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gay-dorito-dust · 2 months

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Jason loves kneeling before you and holding onto your waist as he burrows his face into your stomach, all the while you have your hand buried deep into his hair as they combed their way through, playing with the ends as he childishly groans at you to keep going whilst holding onto your waist tighter.

You were Jason’s safe place, the first and possibly only person who shown him kindness, love and compassion without seeking for something for yourself. Jason oftentimes doesn’t think your real but with the way you felt beneath his scarred and calloused hands, it was more then enough to show him that you were more then real.

His angel, his beloved, his first experience of kindness, his everything, his anchor. You were everything and so much more to Jason that he honesty doesn’t know how he managed to scrap by life without you kissing his wounds as you help patch him up.

Dick loves resting on top of you, and this was more evident when he’s had a rough day and is in need of a bit of comfort, but doesn’t want to bother you in asking for it. So he just wordlessly collapses on top of you and crushing you beneath his weight, intentionally ignoring your complaints as he gets himself comfortable before burrowing his head into your neck as he rants about the awful day he’s had into your ear.

He liked the fact that you listen to him, allowed him the space to speak openly and freely without judgement, even offering up advice when he needed it as you pressed kisses into his head in hopes of soothing his oncoming headache.

Angel kisses as Dick often calls them and will even over exaggerate the day he’s had just to feel your healing kisses against his skin, smiling at the feeling of you beneath him safe and sound, even if he was crushing you but he claims that it was his love for you that was actually crushing you…what a doofus but he’s your doofus and he refuses to let you forget it.

Damian has a sketchbook full of you and his pets doing stupid things.He has sketches of you and Titus taking a nap together, you and Ace cuddling up on the couch together during movie night, and lastly Damian had a sketch of you and Alfred the Cat sunbathing on the steps leading up towards the Wayne manor. They were all too silly and goofy for him but the fact that he felt compelled to draw, and later immortalise these moments into his artwork, said a lot more than he was willing to let on how he felt about you.

He won’t ever admit it but he likes that you’ve developed a deep enough connection with Titus, Ace or Alfred to be able to do these sort of things without them getting agitated or annoyed. His pets mean a lot to him and for you to be accepted by them was enough for Damian to start trusting you more often.

Damian would watch over you as you took a nap in his room despite knowing that nothing will ever get to you here. He won’t allow it. He was an highly trained ruthless assassin for fucks sake and he’d relinquish that title real fast if you were to ever be brought to harm under his watch. Which doesn’t come to pass because if there’s anywhere you could feel the slightest bit safe, it’s the Wayne Manor. It warms Damian’s heart to see that even Titus was overprotective of you too and would often guard you as you slept but laying himself at your feet, staring at the door as though he was waiting for something to try and get to you while he and Damian where here. Damian guessed that the rumour was true that sooner or later the dog would start to act/ look like the owner.

Bruce Wayne -THE BATMAN- loves the sweet kisses that you’d decided to leave on his cheek whenever he has to leave for somewhere important. He considers them his blessings from you and will keep an internal headcount of how many you’ve given him, with the current score being about thirty five to fourth five at the very least. Neither you nor him had a clue when this became a thing but the action of kissing the other’s cheek had quickly became a much loved tradition of yours.

He’d respond to your cheek kisses in kind with his own, which never fails to leave you smiling widely and warm within your chest, as you were left to feel the lingering of his kiss on your cheek for the rest of the day. The action may not look like much to others, but it was enough affirmation for you and Bruce to know that the love you both have for each other was still alive and strong after being together for so long.

He still tries to spoil you by bolting you things but you had to physically prevent him from bringing out his credit card the moment he spots you looking at something for a second too long. You didn’t give a shit about the fact that he was Bruce Wayne the billionaire, you only cared about Bruce Wayne the sweetest yet semi-awkward man you’ve ever met in your life. When he asks you what it is that you wanted from him, you’d reply with, ‘love, affection in any form that you are most comfortable with. I couldn’t care less for materialistic things because a simple touch of a hand or kiss to a cheek would prove priceless in comparison.’ And Bruce had respect your wish ever since…with several gifts bought now and then for special occasions he could surprise you with.

