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starlessnightsblog · 3 months

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daryl x reader

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MDNI 18+ | wordcount: 3k | smutt ⭑ fluff

daryl to the rescue

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Daryl decided we'd go out for a run. The prison could always use more supplies and he figured he could try to bring home dinner too.

I watched as he packed the trunk of the Prius with supplies we would need, n'case we would stay overnight. The sun was shining, it was a pretty day, the grass still glistening from the morning fog. It had rained on and off here at the prison these last few days. Daryl was eager to get back out there, I knew he liked providing for the group and he liked when I could tag along, he'd grown to not like being apart from each other for long.

I walked up to him, placing my hands on my hips as I watched him slam the trunk door down, "We all set?" I smiled up at him.

He grabbed his bow that was leaning against the car and swung it over his shoulder, "Yes ma'am," He squinted his eyes as the sun beamed in his face. With a raspy voice, "you driving?"

He tossed me the keys before I could answer, I caught them, and rolled my eyes playfully, "This time, but you're driving us home." He hummed paired with a nod.

Daryl opened the driver's side for me, and I looked up at him, my eyes asking him to kiss me. He caught on and leaned down to meet my lips, but in that moment, I saw Carol walking up to us and pulled away. Daryl noticed my gaze shift and he turned around to meet her. She hugged Daryl briefly and then me. "You two be safe, ...and behave." Her tone was stern yet hinted with sarcasm. Daryl let his head fall and his hair cover his face, trying not to smirk too much.

"We behave?" I questioned, pretending to be offended by her statement; though Carol never meant any harm.

Daryl walked to the passenger side and sunk in. "See you soon.' He reassured Carol and she nodded. I closed my door and started the car and waited for Carol and Carl to open the gate, they waved us off. I watched them grow tiny in the rear view.

Me and Daryl parked the car on the side of the road a few miles out from the prison, we ended up in the woods before midday. Stumbling through the forest on foot, I treaded right behind Daryl, as we stayed silent amidst the trees, getting a feel of the surrounding area, not wanting to draw unwanted attention to ourselves. I watched as he led the way, looking at sticks and piles of brushed up leaves, observing them. I watched his back as he was distracted by the prints in front of him, we hadn't encountered any walkers yet and I really didn't want too. My aim was still off sometimes, walkers made me freeze up. I hated having to encounter them, at all.

"We need to find an abandoned cabin or somethin'." He mumbled. "I think I remember seeing one out this way." He pointed and began walking adjacent to the direction we were going in, I just went along with it, trusting his every intention. "Okay."

"Least somewhere we can hold up for a night." He looked back at me, his eyes met mine.

oh, I thought. He side smirked and raised a brow. chewing his bottom lip, "Let's keep moving." He hummed and I nodded.

The day was growing dark and grey clouds had infused the sky; the wind picking up in waves. The ambiance of crickets and cicadas filled the swampy air. My feet would've been killing me if I wasn't already use to it, walking, running all day.

Daryl had managed to snag a few rabbits and now we were looking for somewhere we could build a fire. Though I think he was growing weary of the weather just as I was, and we were having zero luck with finding the cabin.

Instead, we happened apon a little homemade, car, junk yard. Though the cars were either stripped of everything that made them useful or already pieces of scrap metal, maybe even from before the world went to shit. Still, it looked untouched enough. There was a chained-up storage container sitting on the far side of the yard, almost blocked by two cars mangled on top of each other. I pointed it out to Daryl. "That might be good place to sleep tonight." I whispered.

"It'll have to be," He looked up at the ever-darkening sky, "come on." he ushered me, his hand hovering the small of my back.

We approached the fenced-in plot, finding a good spot spot to sneak in through. Daryl made a hole in the fence with his bolt cutters. He pulled the chain link down as quietly as he could, though it still made noise.

With caution, we began inspecting the yard. staying close to one another. After assuming it was fine, Daryl began opening a few of the hoods of the cars, inspecting the engines for anything useful. I held my knife out in front me, in case I needed it as I kept walking ahead, wanting to get to the storage building.

I wandered up to what seemed like an untouched mini-van. It had no tires, from what I could see, but all the windows were intact, looked promising. I tried peeking through the caked-on dust and dirt, maybe even guts or blood, I failed to make anything out, so I tried wiping the window with my fist. I wiggled the handle, it was locked, weird. I yanked the handle one more time, and then CLAP.

A pale, skinny hand from inside the car hit the window hard, I flinched, it scratched and bit at the glass so hard it was making its fingertips bleed. It was loud now, and I jumped back, wanting to evacuate the scene and maybe it'd magically shut up? I took a step back into the grasp of a walker suddenly appearing from under the same mini-van, I lost my balance, and stumbled back, hitting the ground fast and hard.

I slammed my foot against the rotter over and over, but was failing to do any real damage, I heard groans coming from behind me. I glanced back quickly. Another walker was crawling out the thick grass, it appeared to have no legs and half an arm, t was close but struggling at the very least, tangling itself in the weeds. My focus shot back to the walker beneath me, it was chomping and hadn't even reached my foot yet. I began to frantically search the ground for my knife, I must've dropped it when I fell. I cursed, wanting this to end but not knowing how.

Another wandering walker's attention snapped to me and this one wasn't stuck; it started limping quickly, it's one good arm shooting out, preparing to grab me at first chance. My heart was racing faster than ever, I pleaded with myself to do something, to move. I screamed as the walker beneath me bit at my shoe, I kicked it off before it could bite through, I scrambled away in the dirt, the moans and groans from the biters around me filled my ears and all I could think of was Daryl and how I couldn't leave him, not like this.

I closed my eyes, shielding myself as the walker that was stumbling towards me got hauntingly closer. Then, in an instant the air was silenced. I watched the walker collapse on the group in front of me, A bloody arrow had pierced straight through its skull. Then another arrow went straight through the eye socket of the walker holding onto my foot. Blood leaked from both the heads in front of me, though the weak walker behind me was still struggling, but still too close for comfort. I stared at the vicious corpse, still in shock from the last few minutes.

I didn't see Daryl till he was on top the corpse in front of me, he shoved his knife down and through the walker's brain, and stabbed again and again till the head was blood and mush. Dark blood splashed his face as he did so.

I took a deep breath in, and Daryl's full attention locked on me, he snapped out of it and rushed to kneel beside me, pulling me up gently. "You okay? You're okay right? They didn't-," His breath trembled, and he looked scared; he scanned my face up and down.

My eyes locked to his as they trained my face. "I'm okay, I'm good," my words wearier than my breathing, my body slightly shaking in the rush of it all, "they didn't- I'm okay." Tears formed in my eyes. I cupped the side of his face with my hand as I shook my head in reassurance. "I'm okay." He touched his forehead to mine and then wrapped his arm around my whole body, holding me tight. We lingered in the embrace, I wanted him to never let me go, and then it began to thunder. Daryl broke away first and looked around. "Let's get inside."

We hadn't even scoped out the container due to my little damsel in distress moment. but it didn't matter anymore, we were sleeping in that thing no matter what.

Rain began to poor, the dirt on our skin rinsing off, our hair dripping onto our faces; we hurried over to the storage container. Daryl puller out his bolt cutters swiftly and broke through the chains with ease, that, or he just made it look easy. He slid the door open slowly and it was dark inside but not so much so we couldn't see in it. I stepped forward but his arm shot in front of me, holding me back. He looked me up and down, "Uhh uh, No way." He murmured.

I didn't say anything. He grabbed a flashlight out his bag and stepped inside. It beamed through the shadows. He peaked around and made sure no dead would pop out the corners. He signaled for me that it was safe, and I stepped inside. He came to close the door behind me, shoving a metal rod through the handles.

I think it was safe to say we hit the jackpot. The container had shelves on either side, it was partially stocked with a decent amount of can goods, we found a first aid kit, and even a few boxes of ammo. I noticed some cardboard boxes that looked straight out of somebody's Saturday morning garage sale.

They were filled with ghosts of the past. I found someone's family photos, baby clothes and even toys. I stuffed my bag with anything I could fit in it. Some of these things would be useful to Judith and this helped me feel useful.

The place had a box full of beeswax candles, the kind you use when the power goes out. Daryl had a lighter handy, so we lit some and put them on the shelves to lighten the place up so we wouldn't trip on ourselves.

I then lay out us out a cot with a double sleeping bag, I tossed my favorite blanket I tote with me on every run as a finishing touch. It looked good enough. Daryl had opened a few of the cans and that's what we ate for dinner. No fire for the rabbits, what a bummer. (I was not bummed.)

We ate quietly. The groans coming from outside disappeared, though the rain only got harder and maybe that's why. We were closed in, nothing was getting in.

We huddled around our one lantern, and each ate a can of green peas. I finished the can and set it on the shelve just above my head. I looked over at Daryl who was also finishing up. He set his can down, away from the sleeping bed.

"Thank you, for earlier," I whispered, "I dunno why, I just froze." I started, wanting to make an excuse for my helplessness. "I shouldn't of-"

"Don't do that." He cut me off, shaking his head. "Nothing happened, and you're okay."

"I put us in danger." I retorted. I never wanted to put Daryl in danger, and he was so much better at the whole apocalypse thing than me.

"Hey, hey, look at me," He hummed, his tone smooth. I met his longing gaze. "we're in danger just by being out here, so it doesn't matter." He took my hand in his, our fingers intertwined. "I would never let anythin' happen to you... no matter what. It's you over everything, over everyone. You know that, right?" The look on his face was coated with sincerity, the flickering lights from the candles bounced on his skin. He was emulating complete and utter warmth.

If it wasn't for Daryl today, I might've ended up walker food. I replayed the moment in my head, the guilt still eating at me, "I never want anything to happen to you." I managed to choke out. I rested my forehead on his shoulder. he took me into his embrace, I squeezed him, and he squeezed back, tighter.

I thought about the man beside me, how he defended me and loved me. He'd take a bullet for me, and we both knew that. But did he know I would do the same for him though?

"I'm not going anywhere." He whispered. I glanced back up at him and pulled his face down to kiss me, brushing my lips to his, he placed his hand on my hip. I broke away for a moment, our eyes pulled together. Wanting to top that, but he crashed his lips to mine.

My hands snaked around his neck, and as our kiss grew more heated, he pulled me on top of him. His hands roamed my body, trying to make skin to skin contact. I ripped my jacket off, not even daring to break the kiss, my hands found their way back around his neck. He tried pulling me closer, grinding my hips below his torso. I ripped right through his vest, leaving him exposed. He smirked, trying to catch his breath, he pulled at my shirt, wanting it gone. He got it over my head and threw it away. He started kissing my neck and biting me softly. I loved when he did that. But I wanted his mouth on mine, and I tilted my head with his, he let my lips touch his and they moved in sync.

Our mouths stayed glued together as I fiddled with his belt and zipper. It didn't take long for me to find his hard-on, I rubbed him gently through his briefs, he groaned. I lifted up off him and removed my shorts, He moved my underwear to the side, and his own down, his cock shot up and his fingers grazed my warmth making sure I was wet. He hummed when he touched me, growing more eager to stick it in. He held his cock in place as I eased onto it. Letting out a breath of pleasure as I felt him enter me.

he started guiding my hips, rocking me back and forth, Daryl loved being in control, even if I was the one on top. He bit his lip, trying not to moan. His dick pushed deeper into me, and I couldn't help but make noise. I brought my lips to his, thinking it would mask my cries. It got harder as we sunk into each other. Whimpers leaving my throat, moans escaping through our kiss. He pushed me down, bucking his hips, I straddled him, and he wrapped his arms around my back, switching our position. He was on top now and I was floating below him. My shoulders barely touching the ground, He rested on his knees, his hands clinging to my waist, he began pounding into me. I whined as I felt his tip hit my cervix over and over again.

His breathing was heavy, and he cursed under his breath, He leaned in, my whole body on the ground now, my legs wrapped around his torso as he wrapped his arms around me. All I could do was plead with my whines. We were so passionate, yet making love with such haste like we didn't have all night. Daryl just knew what he was doing; and no one, not even before, could make me feel this good. I cursed under my breath as my body began to fill with pleasure, my nails digging into his skin, he knew I was close and sped up, with every thrust I could feel my climax getting closer. I bit his shoulder, if I made any more noise, I might attract walkers. his rapid breathing heavy in my ear, he sucked on my neck and left kisses in-between.

In the midst of our passion, Daryl pulled out and released onto my stomach, my release following, my chest was heaving up and down as I laid there on the cot. Daryl whipped the sweat from his brow and stood up, grabbing my shirt and shorts for me. He kissed me slowly as he handed me my things, and then kissed my forehead.

I put my clothes back on and he buttoned his vest back up, he laid down beside me, his head resting on his arms. and I followed, resting my head on his bicep, he pulled me in, I could still feel the heat steaming off his skin, he still had a few breaths to catch, I smiled at him, "I've been thinking about doing that all damn day." He admitted. He wrapped his body around mine and we just laid there, listening to the heavy rain on the metal roof. We started drifting off and fell asleep in each other's arms.

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wp: thewriterdoll

#daryl x y/n #daryl dixion imagine #daryl x you #daryl imagines #daryl x reader #twd daryl #daryl fanfiction #the walking dead daryl #daryl dixon #daryl x female reader #the walking dead

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mymegumi · 4 months

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DREAMING OF A WHITE CHRISTMAS ෆ GOJO SATORU

⠀ event masterlist

“do you think it’s gonna snow this year?” gojo asks, voice hush in the darkness of your bedroom as he rests his head in his hands, his hands resting flatly on your stomach as you try to watch the movie you have flickering on the television. it’s a classic christmas movie, something gojo had insisted on putting in, but he’s not even paying attention as he looks out the window to the calming night sky.

you hum, head tilting to the side to look outside with him, the nightlife calm and serene for once as you run your hands through the top parts of his hair—fluffy and silky. his eyes are doing that thing, where they almost close before he’s opening them again, indicating a sort of sleepiness that invades the bones. “maybe. why don’t you wish for it for christmas?”

“wishing for things for christmas is for little kids.” he sticks his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout, pressing his ear to your chest as he sighs loudly. “my baby thinks i’m a baby.”

“sometimes you act like one.” you muse, looking away innocently as he jolts up from his position with a scandalized look on his face, mouth open wide. there’s a beat, as if he’s waiting for an apology that he’s certainly never going to get before he lays back down, grumbles leaving his lips rapidly. “case in point.”

“whatever.” he turns over now, facing away from you but sticks his head back ever so slightly so he’s still touching you. you’re not sure if he means to, but even if he were upset, he makes sure that the two of you are always touching. “you’re so mean to me.”

you hum contemplatively, hands sifting through his hair idly as you watch the movie without truly watching it. “geto thinks i could be meaner.”

“and he also thinks that the moon is made out of cheese.” gojo retorts, huffing dramatically so his chest rises and falls as he turns his head to look at you through one eye. “so i’m not trusting him as a judge of character.”

“i mean, he was joking, right?”

gojo’s silence is your only answer.

“is it snowing?” you ask a moment later, eyes drifting from whatever scene was happening in the television to the window. you squint and lean forward a little, trying to see if if’s truly snowing out or if you’re just seeing things.

“snow?!” gojo is running to the window before you know what’s happening, nose pressed against the glass and breath fogging up the window as he marvels at the outside. “it’s snowing!! i manifested that shit, do you see it?!”

you’re content to stay in bed, in the warmth of your heated blankets and the soft cozy pillow you’d spent months choosing and the plush mattress that had cost you an arm and a leg to buy, but your darling boyfriend has other plans for you. with a hand gripped on one of your arms, he rips you out of bed with a gleeful shout, pulling you in the direction of the door. the door leading to the outside where it was cold and snowing.

“satoru!” you yelp, narrowly dodging the shoddily made snowball he’s made in the point two seconds you’d looked away. “do not hit me!”

the outside is mostly untouched, save for the few and far between feet marks of dogs and their walkers. there’s about a foot and a half of loose snow outside, which makes making snowballs difficult for your snow-haired boyfriend. he’s got his tongue stuck out as he attempts to press the snow together into a ball shape. “i can’t make this stupid snow work with me!”

