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aftgficrec · 5 months

Note

Fics where Neil gets in a fight and actually wins!! I know it’s more commonly said that he can start fights and not finish them but let’s be for real, the boy was raised by two mafias and is scary as hell (I think i’ve seen someone ask this a while ago but i’m not sure if there’s an updated list) Mainly wondering for like post-canon fics, but au’s are cool too!

There’s quite a bit to discover on this topic, be that AU or in the context of canon. Of course, Neil rarely comes out of these troubles unscathed, but he wouldn’t be Neil if there wasn’t also a little martyrdom involved. You might find more on this under our bamf!Neil, butcher!Neil and occasionally raven!Neil tags. Have a browse, and see if there’s anything you like. - S

Some previous recommendations:

BAMF!Neil here

BAMF!Neil 2 here

BAMF!Neil 3 here

BAMf!Andreil w/happy ending here

badass Neil here

Neil fights and wins here

A dark Neil here

Neil says it's fine i've had worse here

Neil protects Katelyn/the foxes/Andrew here

Foxes find out Neil's not soft here (see list of recs at top of post)

Neil hurts/kills in front of foxes here

new BAMF! or Raven!Neil here

dark!Neil & Andrew here

bad boy Neil here

Neil Josten: Moriyama spy here

Neil kills Nathan here

Killing Eve AU here

‘Skin Comes Apart (Angel in Lothian)’ here

‘Bound for Error’ here

‘turn out the lights’ here (completed)

‘From Dungeons’ here

‘Whiskey Sour’ here

‘Negotiations’ and ‘The Butcher's Hello’ here (updated)

‘Shake my Tomb’ and ‘Appendages’ here

‘The Butcher’s Son’ here

‘it takes two (but you and i are one)’ here

‘monster (under my bed)’ here

post-canon (more or less):

Out for Blood by Aquared46 [Rated M, 27975 words, complete, 2023, locked]

"Neil’s first thought upon opening his eyes was that he was lucky to be in the trunk of a car instead of the back of a van. His second thought was that even if he survived this, Andrew might finally give into the temptation to kill him." AKA Neil is abducted and everyone has a bad time.

tw: kidnapping, tw: torture, tw: nightmares

born for this by dovegraye [Rated G, 1278 words, complete, 2023]

There are some parts of Nathaniel Abram Wesninski that Neil Abram Josten can’t ignore and refuses to play at trying anymore. This is one of them.

tw: violence

My Lover Writes Me Letters by AceSirenSinger [Rated M, 23018 words, complete, 2023]

He feels it again – the fury, of Neil’s taunting precision, of his expertise honed specifically for Andrew. It makes Andrew furious. Andrew has not felt anything since he woke up with his head on fire, in a room with a man made of compressed violence. *** Andrew loses his memory of the last five years, and forgets Neil. Neil martyrs himself because of course he does.

**tw: threatened rape/noncon between major characters**, tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: blood/gore, tw: referenced animal cruelty and death, tw: vomit, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: murder, tw: implied disordered eating

five times neil beat the babygirl allegations, plus the one time he didn't by r3mus [Rated T, 7488 words, complete, 2023]

neil will NEVER beat the babygirl allegations in MY heart but, alas, he would probably punch me if i called him babygirl to his face.

tw: violence

Damnation by X0X0HauntedX0X0 [Rated M, 15572 words, incomplete, last updated Jan. 2022]

Unkind and ever familiar, that anger Lola had triggered earlier returned with sharp teeth and without mercy. He would rip his time from their hands by force, like he’d been doing every day since he was born. Lola was clever as the devil, but Neil had been raised through the loopholes. She couldn’t hurt his Foxes if she was dead. Or Neil is much more dangerous than anyone gives him credit for.

tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: torture, tw: blood/gore, tw: alcohol, tw: drugs

NB: fic art of post-torture Neil by @kazzyboy here

Maybe a Mobster by definitely_not_loki [Rated M, 1558 words, complete, 2022]

Neil Josten had transferred at the beginning of this season, and sure he'd been a nightmare for the team, but not in the "I was raised by a serial killer" kind of way. He was hard on the team—way harder than anyone had been before—and he wasn't even the captain. He was just some rookie striker from South Carolina. Most of the time she forgot he was anything but a rookie striker, but then someone would ask about his scars or call him a different name. Those were the few moments she remembered he wasn't just an asshole. He was an asshole with a past. So when The Event happened, she was terrified, horrified beyond all reason, but she was not surprised. Or, Neil is a badass motherfucker.

tw: violence, tw: blood

Neil has some bad habits. by evelynreads23 [Not Rated, 1068 words, complete, 2022]

Neil learnt things when he was young, how to wield a knife, how to hide a body. He was doing good and not thinking about it until someone was telling him he was a fan of the butcher. He was in a haze afterwards and freaked when Jack was being an asshole. This is Neil going to his roots but staying Neil, protecting Andrew and the foxes and not having fun when his past is brought up. Read at your own risk! :)

tw: violence, tw: blood, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: homophobia, tw: panic attacks

Dart Boards and Knife Fights by clumsylittlewriter [Rated T, 2983 words, complete, 2022]

"As if in sync, both of them dropped down into fighting stances and tensed their muscles. 'I apologize in advance if I end up killing you,' Nathaniel said, his voice dangerously quiet. Natalie threw her head back and released a sharp peal of laughter, more malicious than anything Andrew had ever heard from her. 'Don’t get cocky, Butcher-boy,' she taunted, her eyes glittering with vicious glee. The Butcher’s smile reappeared on his partner’s face." (a game of darts reminds Andrew that Neil was raised by someone fascinated with knives)

All the masks I've left behind by SagaEllen [Rated T, 1879 words, complete, 2021]

Neil does not cry. Aaron asks for help. And everything is such a mess.

tw: knives, tw: violence

all for his foxes by Olympyas [Not Rated, 2469 words, complete, 2021]

If he wanted to defend his family Neil wouldn't be enough, but someone else would, just this time, just for them. This is how Nathaniel opened the door and managed to stop the knife threw at him. And that was familiar, It even became a reflex by now. They taught him. Lola taught him in a way he wouldn't be able to forget. Lola and Romero come for Neil directly at Palmetto and Neil defends his family.

tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: blood, tw: knives

AU:

Dead Ringer by HalloweenReaper [Rated E, 18892 words, incomplete, last updated Nov. 2023]

“Potential.” Riko slammed Neil against the wall again and whirled on Kevin. Kevin stared back at him, white-faced and tense. “You said that goalkeeper had potential and then wrote him off as useless when I offered him to you....” - The Foxhole Court, Ch. 13. Nathaniel was given to Ichirou as his private hitman after his skills as a marksman were revealed when the Moriyama tracked him and his mother down after they ran away. Riko decided to surprise Kevin with matching “pets” after he found out the goalkeeper Kevin was interested in had a twin. When Nathaniel is ordered to join the Ravens for a year to cover for a series of hits, his smart mouth meets Andrew’s prickly attitude and things get interesting.

tw: abuse, tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: animal abuse, tw: panic attacks

Different Roads by frankelled [Rated T, 33944 words, incomplete, last updated Oct. 2023]

Nathaniel became Ichirou's 2nd when he was 10 years old. To protect Nathaniel from becoming a target no one can know, which leaves him in the Nest. When Kevin's hand breaks Nathaniel is in charge of protecting him from Riko, but now in Palmetto

tw: violence, tw: injuries, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: panic attacks

Andrew's Regret by pandaseek [Not Rated, 13860 words, incomplete, last updated Oct. 2023]

“The first three were all former foster parents of Andrew.” Piggins continued, unable to take a hint from the frosty office he’d admitted these things too. “No.” Aaron panicked, staring at Andrew in disbelief. “Andrew has never been…!” Wymack shifted his weight on the filing cabinet, reaching down to grab his trash can and passing it across Andrew in time for Aaron to grab it and spew a cascade of vile liquid into it, while Andrew pushed his chair onto its back legs and avoided all eye contact with those in the cramped office. Andrew knew who did this. The only person who had ever willingly gone to bat for him. A person he had mistakenly believed to be dead long ago; this was proof to the contrary. Except… Except that there was one name missing. - A prompt from Justthislazy, based on my original Lifeline, that I just had to pick up and run with. Thank you for the amazing idea!

tw: implied/referenced murder, tw: implied/referenced csa

Promise, I Can Give You a Reason by maydaykevin [Rated T, 1689 words, complete, 2023]

Something else happens in the fated Millport locker room.

tw: violence

I'm An Accountant by boomba77 [Not Rated, 24101 words, incomplete, last updated Oct. 2023]

Abram Hatford is an accountant. A legitimate accountant. He may work for an infamous crime family, but his hands have been clean for years (of blood, at least). He is a translator and an accountant. He flies under the radar, his existence hidden from the public by his family, and he prefers it that way. For him, the words ‘safe’ and ‘unknown’ are synonymous. So, when one of the Hatford empire’s more lucrative businesses begins stirring up the wrong kind of attention and losing money as a result, the Hatfords require discretion and brains. Their elusive Abram is the only person for the job. Andrew Minyard is a part-time server at a random diner and a part-time bartender at The Den, where he spends most of his time drinking what he’s supposed to be serving. It isn’t until strange things start happening around the club that Andrew decides to pay a bit more attention to the shady shit going on at his work. And then, when a stranger shows up looking for work with a perfect resume and a symmetrical face, Andrew finds his suspicion, and his interest, double. All of the death and destruction is bad, sure, but at least it’s interesting. OR Waiting for death is not living.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: dissociation, tw: nightmares, tw: panic attacks, tw: scars

Rheostat by NeilfuckingJosten [Rated M, 14315 words, incomplete, last updated Aug 2023]

Nathaniel Wesninski, alias Neil Josten is finally out of the Nest and into the world of professional exy. Deadly, smart and worse than his father, Nathaniel will bring a storm into Andrew's quiet world. AKA, they meet in the pro's.

tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced abuse

I Was Ruined From The Start by BrokenPineTree [Rated M, 39021 words, incomplete, last updated April 2023]

Neil’s grin is audible as he replies. "Riko’s antics getting outed to the public would make him a liability. And I do remember telling you that threats need to be dealt with accordingly." Kevin's stomach lurches into his throat with the conclusions he jumps to. "So, you’re gonna go back to the Nest?" He asks quietly. Slowly. Unsure how to feel about Neil putting himself in that situation again. He can't do that, right? He has other things to worry about now. Neil hums disapprovingly. "Try again," He offers. Kevin does. "You're... coming to Palmetto?" The au where Kevin doesn't have full confidence in Andrew's ability to stand between him and his lurking demons after only spending a few months at Palmetto. But with the dangerous card itching to emerge from under his sleeve, does he really need to?

tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: nonconsensual drug use, tw: panic attacks

True Crime by mostly_maudlin [Rated T, 1789 words, complete, 2022]

All Andrew needed was the WiFi password.

tumblr posts:

Neil Does Not Like when people mess with his people. by @hmmm-shesucks [tumblr, 2023]

Whenever any of the foxes are slightly inconvenienced by someone enough to complain about them, Neil always asks, “Do you want me to take care of it?”

tw: implied/referenced violence

Neil gets in a fight by @hmmm-shesucks [tumblr, 2023]

Neil gets in a fight on the court and it’s one of those where gloves are dropped and helmets are thrown and the punches are quick and hard.

tw: blood, tw: violence

Neil is dangerous and Aaron knows it hc by @thefoxholestuff [tumblr, 2021]

I love the idea of Neil being the really dangerous one rather than Andrew and the Foxes all being Shook and Andrew being a gay disaster over it

Part 2 - an expansion

here’s an expansion of my Neil-is-dangerous-and-Aaron-knows-it post,

one night the foxes are at edens and some guy starts to harass Andrew hc by @zipperuser103 [tumblr, 2021]

I know that Neil “starts fights that he can’t finish”, but I refuse to believe that he has no fighting skills at all.

tw: violence

Art

bamf!Neil by @emry-stars-art

(Feat. BAMF? Assassin? Secret Agent? Neil) by @baylecn

Good boy, junior by @jayjuls

Killer In The Mirror by @allfortheslay25

Killing Eve AU by @rainbowd00dles

Wesninski looks good on you by @ouijacine

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sadraccoon061 · 1 month

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Osedax - AKA, The Bone Eater, The Bone Slurper

Osedax lurks in the shadows of San Myshuno, looking for individuals to seduce so that he can consume their bones.

Part of @gloomiegalaxie-sims's CAS Cryptids challenge!

#cascryptids #cascryptids challenge #gloomie's cascryptids #sims 4 #ts4 #the sims 4 #show us your sims #cryptid sims #cryptid #tw: body horror #tw: blood #tw: stitches #tw: implied/referenced violence #the sims #sims #my sims

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nerdpoe · 3 months

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Part three in Coffee, Honey, and Sometimes Hazelnuts.

In Gotham, after Dick learned of Tim's transition from Alpha to Omega in a very badly worded way, how was he handling it before Jason confirmed that Tim was fine? Well, the short answer is he wasn't.

#implied rape tw #referenced rape tw #blood and violence #dick is perhaps just a little murderhappy #omegaverse #platonic omegaverse #i don't understand DC timelines and i've decided I don't care #Coffee honey and sometimes hazelnuts #fanfic

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serickswrites · 11 months

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Going Down in Flames

Warnings: unclear character status, referenced physical violence, hospital, hurt/aftermath

Caretaker hadn’t left Whumpee’s bedside since the nurses had let them come back. Hadn’t let go of Whumpee’s cold hand. Hadn’t stopped staring at Whumpee’s peaceful, slack face. Hadn’t stopped listening to the monitors telling them that Whumpee was still alive.

For now.

Regret consumed Caretaker. Regret for how they handled the situation. Regret for putting Whumpee in danger. And regret for not being able to save them in time.

Caretaker couldn’t stop replaying what had happened. Couldn’t stop replaying Whumper going to attack them and Whumpee shoving them out of the way. Couldn’t stop replaying seeing Whumper beat Whumpee to unconsciousness. Couldn’t stop replaying seeing Whumper kick Whumpee’s ribs over and over. Couldn’t stop replaying seeing Whumpee barely clinging to life as Caretaker finally got the courage to chase Whumper off. Couldn’t stop replaying seeing Whumpee struggling to breathe and going so very, very still.

