Doctors said he’ll never be able to talk again.”

Solemn, she nodded. “Not surprised. His face was more hole than it was skin.” You grimaced at the imagery. “Crimson Countess told me Soldier Boy was dead. He’d been killed by some… laser, his body taken by a helicopter.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You sat back. “Huh.” You murmured. “She’s lying.” You decided. The story wasn’t right. Sure, it was feasible, under different circumstances. But, in battle? When Ben was on his A-game? No way.

Grace looked confused. After all, why would Crimson lie about something like that?

You didn’t know.

But you were going to fucking find out.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

That night, you didn’t return to your room. Instead, you slipped into Ben’s in the dead of night. It hadn’t been touched since he left for Nicaragua. Since he’d railed you against the mattress and left you bed-bound for two days.

The air was musty, with dust covering each surface. Crawling onto the bed, you tugged open the curtains, letting sunlight in for the first time in months.

Every surface was covered in dust. And there were still drugs laid about. Half snorted lines of cocaine on the coffee table. Empty pill bottles decorating the floor. An ash tray that reeked of marijuana. God, this man had been like a teenage boy.

Flicking on the light, you gathered your bravery, and spent a few hours cleaning his room up. You didn’t know why. Maybe you wanted to feel closer to him. Feel like you were doing something for him. Ben hated it when things were messy. And he loved it when you cleaned up after him. You hated feeding into that old, sexist mindset he had.

But, god, you’d do anything right now to hear him demand you fetch him a drink.

After you cleaned his room, you stripped his sheets, gagging at the old stain. Definitely your cum. And his. Gross. You stuffed it into a basket, kicking it away from you.

Okay… remember to not touch that again without gloves.

As you finished the last, final touches, a glint of metal on his bedside table caught your attention. Curious, you padded over, expecting a pistol.

Instead, you found a chain.

Your heart leapt into your throat. Delicately, you placed the necklace in the palm of your hand, brushing your thumb over the metal surface.

His WW2 dog tags.

Swallowing thickly, you blinked back your emotion. Why the fuck were even so sad? You weren’t even dating the man. Sure, you’d been his friend for years. You’d been protecting him. He’d been protecting you. You’d been his right-hand man practically.

But, still!

With a lump in your throat, you carefully placed the dog tags over your head. The dog tags were cold against your chest. You tucked them under your shirt, inhaling shakily.

With one last look around the room, you turned around and walked out, with a basket of laundry balanced on your hip.

You weren’t going to rest until you found out the truth. That was for sure.

A/N: sorry for the lack of soldier boy in this chap :( he makes his grand return next chapter !!! in all his sexist glory lmao. he’s so fun to write, tho i do feel like a horrible person writing some of the shit he says. definitely fun to explore this universe and all its fucked up possibilities. thank you guys for the support on chap one :’) <3 next chap will also be longer promise

banners in use by @cafekitsune

TAGLIST: @onlyangel-444 @deans-spinster-witch @fumolemon @anundyingfidelity @mostlymarvelgirl @aaronhotchnerlover @delaynew @let-me-luve-you @yvonneeeee @livsh20 @thej2report @lostin-jensenseyes

#soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x female reader #the boys #the boys tv #jensen ackles #jensen ackles x reader #half of me

[velvet-vox]

"Doll had no character arc"

"Her death was meaningless"

"We know nothing about her"

That is false.

This is a response to a post of user @rad10active-ketchup regarding (spoiler) Doll's death in the new episode of Murder drones, in particular to these replies:

These points are most likely rooted in the belief that Doll's death was handled poorly from a writing standpoint, and while I consider it a fair interpretation to have given that writing something to be intentionally disappointing will always feel unpleasant to a consumer, I believe that the reasons found to justify said feeling in the replies are disingenuous and flat out wrong, and I am going to debunk each and every single one of them independently.

Starting off with:

The character development

Doll has for the most part a flat character arc in all the scenes that she appears in, but that doesn't mean that she had no development at any point; first of all, there's most obviously her villain arc, caused by the death of her parents, the solver, the loneliness and lack of mentor figures and general mental illness, during the prom scene, she has reached peak villainy in the series, only saving Lizzie's life because she has mentally assessed the people to care about and the others and even when shot in the head she doubles down on her tendencies and keeps being a menace, but that's where she discovers that Uzi also has the solver and for the first time in ever she has someone who shares her pain but is on the "enemy" side. This starts a continuous chain of doubt in her mind that she overcomes only at the end of episode 6 when she completes her negative character arc by sacrificing Uzi for the cure in the raptor trap, spelling out her doom in the next episode where in her last moments she does her first and only step of a positive character arc by inciting her to fight back the solver with all her forces. Doll is given many chances to switch to the other side and stop being a villain, but she refuses every single one and her reality check only comes on her death bed when it's already too late.

The impact of her death

First of all Rebecca "died" in front of 4 other people while Doll dies only in front of Uzi, who outside of her genuine shock later swears to fake Tessa that it wasn't her doing but someone else, all while pretty terrified herself. Nori and N also come there, but they are too busy with everything else going on to notice, also, neither of them ever cared about Doll. And Cyn... come on.

What do we know about her

First of all, she is quite literally "Uzi if things got even worse" most of her traits are darker reflections of Uzi or an improved version of Uzi's skills, including her aura of mystery, there to be the cool factor that Uzi tries so hard to achieve but fails. She also has the same goal as Uzi, but without the hero complex part whose substitute by her belief of being the chosen one by the solver and fated to bring about the end of the world. She's sadistic, delusional, traumatized, stubborn, russian and a pathetic wet cat of a person whose inability to change denied her the answers that she so desperately craved.

#murder drones doll #murder drones ep 7 #murder drones spoilers #murder drones n #murder drones rebecca #murder drones uzi #murder drones cyn #murder drones tessa #murder drones nori #murder drones lizzy #murder drones #murder drones analysis

[lizzie-is-here]

lonely is a man without love

part i- the mission

“and i say to myself: a moon will rise from my darkness.” - mahmoud darwish

summary: you’re an ex-black widow, assigned to observe marc spector. instead, you find steven grant

wordcount: 1.4k

warnings: language, violence, idk british people?

a/n: and so it begins again :)))) this series won’t be very long, but i’m gonna have fun with a black widow reader. if you’d like to be added to the taglist, feel free to ask! love you, hope you enjoy! <3333

taglist: @thefictionalgemini @ravenz-hope

series masterlist | next part

“Britain? Come on, Rogers, seriously?”

You groan as you throw the file down on the kitchen counter. After several months of recovering from all of the shit with the Blip, Thanos, Tony’s recovery, and catching up after being fucking dust for five years, you finally got to go back on missions.

And they send you to fucking. Britain. London, to be more specific.

“Steve, the food is absolute shit. They eat like they’re still rationing their food for the war,” you rant. The man raises a brow at the mention of his past, but shrugs.

“It’s something easy to start you back up. We can’t send you guns blazing into space.” He sets a yogurt bowl and some fruit in front of you. “Eat your breakfast.”

You roll your eyes, thanking him as you grab the food. “Thanks, grandpa.” You flip through the file. “Who’s the mark?”