“no snowmen tonight, then.” you groan, sitting down in the snow and feeling thankful your boyfriend had made you take out the snow pants from storage the other day.

gojo groans, falling down in a huff next to you before whining and rubbing his ass. while the snow had buffeted your fall, apparently gojo has fallen with a bit of force—meaning he’d have a nice purple bruise on his ass in the morning. “stupid snow. this isn’t at all what i wished for.”

“oh, so you admit you wished for it to snow?” you tease, bumping your shoulder into his with a soft chuckle.

the red of his cheeks is either his embarrassment or the cold winds biting at them, but you’d like to think it was the former. hard to embarrass, you enjoy flustering gojo whenever you can. “i mean—i didn’t not wish for it to snow.”

“you’re so childish.” you laugh, hand grabbing some snow and shoving it onto his reddened cheek, making him swipe at your hand and pull you closer to him through the snow. “but i love that about you.”

“you love all of me, right?” he whispers, eyes searching across your face as he tilts his head to the side. ever the confident man, you suppose he can have his moments of insecurity, too.

you nod, pressing your cold nose against his. “i love you. all of you, gojo satoru.”

“i love you.” he presses his lips to yours gently. “always.”

#jujutsu kaisen gojo #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo x reader #jujutsu gojo #gojo x you #gojou satoru x reader #gojo fluff #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #event!twelvedaysofxmas #txt!writing

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dandylovesturtles · 6 months

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Leo & Donnie, trick (Please no character death, thank you!)

This will make more sense if you read the previous trick or treat (the Leo and Draxum trick)

Unfortunately this has become. a whole Thing. I didn't plan for it, it just happened. I'm currently calling it the Sidelined AU

CWs: Internalized ableism, light passive suicidal ideation

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Here's what being stuck in a demonic suit of armor for two days gets you:

Brittle bones.

No mystic powers.

Hovering brothers.

A catatonically depressed dad.

A catastrophic decrease in muscle mass.

Chronic fatigue.

A concerning amount of brain fog.

A bedroom on the ground floor (under construction).

Sensitivity to light and smell.

And a wheelchair. Apparently.

Donnie brought it in ten minutes ago, and he's spent that long infodumping about all the features he's built into it. Leo hasn't really kept up, because of the whole brain fog situation, and because he doesn't normally listen to infodumps of this length, anyway.

Instead he's been focused on keeping his lunch down. Something about the wheelchair twists his gut in a sharp way. It just feels so... final. Like if he sits down in that, he's officially given up.

Donnie is still rattling on. He's been smiling the whole time. Leo doesn't know what about his situation invites smiling.

(Some part of his brain, the less bitter and angry part, notes that it's the same smile Donnie has whenever he shows off new tech. Leo ignores that part of his brain.)

"Any questions?" Donnie asks him suddenly, and Leo blinks his way out of his own thoughts. Donnie is looking at him expectantly. Still smiling, his hands gesturing at his creation. The wheelchair. Leo's gut twists again and he swallows forcefully. Reaches over and sucks down the last of the water from his water bottle, and even that simple motion takes Herculean effort.

He's already forgotten what the question was, so he says, "No," because he feels that sums up all his feelings about the situation.

"Excellent," says Donnie, because he can't read a room to save his life. "Then do you want to take it for a test run?"

Leo stares at him so he doesn't have to look at the chair.

"No," he says again.

Finally, Donnie's smile falls. It morphs into something concerned, and Leo isn't sure he likes that any better.

"You said you were feeling alright," he says.

Sure, he did say that, because all he ever says when they ask how he's feeling is "alright." Well, that's not true. Sometimes it's "okay." Or "fine." Or, "Jeez, Raph, stop worrying about me before that chasm gets any bigger."

The point is, he did say he was feeling alright, but alright isn't good enough for... whatever this is.

He struggles over his words for a bit before finally getting out, "I don't need a wheelchair," which is the main point, as far a he's concerned.

Now Donnie's expression turns more frustrated. "Yes you do."

"No, I don't."

He sighs. "Leo, we've been over this. Your legs aren't strong enough to carry your weight, and you can't risk a fall in your condition. Do you want to be healing from a broken pelvis on top of everything else?"

He doesn't. But he doesn't say that, just stares stubbornly at Donnie to avoid looking at the chair.

"The wheelchair is only for now," says Donnie. "Once you've recovered enough, a walker, then a cane, or crutches. We've been over this-"

"I don't need a cane," says Leo, cutting him off. "Canes are for old people."

"They are not," Donnie argues. "They're for whoever needs them. Which includes you."

"I don't need one."

Donnie grumbles something under his breath that Leo can't hear, because damaged hearing is another one of the things being trapped in a demonic suit of armor for two days gets you. "Alright. Is there something wrong with my engineering?"

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, is there something unsatisfactory about the chair that I can fix so you would be more willing to use it." He gestures at it. "It's okay if my design isn't to your liking. I have others."

Leo shakes his head. "This isn't about your engineering." This isn't about you.

"Well maybe if we make it about my engineering then you'll stop being so stubborn!" Donnie snaps, and Leo feels his hackles rising.

"Oh, screw you, Donnie."

"Screw me?" Donnie spits back. "Screw me for trying to help and not just watch while my brother lets himself waste away! Yeah, screw me."

"You don't have to watch anything," Leo snaps back. "The door's right there."

"What's your end game here?" Donnie demands, taking an angry step forward. "You complain about Raph carrying you everywhere, but you aren't doing anything to fix your situation. You won't exercise, you won't use the wheelchair - you're giving up!"

"I'm not giving up!" Leo lies.

"Yes you are and I'm sick of watching it!"

"Then leave!"

Donnie opens his mouth like he wants to argue further, but then he throws his hands up and turns on his heel. "I'm done," he says, then stalks out. He tries to slam the curtain behind him as he leaves, but because it's a curtain it just ends up swinging back and forth.

Which means Leo can clearly see as Raph and Mikey duck out of sight.

"Donnie, maybe you shouldn't have-" Raph begins, but gets cut off.

"I'm not treating him with kid gloves. If he wants to rot in bed then let him."

"He's having a rough time, so-"

"You can keep coddling him. But I'm done."

Leo hears retreating footsteps, then a heavy sigh. Raph is still right outside his room.

It takes him a moment, but he pokes his head in eventually.

"Heeey buddy," he says, adopting his baby voice, and Leo wants to scream but he doesn't have the energy. "Need anything?"

"No. I'm fine," he says instead.

"You sure? Because Raphie can-"

"I'm fine," he says again, tired, and lays down so he can stare at the ceiling. "I'm just gonna sleep."

"...Okay. Night Leo."

He's gone and doesn't come back. Mikey doesn't come, either.

Leo regrets his decision a few minutes later, because all that yelling made his throat dry and painful, but his water bottle is empty, and he doesn't have the energy to get to the kitchen, and if he uses the chair...

He groans, pulling his blanket over his head. Already, the brain fog is turning his thoughts to white noise, and the fatigue is pulling him down. Thirsty or not, sleep will come.

Another thing being trapped in demonic suit of armor for two days gets you: a cure for insomnia.

#dandy fanfiction #dandy trick or treat #rise leo #rise donnie #rottmnt #sidelined au #cw internalized ableism #I can't believe this #things will improve I promise

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itsgrimeytime · 1 year

Text

Late Night Talking || Rick Grimes (TWD)

Dialogue Prompts: “Sometimes I just ... do this. It’s fine.” + “How long have you been sitting here?” + “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Summary: You haven't been sleeping -you can't. You weren't used to this... safety that Alexandria brought. Or, at least, they said it brought. So, instead, you found yourself outside, staring out into the wilderness -with no purpose other than to keep watch. One of those nights, you had a visitor.

TWS: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of death, mentions of walkers, hints of worthlessness, hints of paranoia, swearing, and crying.

Your nights were much the same within Alexandria walls, eyes locked on the gates as if they could fall any second. You watched on as the others found their places, jobs suiting them with ease. And you knew there was some tension in your group, mistrust with such a calm settlement. But you... you couldn't shake it.

But god, the kids... they were growing up... normal-ish. You honestly couldn't fault the place as you watched Judith in her crib, and Carl with people (friends, even) his age. It was wonderful, you could see the heaviness in their eyes dim, just for a gleam, and nothing could take that break away from them. But still... you couldn't sleep.

Not even with Gabriel on watch, and you knew his skills -hell, you trusted the guy really. It just...

Your fingers trailed across the wood of your porch, the empty streets so calm that it almost kicked in a survival instinct for you. Like you were missing something. There was always a danger. Always. You had to be missing something-

This wasn't possible. Not after everything.

So, when the houses were quiet and the streetlamps lit, you found yourself outside -staring at the faraway fences. It's not like you had a weapon, not since they confiscated them, but you'd rather put yourself in front of the others. They'd deserved life more than you could ever imagine.

It's not like you could turn off the instinct, you truly wished you could, as your eyes fogged up and your breaths hollowed out.

Someplace farther than you were now, you could hear them -the walkers. And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't close your eyes with them in your ear. Not without a weapon close by. Instead, you sat on your porch, leaning up against the siding of the house you'd chosen just a few down from some of the others -the chill of the night was calming to you. Familiar.

The heat inside the home? The running water, electricity, the working locks, the comfortable couches... they weren't.

You weren't sure they'd ever be.

“How long you been sittin' here?”

The southern drawl was the first thing that took you out of your head, and somewhere distantly, you remembered the footsteps coming up to you in the night. You hadn't really noticed at first though.

You looked up at the man, who was freshly dressed -almost comfortable, in a set of clothes that wasn't unfamiliar but still seemed new. His eyes were solely focused on you, and his stance was one you could recognize -eyebrows furrowed and lips pulled in a way that you'd seen more than once.

"I don't know," you answered, tone gravelly with lack of use.

He pursed his lips, letting out a soft sigh, and took a spot beside you. So close your knees bumped together, and at this moment, it was comforting -grounding almost.

"You out here a lot?" he asked, tone curious but not accusing -he was treating you kinda like you were an animal about to scamper away and maybe he was right for that.

The first thing you'd always noticed about Rick was his stance, authority in the fiber of his being. His presence though, like if you closed your eyes and just breathed in... well, Rick... he was calming, a deep tone of ease could flood your whole system. He was safe, really, at least, he always had been to you.

And based on how the others gravitated towards him, you assumed it was universal.

You clarified, a little curt, “Sometimes I just… do this. It’s fine... It's not hurting anybody."

"Right," he spoke, eying you for a second longer than he should have -he didn't buy it you could tell. You didn't expect him to. You didn't really expect to fool anyone with the laxness of your voice and the dark circles deep under your eyes. They'd catch on eventually, you knew that. Better for them too, than some other group here.

Didn't mean you were ready for them to find out.

"Little birdie says you ain't been sleeping," his tone was soft, a whisper across the emptiness that was currently Alexandria -it was an observation, honest and genuine. You weren't sure how to respond, but Rick always had a way of bringing answers out of you.

You posed, a bite of playfulness on your tongue, "This birdie have watch duty?"

You told no one about your lack of sleep, didn't want to add to the workload, but with Gabriel on watch most nights -you doubted the man could miss you. Especially with how close you found yourself to the gate, some days you wanted to walk out -just to feel something more familiar to your past few years. The chilling fear down your spine, the rush of adrenaline to find a roof over your head, and the groans of walkers everywhere you turned. Yet, here you were... safe.

That's what they said anyway.

"Y/N, I know it's-" he began, before faltering off and turning his head elsewhere -watching the flickering of one of the lamps a few feet from you two, "-I know it's hard, to turn the switch off in your head. But we're safe here. The perimeter is locked down. There's a guard watching the exit all night. I've went through it a thousand times myself-"

"I can't," you interrupted, your voice weak and shaky -when had you gotten this tired? Your hands were shaking now, as they rested against your legs, the chill of the house siding buzzing up your back, "-Rick, I've tried. Every night I do."

His mouth snapped shut, as his eyes fell to your face again, the small beginnings of a frown forming on his lips.

"But, I just can't get them out of my head. W-When," you stuttered out, trying to articulate the feelings when they came, "-when they overran the prison, and I didn't see any of you for weeks, months maybe-"

"Y/N."

"I just can't. I can't do that again, it's like drilled into my head to stay awake, I have to... protect everyone-"

"Y/N."

"Do you know how scary it is?" you continued, eyes everywhere but him, "For them to be out there, and for me to be unarmed? They could get anybody anywhere, god, what am I gonna do if they try to hurt Carl or Judith-"

"Y/N, darlin'-"

You stopped, the deep drawl of his words finally hitting you in the face.

"You here?" He hummed, moving closer to you, and now your mid-thigh was brushed against his -the touch buzzing up to your head like a bucket of cold water, "-Can you hear me?"

You simply nodded, the big gusts of breath stopping your from responding. Eyes watering and the hollowness of the lungs, your eyesight blurred -not this again.

"Breathe, Y/N," he spoke, voice barely a tone above the wind, just for you, "-just breathe, alright? You're doing a good job."

You were barely operating then, the thud of your hear against your chest so horribly loud, and the shine of the lights smudging in your eyes. You couldn't focus not really.

"Look, alright," he spoke, a bit more desperate but still in control of the situation -as his hands raised but stayed at bay as he asked, "-darlin', is it okay if I touch you?"

With a slight nod he caught, his hands went to yours, long calloused fingers trailing around your wrist and bringing the hand to his chest. The flannel there was soft on your fingertips and you almost hadn't even noticed what he was saying.

"Look," he hummed, calm and still solid, "-breathe with me, okay? Follow my lead."

You watched, as your hand rising and falling with his breathing. It was grounding, the warmth under your fingertips and pattern of his breaths.

Inhale, exhale.

Your head stopped spinning, and your eyes cleared of their fog -gradual. You remembered how to breathe, as the rise and fall of his chest lead you into normalcy.

"Ya got it?" He hummed, curious and eyes looking up into yours as if he was trying to read you. He didn't move his hand's grip though, fingers wrapped around yours.

"Yes," you exhaled, tone less shaky, "-thank you."

Still, as you shifted from the mindset, his hand stayed on yours -the bubbling of you skin against his prominent. You pulled his hand toward you, tracing your fingers along the indentations of his palms. The motion was solid and flowing -relaxing in the crowding of your mind.

"Y/N, you have to know," Rick began, a whisper as he stared at your connected hands, the clean skin being a little odd to you. Smelling like a fresh shampoo and aftershave, Rick was a new experience but still, at its core was the very same. Safe.

"Know what?" you asked, details smudging in your own brain at the distance from him. Fuzzy and loose, your heart was in a rush.

"Y/N," he spoke, a tone that meant you should know, but you were preoccupied -detailing the creases in his hands. Like it was obvious, whatever he was addressing.

In a blink, his other hand that was not locked in yours moved to your face -tilting your chin up to have your eyes meet his. Long fingers guiding you up with the gentlest of presses.

His face lit up with a smile, eyes bright and wondrous, his fingers trailing up from your chin to the side of your face -cradling. You let go of his hand, laying gently in your lap between you two.

"Rick," you whispered, asking really.

He spoke, like it was the easiest thing to know in the world, "You won't get hurt here."

His face remained completely serious, as he looked at you -only stating what he knew to be sure. He seemed to be sure, like you couldn't move his opinion.

"You can't be sure-" you responded, eyes darting across his face -trying to find a place of uncertainty.

"No, I am," he interrupted, rubbing his thumb along your cheek, "-I am."

You leaned into him, easily, without any hesitation -you trusted him completely, and although all of this was new territory, you really weren't afraid. Rick had meant more to you, but what he was initiating was new -welcome, sure, but new.

"I-" he began a little distraught, almost as if his own emotions brought him to it.

He sighed, heavily, like it was hard to say. Like everything was fighting him in his own body. You furrowed your eyebrows, taking in his face which was currently screwed up in a sort of concern, nervousness even.

His eyes met yours again, as he pulled his other hand up -mirroring the other on your face, "Y/N..."

Rick's hold was gentle, his calloused fingers brushing against your skin in a way that sent a feeling tossing in your stomach. His eyes stayed focused on you now as if he couldn't even chance to look away. Your face burned at the attention, and the fuzz of the night suddenly became... well, fuzzier.