Regret filled Caretaker because Whumpee was barely clinging to life and it was all their fault.

#serickswrites #whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whump community #tw unclear character status #tw referenced physical violence #tw hospital #hurt/aftermath #caretaker and whumpee #themerrywhumpofmay #merry whump of may 2023 #day 17 #Going down in flames #prompt: regret #queue

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whumptober · 8 months

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Playlist Loading...

Spotify Youtube* Apple Music

*Content Warning - TW: Implied/referenced SA/gun violence The original music video [not the video linked above] contains content that viewers may find distressing. Viewer discretion is advised when searching for the original music video.

[Image Description: In a similar format to a screenshot of a song, the song title of 'Hit and Run' sits above the artist name 'Lolo'. Both are listed above a central image of the album cover for the 'Hit and Run' single. The time-bar at the bottom reads 2:00. All of this is on a dark yellow background. /End ID]

#playlist loading #playlist2023 #content warning just in case anyone decides to search for the original video on youtube.#whumptober #whumptober2023 #violence tw #implied/referenced assault tw #gun violence tw #sa tw

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writersmorgue · 2 months

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Febuwhump Day 16 - Came Back Wrong

Thank you @lethxia for helping inspire this!

TWs in tags || read on Ao3 || wc: 847

◈━◈━◈━◈━◈

The doctors called it a miracle, but after 31 years of performing these so-called miracles , Shouta knew they were no step above fiction.

And yet, there Oboro was, sitting in a hospital bed.

If the DNA match hadn’t confirmed it, Shouta would’ve believed it was an entirely different man.

When they did the Nomu reversal procedure for the first time, on some kid with a wing quirk, the doctors had to remove his entire quirk factor. Oboro’s situation ended up being sort of the opposite.

Kurogiri had been some mass of black matter, not quite solid or gas, but present enough to be tied down by quirk suppressants.

Oboro’s hair, now, is that same black misty color where it used to be stark white. His eyes shine yellow in the light and a strange TV static surrounds him at all times, like he could phase out of existence at any moment.

The rest of him is generally the same, though he’s grown since Shouta had last seen him. No longer the lanky, energetic 15-year-old, now a solemn old man, who had been held prisoner in some hell limbo between life and death by the world’s most powerful supervillain.

”Oboro?” Mic asks quietly, startling both of the other men.

Oboro’s hair stiffens, like a cat raising its hackles, before softening when he catches sight of them.

“Hey fellas, do you have any news?”

But that’s one thing the years of torment hadn’t changed, he was still selflessly devoted to helping others.

Hizashi shoots him a glance, sighing, “Yeah, we found the documents you mentioned.” He pulls said files out of his book bag and places them on the bed at Oboro’s feet. “They’re not-“

“I know what I’m getting into. I spent years looking after him, remember?” Oboro picks up the Manila envelope, the image of one Tenko Shimura stapled to the front. Big red letters marking him as Missing Deceased.

”You’re sure this is him?” Mic presses, picking at the skin on his thumb. Shouta nudges him, silently telling him to relax.

Oboro looks up at them, flipping the folder around and pointing at the image of Tenko as he might have looked aged up. The young man in the photo looks much healthier, with fuller cheeks and bright eyes, but he unmistakably resembles one Shigaraki Tomura.

“I was All For One’s right-hand pet, I saw the kid when he first took him in, and it was Tenko.” He turns the folder back around, looking at the picture with sad eyes, “I wasn’t able to help him when he was young, still impressionable, but he’s only twenty now,” Oboro looks up at Shouta, “I know there’s a chance we can help him. Him and the rest of them.”

Mic huffs, “The bastard almost killed Shouta.”

Oboro’s eyes flit over the rest of the page, scanning details about the investigation and presumed homicide. Testimonies of family and friends claimed Tenko was a shy, kind boy; Nothing like the psychopath he was molded into.

His eyes pause on the line that gave Shouta doubts about this entire thing.

Tenko had been born quirkless.

“All For One forced a quirk on him that his body and mind couldn’t control.” Oboro reminds him, “He was picked up off the street after losing his entire family. The first person to show him kindness, a warm bed. Of course he was under his spell from the beginning. He was a child, Hizashi.” Oboro’s gaze is ice cold as he stares the hero down, “Mentally, he’s still a child.”

“I didn’t sleep when I was Kurogiri, and often I would hear him wake up screaming, crying for his mother or sister.” Oboro squeezes his eyes closed, shutting the folder and setting it back down on the shitty hospital blanket, “He was severely traumatized, and groomed to be a weapon, a tool for a supervillain.”

Mic has the sense to look guilty, scuffing his boot on the floor, “You’re right, Oboro. I know. It’s just… hard to forget.”

Oboro’s eyes soften, looking between Shouta and Mic, “I know I missed a lot, but I want you to trust me. I’m on your side against All For One, but Tenko, Dabi, Toga, Jin…” He shakes his head, “They deserve a chance.”

As much as Shouta hates to admit it, he’d had a hunch from the start. The first time he’d seen Toga she’d been so young, learning she was barely older than his own current class was as heartbreaking as it was right.

And Dabi… Touya Todoroki. The shit he must have gone through as a child if Shouto’s habits are any indication.

Fuck.

“I agree with Oboro.” Shouta nods, “It’ll be rough, but they deserve our energy. Jin will be the hardest to make a case for, but I think we can do it. If I’m in, so is Tsukauchi.”

Shouta looks into the eyes of his oldest friend, a man he wished every day for over a decade could’ve had a second chance at life, and he makes a promise.

”We’re gonna help them.”

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tryan-a-bex · 6 months

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022), InCryptid - Seanan McGuire Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Gault & Jed Walker, Antimony Price/Sam Taylor Characters: Jed Walker, Gault (The Sandman), Lucien | Lucienne (The Sandman), Alice Price-Healy, Antimony Price, Sam Taylor (InCryptid) Additional Tags: Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Implied/Referenced Torture, flensing, Explosives, Grenades, Knives, Nightmares, Nightmare death, jed walker is a knight, gaulcienne, Canon-Typical Violence, Alice is just being herself, Separation Anxiety, Tea Parties, talking is better than fighting, it's sweet and fluffier than it sounds i promise Series: Part 6 of Walking with the Walkers, Part 10 of A Quiet Love with Wings Summary:

“I hate to ask you this, Gault, but it has to be a Major Arcana and I have a feeling Fiddler’s Green is too peaceful and the Corinthian is too violent. I need someone who can talk her down.” “Of course, Lucienne. You know I will always be willing to help you.” “I know, love! But be careful, will you? None of the nightmares who have been assigned to her this week have come back, and we don’t know what she is doing to them.” “I promise to be careful. I’ll come back to you, Lucienne. Major Arcana, after all. And hopefully whatever she is doing to her nightmares, she won’t do it to a dream.” “Go with my love, then.”

@monsterfucktoberbingo for the cryptid square

#incryptid #gaulcienne #gault and jed #gault #lucienne the librarian #jed walker #alice price-healy #annie price #annie and sam #tryana find it back #the sandman #tw explosives #tw torture #tw knives #no one gets hurt but there is past violence referenced and some threatened violence #it's incryptid canon

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ashintheairlikesnow · 1 year

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⛑ for kauri?

⛑ - Some tender first-aid got this for Chris, too, and I think we should have some Chris and Kauri time

CW: Kauri's Poor Life Choices, drug use, bandaging referenced domestic violence, Kauri's Total Lack of Self-Esteem, accidental whump

Takes place during Chris's time at Nat's safehouse, probably before the end of the second year

"There we go." Kauri soothes, holding Chris's wrist with gentle fingertips just barely touching freckled skin. He wraps the gauze carefully, letting it unroll from its spool even as he tightens it over the gauze pad pressed to the cut. "There, it's okay, Chris. You're okay."

"I just, I, I, I just wanted to, to, to help with dinner-" Chris's face is ruddy with tears, shiny with the tracks drying as he rubs viciously at them with the back of his other hand. Red hair falls over his eyes, growing out by now but not long enough that he'll consent to a haircut yet. He sways to one side, then stops himself, but his hand starts to move, then, rubbing over the seam of his jeans along the outside of his thigh, back and forth, back and forth, seeking the comfort of the rough texture and the thread.

"It's okay," Kauri repeats. "It's okay."

"It's, it's, I'm, I'm so stupid, I can't even c-cut up a bell p-p-p-pepper-"

"You're not stupid." Kauri's eyes are sparkling a little more than they should, his smile is slightly hazy, but Chris doesn't ask what he's on and Kauri doesn't volunteer the information. He had shown up on the front step like this, beautiful and a little scary. "You were just surprised, that's all."

Chris sniffs, hard, rocking forward and back when Kauri lets go of his arm, looking down at the bandage haphazardly applied. Then he looks up at Kauri, slightly sidelong, not quite looking at his eyes. "You, um. Are you okay?"

"Me?" Kauri tips his head to the side, smiling and sunny. Brilliant and sparkling, and he's so high he can barely stand on his own. Antoni is taking a shower, and other than Krista and Ant, Chris is alone in the house, everyone else is out. Krista will fuss and Antoni will press his lips together but no one will tell Kauri to stop. "Of course I am. Why do you ask?"

Chris hesitates, then reaches his uninjured hand up to graze his thumb over Kauri's cheekbone. "You, you, you have a black eye."

Kauri pulls away abruptly, pushing himself to his feet, turning as if to hide the smear of bruising Chris had already noticed. There are more bruises around one wrist. "You're not the only one who's stupid sometimes, Chris."

Chris swallows the pain - he knows Kauri doesn't mean it, not about Chris, even if he always means it when he says it about himself - and stays where he is, swaying side to side. "Did your boyfriend hurt you?"

Kauri laughs, bitter and brittle as glass. "I don't have a boyfriend. Just some guy. Some... just some guy."

"Did he, he, he, um, did he give you-"

Kauri's head whips back to him and Chris swallows the end of his question.

"It's not important," Kauri says, flat. He runs a hand back through the wild tangle of black curls. There's fingernail polish on his nails, black to match, and the leather bracelet that hides his number is buckled so tight it must be painful, too.

There's a speaker playing music off a playlist that Jake made for Chris of all the songs he's mentioned liking since he came here. The song switches, a softly strumming acoustic guitar creating a wistful, pulsing beat with an electric melody over the top before the drums kick in.

I walked through the door with you, the air was cold but something about it felt like home somehow-

Kauri pauses. "I know this song."

"Yeah. Jake, um. Jake says not to to to to tell you. That he has this album. I don't know, um, what it is, but-"

"I do." Kauri throws his head back in laughter that's so sharp and loud it makes Chris jump, his heart skipping a beat. Then Kauri turns and looks at Chris, holding out his hands. He leans over, grinning, but it's a rictus, not an expression. "Jake's sentimental, he just likes to pretend he isn't. Dance with me, Chris."

"... what?"

Oh, your sweet disposition and my wide-eyed gaze-

"Dance! I want to dance. Come here." Kauri moves and takes his hand even though Chris hasn't moved yet, pulls him so close their bodies are pressed together and Chris shivers. Kauri's face is an inch away from his or less. His breath is warm against Chris's cheek.

"Kauri... we, we, we aren't supposed to-"

"I'm not going to kiss you, Chris, I just want to dance."

"... okay. I, I, I can do that."

He's scared of Kauri, a little, when he shows up like this. Too scared to say no.

"Good." Kauri slides arms around him. He moves Chris's arms up around his shoulders, and Chris feels the heat coming off of him like a furnace as they sway to the music. Kauri lays his head on Chris's shoulder even though Chris is shorter than he is or maybe they're the same height. His wrist aches, but Chris bites his lip against the pain. He can't pull away.

He isn't made to be able to pull away.

It'll be fine.

Kauri would never hurt him.

And I might be okay but I'm not fine at all-

Kauri's hair tickles his neck for a while, prickles and irritates where Chris's collar once was, but he never says anything. He lets Kauri lead their slight, soft movements to the beat, feels his own pulse beat not quite in time with the song.

At some point, he feels a shudder go through Kauri. The older man's shoulders are shaking. His breath hitches, soft as a whisper, but Chris knows that sound. He's made it himself, so many times. Chris pulls him even more tightly against him, telling himself to be brave. "Kauri-"

"Don't." Kauri's voice is tight.

And you call me up again just to break me like a promise, so casually cruel in the name of being honest-

"Kauri, please-"

"I said don't, Chris. I don't want to talk about it."

I'm a crumpled up piece of paper lying here cause I remember it all too well-

"Kauri, what, what, what's wrong-"

Kauri's hands press to Chris's shoulder blades, fingernails digging in. The kitchen light buzzes overhead, a sound Chris can hear but no one else can, apparently. Except Kauri, sometimes.

"I'm so stupid, that's what," Kauri whispers, lips moving against Chris's neck, his earlobe. "Not you, you're great, but I'm... I'm so fucking stupid, Chris. Why did I think I could go? Why did I try to start over?"

Time won't fly, it's like I'm paralyzed by it... I'd like to be my old self again but I'm still trying to find it-

"What?"

"They're all him," Kauri says, voice low. "In the end. Everyone just ends up being him all over again. I think they're going to be different, and then they're not, and why do I keep trying?"

'Cause there we are again when I loved you so-

Kauri pulls away, violently, sending Chris stumbling back until he backs into a chair and trips over the legs, crashing to the ground, landing on his injured wrist with a soft cry.

Back before you lost the one real thing you've ever known-

Kauri's eyes widen and he leans forward to offer Chris his hand, only for the younger man to flinch away from him instinctively. Kauri freezes, blue eyes wide, no longer hazy.

The guilt in them is glittering, crystal-clear.

"Oh, shit. Chris, I'm sorry-... it was an accident, I didn't mean to-" He freezes, hearing his own words, and Chris watches Kauri's heart shatter as he hears himself saying what's been said to him already, a thousand times before, by people who have hurt him.