“Not a mark, a target,” Nat corrects.

You shrug. “Same thing.”

“He’s some vigilante called Marc Spector,” she says without looking up from her phone. She’s texting Yelena, no doubt. Likely planning the younger girl’s visit. You haven’t seen her since your own escape from the Red Room, but you’re more than thrilled to meet up.

The two of you had been inseparable, even with Dreykov’s strict rule. And now that Nat had gotten into contact with her again, it was only a matter of time before you got together to cause trouble.

And make mac and cheese. ‘Lena made really good mac and cheese.

“He used to be in the Army, but went AWOL and started working as a merc,” she continues. “Seems enhanced.”

Shoveling the yogurt into your mouth, you narrow your eyes. “So is this, like, a ‘Clint-style-recruitment’ situation or a ‘beat-his-ass’ situation?”

Steve hesitates, considering the question. “Uh, depends. Entirely up to you.”

“Great, you’re very prepared.” You set the bowls in the sink. “So, how long until I fly out?”

———————————————————————

You’re good at your job. Amazing, really. And you know it.

Of course you are. The Red Room didn’t make second-bests, and you’d been cycled through three separate times. You and Yelena headed missions, racked up kills, and obliterated organizations with ease.

When Nat had destroyed the Red Room back in 2016 and Yelena, Alexei, and Melina had left to free the other widows, the redhead offered you a place with the Avengers. You weren’t stupid, so you’d accepted.

Then you’d disappeared in Wakanda and woken up five years later.

This was very jarring (no shit), so the team had ordered a 3-month recovery for anyone who had been dusted.

No one else seemed very enthusiastic to get back to missions, but you were.

So, when you touch down in a bustling airport, you send the jet back to the compound, grab your ID, and sling your bag over your shoulder. TSA lets you by with ease, despite the absurd amount of weapons you have, and you work on blending in with the crowd until you can reach your rented motorcycle.

Your Russian accent makes it a bit hard, but you manage a convincing enough Cockney accent to slip under the radar.

Now to find the target. Your coordinates lead you to a small apartment building (you will NOT call them flats), and a fake enough smile and forged documents gets you a flat one floor above the target room.

Huffing as you unpack, you set out countless guns, knives, and weapons that would really suck to be killed by. A loud thump resonates from the floor.

You slip one gun into your waistband and a knife in your boot before listening closely. Annoyed British mumbling follows.

“Oh, jeez, I’ve gotta clean up. This is such a mess…”

That doesn’t sound like a mercenary. Maybe he’ll surprise you, you suppose.

You sneak down the stairs, finding the correct apartment and raising your hand to the door. A quick but effective knock later, the door opens.

“Uh, hi?” The guy is cute. A bit disheveled, but when you peer inside his home, you see no weapons, no signs of a violent hobby.

“Hi,” you greet, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “My name is (Y/N), I just moved into the apartment upstairs. Figured I’d greet my new neighbors.”

He looks shocked. “Oh, I didn’t know we were getting any new residents. It’s nice to meet you.” You notice that his accent seems a bit… off. “I’m sorry if I’m not the most quiet neighbor. I’ve got a sleep disorder.”

You nod, noting his posture and how close he holds his hands to his body. He notices your silence and jumps.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, I’m Steven Grant. I work at the London Museum.”

Luckily, the team took enough precedence to give you a fake job. After explaining that you worked from home doing digital marketing, you exchange goodbyes and head back upstairs.

“Ах, дерьмо [Ah, shit],” you sigh, collapsing on the bed. Yes, you’re thrilled to be back in the game, but this?

This was a waiting game, not a hunt-down-a-target-and-snipe-them-from-the-roof kind of game.

And you’ve never been patient.

———————————————————————

It’s a long month, even with Steven becoming your sort-of friend. You’ve scouted out his routine, polished your weapons, and even kept some muggers off his tail.

After visiting him at the museum, you’ve discovered his passion for Egyptology. He knows more than the guides, but is confined to the souvenir shop by his asshole boss.

You offer to kill her, only half joking, and he declines. It’s a shame.

But you’re starting to think he’s the wrong guy.

He lacks any basic survival skills, much less any fighting prowess. A dude held him at knifepoint and he gave him his wallet and phone. Luckily, you’d been just around the corner to grab the guy and knock him on his ass with little fuss.

“Holy shit, how’d you do that?” Steven had asked, gratefully taking back his things. The thief had booked it after you’d judo-flipped him and tugged his arm hard enough to dislocate.

“Do what?” you’d asked, watching him laugh.

He had waved a hand down the street. “Beat that guy up! You were flipping everywhere, and-“

It was your turn to laugh. “I did lots of martial arts as a kid. Good to know they’re coming in handy.”

It’s not a lie. Not really.

Despite Steven’s apparent innocence, you’re still suspicious. There’s always noise in the apartment below you, and the door will open and slam shut at odd hours. When you inquire about it, your target/friend (it’s complicated) claims to have no idea.

Except he’s telling the truth. You know when someone’s lying to you. You’ve never been wrong. And Steven isn’t lying.

He really doesn’t know anything about the sounds from his own flat.

One day, you’re sitting at your table with mac and cheese and polishing your favorite knife, when the door below you shuts. A voice comes up from the floorboards, like it does so often.

Instead of Steven’s fishy British accent talking to himself about Egypt or his goldfish, something else comes up.

That’s a Chicago accent.

You shove a gun into the waistband of your sweatpants, hurrying down the stairs. Without hesitation, you pick the lock and kick open the door.

Clicking the safety off of your gun and gripping it with both hands, you step in the apartment.

“Shit,” you whisper, real accent slipping through as you revert to your training.

You clear the main room of the apartment, methodical and precise.

A sound comes from the bathroom and you see the familiar figure. Hiding your gun, you sigh in relief.

You lean against the wall. “Sorry, I thought someone else was in-“

The man whips around, clearly shocked you’re there. He grabs a knife.

Oh, shit.

When he lunges forward, you dodge, grab his wrist, elbow his shoulder to loosen his grip, and grab the tactical knife. With a flick of the wrist, you lodge it in the door you just picked.

“Who are you?” the man demands, readying his fists. He looks like Steven, but acts like the complete opposite.

His posture is confident, tall. He glares at you through the sweat and blood on his face.

“My name is (Y/N), I know Steven?” The man sighs, annoyed.

“Great. Fucking great, now there’s a civilian involved.” You don’t bother to correct him.

You wave your hands around. “Well, who are you? Why are you from Chicago?”

“Why are you Russian?”

“I asked first!”

“Fine, fine.” He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m Marc. Spector.”

Your target. The file scrolls through your mind. Ex-Marine, high ranking. Went AWOL and reportedly killed a whole team of archeologists and researchers. Born March 9, 1987. Not dusted. Suspected enhanced, unknown powers.

This just got a lot more complicated.