"Not with me," he finished, making a point to match where your eyes darted, following you, "-As long as I'm here, you won't get hurt. I won't... I won't let you."

"Rick, you can't promise that-"

"I am," he added before you could finish and the tone was sturdy -as if would take everything in your power to change it. It was the way he spoke to others sometimes, serious and non-negotiable, "-I'd do anything to keep you, Carl, and Judith safe, you know that-"

"Rick, I don't-" you asked, staring at him now, "What do you mean?"

"I can't," he began, head falling between you two and there was something missing there, you knew it, "-Y/N, I'm not going anywhere without you, okay? And if that means running into a burning building to get you out, or kickin' someone's ass for you to escape... so be it."

Your voice was lost, over the tides of your stomach -you felt like you could hardly think straight with Rick so close. He was saying so much that your brain couldn't quite grasp, and maybe it was the lack of sleep but it seemed to be avoiding something. His hand moved to trail along your jaw, an intimate move, and suddenly, the situation became much more real.

"You have to know," he reiterated, tone soft and careful.

"I... I don't," you responded, curling your hand around his. The feeling in your stomach only triples at the notion -the flutter in your head. You didn't feel like you were really there.

"Well," Rick chuckled, pulling your head forward and pushing his lips onto your forehead, affectionately, "-maybe you should sleep on it?"

You frowned, the laugh breaking the hypnosis of well... Rick you were in and the heavy tiredness hanging onto you, "Not funny, cowboy."

"Cowboy?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow with a look you knew well -teasing.

"Rick, you really can't be surprised by that one," you hummed, giving him a look that seemed to push your point across and thumping your finger against his boots.

He shrugged, as if to say 'fair point', before pulling himself to his feet; the night was now much later, and you imagined whoever was watching Carl and Judith couldn't stay much longer.

You opened your mouth, faltering a bit, "Goodnight, Rick. Thank you for... everything. I don't know how to even-"

He stared at you, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion, before recognizing the thought process you'd gone through.

"Nice try, sweetheart," he doted -his drawl loud and proud, holding his hand out, "-but you're comin' with me."

You pursed your lips, eyeing his hands with a discerning gaze, "What?"

"You're gonna end up killin' me," he muttered to himself before looking to you with a smile that sent your heart into overdrive -as he, without much effort, pulled you to your feet. He didn't let go of your hand then, even as you found yourself settled on your feet -he just stared.

"Rick...?"

"Can I kiss you?"

"You-" you stuttered out, your face flushed beyond any stage you'd ever seen, "You want to?"

Rick smiled, hands now on your face again, tilting your face to his, "Wouldn't ask if I didn't want to, darlin'."

Your words lost again, as you stared into his eyes, your heart loud and echoing through your head -you simply nodded. He didn't waste a moment.

The kiss was soft, careful, like you were almost breakable and he didn't want to chance it. Hands delicately holding you in place, guiding you to him and it was much more calming and natural then you thought it'd be. Your fingers found their way to the nape of his neck, fidgeting with the curls mindlessly in the bliss of the moment.

Still, it was over too soon.

He stared at you, eyes shining in a way you hadn't quite seen before- and the creases by his eyes finding their purpose then. He'd always had a contagious smile, hadn't he?

"That clear some things up?" he hummed, thumbs rubbing at your dark circles like he could just wish them away. And maybe he could.

"You know what," you answered, smiling as the tiredness faded into your skin, "-I think so."

#rick grimes #rick grimes x reader #its griming time #stuff n' thangs #rick grimes x you #rick grimes x y/n #ricky dicky doo dah grimes #twd #twd rick #rick grimes x y/n fanfiction #rick grimes oneshot #twd oneshot

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feefymo · 2 months

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Hii, if you're still doing the ask game, what about kit walker + "i feel nothing"?

tw: mention of blood and sex. a/n: Oh, anon! Thank you for this request, Kit always fills my suffering heart! - Keep an eye Walker, Sister y/n. - Sister Jude called you as you left Doctor Arden's office and took Kit Walker into his room. Upon hearing the director's austere voice you stop your pace and, with you, the wheelchair containing Kit. - Sleep peacefully, Sister Jude. Look at him - you pinched the patient's chin between your index finger and thumb, raising his exhausted young face to the artificial, white and dazzling light of the ceiling. It was a miracle Kit hadn't slipped on the floor: he could barely keep his eyes open. A sharp gesture and you let the boy's head fall heavily between his shoulders. So, giving a knowing half-smile to your superior, you are dismissed. You started pushing the wheelchair again and, once you had lost Sister Jude, you covered the last few meters in a hurry. No one was wandering around in the dim light except you who, between creaks and faint moans, entered Mr. Walker's room. Not even having time to move him on the old mattress before you knelt in front of him: your head bowed and your entire little figure shaken by sobs. As if he were your only true God, you gave him an insistent nod of denial, even before finding the courage and looking him in the eyes. Kit had suffered yet another torture at the hands of Arthur Arden and he was becoming a ghost of himself. His beauty, still painfully looming, was gradually transforming into a heartbreaking work by Egon Schiele. He was sharp, Kit. Creased, grayed: a spirit of aching flesh and brittle bones. The moment your gaze met his, you searched through the fog of his irises as if in convulsions. - My love... - just seeing his distant expression was enough for you to express the need to look after him. To make up for every injustice he suffered. You were agitated, trying in vain to hold back the desperation of your actions. You grabbed his knees exposed by his blood-stained robe. You traced his profile through caresses and electric touches that reawakened him. However, Kit Walker was back to himself. Tired but gradually clearer, he continued to stare into space despite your pressing attentions. The kisses you covered his hollow cheeks, his neck. - I am sorry. I'm sorry, I wish I could do more than this... oh, Kit. Kit, please! Talk to me... kiss me! - in you, the desire to make him feel better grew enormously in the only way you knew and that Walker's presence in Briarcliff had taught you. Hungry for his gnawed person, you slipped a hand between his skinny thighs and vehemently touched his naked, annihilated masculinity. Your eye sockets leaked tears like broken faucets.

Were you really sorry? You really couldn't have done more? Did you love Kit or was he your clandestine toy? The more you pounced on him the less his body reacted. And just as a panic attack began to build in you, Kit's dry throat gave way to a sort of groan. His once lively eyes slowly settled on you, like an omen hidden by his expressionless face. He remained silent, he wanted you to get lost in the desert he was showing you. His eyelids fluttered in slow motion and his pupils retraced your presence without the other muscles breaking. - I... beg you. Stop it. I feel nothing. Anymore. -

#evan peters #american horror story #evan peters characters #ahs asylum #kit walker #angst game

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bloodandthestars · 6 months

Text

𝐈𝐓’𝐒 𝟐 𝐀𝐌 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍.

biker!ais x gn reader

tags: fwb (so mdni), biker au, reader is a bit bold late in the night

a/n: if he’s ooc I’m sorry, but I needed to write this out my HEAD, just something sweet and quick for you guys while I recover and write more Geto. here are some songs used for this: smartwater (summer walker), 2 AM (che ecru), right my wrongs (bryson tiller)

wc: 2k

Once again you found yourself restless in your apartment. In the dead of night, the ceiling becomes a familiar sight. The silence doesn’t bother you— it’s the fact that sleep doesn’t come any sooner that does. You keep forgetting to grab melatonin on your run to the grocery store, thus making your nights long. Watching the city lights helped at the very least. You got yourself with a slight groan, putting some bottoms on and house shoes. There was a slow walk to the kitchen where your tea brews hot. One inhale’s able to ease you, but not by much.

You slide your worn window open with a grunt, slipping outside to the fire escape. The metal was a bit damp but doable. You sit down with your legs crossed and your back against the brick of the apartment. Your plants in the corner seem to be doing well after rain from the previous night. It left every surface dewy and shiny, from the fog on windows to the street beneath you. Skyscrapers not too far away light the night, sounds of traffic entrancing your ears. The city always felt like home, like a friend to always have in the background of your life.

That seemed to ring true with everything you had going on. You started a new job that was piling on a workload before you could get comfortable, the floor’s washer and dryer was never working, and any free time you had was spent sleeping to charge your battery up again. Was it a tad isolating? Sure. You had your friends but you weren’t exactly feeling social when you were tired. Time alone became a new thing for you when you moved into the city. It was something to learn to enjoy, you thought, not something to be afraid of.

Zzpt! A chime on your phone takes you out of the atmosphere. You look down at your bright phone, not only telling you it’s late in the night but that you’ve received a text.

‘I’m assuming you’re up, Sparrow?’

You huff, fingers already ready to type out: ‘You stalking me or something?‘

Before you can set your phone down, it chimes again. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

He was one result of that time alone. You went out to a bar, one your friend recommended as your big night out. The Amaryllis was…a strange name at the least but seemed fitting when you stepped inside. Bar had to be a total understatement. Red drenched the entire place with its lighting. There were two bars on either side, with a large space in the middle full of people. Your immediate thought was to go straight to the bar. You settled your bag down, taking a seat under you and settling there. The bartender asked what you wanted and you asked for a martini, simply the first thing that came to mind when you thought of bar drinks. As you waited, the music caused your head to bounce slowly. An RnB beat that clearly got those mingling in the mood to dance. In the middle, there were some grinding against one another, others whispering close to each other’s faces. Your eyes linger from one person to the next and eventually, they linger on him.

‘Yes I’m up.’ You clarify.

‘Good.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘I’m a bit bored.’

‘Hm, if that’s the case, I rather not be entertainment.’

You scoff at his answer of boredom. A couple of minutes pass when he finally replies honestly. ‘Fine. I can’t sleep either.’

‘Was that so hard?’

‘Like pulling teeth.’

His red eyes locked you in the moment you caught them. He had a whiskey locked in his hand, lazily drapping his arms on the bar from behind. You looked away, finding other things to look at, but your gaze seemed to trail back to him. His never left.

‘How was work?’

‘Long and tiring.’

‘So, usual?’

‘You know me so well.’

‘I have my moments.’

You bite your bottom lip as you type out your own question. ‘What has you up?’

It was right then when your eyes returned to him in that club did you both remain staring at one another. People could walk through your line of sight and yet he never wavered when they walked in his. You could feel your stomach twist, but it felt good in a way, exciting even. Knowing that there was someone there who couldn’t take their eyes off you. And when you think back to that night, you were sure he figured that out too.

‘Nothing you should know about, Sparrow.’ This message took him the longest to send, making you even more curious. Not without an eye roll, however.

‘You sure?’

‘Promise. Don’t need to worry your pretty little head.’

It’s not like you could help it. He was willing but withdrawn. Taunting but behind a wall of a fortress. He’s honest, only when he wants to be. How could that not intrigue you?

When you were in the club, you turned away to sign off on your tab. As soon as you were half way through your signature, he’s right there, asking if you were really about to leave. You weren’t really, if it wasn’t evident enough to the bartender on how you were taking your sweet time. And when you told him that, he couldn’t help but smirk, signaling to the bartender that his tab was opened where you were now. You exchanged names. Yours rolls off his tongue after you say it, as if to make sure his mind never forgets it. He gives you his: Ais.

‘You know I’d listen.’

That big night out alone, didn’t end that way.

‘I know.’

Another text. ‘But I don’t want that right now.’

‘Then what do you want?’

‘You.’ Another follows a little too quickly. ‘You talking is enough for me.’

‘Is it?’

A beat goes by, your phone pressed to the metal under you as you awaited his next text. ‘You ask too many questions.’

You’re trying to hide a shit-eating grin with you bite your bottom lip a second time. ‘I think I ask all the right questions, actually.’

‘No you don’t.’

‘Clearly I do, since it’s taking you so long to text back.’

You feel that twist in your stomach again, boldness seemingly becoming the theme of the night with you. ‘What do you want then?’

‘You know I’m not good at talking over the phone.’

‘You do just fine with me.’

‘You’re different. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to look at you when we talk.’

‘That’s what FaceTime is for.’

‘You know what I mean.’

You lean your head back against the wall, exhaling as you look up to the sky. You shouldn’t be doing this. ‘Come on then.’

It should be appalling how fast the word ‘Delivered’ disappears and turns into ‘Read at 1:48 AM’. But to you it was nothing new. If you told him to come, he’d be there. If he was in need of you, you’d find your way over. One night turned into these casual flings between you both. Not what you were expecting to find in the city— nor what you really need right now— but god, did he prove himself for no complaining.

You recognize the rumble of the engine in an instant. It echoed across the neighborhood, but you know he wouldn’t give a damn about that. Anytime you heard it you thought it could rival rumbling the earth. You quickly go to stand, peering over the fire escape in time to see him slow down in front of your complex. He twists throttle twice with his foot hard on the brake levers to come to a stop. The motorcycle’s roars fade to silence. Its matte black texture gave a muted shine under the streetlights, while any grey part looked worn of use yet always ready to go. His helmet turns in your direction to watch you. He tilts his head at you and you tilt yours back, ending the interaction with a grin and a rush back into your apartment.

“I still think you should’ve got the paint job in red.” You say as you’re already out of the front doors. A chill runs down your spine from the night air. One of his gloved hands flips his visor off his eyes. Red irises were already attached to you. He crossed his arms, making the leather of his jacket tighten with a slight crunch. “And I still think it would have been too flashy.”

“You could pull off flashy.” Your fingers run over the top of the vehicle, still warm from use. He watched your fingers, then looks back to you with a scoff. “You don’t mean that.”

You shrug, eyes catching his and smiling at him. You look back down to his motorcycle, fingertips tracing over the top of the fuel tank. Ais still watches you even then, pressing his lips together at how your digits scale his ride. You turn your head to him, catching his attention again. “Little late for a house call.”

“It’s never stopped us before.”

Your fingers stop abruptly, causing him to get hesitant. You then put your chin in your hand while resting your elbow atop the tank. “No, I guess not.”

His head tilts at you, a scarred brow raises. “What? You don’t like our visits anymore?”

You roll your eyes. “I never said that.”

You could tell by the crinkle of his eyes that there was a grin under his helmet. You bite the inside of your cheek, rolling your eyes at him again to avoid smiling at him. You stand up fully, and a warm hand pressed into the small of your back. The other hand keeps himself balanced. You could feel his thumb slowly rub the fabric of your top.

“You ready to go then?”

You give him a look, doesn’t mean he’d pull away. “I have work in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“So I can’t stay long.”

“Mhm.”

“Are you even listening to me?”

“I am.”

“Ais.”

The mention of his name turns his eyes up from your lips. The look in them goes lax. “I’ll bring you back early enough to change for work. I can take you.”

A scoff abruptly comes out of you. “No way, last time you did that I had to deal with being the gossip of the week from my co-workers.”

“So?”

Ais shrugs, leaving you wondering how he could act so nonchalant. “It’s none of their business, so who cares.”

His thumb continues to stoke your lower back, making the temptation all the more palpable. You were mere inches from being pressed against his side and if he had his way, you would have been there already. You continue to look at him, contemplating your choices. Another moment under your gaze and his shoulders relax with a slight sigh. “I’ll drop you off around the corner if that helps.”

You soften just a tad. Damn him trying to be a gentleman.

He leans close, lowering his head to make sure both of your eyesight is leveled. “But you are coming with me.”

There’s a twinkle of amusement in your eyes that he catches quickly. “What makes you say that?”

“What?” He huffs. “You can only act bold over the phone, Sparrow? One, you’ll want to put your money where mouth is. And two-”

That leathered hand quickly finds itself cupping your rear, causing a metal jingle to be heard. You jump at his slight squeeze, butterflies fluttering in the deep pit of your stomach. There’s a mischievous slight in his voice. “You have your keys in your back pocket.”

Now you were planted at his side with him with his hand placement. You look up at him, body giving into his own heat. Your stomach was twisting again but it hits you then on what it really was. A feeling of now or never that seemed to always accompany his presence. A rush of adrenaline that just needed fuel to go little further. That’s exactly what he was. The gasoline to a fire you seem like you had to enjoy before it completely burned out.

And this time, your smile is stronger than your resistance to it.