"What happened?" Krista is in the doorway, ponytail skimming her shoulders. "Oh, Chris, oh no-"

"Oh, god," Kauri whispers, and backs up. "Oh my god-"

Antoni is right behind Krista, the two of them moving to Chris, who is curling up around himself, looking down at the ground, shaking his head back and forth. He's not listening to them.

But he can hear Kauri's intake of breath, watching.

Antoni turns to look over his shoulder. "What happened, Kauri?"

"I-... I was just-... we were dancing and I-"

"What happened to your eye?" Antoni's eyebrows furrow. "Oh, Kasha, no."

Kauri's jaw works, his chin goes up, and he turns without a word and walks out the front door, slamming it behind him.

"Kasha, wait-..." Antoni takes in a deep breath "Take Chris back to Jake's room," Antoni says softly, meeting Krista's eyes over Chris's head. "I will go after Kauri."

"After Kauri," Krista echoes, but nods, and helps Chris stand. The music has changed, Chris hates the new song even though it's been his favorite. It's too happy, and there can't be happy music over a moment like this.

Antoni goes out the door, leaving Krista and Chris alone in the kitchen.

Chris hears him call Kauri's name, already faint, and knows that Kauri is running-

Antoni is running after him.

"Call Jake," Chris whispers. "We, we, we should call Jake."

"Call Jake. Um, I think he's... with his girlfriend, with Addie-..."

"I want Jake."

Krista swallows and nods. "I want Jake, too."

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @canniboylism

#erase to control #Kauri's Poor Life Choices #drug use tw #drugs tw #trauma recovery #domestic violence references #referenced abusive relationship #black eye #recovering whumpee #chris the strawberry blond romantic #imperfect survivor #oh kauri #angst angst angst

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aftgficrec · 4 days

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My favorite fics are soft andriel, and teen andriel.

Here’s my recs:

Raised on little light by maqicien

Falling is a lot like drowning by chaoticas_hell

This wasn’t in the prophecy (series) by Arirmis

(Account locked) Raise me up so you can watch me fall by Yes_No_ofcourse

And this last one is angst and dark but I do love it

Hiding scars under exy gear By rinz

Wow, that’s a lot of recs in one submission! Usually we just get one or two 🤣. - S

You can find some of those fics here:

‘Raised on Little Light’ here (since updated)

‘Falling Is A Lot Like Drowning’ here (since updated)

‘Raise me up so you can watch me fall’ here (locked, now complete)

This wasn’t in the prophecy by Arirmis [Rated T/M, 73294 words, incomplete, last updated Feb 2024]

Percy Jackson AU where all of the foxes are demigods, Andrew meets Neil shortly after his mom dies, and joins him on the run instead of going back to camp. Part one spans from their first meeting to their first kiss; Part two will take place a few years later, when certain circumstances force them to return to camp, and Andrew has to deal with what he left behind, on top of their current problem. While both fics should be able to be read individually, it does make more sense if you read them in order :)

Part 1: Cross your fingers, here we go (T, 25037 words, complete)

Millport is a horrible, dry as fuck little town in the vast nothingness of the dust hole that is Arizona, and Andrew hates it with vigor. He has been tracking a horde of Manticores for weeks now, and isn’t that something? A half-blood having to chase after the monsters. He is starting to feel like one of Renee’s hunters, when Andrew is pretty sure the nasty scorpion-cats should want to kill him more then he wants to kill them. Or, Andrew expected to find all sorts of things on his first quest. He didn’t expect a twitchy, blue-eyed half-blood with monsters on his heels, and he surely didn’t expect to fall in love with him.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/non-con, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: child neglect, tw: assumed character death

Part 2: Mortal Bodies, Timeless Souls (M, 48257 words, incomplete)

„Minyard! Get your ass up and put some armor on! Abby, Greene, get the infirmary in shape, border control just spotted a motherfucking Drakon in the woods!“ As if Wymack’s order triggered it, a ear grating screech echoes all the way to the big house. The camp counselor curses. „Move it people, there are half-bloods out there that need to get to safety!“ Or, for two and a half years, Aaron has been grieving the brother he buried, only to learn now, that Andrew is very much alive. He also has a scarred little shithead in tow, that Aaron wants to punch in the face regularily. Life is fun like that.

tw: blood, tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/non-con, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: child neglect, tw: assumed character death, tw: vomit

Hiding scars (under exy gear) by rinz [Rated M, 34309 words, incomplete, last updated March 2024]

Juggling a mobster serial killer household and high school is harder than Neil had anticipated. and that goth kid on the roof really needs to mind his own business. OR a high school AU where neil and mary never run from nathan and neil meets the foxes in private high school instead.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: imlied/referenced torture, tw: graphic violence

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proudfreakmetarusonniku · 7 months

Text

Primetober Day 4: With Friends Like This…, with all bonus prompts (Fighting, verbal abuse, and destruction of property.)

Dragon AU. In an act of defiance, Tommy tries to damage other parts of the “hoard” Dream keeps him trapped in. Dream, coldly furious, makes Tommy regret it without even lifting a finger. Warnings for self harm, suicidal thoughts, kidnapping, abuse, torture, referenced mutilation, referenced child death, dehumanisation, infantilisation, possessive behaviour, and threats of violence.

ao3 link

—— Tommy’s knuckles bled.

Wood and bone and stranger material aside lay rend to nothing in the hoard of treasure, the magic inside them diffusing into the air. Shards of glass and crystal dug deep into his skin, leaving wounds Tommy could only hope would scar, marring his skin, breaking him too.

If he could not leave this gilded prison, he’d tear off the gold and refuse to play nice. He’d bite and scratch and scream and make himself no longer worthy of hoarding.

Prime knows how long he’d been in this cave. He couldn’t see the days change, and Dream’s sleeping schedule was erratic enough that he couldn’t rely on that either. He’d grown a little taller, and his hair was a lot longer, so it had to have been a while, yet the images of blood and fire and pain still felt like it was yesterday, waking him up with screaming fits the rare times he caught sleep.

He was sixteen when his home was destroyed. When the monster from the storybooks burnt everything to the ground, gutted soldiers effortlessly through their armour, tore kids hiding in the corner to shreds. Tommy was the only survivor, though trophy seemed the more appropriate word.

If you were to ask Dream, he’d say it was because Tommy was the only person he’d met with the guys to stand against him without trying to hide behind iron shells and sharp sticks, with only his fists and a scared yet determined look in his eyes. Tommy got the impression it was more because being the great and terrible monster who destroyed villages for fun was a lonely life, and he was just the unlucky son of a bitch chosen to try and play therapist to a fucking dragon, but he knew better than to say it. He wanted at least one working arm, if nothing else.

He liked to imagine he was grown now. No longer a child under any stretch of the imagination, no matter how little Dream treated him like a “hatchling”, as he called it in his weird way of speaking. He was grown, and no one could call him a kid again without them being the childish one. He was mature now, like Tubbo was.

That thought felt like a flaw through the chest. Prime, he missed Tubbo. At least he never saw him die. He could delude himself into believing he escaped, somehow. It was a blatant lie to himself, and he knew that, but it served to cushion the blow, just a bit.

So did breaking things.

Priceless artefacts lay shattered, rare collectables and historic art pieces and ancient magic. Gone, destroyed, bloodied. They were a part of the same hoard Tommy had been trapped in, Dream seeming to view chasing him down, hurting him until he couldn’t move, and dragging him back to the literal gilded cage he spent most his time in as a game, and Tommy reckoned they’d been there longer than he’d been alive times, like, a billion. They weren’t doing anyone any good.

But even if they would, he didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care. He just wanted to hurt Dream. He wanted to show him he wasn’t a cute little pet human to coo over and torment, a jewel to keep locked up in a display case. No, he was Tommy, angry, violent, human. If Dream wanted to hold him captive, he had to know that Tommy would make it as difficult as possible.

And maybe, just maybe, Dream would kill him, and he could join Tubbo.

He breathed heavily, exhaustion overtaking him, and he dragged himself up the endless pile of useless stuff to the soft blankets and endless pillows at the top. Even if it meant locking himself back into a display, he didn’t mind. Maybe then Dream would see what he did. Maybe then Dream would fucking listen to him.

Halfway up, though, he felt a heavy tug on the back of his tunic, the only warning before claws dug into his back and he was dragged back to the ground. He landed with a thud, before something shifted and in a flash, he went from a paw holding him down to the weight of a person pinning him.

Opening his eyes, Tommy looked up at his own face.

That was one of the torturous things about Dream- his insistence on parading a parody of Tommy’s form around. Warped, a sickly pale green and with his monstrous features slapped atop, but still recognisably Tommy as of his capture, the same scratch wounds on his arms, the bruises on his face, and almost unscarred, unlike the mess of burns and cuts and injuries coating Tommy now. It was uncanny, and still, it made Tommy long for a time he’d never get back, when he felt whole in body, mind and soul, and not an empty shell.

“Tommy.”

Dreams’ voice was calm, eerily empty of any emotion. His face was blank, too, and that was scarier than anger. Dream loved being able to emote in his human form- grinning and giggling like an idiot whenever he was mildly happy, crying his eyes out when he was a little disappointed. Not even bothering with that told Tommy that whatever he felt, it was so far past bothering to even show. He wasn’t even sure if that thought made sense, but it was hard to make sense out of anything through the blind panic.

“I- I-“Tommy’s voice died in his throat.

“Quiet.”

Tommy shrunk, instinctively expecting a broken bone, another missing finger maybe, but Dream just stared down, expressionless. “I know what you’re trying to do, hatchling.” His tail wagged aggressively behind him, thumping loudly on the ground in contrast to how eerily calm he looked. “You’re trying to piss me off, so I decide you’re not worth keeping, and I’ll let you go or kill you, right?”

Tommy nodded his head, unable to speak.

“You’re not as smart as you think you are, little one.” Dream let out a barking laugh, one that lacked any humour. “I don’t care about how valuable something is for you humans. Gold, silver, gems, your sticks you use to access magic and scribble papers, they only matter because they interest me. And Tommy… you’re far more valuable than any other thing here. Unlike all my other trophies, you’re fun to play with.”

Dream smiled slowly, baring sharp teeth awkwardly stuck into a human mouth. The memories of such razor-sharp blades digging into his flesh sent phantom pain through the scars left by them, agonising enough that he couldn’t help but whimper. There was no ambiguity as to what he meant by that, and it sent a chill up Tommy’s spine. He wouldn’t even be allowed to die, not while the monster from his nightmares had fun torturing him like a cat would a mouse.

“But of course, I can’t let you just get away with that, can I? I have a reputation to upkeep.” There was a faint hint of what might have been sadness in that, barely peeking through his unreadable tone, but it disappeared as soon as it broke through. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. You’ve shown me that doesn’t work, haven’t you?”

He grinned again, and Tommy’s stomach dropped. “No, no. The second you step out of line again, Tommy, I’m going take you to show what happened to your little human lair, and I’m gonna destroy one more for each little mistake you make. And I’ll make sure you see every second of it. Maybe I’ll even bring some humans back to take my time playing with, before I get bored of them. Maybe I’ll make you hurt them too.”

Tommy felt sick. He couldn’t even bear to think about- about the outside, about his home. The image of it, picturesque and whole in his memories, still caused him to tear up, let alone the nightmares. The idea of seeing it now, ruined and shattered, seemed horrific, and even worse was the idea of anyone else going through the same thing, seeing their home burnt to the ground, dying horribly in the wreckage. Or being brought back to- to really, just be tortured, and then probably eaten once Dream got bored or hungry or whatever, without even the scattered, confused kindness Dream tried to show to him.

And the idea of doing what was done to him to others? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. No. No, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t live with himself, knowing that agony.

Tommy tried his best to stay calm, to be a Big Man, but like a goddamn pussy he couldn’t help himself but burst into tears.

Absently, Dream ran a claw gently across his face, curiously tracing the path of the tears, eyes widening slightly in fascination. “Don’t worry. Just be the perfect treasure, and that won’t have to happen, ’kay?”

“H-how?” Tommy’s voice was strangled, terrified. It took all he had left to even say them. “How do I- do I stop that?”

“Just don’t try stupid shit again, alright? And talk to me. It’s interesting, hatchling. I’ve never had anyone to talk to before.” It was said so casually, but even in this state, Tommy was struck by how fucking sad that was. Dream really was doing this out of loneliness, wasn’t he? Maybe… maybe it wasn’t so bad to stay here, and be friends with Dream.

“Okay.” Tommy nodded, hating how weak he sounded. “J-just, please. Don’t hurt anyone else.”

“I can’t promise that.” Dream sounded sad again. “I- I exist for a reason, y’know, Tommy. Some things are made to ruin. They don’t have a choice. Do you think I want this? This pile of useless goods? This lonely existence? There needs to be a villain for every hero.” Dream sighed. “I don’t wanna talk about this. It’s- I’m not meant to; humans and hatchlings aren’t to know.”

The idea seemed strange. That Dream was as much a prisoner as Tommy… it didn’t make sense, yet Tommy found an odd sense of kinship in it. Maybe that’s why Dream seemed so oddly fascinated that he chose to fight him. Maybe he’d fought his role already. Maybe… he could find a way to make Dream only hurt him.

Or maybe it was a lie. But Tommy would let himself believe a comforting one, if only to give him the strength to stop Dream from doing what he did to him to anyone else.

After all, no one but Tommy deserved it.

#My writing #cprimetober #c!primeboys #dream smp #self harm tw #Suicidal thoughts tw #Kidnapping tw #abuse tw #torture tw #referenced mutilation tw #referenced child death tw #Dehumanisation tw #infantilisation tw #Possessive behaviour tw #Threats of violence tw

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legends-of-time · 2 months

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Strength of a High and Noble Hill (Outlander Story) - Masterlist

Timelines:

19th and 20th Centuries

17th and 18th Centuries

Fraser Descendants (family tree)

Warnings:

Major Character Death, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Racism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con

Summary:

May 1744

He wriggles his toes, feeling his environment. He quickly realises how much his surroundings are constricted, his legs are tightly bound and he is being cradled in someone’s arms. He opens his eyes and sees a woman leaning over him and realises she must be the one holding them. She’s humming softly with a warm and happy smile. He can see that her skin is clammy and there are bruises under her eyes, the eyes that are amber, golden-brown as well as smoky topaz, but that doesn’t dim her smile as she gazes upon the person in her arms. She’s white and her brown hair surrounds her face in messy curls.