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sheisjoeschateau · 3 months

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"Oh, so we DO love Steve..." | PART I

Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4, post S4 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting, ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

WHEN THE UNEXPECTED NIECE OF MURRAY BAUMAN GETS THROWN IN THE MIX, THE GANG HAS NO IDEA JUST WHAT THEY'RE IN FOR. SCRATCH THAT - STEVE DOESN'T KNOW. YOU GET ALONG WITH EVERYONE WELL. YOU BANTER WITH THE ADULTS, WHO APPRECIATE YOUR HELP. THE KIDS LOVE AND WORSHIP YOU. YOU'RE HELPFUL ALL AROUND. BUT AS FAR AS STEVE IS CONCERNED, YOU'RE JUST NUISANCE. AFTER ALL, YOU'RE THE REASON HE LOST THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE AND MISSED OUT ON A LIFE THAT "COULD'VE BEEN." IF YOU HAD JUST KEPT YOUR SORRY ASS OUT OF THE PICTURE... IF YOU HAD NEVER GONE WITH NANCY AND JONATHAN AFTER THEY LEFT YOUR WHACK-JOB UNCLE, MURRAY BAUMAN'S, BUNKER? HE WOULD BE HAPPY. SO F*CKING HAPPY. BUT HERE YOU WERE. YOU WERE BASICALLY THE COOLER (...AND SURE, MUCH MORE ATTRACTIVE) FEMALE VERSION OF MURRAY BAUMAN. YOU WERE SARCASTIC, QUICK-WITTED, TOO SMART FOR YOUR OWN GOOD, AND APPARENTLY BUILT FOR THE WAR. SURE, YOU WEREN'T AS BRASH AS YOUR UNCLE. BUT IN STEVE'S EYES, YOU WERE SOMEHOW FAR MORE OBNOXIOUS. HE DOWNRIGHT HATED YOU. HE WILL FOREVER HATE YOU... BUT WILL HE?

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED AND/OR REPOSTED ON HERE OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM, OR PUT INTO ANY AI PROGRAMS. THIS IS AN 18+ BLOG, MDNI.

An original fanfiction series, written by Misha St. James.

⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ SERIES MASTERLIST ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

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I did not proof-read this after Tumblr gave me hell trying to share. So pls excuse possible typos. hehe

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Let's just get to the point, shall we?

Once upon a time, a young boy named Will Byers went missing. Later, he was found in an alternate dimension by the world's #1 mom and a cynical cop turned hero. A girl with a shaved head had telekinetic superpowers, befriend's Will's four loyal friends along the way and helping them track down their missing party member. Then, whatever the hell was on the other side - whatever was in this...upside down...took back Eleven. She'd been missing ever since that dreadful winter.

Fast forward to now: you're sitting in your uncle's bunker, looking at his wild display of efforts. Papers, files, whiteboards covered in multiple words, arrows, sketches - all in different colored markers. Murray Bauman was on a mission, and he would be damned if that grumpy, cynical smart-ass known as Jim Hopper honestly thought that he could dismantle his efforts. Nice try, chum. Game on. Thankfully, you'd gone to school with Barbara Holland. That's whose parents had assigned the task of searching for her to your uncle. Murray was asking you tons of questions, and you were glad to help. It meant spending time with the only family member you cared for, despite his wackiness. You guys got each other. Bantered well. Got shit done. Honestly, it was also a great way of drinking safely and not with a bunch of rowdy teenagers at some stupid party. You got along just fine with everyone at school. But damn, they could all be annoying. ...especially Steve fucking Harrington, who was now the topic of conversation. You know, given that his house is where Barbara was last seen. "It just isn't making sense," your uncle huffed, raking his hands through his oily dark hair. You sipped on the glass of vodka that your uncle had poured you, hissing at the strong taste. Leaning across the coffee table, seated on his couch, you tried to connect the dots with him. "I'm telling you, someone in that group of teens knows what's up. Or at least has an idea." Your uncle swigged at his vodka, defeated but ruthlessly trying to piece together his clusterfuck of scattered evidence across his wall. "Well then, guess we better grill 'em."

And that's how you come into the picture. When Nancy and Jonathan came to seek out Murray. And when they arrive, they're surprised to see you. They recognize you from school. Jonathan took several classes with you. In fact, the two of you got along well at Hawkins High. No, you weren't close. But you both were cool. Nancy, on the other hand, didn't know anything about you. Just that you took political science with Barbara, and got straight A's across the board. You could've been class valedictorian. But you were not looking for any sort of title that demanded pressure or attention. At least not in high school. Career wise? Sure. Not here, though. Not Hawkins. "Your timeline is wrong," Nancy is saying, making you and Bauman freeze. Nancy is telling you that the girl with the buzzed hair is not Russian. She is, in fact, from Hawkins lab. And her name is...Eleven? So they do know something. And something turns out to be everything.