#marvel #marvel x reader #x reader #moon knight #moon knight x reader #steven grant x fem!reader #steven grant x reader #steven grant #steven grant moon knight #marc spector x reader #marc spector x fem!reader #marc spector #moon boys #moon knight system

[sapphic-coded]

I Swear That I Don't Have A Gun

You grew up in Ohio with your father, brother, and sister. Your family was small and strange. Because of that, you were picked on relentlessly at school. Until another weird kid showed up. Her family moved in across the street from you. It wasn't long until the two of you became friends. Your friendship became the light in your life. Until it ended suddenly. Rumors followed your friend's disappearance. Russian spies. You didn't see her again until you crossed paths at work.

Series Masterlist

Natasha Romanoff x fem Reader

Warnings: Violence. Reader is a messed up assassin and did not choose her codename. Childhood trauma hanging out in the background. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 5.3k

Author's Note: When writer ADHD hits, it hits. Sorry for the wait friends. Been working on this for a comically long time. Thank you for all the love and support for this series. I love that you love this. Enjoy!

Taglist: @natsxwife @iliketozoneout @newawakening9 @natasha-1million @ilovemcuff @taliiiaasteria @alowint @yerisdumbass @natashasilverfox

Chapter Seven: You Don't Know Me

Mount Vernon, Ohio – 1993

You counted the small rocks in your black gloved hand. Neither one looked the same. All were varying shades of gray. A few were smooth and round while others were rough with sharper edges. It was the best of what you could find around the neighborhood. You looked up when you heard the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow. 

The ends of Nat’s blue hair spilled out of her dark gray knitted hat. Her black puffy jacket swallowed up most of her body. In her white gloved hands was a single stick. It wasn’t very long. Hardly more than four inches. Some pine needles still hung off of it. You watched as she approached while the chill that hung in the air after the first snowfall stabbed at your cheeks. 

“Aren’t we supposed to use a carrot?” you asked as she came to stand next to you. You were also pretty sure that you were supposed to use coal instead of rocks. 

“My mom already cut up the one we have,” Nat replied. 

You certainly didn’t have any carrots lying around at home. Your refrigerator and Nat’s were so different that it was jarring the first time you saw it. You hadn’t realized how much food one refrigerator could hold when you didn’t have to make room for your father’s weekly experiments. 

You looked at the headless snowman in front of you. You had spent the better part of the last two hours alongside Nat and her younger sister building the snowman in front of their house. The snowman’s base was large, round, and a bit lopsided. But it supported the slightly smaller packed ball of snow on top of it. You and Nat had done your best to brush off any dirt or blades of grass that stuck to the snow. Now you waited for Yelena to return with the snowman’s head. 

You heard Nat shift next to you while you stared at the empty spot where the snowman’s head will go. You wondered what kind of person this snowman would be. It was a shame when your brother told you years ago that snowmen don’t actually come to life after they are built. There’s no singing or dancing. It was as your father put it when he overheard your conversation:

“It is a byproduct of man’s lust for godhood.”

But maybe they did come to life. In secret. Perhaps at night. You read about all kinds of supposedly fake creatures coming to life in secret in your sister’s books. If it was possible, would this snowman end up being a good person or a bad one? Would the lack of a carrot make a difference? 

“Are you going somewhere?” Nat asked. 

You looked at her and found her looking across the street. You followed her gaze. Outside on your driveway was your father. The trunk of his station wagon hung open while he shoved a couple large bags into it. His back remained toward you and you hoped it would stay that way. The freshly plowed street put enough distance between him and you that you felt like you could breathe normally without him noticing. 

Your gaze landed back on Nat. “My father is attending a convention. It’s a tradition.” 

“What kind of convention?” she asked. 

You shrugged. “One for people like him.” 

He would come back giddy from talking with his fellow scholars. You knew that when he returned you and your siblings would be forced to spend at least three hours trapped at the kitchen table with nothing to eat but plenty to listen to. If something particularly interesting happened, you would definitely be trapped at the table for five hours. 

“You’re not going with him?” she asked. 

You heard the trunk of your father’s station wagon slam shut. You looked over your shoulder and watched as your father started back up the driveway. You looked at Nat and shook your head. “Kids aren’t allowed.” 

Yelena hurried around the house from the backyard carrying a mostly round snowman sized head. It was pretty impressive when she reached you guys. Since you both were taller, you and Nat carefully took the soon to be snowman head and set it on top of its cold, round body. You pushed one smooth light gray rock into the snowman’s left eye socket and then pushed a square black rock into its right. You let Yelena help you set the rest of the rocks into a wide smile. Nat pushed the stick into the middle of the snowman’s face. Then, all three of you stepped back to admire your work. 

“We should give him a name,” Yelena said. 

You tried to imagine the snowman’s rock eyes blinking. You imagined puffs of white mists slipping from between his rocky lips. You tried to imagine him with a carrot for a nose. “He looks like an Ian.” 

You heard Yelena giggle and when you looked at Nat you saw the beginnings of a smile curling her lips. 

Triskelion, Washington D.C.  – 2012

Being part of a team sucks. There are rules you have to follow. Sure, there were rules back when you were working for your father. But those rules were different. You could bend and shape them into whatever you needed. As long as the job was done, your father was content. Maybe he’d nitpick if the job got messy. But you had the freedom of choice. There were so many ways to kill people. Some days your imagination would run wild with new possibilities. You had yet to surprise a target in their bathroom and drop a toaster into their bathtub while they were bathing. Then there was the old classic you had yet to try. This idea demanded the perfect costume, but tying a target to train tracks and watching a high speed train obliterate their body into nothing more but tiny bloody chunks would be great fun. 

You loved that part of the job almost as much as you loved watching your target’s life drain from their eyes. But now that freedom is gone. You don’t get to decide how you are going to do your job. You are told. Ordered. The worst is when you’re not even allowed to kill your target. You remember the first time you were given that bizarre job. You remember how punchable your target’s face was. You remember how easy it would have been to just push the ridiculous man over the edge. No one would have known. But you couldn’t. You watched that opportunity pass you by and you wanted to scream. 

You did scream. At Rumlow. You cornered him and demanded to know why. Why did they keep fucking with your head? 

He reminded you of your role. The chains that kept you bound to these nonsensical rules. You work for SHIELD. You don’t kill targets unless SHIELD wants you to kill them. You keep to your role and you don’t raise suspicions. You live out the story Rumlow crafted for you. He found you on one of his missions. He saw your potential and peeled you up off the ground like some frozen, sick, dying, abandoned mutt. He molded you into the weapon you are now. A weapon he happily handed to SHIELD. 

You hate that story. You hate it more than the stupid suit he forces you to wear. The black tactical suit covers every inch of your body from your neck down to your feet. It had taken a while to get used to the added weight of the black body armor attached to the suit. You still don’t like it. It makes you feel as if you are a child running around with pillows tied to your chest and a foam sword in your hand. But it’s the mask that feels the most suffocating. Despite being able to hear clearly from within the black helmet, you feel cut off from the world. The black tinted visor that conceals your face is full of fancy technology that often gets in the way when you are just trying to watch your target die. You hate the stupid suit. You hate that you can’t do anything without having to wear it. The only time you can strip the stupid costume off and breathe in lungfuls of air conditioned air is in your bunk buried beneath all the levels of SHIELD and fake SHIELD and real HYDRA. 