——

What if Claire and Jamie’s first baby survived and what if it had been a boy. How will the story change?

Chapters:

Chapter 1: Birth

Chapter 2: First Months

Chapter 3: Peaceful Family Life Disrupted

Chapter 4: Goodbyes

Chapter 5: New Beginnings

Chapter 6: A Fish Out of Water

Chapter 7: Conflict

Chapter 8: Sister

Chapter 9: Returning

Chapter 10: The Truth

Chapter 11: The Loss of Hope

Chapter 12: Coping with Change

Chapter 13: Finding Him

Chapter 14: Moving to the Past

Chapter 15: Loss

Chapter 16: Lost Family

Chapter 17: A New but Old World

Chapter 18: Reunited at Last

Chapter 19: Big Brother

Chapter 20: Coming Together

Chapter 21: Fathers

Chapter 22: Dreams

Chapter 23: Fathers and Their Archaic Ways

Chapter 24: River Run

Chapter 25: A New but Old Face

Chapter 26: Caught in the Act

Chapter 27: Family Time

Chapter 28: New Beginnings

Chapter 29: Waiting

Chapter 30: Old Dreams

Chapter 31: Inferiority Complex

Chapter 32: Community Swelling

Chapter 33: Purpose

Chapter 34: First Sight

Chapter 35: Is it Happily Ever After?

Chapter 36: Gifts and Awkward Conversations

Chapter 37: Unravels

Chapter 38: Lay Up Trouble For Yourself

Chapter 39: War Wins Land, Peace Wins People

Chapter 40: Life Goes On But The Threat Looms

Chapter 41: Building Arsenal

Chapter 42: Romeo and Juliet

Chapter 43: Baggage Weighs You Down

Chapter 44: Misunderstandings

Chapter 45: Should auld acquaintance be forgot?

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serickswrites · 1 year

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Undercover II

Part 1 Part 3

Warnings: referenced wounds, healing, concern, fear, threat of violence, caretaker and whumpee, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

Caretaker was in the med bay when they heard some agents walk by talking about the next mission that Organization was looking to assign.

“Yeah, they’re wanting someone to go after Whumper,” one whispered to the other.

“Whumper? Really? Hope they get a whole team together,” the other replied quietly.

“For a suicide mission like this? Such a waste of life to send a whole team out after them.”

“It’s going to take a whole team to take Whumper down. I bet they only go for the best.”

The first agent looked up and saw Caretaker staring. Caretaker quickly returned to their inventory task, trying to look like they weren’t listening in. But the damage was done. The two agents left quickly.

Caretaker sighed. They hoped that this mission, for whoever was going on it, would go without hitch. Missions like this kept Caretaker busy. And not just with injuries. Every once in a while, especially with missions like this, an agent would end up on Caretaker’s slab in a body bag.

A knock came from the door. “Hey, Caretaker,” Whumpee said, crooked smile gracing their face.

“Whumpee! Come in. How are you? Let me have a look.”

Whumpee walked in slowly, carefully. “All better, really. Couldn’t have done it without you, Caretaker.”

“Whumpee, you really need to be more careful.”

Whumpee rolled their eyes. “I’m always careful, Caretaker. And I always come back to you. You take such good care of me.”

Caretaker frowned. “Yeah, but I wish I didn’t have to.” They reached out to Whumpee and stopped. Their eyes narrowed. “Why do I feel like you came in here to say goodbye?”

Whumpee had the decency to look sheepish. “Uh, well, you see--”

“Whumpee you aren’t healed enough to go anywhere. I only took out your stitches yesterday!”

“And my skin is still all intact! I’m fine, Caretaker, really. And besides, I wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to put a stop to Whumper.” Whumpee crossed their arms.

“Whumpee, I don’t want you to go on this mission. It sounds dangerous!”

Whumpee rolled their eyes once more. “Every mission I go on is dangerous.”

“This is more dangerous! I don’t like the idea of you going out there and me staying here. Not knowing if you’re ok. Not knowing what’s happening. Not knowing if you’re even alive,” Caretaker got choked up at the last. They turned away, not wanting Whumpee to see their tears.

Whumpee was suddenly right behind Caretaker, spinning Caretaker into their arms. They wrapped their arms around Caretaker and kissed Caretaker’s forehead. “I’ll be fine. And remember, I always come back to you.”

Tags: @painsthegame

#serickswrites #whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whump community #tw referenced wounds #tw healing #tw concern #tw fear #tw threat of violence #caretaker and whumpee #hurt/aftermath #hurt/recovery #queue #this has one more part

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zacharyleigh316 · 3 months

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the haunting cry of a hollow heart

the haunting cry of a hollow heart | E | 8.6K | Read here (or below cut)

Castiel, despite his interest in all things other, despite his favor for the fantastical, his love for reading stories and fairytales, despite his faith and religion, he didn’t believe in the supernatural. --

Though, regrettably, much to his chagrin, perhaps if he had, he wouldn’t have been so unprepared. --

He believed in the afterlife, believed in God, angels (he was named after one, after all) and demons, Heaven and hell. But that was where his belief both started and ended. He didn’t believe in those creatures the very stories he loved to read warned him about, the creatures that shape-shifted, or sucked humans dry. The creatures that feasted on dead flesh, or came from other lands, other universes.

Though, regrettably, much to his chagrin, perhaps if he had, he wouldn’t have been so unprepared. However, less regrettably, it did put him in the position of crossing paths with a man who, by all accounts would have never known he’d existed, a handsome athlete who ran in completely different crowds—or so he presumed originally—a man who he only knew in name until the very object of his disbelief brought them together.

Castiel was working late in the library that night, when he heard Charlie’s bright voice greet him from a distance.

“Yo, what’s up?” She had a grin on her face, of which he could hear before he even saw her.

Not that it was very hard, even over the stacks of books he was carting around, and through the thick bindings of ones already shelved, her bright red bob could be seen coming across campus.

“Charlie.” He said in lieu of a proper hello, but his tone was no less fond.

“Look at what I found.”

Castiel didn’t have time to ask before she was thrusting a piece of paper to his chest, a smug look on her face.

“And by found, naturally you mean…” he asked skeptically, pulling the paper away from himself and reading it.

“This is a flyer for the gala. The same flyer that’s been posted to the events billboard since the beginning of the semester.”

“Okay, so I might have taken-“

“Pilfered-“

Charlie playfully shoved his shoulder, and shot him a glare, without any of its usual bite, had it been directed toward anyone but him.

“-Taken,” she repeated, purposefully ignoring his correction, “from one of the boards, yes, but there’s so many of them, it’s not like they’ll miss one.”

Castiel hummed disapprovingly, but let her continue.

“I thought we could go!”

At that, Castiel furrowed his brow. “Go? To the Valentine’s Day gala?”

“Yeah! C’mon, it'll be fun. We’ll stuff our faces with free food, and watch people get shitfaced and make fools of themselves on the dance floor. Think of all the blackmail.”

“And with whom are you thinking of bringing as your date?”

“You, silly, duh! We’ll go together. As friends of course. Because you’re dreamy, but definitely not my type. Seeing as you’re not a girl.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “You’re not my type either.” He muttered, handing her back the flyer.

The ‘seeing as I like guys’ went unsaid, but Charlie smiled anyway. They both knew this of one another of course, having been friends since freshman year, when Charlie bounded into his life uninvited but no less welcome, but Charlie liked to bring it up every now and then, “as a reminder” she had said once, flourishing it with a wink. Though, it was her odd idiosyncrasies that made her so likable by even someone like Castiel himself—not that he was entirely lacking in those either, except, people usually steered clear of him for his.

“And who knows, maybe there’ll be some hot people there we can hit on. Wins all around the board.” Charlie added jovially, taking the flyer back, only to wave it about the air as she gestured excitedly.

“You make it sound like we’re already going.”

She smiled at him guiltily, and Castiel couldn’t help but sigh.

“Charlie…”

“Don’t be mad, okay? Promise you won’t be mad?”

“That depends. What did you do?” He asked, though by the look on his friend’s face, he was certain he already knew the answer.

“About that…I…might have already…bought us tickets. To go.”

“Charlie…” Castiel said again, not bothering to hide the weariness in his voice.

“You said you wouldn’t be mad!”

“Actually I said it depends. But that’s not the point. You never asked if I would want to attend.”

“Well, that’s because I knew you’d say no.” Charlie snorted, not looking all that sorry for it.

Castiel knew she wasn’t.

“You don’t do anything fun unless we make you, and this is me making you. Besides, you can’t say you’d rather be working late hours in the library of all places, all by yourself, again, when you can be hanging out with the coolest people on the planet! And you know I’m right.”

Castiel sighed again, this time in, albeit reluctant, acquiescence. Not that Charlie would take no for an answer, anyway.

She grinned at the droop of his shoulders, knowing full well that was him giving up the fight. The queen, per usual, proved her right to the title; Castiel was no stranger to loss when it came to arguing with Charlie. He was certain no one was. She got her way in the end, eventually.

“Fine.”

“Yes! No one deserves to be alone on Valentine’s Day, Castiel. Even jaded history majors with a work study in the university library, such as yourself.”

“I’m not jaded,” he defended, turning back to his long since forgotten task of shelving the returns. “My people skills are just…rusty.”

“Unless they learned to talk back, which would be super cool by the way, burying yourself in work with books as your only company isn’t going to help.”

That, Castiel surmised, was a lesson he knew all too well.

Ever since her reveal that they would be attending the gala, courtesy to none other than herself, Charlie hadn’t shut up about it. Every chance she got she talked about it with the excitement erring on that of a small child, that Castiel couldn’t help but allow it to bleed into himself, despite his earlier grievances. He still had his doubts of course, feeling rather under qualified for a social occasion such as a dance, but it really did beat staying in library, or worse, in his dorm, all by himself, with nothing to do whilst his friends had fun living life—he’d also rather not have to hear the couple in the room beside him have raucous sexual relations all night. He, too, has learned that lesson the hard way.

“We should go shopping this weekend, make it a whole thing.” Charlie suggested to the table, before stealing some of the fries off Castiel’s plate, having finished her own minutes prior, and popping them into her mouth.

Gabriel snorted. “What makes you think we don’t already have outfits?”

Meg, who was pretending not to listen, but so clearly was, looked up from her phone with a smirk. “We’ve all seen inside your closet, that’s what.”

“I’ll have you know that everything in there is peak fashion.”

Meg raised a manicured brow. “To whom exactly? The dead guy you inherited it second hand from?”

“Hey! Thrifting is very efficient, and cost effective. You know, for a college student.”

“You’re a graduate student, mastering in business management, I hardly think you need to be frugal.” She argued, and Gabe crossed his arms, pouting.

“Cassie, you’re just going to let her be mean to me?!”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Meg didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

Gabriel gasped, looking thoroughly offended. He shook his head, and sullenly turned back to his own food.

“Don’t worry, Gabe, we’ll pick something real nice for you. Oh, we can even do a montage!”

“Sorry, Red. You may be able to get me to tag along at the mall with you, but I’m not going to be participating in that.” Meg said defiantly, her mind already made.

“But…montage.”

Gabe scoffed, muttering into his lunch. “Forget trying to convince this one, Charles, she’s stubborn. Like a mu-OW!”

Meg glared at Gabe, who was now rubbing his shin, from across the table. “Finish that, and die.”

“We’ll be there.” Castiel said suddenly, interrupting his friend’s antics. “Unless you’d rather show up naked.” He said this to his brother.

“Ew. Don’t give him ideas.” Charlie scrunched up her face in disgust, and Gabriel let out a laugh.

“Hey! There’d be a lot of people who’d enjoy that kind of show.”

“In your dreams.” Meg said, at the same time of Castiel’s, “not if it got you kicked out.”

“You lot are so boring.” Charlie whined, finishing off Castiel’s fries too. “Regardless of whether or not you guys are doing a montage, I’m making you watch me do one.”

The four of them set out that weekend to go shopping for outfits, and, although they shared their initial reluctance at lunch all those days prior to their outing, Charlie did, in the end, get her montage(s). Castiel, despite feeling foolish whilst modeling his various selection of outfits—all chosen meticulously for him by Charlie and Meg because he “couldn’t be trusted to put together a coherent look that both fit properly and wasn’t a boring color”—couldn’t have denied his red headed friend in the first place. By the two additional shows they got alongside his and Charlie’s, he figured it was much the same for Meg and Gabriel too.

Castiel wouldn’t be incorrect in presuming that Charlie already knew this, but he’d be damned if he told her that she was right, that he had fun, of course he did, in time that would have otherwise been spent in solitude brought upon by no one but himself, lest he inflate her ego any further.

With four new outfits under their metaphorical belts, they left their shopping spree in good spirits. It was only natural then, that the overall good mood wouldn’t last, and the playful camaraderie established between the friends would change the second they got back to campus, to blue and red flashing lights.

“What…do you think happened?” Charlie asked, her expression mirroring what Castiel was sure all their faces looked like in that moment.

He shook his head in lieu of answering, and swallowed down the bile rising in his throat.

As they neared the quad, they merged silently with the ever growing group of onlookers, most of whom were peers and faculty, whispers amongst the sea of people seeming all too loud over the eerie blanket of quiet. The cops, separated from them only by a thin barrier of police tape, stood just along edges of the area they cordoned off, no doubt keeping the crowd at bay. They offered no explanation, though Castiel could barely make out the murmured “stay back”s over the dread in his gut.

He did hear the sharp inhale beside him, however, that was Meg, he was certain, closely followed by a gasp, Charlie, and when he looked over, he saw why.

There, lying just beyond, was a body.

The grass was dark, no doubt stained crimson from blood, and the large gaping wound, from where the skull was bashed in, from which could be none other than its source, was still seeping, still fresh. The eyes stared out, wide and unseeing, as Castiel stared back in abject horror.