Jonathan sits you both down to relay everything to you both. And woof, does it give you guys a headache. Strangely, though... it makes a whole lot more sense than some mundane explanation of sorts. Obviously though, that puts you all in a tough spot where you'll all need to put your heads together. So the two classmates of yours stay, sharing in chilled Smirnoff and having to endure the hilarity that ensues between you and your uncle. You and Murray both banter well with the two of them. Jonathan finds you to be hilarious. Nancy finds you intimidating. Very intimidating. You’re quick witted, darkly humored and independent. But there is a reserved, mysterious sort of feminine energy to you, despite your more masculine strengths and bluntness. Over glasses of stiff vodka, you all come to the conclusion on how to go about exposing the truth about Barbara Holland's disappearance: water it down.

At the end of the night, you're all winding down -- you and your uncle having convinced the two lovebirds to stay. But when you're telling them they can take your uncle's guest room while you take the couch, Jonathan's asking if he can take the couch. You blink. Huh? ...surely Nancy is not still with --

"Okay, I'm confused," your uncle's saying. "What's going on here? Lovers quarrel?"

You cock an eyebrow, leaning back into the loveseat.

But Jonathan and Nancy are then talking over each other with weird, flustered excuses...saying they're just friends.

You and your uncle bust out laughing. And then you're shrinking back in your seat, knowing what's coming: one of your Uncle Murray's lovebird witchdoctor speeches that he barrels into anytime that two delusional people have convinced themselves that they aren't in love. Or at the very least, not into each other.

Uncle Murray is breaking them down, one at a time. He's reading Jonathan like an angsty teen novel, seeing right through him and his brooding, mysterious energy. Trust issues, thanks to daddy issues. Yikes, that makes you sip some more drink.

And then he's onto Nancy, saying that she's harder to read. But he manages anyway. It's the Bauman way.

He's telling her that she's likely like everyone else, "afraid of what would happen if you accepted yourself for you who you really are." He looks at you. "Am I in the right ballpark?"

You nod, swallowing the last drop of vodka in your cup. "That...and afraid of that might happen if she didn't retreat back to the safety of someone familiar."

Nancy looks bewildered. But more than that, she looks caught.

"Name?" your uncle is prodding, snapping his fingers. "Name."

You and Jonathan both say it. "Steve."

Uncle Murray's face is priceless. He feigns adoration, putting on a baby voice as he repeats the name. "Dawh. Steve. We like Steve."

"Yes," Nancy laughs nervously. Eek, you think.

"But we don't love Steve..." Your uncle's words floor Nancy.

And when Nancy's saying something about still being with Steve, insisting that she loves him, you roll your eyes. Even scoffing, getting her attention. Maybe if the vodka weren't in your system, you wouldn't be so bold. But Jonathan's mopey look just gives you more confidence.

"Boom, ladies and gents," you say with a grin. "Second lie of the evening." "The hell was the first one?" Jonathan asks, blinking. "You guys being just friends." You and your uncle say something along the same lines, simultaneously. You both laugh together, clinking glasses. The two not lovebirds just squirm awkwardly in their seats. Finally, you sigh. "Look. You guys don't wanna give up the ghost? Be my guest. I'll happily keep my bed." You stand up, ready to turn in. But not until casting them one last work, pointing a finger. "But if I were you two? I'd cut the bullshit and just share the damn bed." Murray snorts, rising to stand as well. He stretches. "Welllllp. I'm turning in for the night." You begin mounting the stairs, hollering: "Better act fast, kiddos. At least before this poison in my system knocks me out cold. Don't worry, Nancy, I don't snore. So if you do choose me, you're safe." "But that's so lame," Murray adds to that wryly, heading off to his room. You both tell each other goodnight, leaving the two angsty teens to decide their fate. All you know is that Nancy ends up walking out and not coming back, at one point in the night. Yeah, thought so. Breakfast the next morning is even more hilarious. You and your uncle ask every single question that drips with innuendo that you ever possibly could. And it's worth every fucking minute.

Murray's gonna need to keep that couch cleaned. To your surprise, Murray sends you off with Nancy and Jonathan, but given that you want to go and see it all for yourself you don't mind. You’re basically his little spy. Most uncles send off their nieces and nephews with some good advice, maybe a packed lunchbox or snacks, and a warm hug.