But if you could choose, you’d stick with the stupid suit if you could craft a different story. Preferably one that didn’t include anyone molding you into anything. But that freedom is gone, and all you have is a boatload of memories to distract you from how angry you are. That anger burns deep inside you. It fuels your every step as you walk alongside Rumlow down a bright, busy hallway. You ignore all the data that blinks across the inside of your visor screen with every SHIELD agent that hurries by. In the beginning you had been curious, but now all the data was familiar and boring. Mostly low level clearance agents with spotless records because they never did anything but sit at their desks or hurry around places looking busy. 

You walk out into a large hangar and board one of the waiting Quinjets. You spy two empty seats in the cockpit and a black duffel bag resting on one of the seats in the cargo bay. Rumlow hands you a small, black flash drive. You roll your eyes despite knowing that he can’t see your face. If he let you take off the damn helmet you could read the mission briefings perfectly fine. You didn’t need to clog up your visor’s hub with all the unnecessary tidbits of information on your targets. You hate this role. 

“This one is routine,” Rumlow begins as you insert the flash drive into the slot along the backside of your helmet. Almost instantly, information clogs up your interior visor screen. “Your target is Tomek Sikora. He’s an arms dealer that SHIELD has kept an eye on.” The picture of your target fills up your visor. Tall, muscular build. Short, dirty blonde hair. Blue eyes. Mid thirties. “We have good intel that he’s operating out of an abandoned storefront in Bardstown, Kentucky. His main clientele is HYDRA.” 

Your visor floods with images of your target standing with or shaking hands with other important looking men and women. A few of the faces look familiar, but the images scroll too quickly across your visor for you to be certain. 

“Your objective is to shut down Sikora’s operation,” Rumlow says. “SHIELD would prefer Sikora alive, but if you have no choice, do what is necessary.” 

The coded orders hidden behind his words brings a small hint of relief. A nice simple kill. You know that if you read more into the file scrolling across your visor that you could piece together why real HYDRA wants Sikora dead. But you don’t care. All you care about is watching your target die. All you care about at this moment is that you won’t be forced to watch your target walk away breathing. A straightforward mission is exactly what you need. Something easy. Sikora will probably put up some kind of fight. You’ll engage and end it when it feels right. 

You pull the flash drive from the slot at the back of your helmet. Your visor clears. 

“Rollins will accompany you on this mission,” Rumlow says. 

Eh. It could be wors–

“Slight change of plan.”

Both you and Rumlow turn towards the open cargo bay door. You see her clearly through your visor screen. You feel the chains of your boredom lift. That familiar energy that buzzes right beneath your skin awakens. You haven’t seen her since you put a bullet through Erik’s head. Even then, you can’t count that as your official last parting. You were buried beneath your costume. She didn’t know you were there. Because if she did, she wouldn’t have let you go like that. 

The weight of the costume you wear now feels heavier as you watch her ascend up the Quinjet’s ramp. She’s dressed in civilian clothes. You love the black, leather jacket that she wears over her red shirt. Dark denim jeans cover the length of her legs, and a gun sits in a black holster strapped to her right thigh. You’re envious of her clothes. You want to look into her wardrobe. You want to strip out of this stupid suit and wear anything else. 

“Agent Romanoff,” Rumlow greets. 

Nat. Your teeth bite into your lower lip. You know you can’t say anything. The rules of your role have been drilled into your head. You don’t speak. You only act. If anyone asks questions, Rumlow has your pathetic sob story ready to share. You know all this. You know you must comply. But you really want to say something. 

Her olive green eyes settle on you as she steps into the cargo bay. You instantly miss the recognition as she looks at you. Her eyes travel up and down the length of your body, taking in your forced getup. You want her to see right through it. You want her to say your name and rip the damn mask from your face so the chase can resume. 

“What’s the update?” Rumlow asks. 

Her attention shifts to him. “Rollins can’t make it. He’s in medical. I’m filling in.” 

Now you really really want to say something. You watch as she walks over to where the black duffel bag sits. A smile stretches across your face. You had wanted to start slow. A coffee date scheduled on a day that neither one of you needed to even think about work. But if you can’t have that, then you will happily take this. 

“That’s not necessary,” Rumlow replies. 

Your smile drops away, and you turn your head to give Rumlow the most threatening glare he will never see. He ignores you as Nat zips up her duffel bag and looks over at him. 

“I’ll get one of the other guys to fill in for Rollins,” Rumlow continues. “It’s a routine operation, and you’re needed for more Avenger missions.” 

You wonder what would happen if you punched Rumlow in the face. If you swing hard enough, there is a good chance you could knock him out. That would give you a couple seconds to say something to Nat before all hell breaks loose. You’d definitely apologize for the stupid thing you said before. And if Rumlow didn’t go down in one punch, you could always follow it up with a solid kick. 

“Fury disagrees,” Nat replies. 

The name sparks two recent memories of the Director of SHIELD. Both memories consisted of you standing in this stupid suit and staring at the bald man with an eyepatch while he interrogated Rumlow about you. You played the part of a lost puppy well enough despite wanting to smash your head into the closest wall. 

“Besides,” Nat looks first at you and then back to Rumlow, “I’ve been dying to meet your new sidekick.” 

Oh god. That one hurt. 

“They’re not much of a talker,” Rumlow says. 

You have so much to say. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Nat replies. 

Rumlow shakes his head, but finally relents. He looks at you. “Stay focused. I expect results.” 

You watch as he steps out of the cargo bay and descends down the jet’s ramp. For a moment, you can’t believe your luck. You thought that Rumlow would have done just about anything to rip you away from Nat. He had made sure to keep you as far away from her as possible. But the reality of your amazing luck settles when Nat comes to stand next to you. 

“Has he taught you how to fly one of these?” she asks. 

You shake your head. 

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll fly. You fill me in on the mission.” 

This is the greatest day of your life. 

The Quinjet, Kentucky Sky – A Short Time Later

You pull the flash drive free from the tablet’s port. The tablet’s screen goes blank while the hub screen built into your interior helmet visor lights up with a selection of unnecessary data about the tablet. Battery at 68%. No security update needed. Software version 3.8.27. You don’t understand why you are forced to tolerate the random extra tech. Rumlow told you it was to make your story more realistic. You still didn’t understand how something only you see makes others believe you more. 

You look up from the tablet, and the extra data clears. Bright sunlight floods the cockpit. The sky outside is so blue that it is almost painful to look at. You are sitting in the co-pilot seat. The various buttons and screens stretched across the dashboard mean nothing to you. Nat has been doing all the flying. All you’ve done is find a SHIELD issued tablet and plugged in the flash drive so Nat could review the details of your mission. So far she’s asked you easy questions about the mission. Your answers are simple nods or a shake of your head. You want to say more. You need to say more. But you stay quiet. You comply with your role. 

But there is sweet happiness in your forced silence. You look over to the empty pilot seat next to you. Nat left a few minutes ago to change after switching on the autopilot. You are tempted to lift up your helmet and sniff the pilot seat. You want to know what she smells like. You want to peel your black gloves off and touch the cushions of the seat. Feel the warmth left behind by her touch. A couple different scenarios float through your head and each one is far more entertaining than sitting in silence. But at least you get to be near her. You don’t have to hurry off and leave her. Despite all these stupid rules, you’ve discovered a piece of freedom that kept eluding you before. 