#writing #so self indulgent #ais #ais touchstarved x reader #touchstarved game #touchstarved x reader #ais touchstarved #biker au #biker!ais #I love writing fwb sorry not sorry <3

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arkturusz · 1 month

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@cult-of-the-eye here it is, hope you like it :3

MAG[REDACTED] - Blood in the Machine

Anonymous statement, regarding the statement maker's purchase and use of a strange desktop computer. Original statement given 4th of February 2024, recording by Arcturus Walker, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, Budapest. Put to tape on the 21st of March 2024. Statement begins:

I don't want to go into details as to why I came to make this decision. It was an offer too good to be true, just what a struggling university student needed: a cheap PC with great specs and with only 2 years of usage. I know how some sellers put enticing prices on Facebook Marketplace just to drop the real deal in later messages, but that wasn't the case. The owner got his hands on "something better" and saw no use in keeping this one around so he asked for the bare minimum that would still be a deal to him.

I went to pick up the desktop, it was a city away so I drove there. It was a bit weird how creeping closer to the destination all we had were dirt roads. I live in the suburbs, I know not all city councils pay it enough attention, but these weren't those dusty solid roads. These were muddy, the tracks barely visible and overgrown with grass. No, not grass, something more- vibrant.

The roads branched off a few hundred meters from my destination, only one going in its general direction so I followed it. I reached a house, no buildings in its neighborhood, crop fields on one side, a small forest on the other, the kind that always seems way more moist than the weather would allow it and always has that smell of thick mud and insects. I could only *enjoy* that for a moment before I got hit with something else, something fleshier. It was a stench that burnt into my nostrils. I try not to judge a house by the smell, my parents were chainsmokers and I've always been more ashamed to bring friends home than it seemed they were bothered by the odor. Assuming I just met a butcher, or really just someone that keeps their own livestock I headed inside.

It felt like a hallucination, it really did. I stepped into a corridor, my lungs full of the dull yet powerful stench that covered everything. My brain felt foggy and with a headache that felt like pressure on my skull I continued inside. I was hoping to pick up the computer and get going right away, and I did my best to accomplish just that. I lifted the PC which was rather heavy and hurried back the way I came when something caught my attention. As I was putting my shoes on my brain alerted me of movement. From all around. The walls seemed to have this rhythmic pulse to them. If I wasn't at the doorstep I would've fainted, that's for sure, but I made it out to my car, telling myself it's the headache getting to me.

The drive back was nothing out of the ordinary, but that foul smell just wouldn't leave my nose. I parked, opened my boot and to no surprise the aroma oozed out of the case like a thick invisible fog, bringing back that numbing pressure that I felt earlier. I grabbed all the cleaning chemicals and similar that I could find lying around, giving it a thorough rub on the outside. I pride myself on my expertise in software, but the hardware always confused me and I never bothered to learn it. Thus I did not want to open it up, which proved to be a grave mistake.

For 6 months straight there seemed to have been no problem with the PC. It worked as intended, was just as fast as I expected and the smell was only noticeable if you got up close to sniff the case. Which I didn't. But two days ago I didn't need to either. I woke up to a strange smell. It wasn't as strong or numbing as the one I felt at the house but it certainly wasn't pleasant. We had maintenance that night, we were notified that from 10pm we should be expecting a blackout. I didn't mind, but it seemed that whatever was in my computer did not like it. I decided to give it another round of cleaning once I was done with my cup of coffee. I dressed up and went to pull out the cables on the back, but they were a lot harder to unplug than I remembered. I ripped out the one which was most limiting length-wise and I pulled the rest of the case out from under my desk. As I saw the back of the PC I had to stop myself from throwing up.

Now I'm not afraid of gore, I grew up in a generation (and the subcultures) that made it such a commonplace it's usually unamusing. On screen, at least. But I didn't expect to come face to face with a chunk of skin stretching across where my plugs should have been. The cable I ripped out laid on the floor, a dark red liquid dripping from it, staining my carpet. Same thing could be found on the back of the case. Turns out the cable wasn't just stuck, it was *integrated* into the fleshy mess that shouldn't have been there.

That's when I got a screwdriver and ripped the case open. It seemed like the only logical way to deal with whatever infested my computer and I didn't know what else I could do. The case came away like a sticker, the inside melted to a wall of human-like skin, peeling away it left a residue of perspiration on the plastic.

The flesh monster's skin seemed to have formed a block, covering its insides from all angles, pressing against the vents and pushing out through the outlets. The cord I ripped had left a nasty hole that started to scar up, but I wanted to see what I was up against and I *didn't let it*. I scraped away the scar tissue with the screwdriver and pushed it through the wound, detaching the vein that supplied my cable from the wall of skin. The case still hugging it from the outside cast a shadow that made it hard for me to see in, so I turned on my flashlight, stretching at the hole with my tool, trying to take a peek.

I saw veins running across the surface, the inside was humid and *warm*, at least warmer than room temperature but it wasn't the heat of a working human body. It was starting to cool. In the middle of the case I saw something heavy, a huge knot in the middle of the circulatory system which kept beating in a steady rhythm. It was slow, the pulse was invisible from the outside, yet it kept pushing blood through the opening, trying to close it up, but the scarring slowed down significantly from when I first ripped that cable out. It ran on electricity, it had to have been the case, the inside had a greenish tone from what I could make out, meaning that during the blackout it started rotting. The system that somehow ran like a normal computer for months started to decay, which reminded me of the smell my brain ignored from my initial shock that once again sat heavy in my lungs.

I did not reconnect it but I didn't know what to do with it either. Who would have I called? I scoured the internet to find your institute, and I left my PC to you. Past making this statement I wish not to associate myself with this case any longer.

Statement ends. First thing after reading this statement I went down to artifact storage to ask about this curio. Turns out whoever left it to us delivered it too late, the "heart" was not beating and the thing once stretched against the walls of it's case now sat collapsed and rotten in the organic section, making any other follow-up almost impossible. Looking for the flesh house also yielded no results, meaning I will put this case to rest as-is. What does keep me wondering are the intentions of the seller. Why would an avatar of the Flesh sell a piece of itself to an unsuspecting individual? There was no mention of the *flesh block* attempting to leave its case meaning there was no intention of spreading the system either. Maybe they didn't intend the buyer to possess it for so long, maybe they tried to alert us of their vicinity. But they failed. They left us with a cold trail. *sigh* Recording ends

This is episode one of my series I call MAGREDACTED, here are all the episodes out now:

The Vast The Stranger The Dark

New episodes will be posted over on @archivus !

#tma #tma fanart #MAGREDACTED #originals #tma fanepisode #the flesh #writing #jon sims

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curiositydooropened · 8 months

Text

Wildfire • Spark

After a less-than-ideal first week in training with your new partner on the sparring mats and in the swimming pool, it's time to flex your skills on the Scorch course. When Eddie discovers terrifying evidence to the face you saw in the swimming pool, you learn a bit more about what it means to be Flayed. Harrington learns some truths about the day Vickie died.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Chapter Wordcount: 9,765

Warnings: enemies/rivals to lovers, second chance romance, slooooowburn, unrequited love, so much pining, blood, gore, character death, best friend!disabled!Eddie Munson, character injuries, trauma, PTSD, hallucinations, drowning, concussion, hurt/comfort, fire

Fic Masterlist • Navigation • Masterlist

Chapter One: Ember • Chapter Three: Ignite

---

NOW

August 1988

Indiana thunderstorms came in soft and slow, the call of wind and blooming, teal clouds. They wet tarmac and corn fields first. A cascade of large drops that melted against windshields and abandoned shopping carts. Then came the downpour, hail and rain that ricocheted off tin roofs, just beyond the safety of underpasses and covered porches.

Before the world opened up, you delighted in them. You and Vickie, in matching raincoats, would run into the street and spin and spin until the world wet fuzzy and your teeth chattered. You’d laugh and dive into puddles, soaking your canvas shoes and the socks underneath. You’d sing and play until dad warned you about lightning strikes and called you inside. You’d shriek in delight under the warmth of your covers while electricity buzzed the power out.

And after, you peered beyond the safety of double paned glass and watched, watched for red lightning, for ash, for tell-tale signs that you weren’t right-side up. Your breath fogged the glass in front of you, arms crossed over your chest. The massive cloud, in its slow approach, shadowed the far end of the asphalt, faded yellow parking spots shining wet.

“Hey,” a voice startled your focus, and you turned to see Eddie, brows furrowed, leaning against the left side of his walker. “I need to show you something.”

Something urgent in his tone, laced with concern, almost had you forgetting the storm outside, but a voice on the wind called your name and you turned your attention back out the window one last time, watching the cloud loom in teals and greys. A large flash lit up the sky, sheet lightning, blinding white. You startled.

Eddie led you down darkened halls, everyone busying themselves in separate dorms or a rec room somewhere, out and away from the storm outside. He didn’t try to make small talk, or manage any of his signature quips. His silence only perpetuated the static you felt on the back of your neck, the breath that chilled you to your core.

“In here,” he gestured to a doorway marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, and you reached for the handle to push it open. You glanced around the empty hallway, checking for some sort of surveillance, before following him into a room lit only by a single television, it buzzed with that same static.

“What’s going on?” You asked, pulling up the rolling seat Eddie gestured to before he popped a tape into a deck.

“Wheeler copied this for me, and erased the original. So if we get caught, we’ve officially tampered with government property.” As if that was an explanation.

“We?” You tried to get comfortable in the chair, suddenly feeling eyes on you from all angles.

Eddie reached forward and hit play, and the sound of the tape winding preceded the screen going black. Then, slowly, banks of lights were being turned on, and you recognized the pool, however many stories below you now. Harrington took several strides before dumping his rucksack poolside. Then, he busied himself around the room, checking levels and cleaning where he could.

“Eddie,” you swallowed. “What is this?”

Eddie responded by hitting fast-forward, and you watched as Harrington stripped from his day clothes and jumped into the pool. He did a few laps, quite a few, before squeezing the chlorine water from his hair and got dressed again. Eddie hit the button once more, and Harrington waited around for quite a while before the doors swung open again, and you arrived. Eddie hit play.

The video was silent, but you’d seen it all play out, you’d been there. You watched Harrington drop the brick. You watched yourself strip to your underwear.

“We can fast-forward,” you instructed, clearing your throat as you tried not to dwell on the pudge around your middle, the unflattering angle of the security footage.

Eddie did as instructed, and you watched yourself go through your trials, Harrington spurring you on. Until Harrington jumped back in, and you knew what you were looking for.

“There, stop.”

Eddie paused. The freeze frame was blurred with static, the edges of the camera blurred with mist and condensation. The ripple of water took up the lower half of the frame. Your head was barely above water, mouth agape to take one final gulp. And there was no one on the tiles.

“Watch,” Eddie muttered, playing frame-by-frame. His fingertip stretched to the screen, pointing for you to keep your eyes on the steel double doors. And you watched, in horror, as they swung open. Exactly as you remembered.

Only, no one entered. No one walked to the edge of the pool to smile down at you. No one was watching. It was all in your head.

“So what? A draft?” You prayed.

“That far underground?” Eddie hit play, and you watched the door swing on its hinges for only a moment. Then, your limp body was being hauled upright, a dark bead in the water must have been the blood from your head (the dull ache hadn’t quite disappeared). Harrington lifted you onto the tile and leapt up after you.

Your best friend paused the video and turned to face you, half of his face glowing blue in the light, features gaunt, terrified. “Have you heard his voice?”

You knew who he meant.

“Have you heard the chime of a clock? Have you been seeing things other than Vickie? Hearing things?” He was frantic now, hands tangled in curls, good knee bouncing.

You clutched his thigh to stop the movement. “Ed, stop. He’s dead. Eleven killed him. He’s not coming back.”

“We don’t know that,” he shook his head.

“We do,” you nodded, though you weren’t sure which of you needed to hear it more. “We know that he’s gone, and I’m not hearing voices. I’m not hearing chimes. It’s just her, and it’s just PTSD or whatever bullshit Linda’s telling me, okay?”

“Then what’s with the door?” He gestured back to the screen.

You didn’t know, and you didn’t love the pit growing in your stomach, that lingering feeling of being watched. You tried to push it out, force it down, but couldn’t manage to answer Eddie more than a shrug. “Wheeler’s not going to tell Hopper, right?”

“Nah,” Eddie scrubbed at the stubble on his jaw. “I sold him pot last week. He owed me.”

You snorted.

The tape was ejected, static buzzed on the television once more, the screen illuminated in blues and grey. “I’ll keep ahold of this until we show Steve.”

Your stomach sunk further. You swallowed. “What?”

Your name left his lips in a scold you haven’t heard since you were in high school. “You have to tell Steve. He’s your partner, and if this shit is the asshole we hope it isn’t, we’re all in danger. He deserves to know.”

You avoided his gaze, running a tired hand down your face.

“If you don’t tell him, I will.”

—

The heat was oppressive, humidity that stuck your clothes to your skin and wet the hair at your temples. The plastic mask surrounding your nose and mouth was fogged, and you peeled the suction from your skin, letting it dangle around your throat to rub sweat from your eyes. You winced at the burn and peered ahead at the giant concrete structure before you, bathed in the neon orange rays of the setting sun.

The Scorch practice building wasn’t much more than concrete and rebar, four levels high with no roof. There were no glass in the windows, just holes shaped into the four sides with views of stairwells and open rooms. It was about as dark and desolate as any structure in the Ether, and just as imposing.

“20:04,” Harrington spoke beside you, voice muffled by the mask around his face, sweat sticking his hair likewise to his tanned skin. He was looking at the watch around his wrist, and you did the same to yours, clarifying his time as second hand ticked. “Twenty minute run.”

You nodded and placed the mask back over your features, the elastic too tight around your skull. You adjusted your fuel pack next, a thirty pound tank that slipped against your tank top at the slick of your back. You tightened the shoulder straps and buckled the strap at your chest, constricting your bosom even tighter.

You and Harrington pulled the hoses from their holsters simultaneously and stepped forward into the abandoned building, and it was like stepping back into that world.

The structure had been manufactured for these purposes, faux vines made of rubber tubing stretched across the surfaces, outward and upward, curling like they would in the Ether. You weren’t to step on them, weren’t to let them know of your presence as you made your way through the building looking for bigger things, darker worries, greater enemies. Trainers would rearrange it after each run, a new horror around new corners.

You had every iteration memorized. Muscle memory kicked in the moment your heavy boot went over the threshold. Finger on the trigger, the sound of your breath in your mask, you curved to the North, around the first corner into a room staged as the kitchen. They like it cold.

No lights, only an island covered in the charred remains of fruit and tin cans, vines melted to fixtures that had been stolen from once-happy homes. From the corner of your eye, Harrington side-stepped to round the refrigerator, but you knew it’d be too obvious.

“Clear.” He instructed, two fingers saluting to proceed into the formal dining space.

You shook your head and flicked open a blackened corner cabinet. You managed to dodge an egg as it rolled from its perch and onto the countertop. There, you hit the trigger. A surge of energy burst down the length of your arm, bright orange and white hot, like Vickie’s hair and autumn nights and agony, screams and cries of agony and the shatter of your heart and -

“Good job,” Harrington affirmed as he passed you, something unforgiving in his tone, something trepidatious.

You swallowed back the fear crawling up your esophagus and followed.

Harrington discovered a nest in the dining room, two dogs watching television, and another egg sack at the top of the stairs to the next floor. You hadn’t pulled your trigger again, letting him get the kill as you followed on, clearing bedrooms and hallways up to floor three, your heart pounding against the mask, sweat blurring your vision.

A demogorgon waited, split through the walls of an upper floor bedroom, made of vinyl and something else toxic, and Harrington laid into it, spreading fire across the ceilings and concrete bookshelves, and the fire licked at your cheeks and forehead too hot, too close, too much.

“Harrington!” You roared over the sound of his machine buzzing, flame thrown from his grasp.

He took his hand off the trigger and looked back at you with furrowed brows, sweat striping the dirt across his features.

You shook your head and gestured to the fresh char marks, the fizzle of embers against the stone. “It needs to be more contained. You spread it that much in the Ether, the whole structure’s coming down on you.”