Yours, however, sends you off with a full bottle of vodka, a thick wad of cash and some fun sarcastic banter. But he headlocks you in for a hug, and you cackle. He really is a nutcase, and man you can't help but love him. He is so not the parental type. Yet somehow, he's practically raised you. And in your opinion, you're pretty well-prepared for the world. More than most, in Murray's opinion. So off you go with Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Buyers, and they both honestly enjoy your company. It helps them get past their umm...well...awkward new reality. That new reality that comes post-sex, after a long ass time of playing the tip-toe game. The sexual tension between them is hysterical to you. But you keep your thoughts to yourself for now. The vodka did most of the talking for you last night.

When you both arrive at wherever the hell your destination is, it's dark outside. And if you're being honest, it's pretty creepy. You're somewhere near the woods, and as you all walk closer you're beginning to see lights approaching you...along with a handful of shadowed figures.

Fuck, you literally just got here.

But then, after a tense several moments... Nancy and Jonathan call out to them. You jump, startled at the fact that they do it so confidently. But the name that they call out suddenly makes it all make sense. "STEVE?" "NANCY...?" And that's how you became a crucial part of the most royal pain in the ass, King Steve's, life.

#steve harrington angst #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington stranger things #steve harrington smut

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toournextadventure · 1 year

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everyone but her pt.3

a/n: dont mind me, just posting at work. EDIT: previously titled about time

Word Count: 3.0k Warnings: mention of past injury, hints of past abuse, swearing Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Reader (Masterlist)

There was still an ache in your shoulder when you sat down in your phytotoxicology class. It was decently scabbed (which was beyond itchy) but the actual joint was sore. You had hoped it would ease up a bit over the weekend, but to no avail. Hopefully no one had really noticed your stiff movements. But hey, at least you were left handed.

“You look miserable,” Wednesday said as she sat to your left.

“Shut up, Addams,” you mumbled.

Enid sat behind the two of you, her eyes glued to where your hands were resting on the desk. If you just moved your hand a few inches to the left. And if you could talk just a little louder so she could hear, that would be great. She needed to know what you two were talking about. If it wasn’t about a date then she was going to scream. She just wanted you both to get over yourselves.

Class went on as usual; Enid was forced to bear witness to you doodling in Wednesday’s notebook, completely interrupting her notes. In turn, Wednesday would add rather… violent attachments to your initial drawing, and the cycle would continue. She couldn’t see your face, but your shoulders would shake with silent laughter every few doodles. You were both so close.

“Miss Y/N?”

Your head snapped up, turning toward the front where Miss Thornhill was standing with an expectant look.

“Adonis vernalis,” you said proudly without hesitation.

“Not even close,” Miss Thornhill said with a smile while everyone failed to stiffle their giggles. “See me after class.”

“Aw man,” you mumbled as you slumped back into your seat. All that pep in your step had been washed away.

Quite frankly, Enid thought it was hilarious.

She rushed to catch up with Wednesday as you stayed behind to talk to Miss Thornhill. For such a small person, Wednesday could move really fast. It was starting to become an issue because Enid was not dressed for jogging across campus. God, why couldn’t she just slow down?

“It seems it’s impossible to get away from you,” Wednesday said when Enid finally caught up; she slowed her pace anyway.

“Did you-”

“-No, and I’m not going to,” Wednesday interrupted.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Enid pouted.

“You were going to ask if I have asked Y/N on a date, and the answer is no.”

“Then I give up,” Enid said as she threw her hands into the air. “You two are far too stubborn. Enjoy the friendzone.”

She stalked off, trying not to smile to herself when she noticed Wednesday had stopped walking. With any luck, her plan would work splendidly and you would both be together before Parent’s Weekend in a month. It may have taken her a little longer than planned to come up with such a genius idea, but it was going to be worth it.

—---

It was truly a beautiful day to be outside. Overcast skies, a cool breeze, potential for rain. Not the best day to fly, but a wonderful time to walk around. Maybe you could stop by the lake, tease the monsters below the surface. At least you would if you weren’t stuck in the greenhouse.

Miss Thornhill was truly, and you meant this with the utmost respect, a bitch. So maybe you didn’t pay attention in class, and maybe you got a bunch of questions wrong. But that’s what she got for calling on you in class. Had you raised your hand? Had you given any indication whatsoever that you knew the answer? No. So really, this was on her.