That was when he saw him. Jaw set and arms crossed, just across the way on the other side, stood Dean Winchester.

The man looked determined, not surprised at all to see the dead body of a classmate, in fact, and Castiel couldn’t help but watch, watch as Dean seemed to assess, seemed to study the crime scene in front of them, as if he was filing it away for later. Castiel recognized that look, because it was one he shared whenever he was trying to solve a puzzle.

Dean looked up then, like he could feel Castiel’s gaze on him, and their eyes met. The moment they did, Castiel remembered—albeit rather shamefully—the way stomach flipped for an entirely different reason than the horrific sight before them. Gabe’s iron grip on his arm was the only thing able to pull his attention away, and so he took the time to check in on the well-being of his friends, but by the time Castiel got the chance to look back, Dean was already gone.

To say the suicide—it was classified as a suicide—stirred up the atmosphere on campus, would be an understatement. Castiel couldn’t remember a time where he’d felt so shaken in his faith, so rocked to the core, raw and open and vulnerable. It was on everyone’s minds, and on everyone’s lips, and it was all anyone heard about the next few days. They didn’t cancel classes, or work, the world still went on—even though their fellow classmate’s’ was cut short, Castiel reminded himself—everything proceeding as normal, as if someone hadn’t just died, and perhaps that was worse.

Castiel didn’t know what he expected, or why he thought it would go differently, but he prayed and prayed and prayed for peace for the lost soul. Still, he couldn’t get the image out of his head. Nor could he get a certain cutting figure, but that was neither here nor there.

The very little information he had was acquired secondhand from the tail-ends of gossip, at work in the library. Apparently, or so the running theory was, the young woman, in a bout of madness, bashed her head against the tree until she dropped. Another student on their way back to their dorm found her and called the proper authorities. Castiel couldn’t imagine being the one to find the body, and he’d seen it for himself that night. He also heard that the woman’s boyfriend was beside himself with grief, most understandably, that not even he believed she would kill herself, that they were happy. She’d begged him to take her to the gala and he’d agreed.

Castiel also heard that her brains had been sucked out, but he was certain that was just hearsay; she had severe head trauma, after all, it probably only seemed like her brains were gone, when in reality they were just…well.

Shaking his head from his musings, if they’d even be called that, he got back to work, trying to lose himself in the repetitiveness of routine. Charlie had been unnaturally quiet the past few days, the dance quickly overshadowed by the recent events that transpired, and none of them felt it right to change the subject either. Castiel understood, for he was much the same, but he relished in being able to escape feeling for however long his shift was.

“Uh, hey, do you have any books on Gaelic mythology and folklore?”

Castiel paused what he was doing, and turned to greet the voice—definitely not Charlie this time—only to meet a pair of recently familiar, but quite beautiful up close, green eyes.

“Oh. Hello, Dean.” He said dumbly, but was rewarded with an amused smirk.

“Heya, Cas. Well, do you?”

Castiel furrowed his brow. “What.”

Dean chuckled. “Have books. On Gaelic folklore.”

Castiel inwardly cursed his ineptitude, and allowed himself to blink, forcing his basic motor functions to, well, function.

“Yes. We do. You know who I am?”

Dean regarded him curiously, brow raised. “Well, yeah. You’re friends with Charlie. We’ve never had the pleasure of meeting before, but she does talk about her other friends.”

“Oh.” He said again, finding himself at a loss for words.

Dean didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he still seemed rather amused by it, much to Castiel’s displeasure.

Instead of dwelling on it, however, Castiel abandoned his cart and gestured to Dean for him to follow, leading the other man to the section where he’d find what he was looking for.

“If you need anything else, let me know.”

He didn’t ask why an engineering student would need a book on Gaelic folklore, nor did Dean offer up an explanation.

“Awesome, thanks Cas.”

The nickname stole Castiel’s breath away with a familiarity he wasn’t aware they had, because they didn’t, not really—Dean was just friendly it seemed—also did he say he knew Charlie, she never said anything why didn’t she say anything—and he stood there, lingering longer than he should, awkwardly shifting in place.

“I’m…going to go…now.” He announced unhelpfully, and Dean had the decency not to comment on it.

“You do that.” He replied with a smile, and turned his attention to the shelves.

Castiel, released from whatever hold the other man had on him the second his gaze was elsewhere and no longer pointed at him, quickly made his way back to finish his work, lest he embarrass himself further.

“I wasn’t aware you knew Dean Winchester.” He grumbled to Charlie at dinner that night.

“Dean? He’s my handmaiden, of course I know Dean.”

Gabriel snorted. “Handmaiden?”

“There’s a story to that, I can tell.” Meg said, amused.

Charlie chuckled, a welcomed sound that the group hadn’t realized they missed until they heard it.

“There is, but I’m not telling. A queen’s gotta have her secrets.”

Meg clicked her tongue disapprovingly, and Gabriel groaned, complaining about “being edged, and not in the fun way” which promptly earned a smirk from Meg, a loud, boisterous laugh from Charlie, and a look of disgust from Castiel.

There was another ‘suicide’ reported that night.

Castiel was in the hall heading to his religious studies class when he next ran into Dean Winchester. He couldn’t fathom how he went his entire college career without so much as seeing a glimpse of the man, and now he saw him thrice in a matter of a few days. All because their peers appeared to be being picked off one by one.

There were now an accumulated three deaths since the first, and Castiel’s doubt had steadily increased right alongside the creeping uptick in body counts. He detested his wavering faith in the police, but there was only so many ‘suicides’ exacted in the same manner that they couldn’t be categorized as ‘suicides’ anymore. Two could possibly pass a coincidence, but three was a pattern; he knew that much. He had pondered, however, the reluctance in which the police seemed to label the ‘suicides’ as ‘murders’, but was only met with unease. For there to be murder, which Castiel was already (mostly) convinced was the case, would naturally mean for there to be a murderer.

But wouldn’t he want to know if his life was in danger? He wasn’t sure which option was scarier, but he was positive he’d rather be afraid and knowledgeable than ignorant but afraid anyway. So it was a dangerous doubt, Castiel surmised, since the only conclusion it led to was the authorities withholding the truth, regardless if it was due to their own incompetence or ulterior motives.

Dean looked furious, expression blazoned with a fierce determination, fiery and bright, even from the distance where Castiel stood. It was a devastatingly beautiful look on him, he noted sourly, seeing as his stupid heart couldn’t have picked a worse time to seek out another, and form a ridiculous infatuation that, Castiel knew, would go nowhere, regardless of their connection with Charlie.

He was talking with a much younger man, though, with the boy’s height, one wouldn’t be able to tell at first glance, and immediately Castiel knew this was Dean‘s little brother, Sam Winchester—a freshman in pre-law. Castiel recalled seeing him about, since a lot of their classes were in the same building.

“I’m pretty sure I know what it is, I just don’t know who it is.” Dean growled, crossing his arms in a posing figure, much like the one on the night they first met.

“We’ll figure it out, Dean. We always do.” Sam reassured, looking all the worse for wear as he said it, however.

Like he was trying to convince himself too.

“Yeah, but how many people have to die before then, Sammy?” Dean replied wearily, a horrifying dark look casting a dark shadow across Sam’s face.

Castiel’s chest seized in terror as he witnessed it; he’d never seen such a look on anyone’s face before, a look that, with resounding clarity, should not have ever had a place on the younger Winchester brother’s face.

“Oh hey, Cas.” Dean greeted as he noticed his approach, shooting a look at his brother before his face slipped into an easy grin.

Castiel noticed he did so with practiced familiarity, as if he was used to putting on a mask, but didn’t mention it.

“Cas?” Sam questioned, at the same time Castiel himself said, “hello, Dean. Sam.” With a cordial nod.

Were they actually investigating the incident? What business did two brothers have in a series of deaths? What could they do that the police already weren’t?

He didn’t think it wise to ask them any of these questions either.

“Hey, Castiel.” Sam said with a little wave, a small, friendly smile smoothing out his expression the same way his brother’s did.

“Just dropping off my baby bro to class.” Dean lied, just as easy as the rest of him, and reached across to ruffle Sam’s shaggy hair.

Sam squawked indignantly, knocking Dean’s hand aside with a rising blush to his cheeks. Dean chuckled at his brother’s embarrassment, which was an action definitely more genuine than anything else previously had been. Castiel had experience with this, after all, being a little brother himself, to Gabriel especially.

“You heading off to one of your smarty pants classes too, Cas?”

Castiel raised a brow. “I’m not sure what you mean by that, but I’m heading to my religious studies class, yes.”

Dean chuckled. “‘S’nothing, Cas. Just teasing you. Y’know, cuz you and Sam are both nerds, attending all your boring nerdy classes.”

Sam shot a glare at his brother, and Cas tilted his head to the side, curiously.

“Interesting. You seem to regard us as nerds, but you too are one. Perhaps not in the same way, but I would consider you a nerd most of all, considering your area of expertise.”

Sam snorted, his glare morphing into a smug grin as Dean spluttered. Apparently he had not expected Castiel to come back with such a lethal rebuttal.

“Damn, Cas.” Dean whistled, and Sam nodded his agreement.

“I’ve been telling him that for years.”

“Unfortunately I’ll be late if I stay any longer. Goodbye, Dean. Sam.”

He nodded his apologies as he said goodbye, and passed them by on the way to his class.

“See ya, Cas.” Dean said after him, before grunting in what Cas could only assume was an elbow to his side from Sam.

“Cas, huh?” He asked, amused.

“Shaddup!”

“I can’t believe we’re still going to this damned dance, after everything.” Meg mused, wrapping a long, thin section of her brunette hair around her curling iron.

Gabriel snorted, adjusting the cuffs of his creme colored blazer, as he stared at himself in the mirror. They were all getting ready in Charlie’s room, their hangout spot more often than not, since she bought out the double as a premium single (which meant more space and privacy), and could reasonably, and comfortably, fit them all. Though, Castiel shared the sentiment, and often wondered too, why they still planned to go.

It made him uneasy to think that it was just another excuse to sweep things under the rug and pretend everything was normal by the administration, since, aside from the plethora of grief counselors at their disposal, they hadn’t really done much in assuaging any actual grief by divulging in some sort of explanation why people were dying (read: being murdered, he begrudgingly admitted to himself, because people didn’t experience the same bouts of madness that drove them to suddenly kill themselves, all in the same exact manner as the one that succeeded them). He wouldn’t have believed it if he didn’t see it himself.

Safety, Castiel thought sullenly, apparently came second to whatever the reason was for the university’s decision to proceed as if nothing happened.

He was also still unsure what the Winchesters had to do with any of it.

“You don’t sound too displeased.” Gabriel commented, smoothing invisible creases on his maroon turtleneck.

Meg shrugged. “Do I like that people are dying? Of course not. But I suppose being distracted by a dance is better than focusing on the fact that life is short, and death is inevitable.”

Gabe groaned, and Charlie made a sound of discontent.

“Okay, yeah, bummer. I mean, at least we have each other, right? It can still be fun…”

Meg grinned, cat like. “Oh I definitely plan to still have fun.”

“Get laid you mean?” Gabriel teased, which only emboldened her.

Meg turned around, arms opened wide as she presented herself, devastatingly gorgeous in a satin crimson dress, with a black, mesh overlay, and a, in Castiel’s opinion, leg slit dangerously close to her upper thigh. It left little to be desired, but he couldn’t deny she looked amazing in it. Of course it wasn’t a surprise to any of them, since she’d chosen this particular dress during their shopping trip, that seemed so long ago now, rather than just last week.

“Have you seen me? Getting laid is half the fun. The remaining survivors won’t know what hit ‘em.” She all but purred, and Gabriel shook his head.

“Can’t believe you’d think about sex during these hard times.”

“Oh, and you aren’t?” Charlie quipped back, and Meg laughed.

He was glad his friends could find light in the darkness, but it didn’t sit right with him to participate. He did have the heart to. It didn’t feel right, when a guy lost his girlfriend, and then another girl lost hers. When another person lost their partner right after. And then, just the other day, another guy lost his boyfriend. It didn’t seem like the right time for anything, let alone love.

“Clarence, you okay? You’re awfully quiet over there.” Meg asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“I know it sounds kinda fucked up, but the situation is kinda fucked up.” Charlie added, reaching over to pat shoulder.

He loathed to be the one to bring down the mood so he forced a smile. “I know, it’s alright. I’m…okay.”

It was a lie, on every account, and they all knew it, but thankfully none of them pressed him further.

“Well, it’s settled then. We’re gonna go to the gala, just like planned, and we’re gonna have fun, stuff our faces, make fun of drunk people, and maybe get our flirt on.” Charlie said with a determined air of finality, and the rest of their group nodded.

“Are we all ready?” She asked, having been the first to finish, but looking nothing less than graceful in her fuchsia pantsuit.

Castiel looked down at himself, feeling a bit self conscious in black, slim fitting slacks, and a dusty rose colored dress shirt, his blazer a matching black with light, pink floral patterns, but both Meg and Charlie assured him when he tried it on, that he looked ‘hot’ in the outfit. He wasn’t all too sure he would have used those words, nor did he have desire to look ‘hot’, but he accepted the praise for what it was, and bought it with encouragement from all three of his friends.

He nodded reluctantly, and they all filed out of Charlie’s dorm, looking ready to take on the night. He tried not to imagine the walk to the campus ballroom as a death march to the gallows. Tried to ignore the impending doom settling deep in his gut, to think positive thoughts, about spending time with his friends having fun at the dance, what had been Charlie’s original selling point, when she approached him at work—which seemed like forever ago now—and proposed the idea of going to the dance in the first place.

He failed.

Castiel didn’t know precisely when it happened, but, at some point during the night, he and his friends got separated. He had excused himself to get some air outside in the hallway, away from prying eyes and warm bodies, tightly packed together on the dance floor, at cocktail tables, and hidden in not so secret corners.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall, when the sound of distant thudding reached his ears, just under the sound of the music, like an undercurrent to the pulsing bass of whatever was playing in the ballroom.

At first, he attempted to ignore it, truly he did. But it continued, louder and louder and more aggressive; it was too far to discern anything, so, in what must have been a fit of insanity, for the serious lapse in judgment, he pushed himself off the wall and walked toward the sound, curiosity getting the better of him.