You turn your gaze forward when you hear Nat emerge from the tiny bathroom directly behind the cockpit. She settles back into the pilot’s seat. Her casual clothes are gone. You miss the leather jacket, but the black catsuit is a warm familiar memory. You tuck the flash drive into one of your suit’s many pockets. 

“Shouldn’t be long now,” she comments as her green eyes dart across the various screens and lit buttons. “About fifteen minutes out.” 

There’s a moment when you taste that bitterness of disappointment. You don’t want this to end. The two of you up in the sky without anyone else to distract you. But that moment ends when you remember what’s to come. For the first time you won’t be on opposing sides. Sort of. Not exactly. But it sends a thrill through you. 

“So,” she looks over at you, “Silent Type.” 

You frown at the stupid codename. You know she can’t see your face, but she sees something because she starts to smile. The tablet’s screen comes back to life as you navigate to the application you need. A virtual keyboard pops up along the lower half of the tablet. Your gloved fingers are quick as you type your message. You turn the tablet around so she can read it. 

Rumlow’s idea. Not mine. 

Your answer seems to amuse her more as she nods. 

“That does sound like a name he would come up with,” she says. 

You turn the tablet to face you again and delete what you wrote. Your fingers are quick to tap out another message. 

Did you choose your codename? 

Her smile falls a bit as she reads your question. “What did Rumlow tell you about me?” 

It doesn’t take you long to delete your question and type out your reply. 

Avenger. 

“That’s it?” she asks. 

You lower the tablet and nod. It’s not entirely a lie. Rumlow had spent most of his time preparing you for this stupid role. That meant filling your head with a bunch of random bullshit about fake SHIELD and real HYDRA. He trained you to remember your story. He did his best to polish off the grime of freelance and make you seem more refined. He rarely brought up Nat. And when he did, he never let you think about her for long. 

“I guess we’ll need to get to know each other better after this mission,” she says. 

More time with Nat? This day just gets better and better. Your fingers tap against the tablet’s digital keyboard again. When you lift up the tablet, you are very interested in her answer. 

What did Rumlow say about me?

“You’re his pet project,” she says as her smile returns. 

You frown. You want to somehow clarify that you are nobody’s pet project, but one of the buttons on the dash lights up and steals Nat’s attention. You watch as she turns off the autopilot and takes control of the Quinjet. 

“We’re approaching our target,” she reaches up and flips a switch. “I’ll set us down somewhere close. With our stealth systems engaged, they shouldn’t be able to spot us.” 

You turn your head and look out at the bright blue sky. While you love the quality time with Nat, you also need to come up with a plan for this mission. Rumlow’s coded orders had been clear. Kill Sikora. If Rollins had joined you on this mission, you wouldn’t have needed to do much thinking beyond when to kill your target. But Nat’s fantastic presence complicated things. You doubt that she’s part of fake SHIELD. Which meant putting a bullet in Sikora’s head outright wouldn’t go over well. Especially if your target decides to surrender. 

Your plan starts to take shape within your mind as Nat guides the concealed Quinjet towards the ground. It’s a simple plan. Draw your target away from Nat and kill him where it is just you and him. It would ruin the foreplay. You probably wouldn’t have much time and would need to kill Sikora quickly. But you’d get to talk to Nat later which seemed like a generous trade. 

The bright onslaught on sunlight fades as Nat sets the Quinjet down in a clearing surrounded by eastern white pine trees. Based on the data you had skimmed earlier, the abandoned storefront your target is operating out of is just north of your location. When the Quinjet’s engines fall quiet, you stand. You leave the tablet on your seat as you head for the cargo bay. You approach a metallic box bolted onto one of the walls. Your gloved fingers type in a code on the keypad fixed to the front of the box. The front panel unlocks and opens to reveal a small armory. 

Smaller than usual. No fancy explosives. Your usual selection of guns has been paired down to one: a single black Glock. You suspect your limited selection is thanks to Rumlow. You figure this has something to do with your training, but you don’t really care. You’re more disappointed in how the gun feels in your hand. You miss your Beretta. You don’t feel the same without it. 

You slide the Glock into the empty holster at your right hip and turn when you hear Nat enter the cargo bay. She holds the tablet you left behind. Her finger slides across the tablet’s screen, and you watch the way her head tilts slightly as she reviews the mission data. You imagine that she looked exactly like that whenever information on you ended up in her hands. Your smile starts to return as you grab the tactical knife left in the armory and slide it into place on your belt. 

She turns off the tablet and sets it down next to her black duffel bag. She lifts her hand and speaks into her wrist. “Comms check.”

You hear her voice flood your helmet and you don’t want it to stop. When she looks over at you, you nod. Her smile threatens to break you. You want so desperately to say something. You want her to look at you like she knows you. Like she did before whenever she appeared on one of your jobs. But your mouth stays shut. You comply. 

It’s quiet when you both exit the Quinjet. As you make your way through the cluster of trees, you can’t help but think back to your last freelance job in the middle of nowhere. The sound of gunshots ripping apart tree bark. The smell of sweat and blood on your target’s body. The feeling of her hand around your wrist. 

You stop when you reach the treeline. Roughly fifty yards ahead of you is the bland backside of the abandoned storefront. The back door is unguarded. You don’t see any cameras either. It’s no wonder why HYDRA wants Sikora gone. The lack of security is almost offensive. It’s as if your target is inviting you inside. 

“We’ll split up and sweep the area,” her voice is low and when you look at her, you nod. 

Perfect. As long as you find Sikora first, this mission should be easy. 

“I’ll take the upper floor while you secure the lower,” she says. 

As you nod, you hope that you’ll find Sikora in the storefront’s basement. If you don’t, you don’t know exactly how you’ll get your target far enough away from Nat. 

You both step out of the treeline and make your way towards the storefront’s back entrance. By the time you reach the back door and press your back against the wall, you notice that both you and Nat have drawn your guns. You bite your tongue to hold back a laugh at the thought that instantly springs to life within your mind. This must be the first time you both have a gun in your hand and you’re not pointing them at each other. Now would be a great time to take your helmet off. 

Nat reaches for the door handle, and it’s unlocked. You decide that it’s your target’s inflated ego that left the door unlocked and not stupidity. Or a trap. You try not to let that last thought get you too excited as you follow Nat through the backdoor. 

You enter a narrow hallway. Directly ahead of you is a wide open doorway that reveals a large empty room. Remains of what was clearly a counter mark the worn looking floorboards. Dark colored wallpaper peels from the walls. The room itself is lit only by the light that spills out from the hallway. Large, thin boards are nailed across the windows. Littered about the floorboards is trash, random dark wet spots, and the occasional clothing hanger. 

To your right is a set of stairs leading to the upper floor. To your left is the remains of another door. You see the hinges, but the door that clearly once occupied the space is gone. Beyond it is another set of stairs leading down towards the basement. You turn to your left and start to descend the stairs. You hear Nat ascending the stairs behind you. You force yourself not to look back as you lift your gun and keep going. 