“I’m trying to be thorough,” he argued, rubbing at his own stinging eyes.

You continued to shake your head. “Thorough doesn’t always mean safe. You wait for it to jump out of the wall, then you scorch it.”

“If it gets down here, it has a higher chance of killing me,” he propped his hand on his hip.

You rolled the side of your tank top up to expose a long, spindly scar on your hip bone that you knew continued down your thigh. “Get clawed or get killed. Keep it contained.”

The words echoed around your own skull, a buzz like nicotine or caffeine, something sharp and spiky that hadn’t left the jitter in your hand since you first pulled the trigger, since you stepped foot in here. Those muscle memories, all those hours training fellow toy soldiers, fuel strapped to their backs, the sickly sweet stench of lighter fluid, the only thing you’d ever felt you were meant to do.

You left Harrington fogging up his mask, back to the wall, feet avoiding the vines on the ground like they were second nature, like you’d always known where they were because you put them there. You turned into a bathroom, pulled open the cabinet under the sink. “Clear,” you shouted before scurrying into the final room.

A demodog decoy stood on the bed, flower-shaped head bared, legs squat. A hatchet was stuck through his middle. Your finger tugged the trigger, second-nature, the surge of energy a warm, familiar buzz against your forearm, the breath on your tongue metallic. You’d been born for this. Keep it contained.

“The rest of this floor is clear,” Harrington’s gruff tone filled your space again, a jostle of your pack indicating he was too close. If you were fire, Harrington was water, a quench of cold rigidity that doused that which ought to have been fanned within you, that need to burn.

You followed him for the final climb, these walls cast in pinks and reds and oranges, the twilit sky looming beyond. A breeze trickled in, cooling the sweat that lined your décolletage. You licked salt from your upper lip, burned remnants of paper and cloth crunched beneath your feet.

The hall split in two, doorways littering either side, tattered vines, sun-stained pale grey, bathed in red, trailed up the walls, flapping in the breeze.

“South,” you called out, and Harrington nodded, turning right when you turned left. Your packs knocked against one another.

Room one was clear. Room two was clear. You heard Harrington call similarly from the hall, and the sound of fire scorching something he had found in his third room. You edged your way around the corner and into the final open space. There, you found five mannequins.

Stood in perfect formation was a family, two parents and three children. The paleness of their skin had all been blackened around the edges. Some limbs were missing: the smallest one teetering on one leg, the mother missing an arm. Faces were in various stages of melt, dark grimaces on misshapen heads. One of the children remained eerily in tact. Her eyes glowed blue, hair a shock of red, smile twisted in delight, the strap of her blue tank top slipped down a melted shoulder.

“What the fuck is this?” Harrington’s voice was unmuffled, and when he stepped into your periphery, you saw he’d pulled his mask down to hang loosely around his neck.

You swallowed and held your weapon at your side. The red haired girl stared back at you, unblinking. “They’re flayed.”

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” He scoffed, adjusting his pack, bumping you with his elbow.

You shook your head. You’d been the one to set it up, Vickie’s suggestion, pulling mannequins from the old mall site. Trainees needed to practice. They didn’t know what they’d be up against, or who. You swallowed. “Put your mask back on.”

“What? No. We aren’t burning them.”

“We can’t risk contamination.” You thought of the video tape, of the face above the water, of that gnawing on your skull where you impacted the tiles.

“Contamination? They’re mannequins. Have you lost your mind?”

Maybe you had. You licked your lips, tried to ignore the shadow looming just beyond the figures, just beyond the girl with the red hair and the smiling face, just beyond the memories of Vickie’s screams, the taste of ash, the smell of flesh. “If you can’t do it in here, how can I trust you to do it out there?”

“Eddie survived,” Harrington argued, and suddenly the buzz in your skull silenced, a splash of ice cold water to your bones. You were drowning in it, the disdain that dripped from his tongue.

You turned to face him, pulled your own mask from your face. “You know he’s an exception. We don’t know how he got out.”

“But he did,” Harrington’s jaw was clenched stone-tight, he wasn’t looking at you. “He survived. He was flayed, and we got him out.” Everything that wasn’t said was caught in between words, context oozing with mistrust, with the truth he believed about you, about Her.

“Well, she couldn’t have been saved,” you spat, that vine crawling itself up and out of your chest, like fire and agony and screams. “By the time I found her, she had a hole in her chest the size of my arm. There was black shit spilling out of her mouth. She was -” You couldn’t breathe, eyes blurred with sweat and red hot sunlight, the heat was suffocating, the smell of smoke and ash.

You squeezed your eyes shut, tried to will away the images of her begging for help, pleading for you to end it, telling you they knew, they saw, telling you it was time because if you didn’t kill her, they’d know where to find you, all of you. She was a spy.

When you opened your eyes again, Harrington looked pale, nostrils flared, stone faced, but processing the horrors you let slip. You felt a modicum of triumph at knowing he’d experienced even a sliver of it, a piece of it broken from you and transferred as a weight to his shoulders now too. Consider it a bonding experience.

You glanced down at the ticking hands of the watch on your wrist and said, “20:25. Twenty-one minutes. Mission failed.” Before you shouldered away from him and back down the stairs, ignoring the lingering itch over your right shoulder, that presence that reared its head all the times you wanted to be left alone.

—

The halls were eerily silent on Scorch days, when the majority of the team had been sent from the building in twos to repel through gates and torch the boundaries of another dimension. You weren’t used to the silence, having spent nearly two years on those vehicles, adrenaline pumping and back aching from the weight of your pack. The past four months had been spent outside the War Room, pacing, waiting for an inch of hope, an eavesdropped morsel of what was going on down there.

Today was no different, nursing stale coffee from a styrofoam cup, watching blips on a fuzzy radar screen from behind several panes of glass. At one point, you’d made eye contact with Hopper, frown creased between his brows and beneath his mustache, and he shooed you away with his hand.

You’d memorized the names on the call sheet, muttering silent prayers that they’d all make it back safe, unscathed, untethered. Harrington’s words echoed in your mind, louder and louder as the day progressed and your legs grew weary of propping you against concrete walls and linoleum floors. His insinuation that Vickie could have been saved hung heavy on your shoulders like the straps of a fuel pack.

Eddie sat with large headphones over his ears, scribbling things onto notebook paper, wrapping his eraser against the page in a way that made you wonder if he was listening to radio frequencies or heavy metal music. You knew it calmed him, knew it brought him back from Vecna’s grasp.

You tried not to think of the song that left your chapped lips, the rough scratch of your vocal chords against the ash and ruin as you tried to bring Vickie back to you, back to the light.

You rubbed at tired eyes and pulled yourself off the wall and continued to pace. You thought of Harrington again, of the look on his face when you’d shared your truth about Vickie, of the obstinance you received when teaching him how to properly scorch, of the sass he spewed ad nauseam. You rolled your eyes and glared back through the glass at the balding patch on the back of Hopper’s head.

The scuffle of feet startled you from your thoughts, and you spilled cold coffee down your forearm. You looked up from the splash on the floor to two gangly teens who rounded the corner with hushed whispers and hands in the pockets of their tactical pants. They seemed twice as scared of you as you were of them.

The Wheeler kid’s eyes went wide like saucers when he recognized you, and the tips of his nose and cheeks flushed a deep red. Remembering the tape he procured for Eddie, you fumbled to speak and ended up sandwiching your tongue sharply between your molars.

“Hi,” Will Byers attempted to diffuse the tension with the quirk of his smile, and you swallowed back the saliva flooding your mouth.

“Hi,” you managed to wince through the pain and toss your scrunched styrofoam into a nearby trash can, wiping your forearm on your pant leg.

“Any news?” Wheeler managed, scratching at the back of his neck. The boys approached the glass and peered in.

“No. Your siblings out there?” You asked, as if you didn’t already know, as if Nancy and Jonathan hadn’t replaced you and Vickie as Scorch team leaders, as if you hadn’t watched Nancy zip her tac vest and tie her laces.

“Yeah.” Joyce turned from her spot and caught her son’s face outside the glass. Her weary smile showed so imminent danger, and she flexed her fingers in a wave.

Will waved back, relief relaxing broad shoulders. “No news is good news.” Then, he turned to you. “So, how are you? How’s training with Steve?”

You swallowed and glanced back at Wheeler. Suddenly, the bean pole found something on the floor very interesting. You sighed and lied through your teeth. You’d done it with Linda, why not the Byers kid too? “Yeah, great. Harrington’s a really hard worker. He’s a good asset for our team.”

“Jesus, you guys script that?” Wheeler snorted. Will elbowed him in the ribs.

“We talked to Steve earlier today,” Will explained. “He had similar nice things to say about you. Seems like a good match.”

You nodded, the words that once would have flipped your stomach now souring the taste in your mouth. Or maybe that was the blood pooling from your tongue.

“We better get back to El,” Wheeler bounced on the balls of his feet, elbowing Byers back. He offered you a bored nod and started back down the hallway.

Will pushed off from the window with another understanding smile. He’d nearly followed his friend around the corner before you heard the squeak of his sneakers as he paused and turned around. “Hey, I’m really sorry, by the way. About Vickie.”

Your stomach lurched, the flash of fire and screams echoed in your mind’s eye.

“I’m here if you ever you know, need to talk to someone.”

Eddie survived. Eddie survived and so did Will. Will Byers, Zombie Boy, the original spy, the reason for all of this. You swallowed back the bile surfacing and tried to will your eyes to focus on the features of his face, but your mind was reeling with information. You just nodded and somehow managed to croak out a thank you.

“See you around,” Will waved and stepped slowly away.

—

Harrington was a wall of meat, the slap of skin to skin, gulps and gasped breaths, heaving chest, sweat trickling down the column of his neck, sticking wild hair to the sides of his face. His jaw was tight, brown eyes black as he watched you down the scar-split bridge of his nose. His fists were clenched, the muscles of his forearms and biceps glistening under the fluorescents.

You huffed, grit your teeth, and swung on him again. You felt the whoosh of air brush your knuckles as he, once again, dodged your throw. You squared your shoulders, pivoted on your back leg, watched for weakness.

You found it in an open-mouthed exhale, a moment of respite on his end, a wheeze through salvia-slick lips, and you swung on him again, your knuckles cracking against his collar bone.

He cursed, backed off, rolled his shoulders, massaging the bruising bone.

“Ouch, that had to hurt!” Eddie cheered you on from the sidelines, balanced on a stool just off to the right of the sparring mat.

Harrington didn’t appreciate the commentary. He made that explicitly clear with a side-eye to the audience for every quip.

You waited for him to square up again, bouncing on the balls of his feet, fists ready. You swung and he dodged, catching you on the backside with a jab to your kidneys. You stumbled, but otherwise felt no pain. You huffed in frustration.

“Steve, you’re pulling your punches.” Jonathan spoke freely from his spot beside Eddie. He sported a bright red burn mark on his left temple, but otherwise managed to return from the Scorch unscathed.

Harrington’s fists dropped to his side, and he fully turned his attention to the crowd. “Will you two get out of here?”

You took the pause in momentum to get a drink, quenching your dry throat with a spray of water. You swished it, lukewarm, against your molars before swallowing.

“He’s right. You’re taking it too easy on her.” You flipped Eddie the bird, and he grinned back at you, dimple exposed, hair shaggy in front of mischievous eyes.

“Believe me, I’m not,” Harrington argued, cracking his knuckles beneath un-torn athletic tape.

“You are, though,” you piped up from your spot, readjusting the torn edges of your own tape. The adhesive had all but slipped from sweat-slick wrists, and had more than cracked from your knuckles on your right side.

“What?” He snapped, unimpressed, hands to his hips like a mom at a kid’s dance recital.

You shrugged, let your water bottle slip from your hand back to the ground. “I barely felt that last one.”

“Yeah! A love tap,” Eddie argued for you. “She’s been hit harder than that in the bedroom.”

“Okay,” you cut him off, feeling the buzz of embarrassment tickle at your chest. You pointed at the grinning idiot on his stool. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Strategizing to win this war?”

Eddie made a face of mock confusion, though it wasn’t convincing past the grin of delight that he’d gotten under your skin. “No… no, that doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Come on, man,” Byers snorted, patting Eddie’s shoulder as he stood from his own stool. “Let’s leave these two alone. Maybe he has stage fright.”

“Oh fuck off,” Harrington scoffed, earning bright grins from both of the chuckleheads.

Byers helped Eddie from his seat and muttered something under his breath. You couldn’t quite hear it from your distance, but you caught something about owing Nancy money.

Eddie caught your eye from over his shoulder, expression suddenly changed to something much more serious. He eyed you and then Harrington, an unspoken question that had your stomach lurch.

You shook your head and warned him with your eyes. Now wasn’t the place nor the time to tell your new partner about the encounter you’d had in the pool. In fact, you hadn’t seen anything else all week, too preoccupied with intense training hours. You and Harrington had an unspoken truce. Nothing was said. Punches were made, laps were swam, decoys were set ablaze, and not a word had been shared between you.

Eddie gave you one more warning glance before settling his shoulders and pasting his smile back onto squirrely features. “Well, I’d ask you not to kill each other, but I don’t think Harrington has the balls.”

Harrington rolled his eyes at the quip, and you waved Eddie off, waiting until he and Jonathan had made significant distance before turning your focus back to your partner. You found yourself glancing over their shoulders at the large steel door, half-expecting it to burst open.

“What was that about?” He broke the truce.

“Nothing,” you responded, tight-lipped, peeling the adhesive from your skin for one more adjustment.

“Whatever,” your partner sighed. “We done for tonight?”

You glanced up at the big clock on the far wall. You’d been at it for just under an hour, the time slipping quickly away. You rolled your shoulders, the joints in your spine cracking. “Fine. Same time tomorrow?” You tugged on the athletic tape instead to unravel it, a bit at the back ripped some hair from your forearm.

“No.”

You sighed. “Why not?”

“I have psych tomorrow with Robin.” Harrington’s voice was quiet, measured, as he removed the wrap from his own wrists.

“Oh,” you swallowed, hoping that was the end of it.

“You did good today,” a compliment that should have you preening, instead felt ice cold.

You rolled your head back to quell the chill that settled there. “Byers is right, you’re pulling your punches.”

“I know, I’ll work on it.”

A douse of cold. You blinked back at him, but he refused to make eye contact. He just grabbed his water bottle and walked off the mat.

—

A charcoal sky flashed crimson. Something called in echo, a signal for others of its kind, a signal to the hive. Your throat itched, nostrils burned, eyes stung, ears rang. Your palms, slick with sweat, gripped a railing to pull you upward, knees weak. You weren’t prepared, couldn’t catch your bearings. You didn’t recognize anything, endless trees and vines. You couldn’t make out any landmarks, couldn’t find yourself, couldn’t find anyone.

Then you heard a voice, felt it really, booming, deep, yet familiar. It chilled you, quelled your thirst. His voice, Steve’s voice. You turned to find him stumbling out of the woods toward you, legs weak beneath him. You caught him, clutched the lapels of his vest, screamed his name.

“Help me,” he whispered. “He’s got me. You have to help me.”

You scrambled frantically, called over your busted walkie to receive no response.

Steve sputtered. Black ichor fell from pink lips, tipped down his chin and stained the front of his shirt.

You screamed.

His lips curled upward then, teeth blackened, and he reached for you, hand too large to be his own.

You pulled the trigger.

—

The load was too large, drum banging against the walls of your spin cycle as your clothes rinsed of ash and grime and blood. You’d woken from your nightmare with a nosebleed, something you’d grown accustomed to in the past few months. You’d shed your sheets, your pillow case, knowing you wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep.

The detergent smelled stale, but the water seemed hot enough to rid your clothes of their stains, and the loud beat of metal was enough to silence the dull thud in your skull. Your eyes blurred on the steady shake of washing machine, and your throat was dry from the screams you’d undoubtedly released in your sleep.

It wasn’t the first night terror, and you knew it wouldn’t be the last, all of them flavored with the same dystopian horror that tainted your waking life. Sometimes Vickie would be herself, you forced to live out the worst moments of your life again and again and again night after night. Sometimes, Vickie would be replaced with your mom, your dad, Robin, Eddie. Harrington made his first cameo the night Hopper announced you’d be partners.