What Castiel witnessed then was no short of terrifying. He rounded the corner, and nearly lost all his breath, watching in frozen terror as someone bashed their head repeatedly into the glass window of a classroom, his knees almost buckling at the wet crunch of their skull cracking against the surface of the glass, icy fractures running up and out like veins in a splintered web as it, too, broke under pressure.

The person was crying, screaming really, hands cupped over bloodied ears, begging for someone to “make it stop, please just make it stop!” When, seemingly all at once, it did.

With one last sounding thump, they slid down to floor, smearing blood and brain matter against the pane of glass, and Castiel was helpless to do anything but watch, an unfortunate bystander to such a vile display, like an out of body experience that rattled his very soul, whilst his real, tangible body, this corporeal form, stay firmly rooted where it was.

But nothing, and he meant nothing, would have ever prepared him for the absolutely repulsive, ghastly looking, free-floating creature that materialized out of nowhere, before it stuck its long, equally repulsive tongue into the stranger’s head, and (honest to god) slurped their brains out. If Castiel thought what had just transpired was hard enough to stomach, it was nothing compared to watching this…this thing feast on someone who, only minutes prior, had been a living, breathing human.

Eyes wide and full of fearful tears, mind screaming at him to “move, just move, get out of here, run!” Castiel managed to take a step back. Unfortunately for Castiel, the movement was enough to rouse the monster from its food, dead, milky white eyes zeroing in on him and once again stealing his breath away. Choking on a silent gasp, Castiel had just enough time to see it unhinge its jaw, before he finally forced himself into a sprint back the way he came, stumbling only when an ear piercing shriek sounded from behind him, so loud it shook the walls.

An unnatural mist he hadn’t noticed before, sluggishly seeped from the tiled floor, surrounding his ankles, pouring endlessly up and out, creeping along the walls and pooling across ceiling, and out of it came the screaming beast, somehow right in front of him, blocking Castiel’s path. He cried out in pain as it screamed even louder, the sound reverberating in his skull, causing his vision to blur. He reached up to cup his ears, his heart lurching at the warm fluid he felt trickle against his palms.

He realized that, and perhaps a bit too late, but again with resounding clarity, that this was what had killed all those other people. That this was what was going to kill him.

“Hey, you ugly son of a bitch!”

Castiel snapped his eyes open—when had he closed them, he couldn’t remember—and watched the creature tear its attention away from him, snarling toward the intruder.

“Get away from him!”

Castiel flinched at the sound of a shotgun round, heard the shells clatter to the floor as the shooter reloaded, but was unable to look away from the thing in front of him as it dissolved into whatever before his eyes, just as quickly as it appeared. And yet, Castiel dared not take a breath, in fear that it would return because he had.

“Is…is it dead?” He asked, realizing the screaming had stopped, despite the residual ringing in his ear.

“Unfortunately, no. Only pure gold can kill these things.” Dean answered, guiltily.

“Right.”

“But not to worry. Rock-salt rounds are enough to stall them for a bit. Banshees take longer to recover than other spirits, so we have some time.”

Castiel said nothing, and Dean looked over at him, worry in his expression. He reached out, a comforting hand on Cas’ shoulder.

“You okay, Cas? I know that can be…a lot your first time.”

“First time?” Castiel muttered, brow furrowed.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean had the gall to appear abashed, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “Y’know, your first encounter with the…supernatural.”

Castiel hated how he noticed how good Dean looked, even like that.

“The supernatural…” he parroted, as if trying it on for size.

And suddenly it all clicked in place. He glanced down at the gun, a sawed-off shotgun to be precise, in Dean’s hand, the one that had been used to blast away the banshee. He’d called it a banshee, a spirit, a malevolent fae spirit, from Gaelic folklore. Dean came to the library asking for a book on Gaelic folklore. He’d caught Dean and Sam talking about the murders after that. He remembered the ease at which Dean wore his mask then, how the lie came as free as breathing. The fierce determination radiating from both men, a look that Dean held close to his heart the very moment their eyes locked across the quad on the night of the first, and one Castiel noticed every time they ran into one another thereafter.

“Cas?”

“Dean.”

“Y-yeah?” Dean furrowed his brow, looking a bit put out by the lack of tone in Castiel’s voice, probably because he couldn’t read the situation anymore, but mostly concerned for, and about, Cas.

“You were investigating. The deaths.” A statement, not a question.

“Uh, kinda? Me and my brother we…hunt the supernatural.”

Castiel recalled how comfortable Dean looked when using the shotgun, the speed in which he reloaded after taking a shot, and hummed.

“A banshee. Did you hear it too then? You knew what it was.”

“Not exactly. I knew what it was because of the nature of the kills. Only its targets can hear its scream.”

Castiel closed his eyes and swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I heard it…”

“…”

Castiel opened his eyes, taking in the knowing look on Dean’s face, seeing the guilt and concern and anger—the latter not directed at him—there, all at once, wrapped into one gut wrenching expression.

“Am I going to die?”

“No.” Dean snapped immediately, sounding so sure that Castiel couldn’t help the flare of hope in his chest.

“Their screams are usually a death sentence, Dean. I watched…I watched that person get their brains sucked out. After they…killed themselves. It’s how the others died too, isn’t it?

“Fuck,” Dean cursed, shaking his head, “sorry you had to see that, Cas. It’s true I was too late to save them, but I will save you. I promise.”

Castiel didn’t feel like reminding Dean not to make promises he couldn’t keep. He really hoped that he could.

Castiel was in the middle of contemplating how mad his friends would be if he didn’t get to say goodbye, if he just left and disappeared without a word, when the walls of the hallway he and Dean retreated to (further, and at a safe distance, away from the ballroom) began to rattle. The lights flickered angrily, and the same mist from before returned, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Castiel heard its screams before anything else, however, and already knew it was back.

It materialized behind them, and all for Dean’s fast reflexes, he was still a tad too slow to react, and certainly felt it as his back made contact with the floor a good few feet away, after the banshee tossed him aside without even touching him.

“Dean!” Castiel called after him, only to be brought to his knees by the shrieking to his left, its rancid breath curling against his skin, and raising the hair on the back of his neck.

He grunted in pain, his ears ringing anew, and blindly struck out with the iron poker Dean had lent him, slumping when it, just as Dean said, disappeared. The relief was momentary, and it quickly reappeared beside Dean, who was still trying to grasp his bearings, looking downright pissed at being thwarted again.

“Son of a bitch-“ Dean’s curse was cut short, or rather, drowned out by another rattling screech, right in Dean’s face.

It reached out and pinned him down, and he turned his head, trying to wriggle out of its grip.

“Ugh! Ever heard of breath mint, lady?”

“Dean…” Castiel breathed, exasperated. He never ceased to be amazed by Dean’s tenacity to joke in the face of danger (literally).

Dean knocked their foreheads together, catching the banshee off guard, and managed to toss it off him, quickly grabbing his shotgun and taking a shot before it had time to recover. It exploded in a fiery cloud of whatever it was made of, and Castiel managed to pick himself up off of the floor, helping Dean up after making his way over to him.

“Thanks.” He said breathlessly, giving his hand a squeeze.

Castiel nodded, and didn’t fail to notice the way their hands lingered, before they dropped back down to their collective sides.

“Did you and Sam ever figure out why it’s here?”

Dean snorted. “Yeah. Our friendly neighborhood banshee is killing people because she’s jealous.”

“Jealous? Of whom?” Castiel asked, trying to make sense of it.

“Us. You know. Lovers, halves of a pair. Whatever. Guess Valentine’s Day stirred up some resentment, some bad memories.” Dean clarified with a shrug.

Castiel knew it wasn’t what Dean meant, when he said ‘us’, but he tried not to blush all the same.

“That’s why they were all people in a relationship?”

“Bingo. Banshees hunt in a particular place until there’s nothing left, and a college campus is basically a feast of couples, so our friend would have been well fed on us for a while, if it wasn’t for Sammy and I.” Dean sighed.

“Just wish we figured it out sooner.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that, Dean. But if what you said is true, why is she after me?”

“Eh, you got in her way. That, or you’re in love.” He said wryly, and at that Castiel did blush.

“Plus Charlie told me she signed you all up for the gala. Everyone who died so far was on that list. Could be a coincidence but…” Dean trailed off and shrugged again, but shot a smile over to Cas.

“You look really good by the way. Sorry you got caught up in all this. You got all dressed up and now you’re missing the dance, trying to hunt a banshee with me. You didn’t even know this stuff existed until now, and all you’re getting out of it is a ruined outfit.”

Castiel snorted. “And my life. I think surely that’s worth more. Along with everyone else’s life. I couldn’t care less about an…outfit. It was nice though.”

Dean chuckled. “Makes sense.”

“Besides, I didn’t even want to go. To the dance. Charlie made me. My only regret is that I didn’t let her know where I would be. But would you believe me when I’d say I’d rather be hunting a banshee with you, than in there with all those people?

“What, not a people person, Cas?”

Castiel shot him a deadpan look that made him laugh, and, despite himself, Cas found himself laughing along.

“Yeah. M’not either. Not really. Sure I talk a big game, but there’s only a few people who I can be real with, y’know?”

Castiel opened his mouth to reply, when the light above them exploded, and the banshee flew into them, dragging them across the hall and throwing them into the wall on the opposite end of where they had been standing. They crashed into each other, the impact stealing all the breath from his lungs, and they tumbled to the ground in a pile, the banshee’s resounding cackle rumbling the building like an earthquake.

Castiel rolled off of Dean, looking sullenly at their weapons that had clattered to the ground and skidded across the tile just out of reach.

“Damn, this bitch is really getting on my nerves.” Dean grunted out, almost a growl.

“I think I’m starting to share your sentiment.” Castiel managed, glaring at the imposing figure of the banshee, as she floated above them.

This time, when she screamed, both Cas and Dean cowered away from the sound.

“Really wish I had a golden blade right about now.” Dean joked, and Castiel groaned.

“Dean!”

“Sorry.” He apologized, though he didn’t sound that sorry to Castiel at all.

The banshee reached out and grabbed the lapels of Dean’s jacket, as if reminding them she was there, and picked him up off the ground. He scrambled for purchase, struggling in her tight grip, but his efforts were fruitless, and, as she raised them higher, her screaming never faltered.

Castiel reached up, wincing as the pads of his fingers pressed against the weeping wound at his forehead, and shakily lowered them again.

“If you wanted a dance, all you had to do was ask.” Dean quipped, which worked well in keeping her distracted.

“But any more than that I’ll have to politely decline. Don’t believe the rumors about me, I need to be wined and dined a least once before I put out.”

With a vindictive screech, Dean went flying again, but this time he was expecting it, and tumbled out of his fall. It wasn’t graceful by any means, but it still impressed Castiel.

He managed to grab the poker, his shotgun stuck between him and the banshee, and swung it as she charged at him. The moment she disappeared, Castiel scrambled up and tossed the shotgun to Dean, before ducking behind him.

Grateful that the attention was off him, he got to work, as Dean wildly swung at the banshee, her attacks becoming more ruthless as his hits became more predictable. He glanced up at the two of them, the mist acting as a smoke screen as she disappeared and reappeared, swirling around the poker as Dean used his baseball prowess to hit her every strike and lunge. It was ineffective in the long run, and hardly a long term solution, especially as Dean’s stamina wore out, but it helped Castiel by keeping her distracted once more.

When he finished, he stood up, fixing the banshee with a hard glare, the movement drawing her gaze to him.

“When it’s two against one, make sure to have eyes on both enemies.” He growled out, and as she charged after him, knocking an exhausted Dean off to the side, Castiel slammed his hand down on the blood sigil he made, activating both it and its copy on the opposite side of the hall.

It glowed bright, and in a matter of seconds, the banshee was dragged backward, and trapped against the wall, bound by the line of sigils. She roared, struggling against her invisible tether, mist swirling angrily, lights flickering like crazy, but she remained trapped, her fretting useless against the Celtic blood trapping spell.

“Holy shit, Cas!” Dean exclaimed, both pride and awe in his tone.

“You may be a hunter Dean, but you’re not the only one who reads.”

Dean grinned. “Awesome. How did you know that would work?”

“To be fair, I didn’t. But I figured if banshees were real, then the magic used to trap them must be too. So, while you kept her distracted, I drew the sigils with my blood.”

“Awesome.” Dean repeated, and Castiel couldn’t help but smile back.

Then, startling both of them out of whatever moment they were just about to have, the banshee suddenly burst into flames with a cry, crumbling like burnt paper into floating, ashy debris, until there was nothing left.

“What-“

The trill of Dean’s phone signaled an incoming call, interrupting whatever Castiel was about to ask, and he looked over curiously as Dean fished the device out of his pocket.

“It’s Sam.” He explained before picking up. “Sup, bitch. Took your sweet old time salting and burning the body, didn’t you?”

Castiel’s eyes widened. Salting and what-ing the body?!

“Yeah, fucking thing almost took out me and Cas…” he blushed and glanced over at him, before quickly looking away, and lowering his voice.

“Uh, yeah, that Cas. I mean there’s no other, is there? Anyway Sammy, don’t change the subject. What took you so long?”

Dean snorted. “Excuses, excuses. What? Oh…uh…I don’t know if he’d be up for that.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Well would you if you just got attacked by a banshee?”

The features then smoothed from his face, and he grinned once more. “You shoulda seen him Sammy, he used his blood to draw these badass sigils and trap the banshee, it was awesome.”

Castiel felt the heat rising in his cheeks, unsure how he felt about the Winchester brothers talking about him whilst he was right there, and only able to hear only half of the conversation, but mostly he was just embarrassed.

“Yeah yeah, alright, I’ll ask him. Bye, bitch.” Dean hung up and fondly rolled his eyes, before walking over to Cas.

“Sorry about that. Sammy had only just finished digging…uh well, you don’t need to hear about that, haha, the less you know the better, but the banshee is banished for good now, and he should be on his way back, thank fuck, but he suggested that after we clean up, maybe we catch the end of the dance together, if you-mmph!”