Your footsteps are quiet on the stairs. When you reach the bottom, you find yourself alone in an empty room. The lights are on. Boxes and crates are stacked against one of the walls. On the other side of the room is another doorway, but this one still has a door attached to it. As you walk further into the room, you hear a loud thud shake the low ceiling. You feel a tiny spike of jealousy that Nat found her targets while you are alone in a basement. Another loud thud shakes the ceiling again. That lingering spike of jealousy flees when the door on the other side of the room opens. 

You pull the trigger the second you see someone fill up the space in the doorway. You see the person drop and no one else comes out. You move towards the open door. One quick look down at the man dying on the basement floor at your feet confirms that they are not your target. You step over the dying man and into the room. It’s a small break room with a fold out plastic table that eats up most of the space. Sitting on the table, directly in the middle, is a small, square television. It’s on and playing an old western. 

When you return to the dying man laying in the doorway, you find him dead. The man’s lifeless eyes stare up at you. His mouth is slightly parted. His hair looks greasy. He looks about as old as any average college student. The sounds of the western playing on the television fills up the quiet as you stare down at the dead man. The sounds of shouting pulls you out of your odd stupor. 

You step over the dead man and hurry back towards the stairs. You quickly climb back up into the narrow hallway and start towards the stairs that would take you up to the upper floor when you see it. You are standing at the base of the stairs when you see a body falling. You see their arms first as they come up, and you see how their legs trip over each other. You notice a mop of dirty blonde hair right before it smashes into the first uppermost step. The body falls hard down the stairs with a series of sickening crunches. You take a few steps back when you notice the body picking up some speed. When the body finally reaches the bottom of the stairs, it rolls over once and stops. 

Sikora lays at your feet. His neck is bent at a terrible angle. His blue eyes are wide open. You see a piece of bone poking out from his forearm. Your gun lowers at the sight of your target’s still body. You feel numb at the sight of it. No satisfaction. No sense of pride. Not even relief. You don’t know how to feel when you step over your target’s body and ascend the stairs. That strange feeling persists as you find Nat standing near a table. Littered across the floor are six bodies. You can’t tell if some are alive or not, but you feel the corners of your lips curl into a smile. Nat doesn’t have a scratch on her. None of the bodies scattered across the room were a challenge for her and you just want to run up to her and kiss her and hug her tight because it makes sense. One piece of your life hasn’t changed. She’s still your friend even if you can’t act like hers. 

As you walk further into the room, carefully stepping over fallen bodies, Nat closes up a black laptop that is sitting on the table. Her smile melts away any lingering numbness hanging on from seeing your target’s body. 

“Good work,” she says. “SHIELD will be here in ten to clean up.” 

You savor her praise before looking at the laptop again. 

“Just a little side project,” she says after following your gaze. She picks up the black laptop and moves towards you. “You ever have bourbon from here?”   

You shake your head. 

“Then we’re making a quick pit stop before we head back,” she says. 

You follow her, and you can’t help feeling like you are back in Ohio. It’s as if school is finally letting out and you two have the rest of the day ahead of you. You want this day to last forever. You’d rather her know it’s you, but if this is all you can have, then you’ll take it.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #black widow fanfiction #natasha romanoff fanfic #my fanfic #fic: i swear that i don't have a gun

[effervescentdragon]

me: no but i get darkling, i get him completely

bff: thats because youre the same asshole as he is

me: okay but i don't do mansplaining

bff: thats because you do akirasplaining

me: ... you know what, first of all -

#AND THEN. AND THEN HE TELLS ME #do you need me to show you my fave driver and your fave driver. where your fave driver talks and talks and talks ... #and i sent him off to make me tea #the fake russian series #i should just make a tag for bff #effervescentdragonrants

[monkeyfaced-trickster]

Inspired by a poll someone else posted months ago, I want to challenge you all to a little game to test your Lupin III knowledge. We all know how silly the series can get, but how smart is your threshold for the weird?

Can you guess which of these plot points was completely made up by me?

Jigen challenges Lupin to steal back a euro bill he deposited in the bank or else clean the hideout for a whole year.

Descendants of Sherlock Holmes, Lew Archer, and Kosuke Kindaichi are riding a blimp as part of a rich guy's challenge for Lupin to steal his prized ruby.

Lupin steals an Italian church's mummified crocodile, which turns out to have a map hidden in its stomach that leads to the secret treasure of a Satanic cult.

Lupin is challenged by a duo of destitute handymen into opening a safe that can only be opened by someone with literally 0 IQ.

Fujiko fakes her death in order to locate Lupin's hidden treasure in Crete, which is guarded by a shapeshifting minotaur robot.

Goemon accidentally fishes a corpse out of the Hudson river and is subsequently haunted by the ghost of a young lady in an aerobics outfit.

A former child star spreads a tabloid rumor that Lupin stole her pet cat. Also, her cat eats pencil shavings for some reason.

Lupin goes to a doctor to have his athlete's foot treated, but the doctor uses his skin sample to create Lupin clones for profit.

Zenigata thinks he's a Russian gentleman thief after suffering from amnesia, and he keeps stealing Lupin's thunder.

Lupin becomes a Confucian priest after drinking a special elixir that was filtered through a philosophy book.

This poll will run for a week, after which I will reblog it with the correct answer and a breakdown of which plot points happened where.

#lupin iii #lupin the 3rd #lupin the third

[vestaignis]

Русский художник, представитель символизма и модерна,  Иван Мясоедов (1881, Харьков – 1953, Буэнос-Айрес) родился в семье  знаменитого художника-передвижника Григория Мясоедова. Был внебрачным сыном художника Григория Мясоедова и художницы Ивановой. Еще ребенком Иван Мясоедов начал учиться рисованию в частной школе, организованной его отцом. В 15 поступил в Московское училище живописи, позднее — в Императорскую Академию художеств. Он мало чем походил на своего отца, и никакой преемственности в искусстве  не было. Все, что было мило Григорию Мясоедову, Иван Мясоедов презирал (и наоборот). Его привлекали мифологические сюжеты, эпический размах, подвиги, боги, герои — все то, от чего бежали передвижники. Художник Иван Мясоедов был прекрасным профессиональным гравером, что стало причиной большой беды. Проживая с женой в бедствующей Германии в 20-е годы, он рисовал и печатал английские фунты- за что и был арестовыван как фальшивомонетчик. Три года Иван проводит в Моабитской тюрьме, где  расписывает тюремную церковь.  Выйдя на свободу, он пишет целый ряд ностальгических полотен и в 1938 году бежит с семьей в Лихтенштейн по поддельному чешскому паспорту (сам «нарисовал») на имя «профессора Зотова». В княжестве Иван Мясоедов стал придворным художником, создал великолепные эскизы почтовых марок. В Лихтенштейне художник вновь попал под арест за подделку  государственных кредитных бумаг, а всю его семью лишили гражданства княжества.  После непродолжительного заключения Мясоедов с семьей в 1953 году переезжает в Аргентину.  По приезду в Буэнос-Айрес Иван Мясоедов внезапно тяжело заболел и умер  от рака печени. Ему было 73 года.