Sleepless nights were spent up in bed, reading a single page of a book dozens of times, only managing to focus on a sentence or two. You’d take yourself to the track and run into your legs jiggled. You’d tiptoe to the common area and fix yourself a bowl of cereal, Vickie’s favorite, and sob over the first bite. Once, it’d been bad enough that you’d crawled into Eddie’s bed with him. He smelled of old cigarettes and something spicy, but it was the only night you’d managed to fall asleep, knowing he’d be alive when you woke back up.

The buzz of the machine indicated you could switch, and garment by garment, you shoved your items into the wider drum of a stand-up dryer, one of three in the facility. You separated your sheets into another, ensuring everything would dry before the sun came up, and you slipped your coins into the slots before turning the machines on.

Out of your periphery, the laundry room door opened. A crack at first, just enough for someone to slip in and out, and you backed yourself into the corner, watching and waiting. Maybe you hadn’t woken up, maybe you were still dreaming, maybe this is when you’d see the face smiling back at you.

Only, Harrington entered, grime free, in fact the cleanest you’d seen him maybe ever. His hair was nicely coiffed, an old grey Member’s Only jacket shoved over broad shoulders. “Oh good,” he said, “you’re awake.”

His eyes trailed your body, scrutinizing the tactical pants you’d shoved over the breadth of your hips, the tank top, the sport’s bra holding you together underneath. That crease formed it’s way between his brows again. “You got any other clothes?”

“In the dryer,” you gestured to the steady rhythm of the dryers.

“Okay, that’s fine. Let’s go.” He swung the door open, and you heard the stomp of his feet up the tiny staircase.

You blinked, slow in processing from your lack of sleep, but followed him to the doorway instead. “What part of ‘my clothes are in the dryer’ do you not understand? What’s going on?”

He turned back to you, hands on his hips, and rolled his eyes. “You’re the only one I know who does their laundry in the middle of the night. If anyone steals them, there’s a hundred percent chance of finding them and shaking them down for you belongings. Now, come on.” He gestured like a pestilent child taking their mother down the toy aisle.

You cursed, debated whether this was worth an all-out brawl, and decided to follow him, closing the door behind you.

He didn’t let you catch up, remaining a handful of steps ahead until he was leading you up, across a darkened gym floor, and out a large steel door.

The night air coated your skin in gooseflesh. A single flood lamp illuminated the tops of a dozen or so cars in the parking lot, abandoned and unused, aluminum rusting under an ever-present cloud, sun set hours ago. The air smelled somewhat less foul, the sulphur and decay cast away on a cool breeze that brushed between your legs and pebbled your skin. You were unable to hold back a shiver.

Harrington crossed the lot to a little maroon BMW, waving you over with an impatience only he could exude. “Hurry up, we’re on a time crunch.”

You scurried after him, boots crunching on gravel, and waited for him to reach over to unlock your door before you opened it and settled in. “What is going on?” You asked through grit teeth, slamming the door.

The car smelled of him, that cologne you once found intoxicating, and when the engine turned over, the speakers blared Queen’s greatest hits, and you were thrown back against plush seats as he took off, peeling out of the little parking lot and out and away from the facility. You glanced at the compound out the back window, the looming concrete structure you called home fading into the horizon.

“Where are you taking me? Will you slow down?” You buckled your seatbelt and gripped the door handle while he shifted gears, racing along curves in backroads he’d memorized years ago.

If he could hear you over the speakers, he acted like he couldn’t, fingers wrapping to Roger Taylor’s beat.

You had half a mind to shut the music off, to pull the emergency brake, to get him to answer you. But something in you felt more settled here than you had been for months, the warmth from the heater fanning your chest, comfortable seats, Freddie’s dulcet tones bringing you back to reality, shielding you from any more horrors.

—

Roadie’s Roadhouse stunk of spilled beer and fried food, the sweet tang of barbecue that lured you further in and grumbled at a hungry stomach. You followed Harrington’s broad shoulders to two empty seats at the bar, behind which a rotund woman in a jean vest offered a gap-tooth smile.

You glanced sideways at a group of pool players, balls clacking against one another atop patchy green. Steer horns coated one wall, the wall beside it collaged in autographed photos of celebrities. A blues guitarist sat lonely upon the world’s tiniest stage, picking out a wholesome tune.

Harrington cracked a wry smile, holding two fingers to the woman who was already removing the caps off two beer bottles with her bare hands.

With the chill of wind at the back of your neck from the open door behind you, a few stragglers entered whooping and hollering, slapping hands in greeting with the men playing pool.

“You lovebirds lookin’ to eat tonight? Kitchen closes in twenty.” The woman whistled, leaning too far into Harrington’s personal bubble. He didn’t seem to mind. Your body wracked with another shudder of disgust.

“Two briskets please.” He offered a smile, sticky sweet glazed.

“All the fixin’s?”

He nodded.

“Comin’ right up, sweetheart.”

You waited for her to head to the kitchen. “Harrington,” his name fell from your lips drowning in disdain. “What the fuck are we doing here?”

He sighed and brought the amber bottle to his lips. You watched his Adam’s apple bob as he drank, wiping foam from the corners of his lips when he’d finished. He glanced at you sideways, shrugged his shoulders, and set the glass back on the bar top. “It was Robin’s idea.”

Another gust of cold air blanketed your shoulders, and you spun in a panic. Bikers exited with raucous laughter. Your heart thundered in your chest, your skull. You weren’t ready to face her, to see the hatred in her blue eyes. Had she brought you out here for payback? Far away from the compound where no one could hear your screams?

“Hop said he wants us closer than the Sinclairs,” Harrington took another swig, eyes rolling into the back of his head. “So Robin suggested I buy you real food and ‘get to know you’.” He put the last phrase in air quotes, head tipping back with another drink.

You took a few steadying breaths to soak in what he was telling you, glanced around the room again for any sign of Robin, any sign of Vickie, any sign that you were still dreaming. “You already know me,” you scoffed, bringing your own beer to your lips. It was cheap ass beer, more water than anything else, but it satisfied that unease in your stomach, gave your hands something to do as you ran your thumbnail over the ridged bumps of the glass at its base.

“Do I?” His voice was almost imperceptible against the glass, but it struck its intended target.

And maybe he was right. You considered through the fizz of alcohol. The woman you were now was certainly different from the girl he’d once held in his arms, scarred over and changed forever. One soft and cocksure, thirsty for adventure, you were now hardened, eroded by the elements, carved into the stone hearted being that sat beside him.

You chugged the rest of your drink, holding back a burp with the back of your hand as the fizz bubbled up, and you slid the bottle back to the lip of the counter. “What do you want to know?” You breathed.

Harrington eyed you for a moment, and you waited under his scrutiny, staring at your own reflection in the stained mirror behind shelves of liquor bottles.

You were nothing like the girl he’d met. Your jaw was sharper, shoulders broader, biceps sculpted and scarred. Your eyes were cold, lifeless, with permanent bags beneath them, grey etched through your hair at the temples. You were tired, ridden hard and left out to dry.

“Do you remember Dina Lampenelli’s eleventh birthday?”

Your brain rocketed back in time, doing hurdles over mental math to try to remember one date so many years ago. Dina had been a schoolmate of yours, K through 12, a rich-y with serious self-esteem issues. You’d responded to her bullying with a few bloody noses back in the day, a fist to her precious nostrils for being a homophobic bitch. You were the reason her mommy and daddy shelled out so much for a nose job.

“At the skating rink?”

You tried to will any memory to surface. The amount of hours spent at that skating rink, eyes glazed under the disco lights, speeding around and around and around, kissing boys in glow-in-the-dark corners. You swallowed, shook your head.

“Of course you don’t,” Harrington scoffed, turning his body toward you. “You shoved me over a banister, knocked me on my face. Had to get six stitches.” You glanced to see him jut his chin upward, a thin scar pock-marked the perfect flesh there, where jaw bone met his thumb. “Should’ve known you’d be my living fucking nightmare.”

You couldn’t hold back the laugh that spilled out, or the ignition of sparks throughout your body as you watched the corners of his mouth upturn. “Always in my way, Harrington,” you tutted, leaning against the bar while he coughed his smile away behind a large hand.

You swallowed back your own, chewed on the inside of your lip and tried to stir up memories you’d had, breezing past late nights and whispered secrets under heavy quilts and heavier intoxication. You bit back another smile, and asked, “Do you remember Samantha Hardy’s sweet sixteen?”

Harrington’s eyes narrowed in thought, mouth hung agape.

“You hooked up with that girl,” you snapped your fingers. “Was her name Lita?”

“Letty Beaumont?”

“That’s the one!” You nodded. You could still see the curve of the girl’s ass cheeks in the wide palms of his hands, the connection of their mouths silhouetted in moonlight.

“We didn’t hook up,” he shook his head, a strand of hair falling into his eyes. “Some psycho tried to run us over with their car.”

Again, you couldn’t help the aching grin that spread across your face with your nod, and you hid another wry laugh from behind your hand. “That was me.”

“What?” He didn’t look impressed, brow furrowed, mouth hung open like you’d told him you were guilty of feeding his pet hamster to your pet snake.

You shrugged. “You guys were making out on the hood of my car, and I had a curfew.”

The bartender came back, uncapped two more bottles and slid them your direction.

You both thanked her, and you took another long swig, all bubbles first, and then ice cold beer. The taste quenched the tingle in your fingers, the tremor of your hands with nerves at what this was, what this could be.

A prolonged silence lingered between you, almost long enough to have you panicking, that your confession would be held against you, that a he’d want to get up and leave, that you’d started another brawl, here in the roadhouse. But instead, he turned back to the bar, arm bumping yours, and asked, “How’d you get that scar on your thigh?”

You shifted your legs on your barstool and glanced over at him. He was staring straight ahead, peeling the label from his bottle with absent fingers.

“Demodog in the back room at Melvald’s. Had to lure it out before I scorched the room down on top of me.”

He didn’t respond, just offered a curt nod, an unspoken tit-for-tat. He asks, you answer. Your turn.

“Have you been to your house? On the other side?” You’d often wondered if you were alone in that, you and Vickie splitting from the party at too early a stage, stumbling into her backyard to see how it had changed, to see how the vines had devoured it.

Harrington’s jaw turned to stone at that, eyes glazed with memory. He blinked back to reality, took a long swig, cleared his throat. “Once, with Nancy. Barbara Holland was dead in my pool.”

You cursed into your bottle, forgot the details that had drawn them all in.

“Do you like brisket?” He asked, gesturing at the woman coming at you with two heaping plastic baskets lined with newspaper.

—

Stomachs full of brisket and beer, you stumbled past the buzzing neon of Roadie’s and onto the graveled pavement toward Harrington’s car. You waited in the cold breeze, hugging your arms to your front while he leaned over to unlock the door for you, and you hauled yourself in to the promise of heat.

Contrary to earlier’s drive, he’d reached to turn the volume down before thrusting a hand to your headrest to watch over his arm as he reversed from his parking space, slow and steady. You watched burgundy lights bounce off his jaw, the planes of his cheekbones. He caught you watching, that permanent crease in his forehead, and when he pushed the car back into first, he didn’t race himself back to the compound. He took his time.

You’d compared war stories over sticky sweet barbecue, scar for scar. You’d bonded over the smell of lighter fluid and the acrid tang of demo-bat blood, and you’d cheersed to fallen comrades. It all felt sardonic, engorging yourselves on good times, guitar music in the background, when those you’d loved most were all gone now, burned up and tangled in vines that never went away.

You’d noticed the dance, too, the unspoken truce, a tiptoe around questions neither of you wanted to touch, feelings you didn’t want hurt or muddled, questions you were terrified for the answer too. But somehow, darkness imposing on the countryside around you, Ether looming in your near future, you felt a little braver.

“Harrington,” his name caught on your vocal chords, coated in something, ash.

He hummed, and you found your eyes lulling to the sound, a warmth blanketing your chest and arms, and you remembered why you were in this mess in the first place.

“You ever have nightmares?”

He snorted at that, an unfriendly sound, lips curled into a grimace. “You ever have good dreams?”

“Not since,” you admitted. Not since the city split open and the sky rained ash, not since you starting training, not since you murdered your best friend. You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowed the bile that crawled its way up.

“We have our first trial on Monday.” Harrington said after a long silence, his knuckles still wrapping a rhythm against the steering wheel, volume too low under the rumble of his engine, tires to gravel.

The trial was your first exam, a monitored test of your teamwork. You were to go through the abandoned streets of Hawkins, Right-side Up, and prove you could work together, could communicate, could be seamless. You hummed in agreement, having no confidence in your abilities as a team.

“I have to ask you something.”

That plunge of cold water, the sting in your lungs, the wash, the crack of skull against tiles.

“Did you see any signs before that day? Nightmares, nosebleeds, hallucinations?” His tone remained so calm, so light, and you fought back the panic that tightened in your chest, restricting your air flow. He meant Vickie, he meant were there warning signs in Vickie, but you couldn’t help but equate them to yourself.

You clawed at the collar of your tank top and leaned forward to turn down the heater, shaking your head, staring straight ahead at the blurring road, the silhouette of trees looming on either side. “No, not at all. If I had known, do you really think I would have let her go down there?” You hated the way your voice wavered, hated the feel of eyes over your shoulder.

“Well then how did it happen?” Again, his tone remained calm, measured. “If it didn’t happen before you left the compound, when did it happen?” He wasn’t watching you, his own eyes on the road, hands wringing the steering wheel, 2 and 10.

You swallowed, tried to stay present, tried to match your energy to his. “I lost her.” A crack. You cleared your throat, forced it back before the spillway opened.

“What?” A little louder, a little less steady.

“That day, we were sent on a mission near Roane County, farm country. She said she was going to scorch the barn while I did the house, easy procedure. When I cleared the house, I checked the barn and she wasn’t there.”

You could still see the roof ablaze, desaturated, sepia-toned scarlet that licked and fanned at your skin. You swore you saw her, a shock of orange through the treeline. You followed. You tripped on a root, pack heavy you fell face-first into the dirt. You scraped your knee, the meat of your palms, the soft skin where cheek met jaw.

“Why did you split up?”

You shrugged, seatbelt suddenly too tight against your chest, air too muggy, suffocating. “We always did. We were team leaders. We got cocky.” The same answers you’d given Owens, Hopper, filing your official report.

“Why didn’t you call for help?”

“I found her quicker than I thought. She’d gone back to her old house, the one on the county line. I saw her pack outside the garage.” You bit back the rest, pressed at the blur in your eyes with the palms of your hands. Keep it contained.

“You should have called for help. You shouldn’t have split up. I don’t understand how you could have lost her? You lost her?” Harrington’s voice sped up, became as frantic as you felt. “How do you lose someone you’re supposed to be accountable for?”

You grit your teeth. He asked as if you hadn’t been asking yourself the same questions for four months, as if you’d ever make those mistakes again. Minutes ago, he seemed so understanding, so accepting of the truths and overlaps of both of your existences, and now he’d exiled you again.

You clung to the seatbelt and rested your head on the headrest, and didn’t say another word. You waited for the push of his foot to the gas pedal, for the sanctuary of solitude.

—

“You’re such an asshole,” Eddie scoffed from his chair beside you, shuffling his deck of cards for the twentieth time. “I can’t believe you made me your accomplice.”

You let your feet dangle from your perch on a tabletop and shrugged. “Hopper told me to wait here. You’re just keeping me safe until Harrington finds me.”

Eddie tutted, shaking shaggy hair and pulling an M&M from your outstretched palm. “Speaking of keeping you safe,” he glanced around the now-empty War Room. All higher officers had left for their dinners, leaving you two alone. “Have you told him yet?”

“How can I tell him if it takes him,” you glanced at your watch, “four hours to do anything?”

You’d been hiding in the War Room almost as long, having managed to bum a ride back to the compound mid-trial. Harrington didn’t understand how it was easy for you to lose your last partner, so you figured you’d give him a taste of his own medicine. Hopper was more than agreeable when you’d shown back up on your own.