Castiel surged forward, most likely encouraged by the adrenaline still pumping through him—if not for that, he’s certain he would not have been that bold—and sealed their lips together, cutting Dean’s rambling short.

“Yes.” He whispered between them as he pulled away, Dean blinking away the surprise as his brain rebooted and processed what just happened.

“Uh…yeah?” Dean said dopily, a smile tugging at his lips.

Those lips Castiel just kissed.

“Yes.”

“Even though you said you’d rather be fighting a banshee than go to the dance?” Dean asked, sounding amused.

“We fought the banshee.” Castiel replied rather seriously, earning a chuckle from Dean.

“True. Guess we do deserve a reward after that.”

“Besides,” Castiel started with a sigh, “I disappeared without saying anything earlier. I’m sure Charlie, at the very least, is worried about me.”

Charlie was indeed worried about him, but so was Meg and Gabriel, in their own way. After he and Dean cleaned up, including making themselves semi presentable, they entered the ballroom only looking slightly rumpled, and no less for wear than they had already. The trio bounded up to him right away, once they found him, but Charlie couldn’t admonish him for long without acknowledging the man beside him—rather excitedly, might he add.

She jumped up and gave him a hug, which Dean happily returned, only wincing slightly as his sore muscles tugged and flexed to compensate for the weight and movement. He put her back down not too long after, and the second her feet touched the ground, the three of them were on them like a pack of hellhounds.

“You two came in together?” Gabriel asked, smirking.

“Where did you go? Why didn’t you tell us?” Charlie punched both of their arms lightly, and pouted.

“You two came in together?” Gabriel said again, looking even more smug, if possible.

“We looked everywhere for you and couldn’t find you! We thought you might have left, but then you didn’t say anything, or tell anybody if you got back to the dorm safe or not!” Charlie continued, shaking her head in blatant disapproval.

“You two came-ow!” Gabriel rubbed the back of his head, and pouted at a smirking Meg.

Castiel, who was scowling at his brother, felt his face smooth out, and Meg rolled her eyes rather dramatically.

“We get it, Gabe, they came in together. Did you fuck?”

Dean laughed, and shook his head. “No, we definitely didn’t. Cas is too good for a quick fuck like that, anyway.”

Meg nodded her approval, and Castiel groaned, hiding his face in his hands. Gabriel and Charlie both grinned.

“He just went out for air, when I happened to pass by on my way back from the auto-shop. I wasn’t sure I wanted to come to the dance, but then I saw Cas standing there looking like that, well.”

Charlie squealed excitedly, waving her hands in the air. “This is so awesome! I told you the dance would be fun, did I not say the dance would be fun?”

Castiel and Dean shared a look, a brief moment of silent conversation only they would understand, and Castiel let out a sigh.

“You did.” He confirmed, though ‘fun’ was a vast understatement, and certainly not how he would describe the dance—not that he’d experienced much of it, fighting a malevolent Gaelic fae spirit, and all.

“Aw man,” Charlie said with pout, as if she had a sudden revelation, “Cas is way ahead of us you guys! He wasn’t even here and managed to bring a date. Wait, you guys are here as a date right?”

“Yes, Char, we’re here together, as a date.”

Charlie squealed again, muttering how she “totally shipped it” whatever that meant, and turned back to their group with more fervor than ever that they “needed to catch up”. This time, however, when they separated, it didn’t bring the sense of dread it did when Castiel first encountered the banshee, and thought for certain he was about to die, without ever having said goodbye.

“I never did thank you, Dean. For saving me earlier. I truly thought I was…well. I didn’t think I would still be here, and I probably wouldn’t have been, if it wasn’t for you.”

“Dude, don’t thank me. You held your own against the banshee too. It was pretty hot.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, but smiled. He caught Charlie’s eye across the dance floor, and she gave him a thumbs up. Gabriel caught his eye next, but made a rather lewd gesture that would have appalled him, had Dean not also caught it and snickered, finding it amusing. Meg shoved him, and Castiel smirked as Gabriel flailed about, silently thanking her for once again reprimanding his brother on his behalf. She winked at them before turning away, and Castiel tilted his head to the side, thoughtfully.

“It’s strange to think that not too long ago we were fighting a supernatural creature, and now we’re back at the dance, spending time with our friends like it didn’t happen. There’s literally a body down the hall.”

“Eh, Sam’s got that taken care of. And nobody will know you were there, or what we did at all. They’re safe, and that’s what matters. That’s the job.”

Castiel hummed, and turned to Dean with an appreciative look. Dean looked back, blushing slightly at the attention, but smiled softly regardless.

“What?” He asked, and Castiel shook his head.

He kissed Dean in lieu of answering, and Dean eagerly kissed back.

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lary-the-lizard · 4 months

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There isn’t exact research or studies to back this up but I wonder if the reason we assume male = hunter and female = gatherer is because we see men as more likely to spill blood and women as more likely to produce it. I am referencing domestic violence, menstrual cycles, and forced cis gendered norms. In reality afab people were hunters almost as often as amab people and visa-versa for gatherers. Yet in modern times we were taught to believe that men crave blood and it is absolutely unnatural when women have any relation to it.

Afab people generally spill blood without hurting anyone (menstrual cycles) and clean it up and in our current culture that will still be seen as more perverse than a masculine partner causing them to spill blood unnaturally (physical violence).

#archeology #gender norms #periods #release the (not) baby #referencing the croods #and being pro choice #the unfertilized egg isn’t a baby #fuck the patriarchy #tw: domestic violence #the MEAT #represents MANHOOD #and just… why?#like women don’t crave blood #they absolutely do!#and it’s gorgeous #and horrifying #but in a “give me more sort of way

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philsleftnut · 2 years

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I Wish My Father Loved Me.

Chapter Summary: Steve’s parents meet him at his house after the Battle with Vecna. Notes: I actually have a funky little playlist I made while I wrote it. If you wanna take a listen.

Find me on Ao3!

Word Count: 4963 Tags: Angst, hurt/no comfort, themes of abuse, face grabbing, choking, hair pulling, degradation/belittling, PTSD.

Wind blew through the crack in Steve’s car window. There was a quiet hum of music that played through his car speakers. He couldn’t even hear it over his clogged, ringing ears, but he acknowledged it's calming presence. The wind brushed the greasy, unwashed, tainted hair out of his face. Tickled across the red bruising on his neck and mud caked face and skin. It swam into his eyes, drying them out in a foolish attempt to keep them open while he drove. They drooped low, seconds away from closing. Steve was afraid his tiredness might cause him to actually fall asleep behind the wheel. He shut them tightly for a second, blinking them open wildly, staring out his windshield to the pitch black empty road in front of him. Lit by his headlights alone.

He looked over at his dash, the time reading just a little past five o’ clock. In the morning. It was so late, well early. He’d been up since two days ago, preparing weapons, stealing vehicles, fighting demons you should only hear about in your nightmares. Yet here he was covered in the blood, sweat, tears of those exact dreams. And now he was driving home so casually, exactly like he hadn’t.

People died. And Steve was driving home.

Steve took one of his hands off the wheel dragging it down his dirty face, like his hand wasn’t just as. He could taste bile in his mouth. It combined with the muck that caught on his lip and dissolved in his mouth. He turned and spat it out the window. Saliva just continued to collect. He chose to swallow it this time, and all it wanted to travel all the way from his stomach, up his esophagus, and back out of his mouth. Onto the dash. But he couldn’t. Not now. It wasn’t his time.

Right now Steve had to focus on keeping his eyes open long enough to not crash his car before getting to his driveway. The familiar crackle of his neighborhood street could be heard under his tires when he turned. He slowed his driving, knowing when to stop. Steve stops a house early. His way too tired eyes are making images appear that aren’t there. He rubbed hard circles into them, looking back at his house. Nope, still there. A car. There was another car in his driveway. And it belonged to his father. He already begrudgingly started his car back up, driving up into his spot next to the second car. Steve just stared through his passenger side window at the vehicle. His mother's sunglasses hang from the center mirror. Along with a tassel for a graduation cap of the year he graduated. It didn’t belong to his cap. It was bought second handedly, almost not at all. There was luggage packed into the back seat. They hadn’t even bothered to pretend like they were staying. Steve had to wonder if they were home out of concern for him, or simply their own image. It made sense that they had returned home. Hawkin’s had gone through one of the biggest tragedies since the “mall fire”. God forbid his parents not be around to dote on little old Steve for their gracious community to see.

He shook his head, laughing to himself and turned his car off. Five a.m. It’s early. Early enough that there was time to wash the Upside Down off of him. Cover up the bruises. Act like he’d been asleep in his bedroom this entire time before they even woke up. If they asked where his car was he’d just say he had lent it to Robin or Nancy or something way more believable in the morning.

Moving out of his car was hard. His whole body ached. Simply opening the door used more strength than he was willing to admit. He pathetically pushed it open, swinging his legs to the side to step out. Sucking through his teeth at his fatigue. He sntached the keys out of the ignition and got out of his car, closing and locking his door as quietly as he could. Each step toward his front door was worse than the last. Like his body knew he was getting closer and closer to a bed, to losing adrenaline.

His thighs burned through the porch steps, and the walk to his door. It shot up his spine, leaving him in an uncomfortable bent position as he unlocked it. The second he heard the click, the knob turned and he’s using nothing but his body weight to push the door open. His feet followed by muscle memory. Steve shut the door with his back, placing a hand behind him to quiet the blow to not wake his parents. His legs wobbled. They might as well give out underneath him. Steve let them, just for a moment. He slid down onto the ground, legs falling out in front of him. He tilted his head back to rest against the door, arms lax to his sides and falling to the floor. It’s the first time he thinks he’s sat down without actively trying to focus on something in the last two days.

“Steven?”

Steve gained a sudden shot of energy. His head jerked up from its position, and he raised his eyebrow. Someone was in his dining room. And Steve would have normally ran to his room or car to get one of his well used bats if the voice didn’t sound suspiciously like his mother. Steve tilted his body to the side, looking down the hallway, and into the room where the light was on. He hadn’t even noticed it when he entered. From his place on the floor he could only see a pair of feet coupled with a pair of legs across the table.

He slumped the rest of his torso onto the ground. He wanted to just let the linoleum suck him in. Let him disappear. Because of course they were both awake and waiting for him. Pretending like they cared. At least the cold floor gave him something he needed. He pressed his cheek into it, curling his face further into its coolness. His dirty exterior was getting everywhere. Falling off of him and creating a ring around him. His face was a paintbrush and the floor his canvas while he felt the cold stimulate his nerves. There was an anxiety that was calming, but he couldn’t tell which one. The one he had just ran away from, or the one he had just run into.

Shoes stopped at the tip of his nose. His eyes raked up the body in front of him. Brown loafers, khakis, brown leather belt, with a blue dress shirt tucked into a nice lovely package that was his father. His arms were crossed across his chest, with a stern look across his face. Steve knew his father hated how late he stayed out. And he knew he hated catching him even more. Have to keep up appearances for those college apps, right dad?

And here Steve was, laid in front of their front door, looking as if he had just crawled out of a grave, wearing nothing his parents would consider presentable, at five in the morning.

Steve turned his head to look at his father. He plastered a smile wide on his face, as if nothing was wrong, “Hi daddy.”

“Get the fuck-” His father mumbled before reaching down, grabbing Steve by the vest, and pulling him up to his feet. Steve’s body is limp. He couldn’t have much of a reaction if he tried. He let him push him into the wall behind him. He let him hold him just a few inches off the ground. He would let his dad do anything right about now.

His arms go up instinctively. He dropped his keys to the ground, and fell to submission. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay” Steve whispered quickly. It was an apology without actually saying it.

The breath of his fathers is right up on his face. It smelt like pure tobacco and wine. His mint toothpaste covered up some of the smell. He was probably drinking it with his mom. They could finish a whole bottle off pretty nicely. Smoke a pack. Call it a day. Steve turned his face toward the door as his father's face inched closer. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited.

“Not okay, open your eyes.” Pressing his forearm into his chest to hold him, he grabbed Steve's chin with his other hand, pulling it to face him. His cheeks squished together through his father's fingers. Fingerprints melted into his jaw. Steve blinked his eyes open, avoiding any sort of eye contact. “Hey. Hey!”

He pushed him further into the door. Steve winced, shutting his eyes again tightly. “You look at me when I talk to you.”

A part of Steve feared his hand wasn’t gonna stop at his face. The things he said would just anger his father off enough one day he would drop it down to the giving space around his neck. Push against Steve's windpipe until he couldn’t respond. His brain would lose enough air that the only thing he left he knew was ‘yes sir, no sir, I’m sorry for everything sir.’ And an even worse part of Steve wanted it to happen.

He opened his eyes in defeat, “yes sir.” staring down at his father. Steve looked dead into his dad’s eyes. Him looking back into his. His father's eyes were dark, like all empathy for the person in front of him had left a long time ago. Steve tried to find it. He searched. He swore he did. Maybe some time ago he would’ve spent more time. But he heard the patter of his mother's feet down the hallway and his eyes tore away and over his father's shoulder.

The hold on his chin was still strong. Dad’s arm wavered, losing the strength holding Steve in the air against the surface. A small act of weakness. Never to be seen again. He was thrown from the door by his jaw back onto the ground. He crumpled, looking up as his father stood above him.

“Do you know what time it is? Where have you been Steve? Why in the world do you look like this, and at this fucking hour?” he spat, questions one right after the other.

Steve’s mom came up timidly behind his dad. She was a good few inches shorter than him when she wasn’t in her heels. She wrapped her arm around his gently. She stood above Steve now too. “We were really worried about you sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Love. Baby. Dear. Angel. Steven. It was endearing. It wasn't real.

He didn’t have an answer either. Not a good one. He smoothed his jaw and maneuvered himself back into sitting against the door. Legs into his chest, arms resting on his knees. “I mean, you probably saw the news right? Hawkins just fell in a major way, kind of hard not to get caught up in at least some of it.” That wasn’t entirely a lie.

His father scoffed, “Some of it? You look like you caused it. What, were you right dead in the center of it?” And that wasn’t either. Steve had been in the middle of taking down Vecna, causing the four point intersection of gates to open directly in the middle of Hawkins. How do you explain that to your parents? They already didn’t believe a word out of his mouth.