Russian artist, representative of symbolism and modernism, Ivan Myasoedov (1881, Kharkov - 1953, Buenos Aires) was born in the family of the famous Itinerant artist Grigory Myasoedov. He was the illegitimate son of the artist Grigory Myasoedov and the artist Ivanova. As a child, Ivan Myasoedov began to study drawing at a private school organized by his father. At 15 he entered the Moscow School of Painting, and later the Imperial Academy of Arts. He was little like his father, and there was no continuity in art. Everything that was nice to Grigory Myasoedov, Ivan Myasoedov despised (and vice versa). He was attracted by mythological stories, epic scope, exploits, gods, heroes - everything that the Wanderers fled from.

The artist Ivan Myasoedov was an excellent professional engraver, which caused great trouble. Living with his wife in poverty-stricken Germany in the 1920s, he drew and printed English pounds, for which he was arrested as a counterfeiter. Ivan spends three years in Moabit prison, where he paints the prison church. Upon his release, he painted a whole series of nostalgic canvases and in 1938 he fled with his family to Liechtenstein using a fake Czech passport (he “drew it” himself) in the name of “Professor Zotov.”

In the principality, Ivan Myasoedov became a court artist and created magnificent sketches of postage stamps. In Liechtenstein, the artist was again arrested for forging government credit papers, and his entire family was deprived of citizenship of the principality. After a short imprisonment, Myasoedov and his family moved to Argentina in 1953. Upon arrival in Buenos Aires, Ivan Myasoedov suddenly became seriously ill and died of liver cancer. He was 73 years old.

Источник://kulturologia.ru/blogs/160919/44149/, https://dergachev-va.livejournal.com/86205.html,arthive.com/ru/artists/31745~Ivan_Grigor'evich_Mjasoedov/works/587071~Vid_na_SanSusi, /artifex.ru/живопись/иван-мясоедов-часть-1/, /artchive.ru/publications/4134~Zhizn'_i_udivitel'nye_prikljuchenija_Ivana_Mjasoedova.

#живопись #картины #искусство #художник #гравер #Иван Мясоедов #Символизм #Модерн #масло и холст #бумага и карандаш #портрет #пейзаж #натюрморт #art #painting #artist #engraver #Ivan Myasoedov #Symbolism #Modern #paper and pencil #oil and canvas #landscape painting #portrait art #still life

[xenosagaepisodeone]

For the last 2 weeks I've been transfixed on a strain of lost media I've come to call "bad memory induced media", where the supposed media in question does not (or at least more than likely does not) exist, but there are swaths of people convinced that they have definitely seen it at some point. There is rarely anything more to go off of for the hunt than a vague summary outlined in a post on some forum, but the lack of specificity allows people to fill in the blanks with similar types of media that they've seen, giving them the impression that they've already experienced it. I've found that this is extremely common for alleged lost shock media in particular, which isn't surprising. I talked a little about this on my LOL SUPERMAN post, and I get the impression that a similar strain of logic applies on a smaller scale.

Anyway, 2 major cases I have been looking at for a while are Saki Sanobashi/Go For A Punch and Evil Farm Game. Saki Sanobashi in particular fascinates me because an urban legend like this should have crumbled to the wayside by like 2018 at the latest, since that's when anime more or less became demystified to normal people. The basic premise is that it is an 80s/90s horror anime about anywhere from 4-8 girls trapped in a bathroom. The girls talk about their lives, hopes, dreams and philosophies before slowly going insane and dying one by one. If you like horror stuff you probably are already getting the vague impression that it sounds familiar- which could be influenced by any swath of media artifacts from Saw to the Russian Sleep Experiment creepypasta to the Ikea SCP to ClockUp's Euphoria to snippets of Battle Royale to that one Grisaia no Kaijitsu arc. OP insisted he found it fully subbed on the deep web (omegalul) and hasn't found a trace of it since, implying some kind of murky origin or legal status (the OVA is not pornographic btw). As you can probably tell I think this is silly. Like, so much goes into anime production that it would be difficult to hide any traces of this thing's existence. Someone had to voice act those girls. Someone had to sit hunched over a desk and draw that settei. OVAs were such a new thing in the 80s and 90s that both sfw and nsfw series were advertised in magazines. The only way that this could be so lost that not even a MAL entry remains is if it had been a student/indie production or something made for a single comiket event...but even at that....you're telling me that someone still managed to rip this from a vhs and subtitle it? And then chose to upload it to the deep web instead of youtube? even the title sounds like something google translated but didnt format correctly ("Saki Sanobashi" being gibberish while "Saki-san no Bashi" translates to "Saki-san's Bridge").

And yet there are people who will say "I definitely saw this at some point" because they saw a reaction image similar to the alleged scene where the protagonist smashes someone's head into a mirror. "The neck scratching death sounds familiar...." because you watched a higurashi amv! And OP did too, and thought it was so creepy that he involved it in his fake story. It's almost grating how much you have to suspend your disbelief to embrace that something like this exists in the exact way that stories like this insist. And yet, despite everything, the hunt for Saki Sanobashi continues because kids are too old to believe in Squidward's Suicide.

Evil Farm Game gives me a chuckle because it goes like this: a redditor posts to r/tipofmytongue about an old flash game where you play as a farmer who kills his wife and then has to hide her body while going about his farm tasks. The setup is completely fine and actually kind of reminiscent of a few story driven flash games I played on newgrounds as a kid. Many people came forward insisting that they had played this as well, one person even producing a link to a file from their hard drive that they couldn't open, but strongly believed that the game was there. A subreddit was even created to support the search. The twist is that it was a misremembered joke from a vinesauce stream.

Everyone knows that memory is an extremely fallable thing; people can be coaxed into believing that they did or saw things that they didn't with the correct prompts, but what gets me is that a lot of people on the hunt for "bad memory induced media" seem to largely be hyping themselves up. They want to believe there is something that exists against all reason no matter what. Its chuuni in nature. Do not get me wrong- the interest in finding a cool, mysterious, haunting piece of media isn't lost on me, but dog, the dopamine hit of finding a previously lost 1985 commercial for almonds in a box of vhs tapes you got from eBay is the same.

[tpquill]

What would another 4 years under Trump be like?

Imagine if you will, someone who has zero empathic qualities. A person vibrating with revenge. Someone who has spent their entire life self indulging on a brand, a purpose that is all they ever care about. A narcissistic sociopath; deeply entrenched in outbursts of anger, hatred and lustful ignorance. Living life on “my brand is higher turnover than any loan a bank can give you.” A gentleman’s agreement, but they are no gentleman. This person has spent their entire life; 70+ years on this planet, growing up in a standard of living he has only ever known. A man, whose father was a businessman and through his businesses, met a lot of wealth, a lot of influence and a lot of questionable behaviour. This person was surrounded by people he was introduced to in a world of social ignorance and old money wealth, because he had become his narcissistic father’s business protégé.