Eddie smacked your thigh with the back of his hand, placing the cards facedown on the table. “I’m serious. Have you seen anything new? Heard anything?”

You sighed, shook your head, “No, I really don’t think it’s anything to be worried about. It was just a draft, a couple of nightmares, it’s fine.”

He tilted his head to catch your gaze. “What kind of nightmares? Like the one you had? Have you told Linda?”

You shooed him away with a hand, picked a brown M&M out of the bunch. “Yes, I’ve told Linda. It’s normal. PTSD. Remember? I assume you’ve been having them too.”

“Not as frequently.” He argued.

You shot him a look.

His shoulders relaxed, and he nodded. “Okay, okay. But you promised me.”

You shifted in your seat, pouring the rest of the candy coated chocolate into his hand. You wiped the melted colors off on a pant leg. “I know. I’ll tell him. I will.”

The walkie talkie startled you both, the sharp sound of a signal far too close, and the echoed sounds of Dustin Henderson’s frantic calls from somewhere down the hallway. “Eddie, do you copy? Eddie, is she there with you? Incoming. I repeat, INCOMING.”

You jolted upright to see Harrington approach, Henderson hot on his heels. Eddie rolled himself a few feet away, shielded behind a pane of glass.

Harrington looked like he’d seen better days. He was positively drenched in sweat, a soft v painting the front of his t-shirt in dark greys. His hair stuck up at odd angles, in desperate need of a cut and a wash. Grime streaked from his sideburns down his throat. Harrington rubbed at bloodshot eyes, and you noticed a tear in each of his knuckles.

“Oh, there you are.” You bit back the smile to match, sickly sweet, ignoring the sink of guilt that made its home in the pit of your stomach.

“Is everything a fucking joke to you?”

You swallowed back the panic, flames licking at your chest and throat and cheeks.

“Hey, man, this was Hopper’s idea.” Eddie defended from his hiding spot.

“You can fuck off, Munson. I’ve been calling you for hours.” Harrington pointed a finger the other boy’s direction.

You glanced at the phone on the table from where you sat and placed the handset back on its receiver.

That must have been the last straw. Harrington let out a strangled huff before storming past Henderson, nearly knocking the boy over, and taking off down the hall.

Eddie whistled, and you flashed an apologetic half-smile Henderson’s direction before taking off after your new partner. You called out after him once, twice, three times. He didn’t stop, just kept going until he had shoved his way through the double doors at the end of the hall.

You followed, a burst of humid air hitting you in the face. It was charged, static, the roll of an incoming storm. You could just make out the teal grey of the cloud overhead, just beyond the tree line.

“Today was bullshit.” He was seething, chest moving up and down with rapid breaths, hands placed on his hips like he was ready to give you a proper talking-to. “You have no idea what I went through.”

You clenched your jaw, crossed your arms over your chest. “I don’t understand how you could lose someone you’re supposed to be accountable for.” You hoped the words had hurt him as much as they’d cut you, rolling over and over in your head for the past day.

Harrington stared you down, jaw clenched, eyes a little glassy, dark. He was inches from you, you could smell the salty sweat, it mixed with the brine in the air, that ozone layer that had your skin crawling.

Half-hearted applause startled your stand-off, and you were ripped from Harrington’s glare by the voice of your superior. Hopper rounded the corner, pulling a cigarette from the chest pocket of his shirt and placing it beneath that mustache. “Congratulations, you two. You’ve survived trial number one. Hope you learned a thing or two about communication.”

He pulled a lighter from his pants pocket, and you watched the end burn hot orange. He took a drag and blew a billowed cloud skyward, to mix with the impending storm. “Everything good here?”

“Yes, sir,” you flashed a smile fake enough to have the older man snort. Harrington didn’t respond.

“Good. I’ll see you two tomorrow.” And with another cloud of smoke, a pat to Harrington’s dejected shoulder, Hopper was strolling inside, whistling a merry tune.

You both waited until you could no longer hear the squeak of rubber against linoleum, until it seemed like you were finally both alone, and you opened your mouth to snap something, but Harrington beat you to the punch, his voice calm, soft, measured.

“I promised her I’d keep you safe.”

He wasn’t looking at you. His bloodied hand was itching at the bridge of his nose, covering half his face, and you weren’t honestly positive you’d even heard what he said.

You leaned forward to catch his eye, instinctively reaching to tug his wrist away. “What?”

“Vickie,” he said. You watched the bob of his Adam’s apple. “The morning she died, she made me promise I’d keep you safe.” His eyes remained avoidant, finding interest in the blood on his knuckles, the touch of your hand to his forearm.

“What? When? Why?” You were frantic, gripping his arm harder to get him to look at you, to tell you everything, pleading. Had she known? Had she know this would happen? Why him? Why then?

He shrugged, eyes finally finding yours, warm honeyed light in the dark, a gasp of fresh air. He shook his head. “I don’t know. We were gearing up, and she pulled me aside.”

“Why -” You swallowed, tried to push back the image of her pleading, asking you to scorch her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He huffed a breath then, head shaking, hair falling into his eyes.

“What?” You grounded your heels deeper into the gravel. “You don’t think I deserved to know that about my best friend?”

“You shut us out, remember?”

A deluge. With his words, a crack of lightning and the downpour started, big, fat, wet drops, illuminated in a stark flash of white. You jumped, suddenly crowded by Harrington’s frame as he hunched over you, doing his job, protecting you from the torrent of rain. You gripped his shirt out of instinct, pulling him into a safe hiding space just beyond the double doors.

Another crack shuddered through the both of you, the low roll of thunder to follow, the rat-tat-tat of hail against concrete, against parked cars, against the asphalt.

You tried to steady your breath, tried to see beyond the lightning that had stained your vision, all whites and blues. You could almost hear your name on the wind, could almost see that familiar face just beyond the glass, in the tree line, beckoning. The hand at your side, white-knuckled, rested in the heavy grasp of your partner, bloody knuckles intertwined with your own, thumb tracing calming circles to your wrist as you both stood and watched the storm.

---

[A/N - Ooooh boy, this chapter was soooo good for me. I learned so many juicy little secrets as I wrote, and I love uncovering this story so so much. Thanks for reading, and as always, come bug me about it PLEASE! xo]

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Chapter One: Ember • Chapter Three: Ignite

#stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #stranger things fic #eddie munson #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington enemies to lovers #steve harrington slowburn #angst fic #whump fic

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facesofthefog · 8 months

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Anonymous asked: is any of your muses in relationship and what's their orientations?

Oh boy, alright. I'll start with the easier ones first and then do Bastard last because his list is going to be long. Overall in short: yes! Most of my muses are in set relationships.

Simon - heterosexual/heteroromantic: He is currently crushing on Samantha (@unwilling-survivor), but they are not actively dating.

Samuel - homosexual/homoromantic: In one timeline, Sam is in a "this is complicated" relationship with Xavier (@bloodstainedflannel). In an alternative timeline, he is interested in Roman (@labcampkill).

Nathan - asexual/demisexual/aromantic: This one is also a "this is complicated", because you can't call his interest in Elijah (@midnight-radio-host) as romantic or healthy. It's a raw obsession.

Liam - ?sexual/aromantic: It's currently uncertain what/who Liam is into, and he's not in a relationship.

Bass - pansexual: Where the other three would require an alternative timeline to form a new relationship, Bass is happy to have everything at once. For that reason he has his spouses Elijah (@midnight-radio-host) and Amanda (@a-swines-baptism), his girlfriend NTT (@ntt-entity), boyfriend Ender (@bloody-cold-fog), and a line of love interests/sexual partners such as Kate (@wanderingsongbird), Eli (@kingsnake-drummer), Danny (@insidious-journalist), Faith (@faithful-survivor), and more <3

#the bastard [ ooc ]#samuel [ ooc ]#nathan [ ooc ]#simon [ ooc ]#liam [ ooc ]#fog walkers [ asks ]#[ anon ]

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avoidantrecovery · 24 days

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cptsd freeze response ≈ avoidant pd?

this is just something i have been thinking about lately, because i'm stuck in a slump and no matter what i do, i can't figure out a way to get out. (as per usual: this is just my own speculation/theories, not medical advice or anything)

signs of being stuck in a freeze response: ☀︎ dissociation & detachment ☀︎ numb & apathetic ☀︎ hiding & camouflaging/masking ☀︎ isolation & seclusion ☀︎ brain fog & spaced out ☀︎ achievement-phobic ☀︎ disconnection ☀︎ shallow breath ☀︎ tenseness & fatigue (source: pete walker: cptsd from surviving to thriving, @chantelleenelson on insta, my own observations)

being stuck in a chronic freeze response is quite similar to the signs of avpd, if you ask me. there is a lot of overlap in terms of behaviour. and i have felt like this, like the above, for a very long time. however, i do remember a time when it wasn't like this.

i've already posted about my bullying/peer abuse experience that nearly lead to my drowning. and while other stuff happened later on, this was the source of my getting stuck in freeze. everything that came after, was also linked to being stuck in this chronic freeze state. i viscerally (in my body) remember the before and after. it is said freeze is what happens when you cannot fight or flee.

chronic freeze also hides a lot beneath it, kinda like a frozen surface with a lot still trapped/going on underneath. that is where the tense feelings/muscle aches come from. essentially it's like kinetic energy, the emotions and feelings that usually result in fight or flight are still being held down. you're holding you're breath, but you will have to breathe sooner or later.

i noticed other things i do in chronic freeze (which strangely enough are all related to dopamine): ☀︎ maladaptive daydreaming ☀︎ doom scrolling & internet addiction ☀︎ catastrophizing & worrying ☀︎ gaming (not as much as i used to) my theory here is that we all need to get our dopamine from somewhere. and when you're not socializing and doing other such activities, these will have to do.

there is a lot that goes into coming out of chronic freeze. it's a response that (imo) has the capability to freeze time in a way. you still go on existing, but on the inside you're stuck in time. and being ready to feel the potential avalanche of feelings, emotions, fears, panic, anything really that might come down on you at once, is important.

creating a base for coming out of freeze: ☀︎ environmental safety: in the best case scenario, is being away from the thing/person causing the trauma response. but, even if you are not able to, environmental safety can be being able to get away once a week and grab tea with a friend or going for a walk somewhere you can relax and feel safe. ☀︎ bodily safety: figuring a part of the body that feels safe and non-tense/non-painful to touch, and massaging/feeling it. it could be a thumb or ones ears. it doesn't mean everything is perfect or safe yet, but it opens up a possibility for thaw. ☀︎ feel your feelings: being ready/able to sit with and process the feelings that will re-surface once "the ice" has thawed. (source: irene lyon - how to come out of a chronic freeze response) i'm still coming up with a list of actual specific activities that i will try to see if they help me out of freeze. there are a lot of recommendations but some sound bogus, tbh, but we'll see. i'll post them here as soon as i know/try more.

#avpd #avoidant personality disorder #avoidant #avoidance #freeze response #chronic freeze #cptsd #cptsd ramblings #cptsd freeze #complex ptsd #complex post traumatic stress disorder #complex trauma #avpd recovery #avpd ramblings

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catierambles · 5 months

Text

Alternate Instincts Ch.9

Pairing: The Rogue’s Gallery (Geralt, Syverson, Mike, August Walker, Walter Marshall) x Stephanie Daniels (OFC)

WC 1187

Warnings: Moar smut

August left her sleeping, easing the door to his room closed around mid-morning. He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. He smelled like her, he wore her marks on his skin, bites on his neck and chest, scratches along his back and arms. They were superficial, and would heal in short order, but he wanted to wear them always. The fact that she could always give him more, though, made his lips perk slightly.

“You better not treat her like shit, now.” He turned, seeing Sy leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded over his chest. “Walt almost organized a search party when he woke up and realized she never came back to bed. Well, she did go back to bed, just not his.”

“She thought I didn't want her.”

“She thought you fuckin' hated her.” Sy said, “She thought we all hated that she's our Mate.”

“Why?”

“Because she ain't a wolf.” He said simply, “And I have a feelin' that Feral fucked with her head. We already know he laid hands on her.”

“Yeah.” August said, sniffing slightly.

“So no hot then cold shit, got it?” Sy said, “She don't need her head fucked with even more.”

“I won't.”

It was around lunch when they heard the shower start and there was a moment before Geralt pushed up from his seat, heading up the stairs without a word to the others, but he knew August had watched him go. The mirror above the sink was fogged over with steam and he pulled off his clothes. She jumped a little as he pulled back the curtain only so long as to step into the tub with her, standing behind her.

“Hey.” She said somewhat awkwardly.

“Sleep well?” He asked and she nodded. “We know you spent the night with August.”

“Shit.” She whispered, her head hanging a little. “I'd apologize, but apologies mean dick with these things.”

“These things?”

“I had sex with August.”

“You're his Mate.”

“I'm your Mate, too, and I slept with another man.”

“You think I'm angry?”

“You're not?” She asked after a pause.

“No.” He said simply and there was a long pause in which he could almost feel her confusion, “Stephanie, you weren't unfaithful to me with August. You're his Mate, just like you're mine, and the others. To ask you not to sleep with your Mate, or get angry if you did, would be unfair to the both of you.” She was quiet still, “We have a theory that if you were to be infected, you would be a female Alpha, and it's not uncommon, in fact it's pretty normal, for female Alphas to have more than one Mate.”

“Oh.” She said and his arms slid around her stomach, holding her back against his chest.

“So I'm not angry, and neither are the others.” He said and she sighed, laying her hands on his arms.

“Okay, good to know.” She said, “Wait, you're in the shower with me.”

“Are you just now realizing this?” He asked, amusement accenting his voice.

“We're both naked!”

“As one usually is in the shower.” He said and she swatted his arm.

“Geralt!” She said and he chuckled, his arms tightening around her.

“Don't worry, Stephanie.” He said, pressing his lips to the side of her head, “You don't have a wolf's stamina, so I know you're probably tired from being with August.”

“And sore.” She said, “Maybe I should take up yoga if it's always going to be like that with you guys.”

“I'll help you finish washing up, and then we'll go back to my room.” He said, “See what I can do about those sore muscles.”

His touch was gentle as he bathed her, massaging her scalp as he washed her hair, helping her rinse the suds from the strands. He was semi-hard, though, against her stomach as he washed her body and it made heat curl slowly through her veins, tinting her cheeks. His breath caught in his throat as her fingers laid on his hips. Taking the shower head down, he rinsed her off, watching as the water flowed over her skin.

"Geralt." His eyes met hers and she reached up, pulling him down. His hands wrapped around her waist as she kissed him, pulling her against him. "Let's go to your room?" He nodded, turning off the shower. Grabbing towels, he wrapped one around her as she squeezed the water from her hair, wrapping the other around his hips before they got out. He scooped her up in his arms, making her giggle, and carried her from the bathroom and into his room. Laying her down, he pulled open the towel, his head darting down to lick the droplets of water from her skin. Casting aside the towel around his hips, he knelt on the bed, going to her as she reached for him. He settled over her, looking down at her briefly before he kissed her, easing his weight onto her.

Stephanie tangled their legs, rubbing a thigh between his and he groaned into her lips, twitching against her stomach.

"I'll be gentle." He whispered.

"I know." She whispered back and he kissed her again as he parted her legs, reaching between them to align them. Geralt kept his eyes locked on hers as he pushed into her slowly, her whimper as he stretched her open making him swallow heavily.

"My Mate." He groaned, starting a slow and steady pace that made a shiver run down his spine. She fit him perfectly, taking him to the base with every push of his hips, her slick heat gripping him so tight as if she were trying to keep him inside.

"Fuck, Geralt." She sighed, holding onto him, her eyes closing as her head fell back against the pillows. Small noises left her lips each time they were joined, their breath passing between them in heavy pants and moans as he started to move faster. "Yes, just like that, don't stop."

"Come for me, Steph." He said, "I want to feel you come."

"Don't stop, just don't stop." She said and he kissed her as he kept his pace and speed, a tugging under his nails making him fist his blankets, his claws gouging holes in the fabric. She cradled his face in her hands, her lips a hairsbreadth from his and she gasped, her eyes rolling back as they closed, her legs cinching tight around his waist as her hips rocked upwards to meet his. The feel of her clenching around him in waves made his eyes close tight.