He opened his mouth to explain away further but his father just continued, “And what's with the damn JROTC getup? It looks stupid on you. Practically swallowing you up.” He walked away from his mother's grip and crouched down to Steve’s level. Steve stared at him afraid to look away. His mouth still open, ready to defend himself against nothing. His dad dragged a slow finger along the cloth of his forearm. “You’re so dirty Steven, how about you tell us the truth?”

Steve raised his arm, speaking with his hand. “The army is here, so the-” there was an abrupt smack as his father gripped his wrist. He held it tightly in place in the air. Every single touch from him seared its way onto Steve’s skin. He swore every time there were going to be red aching burn marks.

“Oh! The army is here! So you couldn’t even defend yourself, had to get the army to save our poor little Stevie.” Steve grazed his eyes from his wrist to his father's empty eyes and over to his mother. Their eyes met. His tired, scared, beautiful eyes. To her pitiful ones. His mother leant against the wall, watching. She looked as if she had words on the tip of her tongue. If she truly wanted to stop him. She would.

He ripped his arm from his father's grasp. “If you would let me explain sir,” He scrambled to his feet, almost knocking his father over in the process. There were two seconds where Steve looked down and his father looked up. And Steve stood over him.

Then his body ached, his wrist and jaw throbbed. His neck pricked in the memory of his ventures the days before. Steve’s legs were moments from giving out again. Dad standing next to him, they came to about the same height. His father standing a few centimeters taller. He glanced between the three of them for a moment. It was quiet. They were angry. And Steve was. Well Steve was.

He huffed and walked the three of them into their dining room. Steve sat in the chair at the head. A seat normally reserved for someone with great importance. Head of the family. When Steve sat there during times like these; it was more a seat of shame. His parents in the surrounding seats scolding him for the things he’s done. They sat down in their seats they had previously made comfortable and waited.

This was it. The moment Steve hated the most. The moment when the next few words were either taken with grace, or out of context. All depending on how his parents decided to wake up and feel about him that day.

“I’m sorry sir, for coming home so late.” An apology. Good start. “And dirty.” He added quickly. “I went out with Robin, Nancy, and some others earlier today before the earthquake. While we were out the earthquakes started and as I said we got caught up in some of it. It was kind of hard not to miss it. The car is fine, I got some minor injuries, my clothes got kind of messed up, which is why I had to get a change of clothes. And the army and the homeless shelters set up at the high school are here, which is why they look like, well, this.” Steve said, in all one breath. Inhaling another huge one after he had finished. His eyes wide as he looked for a reaction from his parents.

His mother stared at her manicured nails. Peeling the skin around them. She was thinking, except she wouldn’t speak before his father would. His father held a hand to his mouth, staring at him with disbelieving, disproportionately wide eyes. He barked out a laugh. Steve flinched. “If that isn’t the largest crock of shit I’ve ever heard.”

“Well I don’t think that it’s too unbelieva-” she started.

“For the love of God, don’t humor him.” He put his hand up to quiet her. He kept his glare at Steve. “After all the trouble you’ve put us through the past few years, you really expect me to believe that your story is that simple? That moronically put together?”

She pursed her lips, and stuck her fingers in her mouth chewing on the skin around them. A nervous habit. Steve felt a twinge in his heart for his mother. The small indications of submission to his father they both admitted to. She would never say it aloud. And neither would he.

Steve rucked his hands through his mucky hair, letting it fall back into his face. A nervous habit. “I-I don’t know wh-what you want me to say dad.” Voice wavering.

“I-I-I, want you to tell me the goddamned truth!” He said, mocking the fear in Steve’s voice. His hand slapping the table to accentuate his words. Both Steve and his mother cringed away from the loud noise.

“I am!” Steve defended. Leaning back in his chair, back hitting the frame. “There’s nothing more to say, I promise!”

There truly wasn’t. There wasn’t anymore to tell. Vecna pressed on him like an aching nerve. He couldn’t move without a nagging ping of remembrance. The people who he fought with. The people who he loved so painstakingly. And the people who died. Steve didn’t have the words to even articulate what he had been through in the last 72 hours to himself let alone to his wanting father.

“Steven I swear to go-”

He was tired. He was in pain. His fear bubbled into an uncontrolled anger. He couldn't blame himself for saying what he said. “Dude just let it go, this one fucking time!”

That’s all it took.

His mother widened her eyes, spit ridden fingers, slowly falling out. “Steven…” She whispered. It was a warning. Only one her and Steve could hear.

Before she could stop him, his father darted out of his seat and over to Steve. Hand gripped around his throat pinning him to the back of the chair. Finally.

It rubbed his already red neck raw. “Is that the kind of respect we give in this house? The kind you think I deserve?” He pierced his nails into the skin on the sides of his neck. Crushing his trachea. Steve couldn’t talk, there was no answering him anymore, just listening. “What have I told you about talking to me like that? Like I’m one of your goddamn sorry ass friends.”

Steve fumbled with his hands, wrapping them around his dad’s wrist. There was an attempt at pulling them away but his father was stronger, pressing harder. Steve’s mouth was open, his throat contracted trying to let out a word. All that was heard was a choked out whimper. He rolled his eyes around staring at his ceiling, his mouth clamped down, almost locking on his tongue, biting. A small amount of blood filled with the collecting saliva.

His thoughts wandered with his breath. Thinking that maybe if he tried answering he could gain at least some control back. Steve inhaled through his nose, the air getting caught where his father's hand started. He opened his mouth, teeth glistening with his own blood. The noise he let out was pathetic, “It’s-it.”

“It’s a bad look. That’s right.”

There was a shock of relief in his chest as his dad let him get a singular breath in. It singed his lungs, he was so desperate for air he breathed in everything in his mouth. Steve tried coughing out the blood, spit, dirt that entered him, but it was blocked again in an instant.

His hands pushed, pulled, tore against his father's wrist, tearing at the skin, there was no moving it. He was weak and unprepared against his father. His face was flushing, the fingerprints bruising into his neck. He couldn’t find another choice but to limp his entire body. Held to the chair, the universe by his father's hand. What he wanted, Steve was willing to give.

Steve dropped his arms and they settled next to him. He relaxed his body, small whimpers searching for breath that weren’t coming.

“Look at that. Our little boy is finally learning his place.” His dad’s face inches away, breathing the words onto his cheek. Mocking. His hand slowly let go of Steve’s throat. Red hand print painted across. “Be a good boy and keep it that way.” He tapped Steve’s cheek quickly, “disrespectful piece of shit.”

He stood. Steve fell forward, coughing. His hand coming up to his mouth catching all that was in his mouth, anything that was willing to come up.

His bloodshot eyes met his mothers gorgeous ones for the final time. They were empty. Sympathetic. In a way Steve didn’t need them to be. “Steven, please it doesn’t have to be like this.” She said, in her voice, that only he could hear.

“No, please mom,” He rasped out, voice raw. “Stop, just stop.” Steve leaned over the table rubbing his sore neck, attempting to swallow, attempting to breathe.

His father placed two hands on the table beside him, inching closer to Steve leaning into him. “I’m going to give you one more chance to explain yourself.” He talked slowly, threatening.

Steve shut his eyes. “I already told you what happened.” All he could see was the flashes of things he couldn’t explain. Ethereal things, other dimensional things that haunt the back of his head. And his father. He sighed out shakily. “I don’t know how to get you to believe me sir , but it’s the truth.”

“I bet you were a part of that satanic Hellfire shit. Following that freak murderer Edward Munson around like a lost puppy, huh?”

Eddie.

People died.

Eddie, Max, half of fucking hawkins.

“Don’t talk about Edd-”

“No? Why? You have something to say about what you were doing Eddie ?” His voice was low in Steve's. Implication shooting through his veins. He was testing Steve. Trying to get him to blow again. Pushing his limits through the fucking roof so he could have a chance to reprimand him. He loved it. He had an image to uphold. And beating the image into Steve was his favorite pastime.

Steve knew what his dad wanted. He wanted to give it to him. Some sick, twisted part of him needed to be choked, slapped, spit on, and told what to do.

He wasn’t good friends with Eddie. They had maybe three conversations in total. Yet, walking back up to Dustin Henderson holding the 20-year-old corpse shattered a huge part of his heart. Steve imagined he would never get those parts back.

Steve looked over to his dad, his holed out eyes. He made a quick decision. “No. No sir.” His breathing still ragged, he tried calming it.

“Good.”

“Good.” Steve repeated.

His father straightened. He looked down at Steve. Witnessing the mess he’s made. The expression on his face is almost jovial. Steve wished he had the strength to reach up and wipe the damn thing off. But all he could do was wait for his father's instruction, who had moved his eyes over to his mother. Having a silent conversation. Deciding what to do with the pathetic little boy sitting at the table before them.

Steve dropped his head, his breath shook, dripping sweat onto the tablecloth below him. If he thought hard enough tears might begin to join them. He refused to cry in front of his father. He felt them burning onto his waterline. He began to look up to stop them, his father finishing the job, pulling his head up to look directly at him by his hair.

He leaned into Steve’s face. “We’re not done, we’ll finish this conversation in the morning.” He let go of Steve's hair, tossing his head back down. “Now get the fuck out of my face.”

Steve didn’t respond. He didn’t look at his father. He didn’t look at his mother. He pushed his hands against the edge of the table and got up. Walked out of his dining room, down the hallway, and to the end of the stairs. He didn’t exactly know what energy was making his movement capable. He couldn’t feel his feet. Some smarter part of him allowed him to walk without permission, he thanked it.

He held the railing at the bottom of stairs, about to go up them he caught a glimpse of his parents arguing. Faint whispering, “We shouldn’t of even come back,”

“That’s not fair-”

“Why are you always defending him, it’s not like he has any respect for us anyway.” His father spat back. “The way that boy parades around, making us look bad, the company look bad, hell the entirety of Hawkins is an embarrassment.”

His mother sighed. He could hear the scraping of her chair as she stood. “If you think you’re any better than him you’re lying to yourself.”

“Any better than him? What the hell does that mean?” He was angry, his voice was raising.

“You know exactly what I mean, don’t play fucking dumb. You may have Steven wrapped, but not me.”

That stung. His moms admittance to being better than him. Handling his father. He wasn’t allowed to say the things she could when they were alone. Because he had cheated on her, and she held it over his head. Steve was just a child who watched and got abused. He would never be on her level.

His father's voice gained more volume, “Watch your damn mouth,”

“Watch yours.”

There was a slamming noise. A hand slapping wood. A scare tactic. His dad never hit his mother, just him.

Steve’s body jumped, one foot on the bottom stair creaking. Fuck.

“Steven?” His mother called out.

He ran. He sprinted up the steps. Avoiding any contact with his parents. He could hear his mother following him down the hallway, continuing to call for him up the stairs. Ignoring her he found his bedroom, shutting the door abruptly. He stood in the middle frantically looking, like it was his first time he had ever been in the room. His eyes met the door the bathroom adjacent to his room and he headed over.

Steve shut the door to his bathroom quickly. It was completely dark. He doesn’t bother turning the light on. He took one long stride over to the sink, holding himself over it. His hair hung in front of his face, it brushed along his cheeks and nose. His hyperventilating breath pulled the hair in and out across his face. It tickled his senses, heightening them. Steve’s air came quickly, leaving just as fast. It hurt his lungs, burned his nose, his head started to lose circulation, it pricked, throbbed at his bones.

He had way too many clothes on. They weighed on him. Some throw away camouflage shirt. A brown leather jacket patterned with patches, with a green army vest with heavy pockets atop. His father was right. They didn’t belong on him. Ripped and bloodied. But Steve felt as if the only thing keeping him from collapsing was the sink beneath him. He couldn’t move to take them off. Stuck in heavy, wet, muddy clothes, pressing on his tender joints. All that was left with Steve was to take impossible breaths and feel every nerve inside of him light on fire. He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t want an answer. He just was. Steve always just was.

He glided his eyes to the mirror. He couldn’t really see himself. There was a low glow around his silhouette when his eyes adjusted to the darkness around. It was low. His body was slumped. The things he couldn’t see, but knew were there. Cuts, bruises, burns, thick dried blood sticking the strands of Steve’s hair together. Trauma etched into his pores. He was broken. Ready for the cracks to finally break apart at a moment's notice. His eyes began to collect tears once again. They were warm and unwelcome. Moistening his overly dry eyes. That hurt too. The heavy implication of what was behind them, not just the physical sting. The love his parents refused to give. Falling down his cheeks, and into the marble sink. Soaking into his lips. Steve could taste the nuance of the tears he shed for his parents, but the ones they never cried for him. It was disgusting. Tasted like the bile that was already rement in his mouth.

Steve swallowed the taste in his mouth. The salty water mixed with his saliva. His face cringed as he choked on it, got stuck in his throat, attempting to itch its way back up with the rest of his stomach contents. He took a deep breath, fighting his body, swallowed anyway. The acid burning down his throat.

He trained his eyes directly on his own in front of him. The shadow of a reflection that stared back at him. He couldn’t see much, but his eyes were noticeable. Dark and scared. Wet and streaming worthless tears. If eyes were the window to the soul, he was looking into one that was so utterly tortured. Behind his pupils Steve was screaming. And not a single soul could hear it. His mouth wide open, with no one willing to listen. His family locked him behind a cage a long time ago, and Hawkins threw away the key.

Steve wanted to let it out. Let out the voice no one wanted to hear.

Anger boiled in his nauseated stomach. His knuckles wrapped around his bathroom sink gripped tighter. His hands an irritated shade of red and white. Steve squinted his eyes at himself. Challenging. Tempting. There was something thrilling about the way his depression turned so quickly into anger. A self hatred that dug deeper than Steve was ever thought about admitting aloud.

It happened in seconds. His tear soaked face swung back. And then swung forward. He let out a winding yell as his forehead collided with the mirror in front of him. “Fuck!”

Glass cracked, skin cut, blood splattered. Steve kept his face attached to the mirror, regaining his breath.

And then he did it again.

And again.

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