Throughout his entire academic and business career he has bought, bullied or faked his way out of everything, resplendent in the firm belief “dearest daddy” bred into him “everyone can be bought for a price”

Banks, businesses, criminals, judges…the list is endless in their world, because money speaks many languages, including Russian. His deep needed greed to be famous, to be talked about, to be adulated and praised - strokes his fragile ego. He demands attention like a toddler in the throes of a temper tantrum, because he’s always got what he wanted. Not an only child, but definitely a high maintenance one. Reminding me of a character from a well known book series, whose ridiculous parents spoilt their child endlessly while ignoring the child in their foster care. A child who demanded everything and got it no matter the cost - this is how this person has lived their entire life, bully into submission, threaten legal action if they never got it.

I watched in 2015 this person proclaim they were setting their sights on the presidency and I laughed with concerned hysteria. This idiot, who had spent his entire business career in and out of court due to bankruptcies. Casinos and hotels foreclose due to overdue loans, employees not being paid. Employees who had invested most if not all of their pension money in “shares” that would make them a sizeable profit to pay off their mortgages - to later find out it was just another scheme to help pay off or pay into his businesses, while they lost everything. His desire to hire undocumented migrants is old news he’s always done it. That’s why he holds favour with the old dusty republican men and women in congress, because they come from a long line of plantation owners and as you would know through American history, plantation owners had…you guessed it, slaves who they bought at auction to do the menial tasks for next to nothing. He is a man of very little talent but one who has bought and sold everyone and anything for his brand. He wants the celebrity status, he wants the adulation and ceremony of a King, he wants the authoritarian rule and suppression of a dictator, he wants the immunity of god but does not live with a Christian heart (not evangelical brainwashing)

Yes, this very same person wanted to be crowned a King, because he coveted that rule, but settled for Commander in chief instead. And, just like everything else in his life, he took measured steps to secure it through nefarious ways. His questionable admiration for authoritarian leaders puts his loyalty in the right paths of those who see America as their bankable gain. Years of political and foreign resentment balances out evenly when you meet with a weak minded, fragile ego who has always wanted to be praised. The art of the deal was never about the savvy businessman lie he always told but about the “fake it to you make it” mantra and he always excelled at that.

But here’s what lies ahead. He spent four years destroying America the last time. You can listen to the mentally concerned drum on about how he made their lives better, or how he made America great. Or how he made America the best it has ever been and think to yourself - do they actually go outside?

There was only one thing on Donald Trump’s mind from 2016 to 2020, how can I benefit from all of this? He used the office and seal of the president of the United States to enrich both himself and his blood sucking family of hangers on. He made his children (all adults) head of administration in the White House with no formal training in anything, including business (fake it to you make it) the nepotism he used in his questionable business practices, he simply transferred to the “People’s House” he installed a cabinet of lawmakers who lusted for fame, but felt left out. Grievance and vengeance because a black man had held that coveted office for 8 years and they needed (dusty and white privileged republicans) to drive that stench out. His plan was to stay there to show the world he wasn’t just Trump the businessman (6 bankruptcies, several business failures, university & charity disasters) but also the greatest world leader ever.

* stock market tanked

* economic downturn

* unemployment at an all time high

* infrastructure never fixed

* Medicare never looked at

* tax breaks for the filthy rich, tax increases for the working class

* migrants put into cages and separated from their children (white privileged free world)

* racism raised its ugly head and laughed, fascism, xenophobia, homophobia soon followed.

* gun related deaths increased, because why not? he abolished or allowed laws to lapse that had been put in place.

* scraped bills that he deemed unnecessary, pulled out of the Paris agreement, called America veterans suckers & losers, disgraced the military, threw paper towels at hurricane ravaged states claiming they weren’t part of America anyway.

Went on the world’s stage and mocked NATO demanding the countries pay more (America had only started paying more) or he was pulling out of NATO and Russia could occupy them all. Completely made himself an absolute laughing stock in front of other well respected leaders by throwing temper tantrums if he didn’t get his way.

Kissed the ass of Putin on more than one occasion. Ignored daily briefings, hired horrible actors to be his press secretary on multiple occasions. Went through more “chief of staff” positions than any former president.

And then came Covid and his botched handling of that. Nearly 5 thousand deaths, the worst of any country’s handling of the pandemic due to the size of the population of the United States. Mocked the scientists and doctors, refused states (who did not support him) of vital PPE instead, used another nepotistic family member to sell it off to states that didn’t use it because they questioned the vaccine and any easier way to keep their people alive.

His disastrous handling of the very serious pandemic led to so many unnecessary loss of life, ignorance into vital medicine that could help, instead advertising the use of injecting bleach into your veins. Once again Trump’s ignorance of not listening to sound advice, instead using his own because, he knows everything.

I won’t beat on about what happened during the previous election (we all witnessed it) the insurrection, the riots, the deaths and the damage when he very legally as witnessed by over 60 court cases all saying the same thing - lost the 2020 election, it was not stolen. Since then, he has done daily if not weekly rallies (he needs that hit of serotonin that can only be found through crowd adulation) he seeks to be re elected back into the White House. Not because he did such a fantastic job the last time, but because he could very well go to prison. 91 felonies, he’s already lost one tax fraud case and one sexual assault and rape case. He still has the hush money case, the RICO and espionage case to go through all while pleading he needs immunity, because without it, a president can be subjected to influence from foreign countries or leaders. Donald J. Trump already is, he just wants the freedom to do it all over again only this time, not get caught and answer for it, because immunity means he will be like Vladimir Putin and the leaders he greatly admires from Saudi Arabia - Turkey - Israel - China - North Korea - Russia -self appointed leaders with a regime that cripples the people of their country.

The point to this journalistic account on my tumblr is simply this;

After everything I have documented (not all in order) after all I have written, after everything that has been witnessed and grieved for. Even in the face of terrorism in your own country. The birth of a very dangerous ideology of Making America Great Again, christofacists plotting revenge on the country built on freedom and democracy, where in its constitutional legislations simply put the rule that divides church and state and successfully removed its colonial predecessors - the stripping of women’s rights and freedom of anatomy, the destruction of legal abortion (Roe vs Wade) and the push to go back in time to the 1800’s - will people still firmly believe this hate filled, vengeful, egotistical, delusional narcissistic sociopath is still worth electing him as the next president, knowing full well that once he gets in again he will do everything in his power to stay there. To then elect his predecessor (another Trump) to take over from him? He successfully taught his children well - grift, lie, squander, tax evade, hide business assets - they won’t let him down.

Or do you look at all that you went through, all that has taken 4 years to recover. To put right the horrors of the predecessor. To make the economy grow, to improve the medical system. To fix and improve the infrastructure, to raise employment and lower the cost of living. To help with student debt and get more money back in your pockets. To make America respected on the world’s stage and warn authoritarian leaders that this is not the way a countries people should be ruled. To stand up to murderous dictators and help a country fighting for its freedom from tyranny. To try and unify their country, not divide it. To have empathy and compassion, respect and loyalty to their people, not to themselves. To lift all voices including women’s to fight for what is most important up.

I hope this time you don’t send yourselves backwards, but move forwards to a better place. There is only one place Donald J Trump needs to go, one time he will ever be held accountable for his poor behaviour. One place he needs to be shown and to answer for all he has done for far too long…

Prison.

TPQ

#president of the united states #crooked donald #donald j trump #j6 insurrection