"Stephanie, I--"

"Don't stop, I don't want to stop feeling you, please." She almost sobbed it and he held her hip as his pace sped. "Please please please." She came again without warning, giving a short cry and with a few more heavy thrusts, he buried himself in her to the base, groaning as he released into her. "Fuck."

"Perfect." He whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. "My Mate." He was still hard and it didn't take long before he started moving again, making her gasp.

#henry cavill #captain syverson #walter marshall #august walker #hellraiser mike #geralt of rivia #alternate instincts

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echo-bleu · 9 months

Note

Hi, for the prompt game, can you write about Míriel for either the prompt ‘dust in the golden light’ or ´The empty space that can’t be breached between you in bed’. And if it’s ok, can you make Míriel have hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, please?

I can’t sew as much as I want because of the pain and Míriel is a comfort character for me in these instances.

This took a while because the prompt grabbed me and ran away, and it grew into so much more 😅 EDS being genetic, I started wondering about who else might have it...

silver

Míriel/Finwë, Celegorm/Oromë, Celebrimbor/Narvi. Three vignettes about chronic pain and learning to accept help. Also on AO3.

Míriel sticks her needle back onto the pin cushion with more force than strictly necessary. She winces and mutters a curse under her breath when it only accentuates the ache in her fingers, and she lies back down on the bed.

She already made that concession, this morning: working from her bed, with a stack of pillows behind her back, rather than using up what little energy she has to sit in her workroom. But it was not enough to lift the fog from her head, nor the throbbing ache from her hands.

She’s not someone who angers easily, but the frustration is – staggering, sometimes. This is her craft. It’s her passion. Embroidery is everything that she is, how she has chosen to define herself – not as a Walker of the Great Journey, or as the Queen of the Noldor, but as the Broideress. And increasingly, more obviously with every year, she is losing it.

She consciously takes a few deep breaths, and lays her hand on the slight swell of her stomach. Pregnancy is making it worse, she knows. She’s been exhausted ever since the begetting, and her pains have taken a sharp edge, where they used to be dull. Maybe once she gives birth, things will get better.

(They won’t.)

She must fall asleep while brooding, because once she wakes, the light outside the window has turned the silver of Telperion. She missed the Mingling, and the better part of the day, and she barely feels any better. It takes her a moment to realize that she was woken by a sound at the door, and she looks up to find Finwë in the doorstep.

He’s changed out of his court robes already, and his head is bare of the crown, his braids half-undone. She’s been struggling to do his hair, too. On bad days like today, even a relatively simple hairstyle takes all the energy she has, leaving none for embroidering. But she won’t give it up for anything.

She smiles tiredly at him.

“Are you hungry, my love?” he asks.

Míriel shakes her head. Pain kills her appetite, as surely as anything. She knows she needs to eat, for the child growing inside her, but she’s too nauseous now to think about it. “Later,” she murmurs. “Come.”

Finwë – her beloved Finwë, still as beautiful as the day she married him – comes to sit down on his side of the bed, not quite close enough to touch her. He reaches out and very carefully brushes her unbound hair from her temple.

He treats her like fine blown glass. The worst is, he’s not wrong to. There are times when the slightest touch can exacerbate her pains like the blow of a hammer. He doesn’t want to hurt her, and she can’t resent him for it.

But she doesn’t know how to ask. How to ask him to put his arms around her and squeeze her tight, not because the pressure helps (it does) but because she wants him to. She wants to feel him. She wants to stop lying in a fog in the dark. She wants to see the beautiful light of the trees in his eyes from up close.

They will have a child, soon. Míriel has seen him – a boy, as dark-haired as his father, as stubborn as her, and yet new and unheard of among the Noldor: brilliant, driven, proud. Full of fire. Fëanáro, he will be. She already loves him more than she can comprehend.

She doesn’t know how she will care for him, when she can barely care for herself, but Finwë will be there. They will be together.

The empty space between them suffocates her.

“Hold me,” she whispers.

Finwë climbs onto the bed.

(Years from now, Returned into the same aching body, she will more clearly see the unravelling threads of their family’s tapestry.

The tragedy was woven into it long before Fëanáro was even born.)

Tyelkormo fumbles with the tinderbox. Checking that his body is still between the firepit and the rest of the Hunt, he tries again, but he can’t seem to get as much as a spark that he could then sing to life. Not that he has much breath left to sing with – they’ve been on the road for too long.

It’s late, past Mingling time, not that it makes much of a difference here. They are so far north that the Trees are just a guiding light in the distance. If they went due east from here, they would end up on the Helcaraxë.

Tyelko’s hands are shaking, despite the furs he’s wearing and the gloves he just removed. His whole body aches. His hip feels like someone tried to tear his leg off. It’s nothing new, but this is his first really long hunt, and before, he’s always managed to heed the warning signs and get back to Tirion before things got this bad.

Finally, he manages to get a single spark, and he hums it into a proper fire. It’s pitiful – the wood is too cold and wet to take properly – but then Tyelko is the only one who needs it, the only elf among the Ainur. The only one who feels the cold.

As soon as the flame is high enough, Huan comes to curl up in front of the fire, his head on Tyelko’s less aching leg, and Tyelko gratefully buries his hands in the hound’s fur.

“Alright there?” asks a voice behind him.

Tyelko twists around and immediately regrets it. His back gives a pop and pain blinds him for a moment. He whines before he can help it.

“Oh dear,” Tilion says. “Something’s wrong, right? That’s not a good elf sound. Lord Oromë!”

He shouts the last out toward the others. Immediately, Oromë is there, in less time that it should have taken him to walk over. Tyelko is still gingerly trying to straighten his back while biting the inside of his cheek to avoid making noises. He’s breathing in short gasps, which just serves to aggravate the pain, but he can’t seem to get enough air.

Oromë crouches beside him, his not-quite-elvish fana glowing softly in the starlight. “What’s wrong, eldanya?”

“Nothing,” Tyelko says through his teeth, though the time for pretence is clearly past. “Moved wrong.” That, at least, is the truth.

Oromë reaches out with a slender hand to cup his chin. “You’re hurting.”

“I’m fine.”

A breeze brushes his mind, but he clamps down hard on his shields – which leaves him breathless again. Huan whines and nuzzles his hand. Tyelko’s teeth are chattering, he realizes dimly, and the fire has almost gone out. He struggles to get air into his lungs, and the air that comes is cold and biting.

Fuck, they’re weeks away from the closest settlement, and he’s not going to be able to stand up come morning. What is he supposed to do? The Ainur don’t understand pain – don’t understand elven bodies at all. They don’t need to eat, or sleep. They’ve been humouring him so far, but he can feel their impatience at times. If he’s to ride with the Hunt, he needs to keep up.

Trust his body to betray him at the worst possible moment.

“What do you need?” Oromë asks in a tone so gentle that Tyelko breaks.

“To lie down,” he murmurs pitifully. “And to get warmer.”

“Build the tent,” Oromë orders Tilion.

Tyelko closes his eyes, almost unconsciously leaning into Oromë’s touch. His hand, glowing a pale white, is slowly radiating warmth, and it blissfully travels down his spine, taking the edge off the pain.

“Come on, eldanya,” is his only warning before an arm slips under his knees and he is lifted off the ground. Tyelko lets out an undignified yelp of surprise as he finds himself suddenly in Oromë’s solid arms.

Huan follows them under the tent. Tyelko is gently deposited onto a bed of furs, and Oromë stays kneeling at his side, his hands slowly warming him up on each side of his ribcage. Huan settles down at his feet.

“You should leave me here,” Tyelko murmurs.

Oromë tilts his chin, his way of indicating surprise. “Do you want me to leave the tent?”

“No, I mean for the hunt. I’m only slowing you down.”

That’s it, that’s the moment Oromë will finally see. See how much of a failure Tyelko is, how little he deserves the attention of one so great. He’ll gather the others and leave Tyelko here to – die, he supposes. Or maybe he’ll take pity on him and delay long enough to deposit him back in Tirion, for Grandfather’s sake, and wash his hands of him.

“It’s too cold for you here, I think,” Oromë says with an uncomprehending frown. “I did not realize. I still have much to learn of the Eldar. We’ll go south once you have slept.”

“You don’t get it,” Tyelko grits out. He pushes Oromë’s hands away, and immediately mourns their warmth. “I can’t even walk. You’ll have to carry me.”

“That’s not a problem,” Oromë says lightly, completely missing the bitterness in his tone. “You are very light.”

Tyelko sighs and closes his eyes, dejected. The pain in his back is slowly easing, but his hip is only screaming louder, and he just wants it all to stop. “You should leave me behind. I’m not fit for any of this. I’m not fit for you.”

Warm – nearly too hot – hands cupping his face make him open his eyes. Oromë’s terribly intense gaze is drilling into his, searching. “Tyelkormo, eldanya, what have I done to make you think that you are not enough for me?”

Tyelko gapes for a moment, lost in the swirling silver eyes he loves so much. Oromë does not breach his mind, but he brushes it again, softly, just making his presence known. Tyelko exhales and drops his shields, bonelessly falling back onto the furs.

“I—” he mutters. “I’m not… Something’s wrong with my body. I can’t be a good hunter. I’m not even a good elf.”

“What is wrong?” Oromë asks.

“I get pains in my joints. Sometimes they move in ways they shouldn’t.” Tyelko considers detailing, talking about the dislocations and the gut pains and the bruises, but Oromë barely knows anything about elven bodies. “Sometimes it hurts too much to walk. Grandfather says that Grandmother had it, too.”

Because he’s still staring into them, Tyelko can see the brief flash of fear in Oromë’s eyes. It’s gone almost as soon as it starts. Tyelko shivers – it’s not like he’s never wondered. Will Míriel’s fate will be his, too? Father says not to worry, but Father is terrifyingly good at ignoring the things that scare him, sometimes.

“Have you seen Estë?” Oromë asks softly.

“She gave me water from Lórellin that helps with the pain a little, but I can’t carry it with me.”

“I can carry it. I will go ask her for more. Is there anything else I can do?”

Tears well up in Tyelko’s eyes, and he’s powerless to fight them. “The warmth,” he whispers. “Feels good.” He guides Oromë’s hand down to his hurting hip, where the heat seeps into his tissues and eases some of the tension. Oromë shifts into a more comfortable position against his side, lying more than kneeling, their bodies presses together.

“Eldanya, you are a good hunter, and I want you in my hunt,” he says. Then, after a breath, “You are good, and I want you.”

Tyelko buries his face in his shoulder.

(Years from now, he will remember this night, and wonder when he left good behind.

His fate is so much worse than Míriel’s, after all, and it’s all of his own making.)

“Got a new one for you, Kibil.”

Celebrimbor looks up from his console, where he’s sitting on one of the rolling stools that were a gift from his colleagues of the Guild. Narvi is standing at the door, holding something metallic in their hand. He sees their gaze go from the neat row of silver ring splints on the console, to the roll of bandages in his hands, to his bare torso and slumped posture.

“Bad day?” they ask without detour.

Celebrimbor shrugs, lets his own gaze travel to his aching hands, and nods. Given that he’s been trying to muster the energy to do his compression bandages and put a shirt on for about an hour, it probably qualifies as a bad day.

Narvi doesn’t live with him, though their relationship is hardly a secret among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. They come and go, sometimes staying in their own apartment in the eastern quarter. They need their privacy, and Celebrimbor is more than ready to respect that.

Besides, he too often forgoes his own bed for the heat of the forges, and dwarves need to sleep more than elves.

Narvi shuts the door behind them, steps closer to set the object in their hand on the console – it’s another silver splint, a prototype for a design they’ve been working on together – and very gently nudges Celebrimbor toward the bed. Even sitting down, he’s half a head taller than them, but they’re more than stubborn enough to make up the difference. When Celebrimbor makes a token gesture of resistance, they simply kick the rolling stool closer to the bed. “Lie down,” they order. “You’re staying right here today.”

“But—”

“No. Bad days are bad days. Isn’t that what you keep telling me?”

Celebrimbor gamely rolls his eyes, knowing when he’s defeated. He’s worked hard to build a system of mutual aid in the forges and the workshops. Craft masters tend to be fiercely competitive and jealously guard their work, but the very purpose of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain is that they make better things by cooperating, by bringing together diverse crafts and races both. The assistants and apprentices, and even most of the other masters, now smoothly step in to help on the days Narvi’s arthritic hands refuse to hold tools.

“You’re not supposed to turn it back on me,” Celebrimbor says.

“Oh, really?” Narvi gently pushes his shoulders until he’s lying down fully. “So it applies to everyone but you?”

Celebrimbor just smiles. Until Narvi got here, until they became close…

For all its purported equality, he’s still the Lord of Ost-en-Edhil. He built the city, built the guild house and the guild itself – he started it all by himself, because few would work with a Fëanorian. Galadriel was the Lady of Eregion on paper, but she never cared about building. She was only there to judgementally watch over his shoulder and slap his fingers whenever she thought that he sounded too much like his grandfather.

He’s the oldest of the guild masters. Half of them were his apprentices at one point or another, and the other came to the city with little to their name beside their craft. They’re misfits, outcasts, dispossessed – just like he was. Celebrimbor takes care of each of them and learns their habits in the forge, their dreams and aspirations, their pains and heartbreaks. But always he keeps himself at a distance.

He’s learned the hard way not to let people get too close.

His family was never perfect, but they were always supportive. From the moment Celebrimbor started feeling the aches, a scant few years after Maedhros abdicated, they rallied around him to help. It was Celegorm who first showed him how to support his joints with compression bandages. Celegorm who taught him to recognize the right herbs for the painkilling teas, who carved him his first cane from a sturdy oak branch.

Celegorm who stayed in Himlad with them, rather than set out for lands of his own.

Father worked with him on his first splint prototypes. Maedhros always popped his bad shoulder back in without squirming. Maglor taught him songs to calm the inflammations. Caranthir was the first to find dwarves with a similar illness, and learned their lore. Ambarussa were always eager to distract him from the pain with stories and games.

Celebrimbor lost all of that in Nargothrond.

“You take care of everyone,” Narvi says. “But who takes care of you?”

I don’t need anyone, Celebrimbor wants to answer, but he looks down at his bare chest, the slightly inflamed scars from his breast removal that he hasn’t been ointing regularly, his left arm that he can no longer raise past his shoulder for lack of the right stretching exercises, his aching, curled fingers, and he stays silent.

“Guess I’ll have to do the job myself,” Narvi says with a mock-sigh. “Flip over, I’ll massage your shoulder.”

As they straddle his back and knead their knuckles into his sore shoulder, Celebrimbor wonders if that’s what it’s like, to have someone outside of family who truly cares. Someone who is there for the bad days as well as the good, who doesn’t think less of him for them.

He’s been yearning for it for a long time, he realizes.

His city is open and welcoming to all, but maybe it’s time he opens himself up, too. As much as Celebrimbor hates to think of it, Narvi won’t be around forever. But starting with them, maybe, with their help, he can learn to trust others again.

(Years from now, Narvi, aged and nearing the end of their life, will be very proud to see Celebrimbor wholly welcome a newcomer into his life.

They will never see how it ends.)

Oromë calls Celegorm "eldanya" (my elf/elda). Since Oromë was the one who found the elves and first named them Eldar, it takes on a few added layers of meaning.

Narvi calls Celebrimbor "Kibil", which means "silver" in Khuzdul. Khuzdul is kept secret by dwarves, but since it's likely a borrowing from Sindarin (celeb), I don't think anyone would mind, plus Celebrimbor may have learned at least some Khuzdul with Aulë.

Also, I do art! This Celebrimbor piece was conceived as a companion to the fic, and you can see what the silver ring splints look like (they're a real thing btw). And this Celegorm sketch prompted his inclusion here.

And my disabled Tolkien characters tag for more.

Reblogs and comments make my day!

#silmarillion #silm #silm fic #tolkien #the silmarillion #celebrimbor #narvi #celegorm #orome #miriel #finwe #disabled tolkien characters #disabled characters #disability representation #eds #ehlers danlos syndrome #echo's fanfiction #feanorians

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