And now you were stuck in the stupid greenhouse having to jot down sketches of each plant, their scientific name, and what symptoms they cause if ingested or inhaled. You had only finished maybe a third of the greenhouse and it was already midafternoon. You were never going to be done with this stupid detention.

You didn’t even like plants.

“You look miserable.”

“There’s more than one way to greet a person, you know,” you said without turning around.

Wednesday slid into your peripheral like a wisp of smoke; she always moved smoothly even though she appeared so rigid. Her coat hung off her small frame, and the snood Enid had made her only accentuated that by swallowing what little of her remained. She was reminiscent of the little kids at the park in winter; their parents had bundled them up in the warmest clothing they could find in the house.

“Just let me finish my detention, Addams,” you mumbled as you jotted down another sketch. It wasn’t half bad, actually.

For better or worse, Wednesday stayed silent as you moved around the greenhouse, assigned sketchbook in hand. There was no doubt you were getting 90% of the names wrong, and you were just writing “it’s bad :(“ under the list of symptoms at this point, but you didn’t care. This kind of detention was stupid. Besides, it was a Saturday; you should’ve been out getting coffee or harrassing everyone at Pilgrim World, not sitting in a humid greenhouse practicing your art skills. But no, now you were stuck here and- oh that plant is pretty.

“Don’t touch it,” Wednesday said rather quickly as you reached out to touch the flower.

“Why not?” You asked in indignation, finally turning around to see her. Oh, she’s cute.

“It’s a foxglove,” she answered.

“Wednesday,” you sighed, “if I knew what that meant, I wouldn’t be in here on a Saturday afternoon.”

“It’s toxic to birds.” She rolled her eyes at your incompetence.

“Oh, well thank- wait.” You narrowed your eyes at her and the smallest movement at the corner of her mouth. “I’m not a bird and you know it.”

“You can never be too sure,” she said without hesitation.

“Oh, you’re a prick,” you huffed out. You had to turn back to look at the plants again so she wouldn’t see your poor attempts at not laughing. “Why are you even here?”

“I brought you this.”

She brought me something? You thought. Well know she was just getting desperate if she was going to be bringing you things. You set your sketchpad down on the table, in front of the foxglove that Wednesday claimed to be toxic to birds. What had she brought you-

“-What is that?” You asked once your eyes landed on the small bag in her hands.

“Birdseed,” she said. “It’s a bribe.”

“That better not be for me or I will get offended,” you said, switching your weight to your other foot and crossing your arms over your chest.

“You’re going birdwatching with me.” She rolled her eyes but held the bag out further for you to take from her.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” You asked.

Wednesday Addams did not blush, that was a well known fact. Not a drop of colour would be found on her cheeks, ever. But that didn’t mean she was emotionless; you could tell when the stretch of skin over her cheeks and nose turned a little darker. It was the closest to an uncontrollable show of emotion as she was ever going to get.

And you were absolutely living for it.

“Are you coming or not?” Wednesday asked, completely ignoring your question for clarification.

You wanted her to admit it was a date. Wanted her to swallow her pride and say the word “date” because it’s just what you needed. There was no way in hell you were going to ask first, not when she had always been so clear about her thoughts on what a waste of time relationships were. “Look at my parents,” she had said one night, “limited because they can’t go anywhere alone.”

But you needed her to call it a date. Your hopes were embarrassingly high and you just needed her to say that four letter word. It could only be once and you would be happy. If she called it a date once and then never again until the day you died, you would be content. Just say the word, you thought to yourself as she finally turned her head back around to face you.

“Fine,” Wednesday sighed, “I’ll go on my own.” She turned around and started walking away.

“Wait!” You called after her. She stopped, but didn’t turn around.

You looked around frantically for the rest of your things. What if Miss Thornhill showed up and realised you were gone? And worse yet, what if she realised you sucked at detention? She was going to tell Principle Weems and then you would get another scolding. But pass up on a date with the Wednesday Addams?

Shit.

“You’re a bad influence, Wednesday Addams,” you huffed once you finally caught up to her and you both started walking out of the greenhouse.

You missed the small smile on her face.

—---

For all intents and purposes, Wednesday did not like you. If anyone dared to ask, you were nothing more than a thorn in her side, and not in a good way. No, you weren’t as energetic and colourful as Enid, but you still smiled too much. You cracked too many jokes and made yourself too accomadating. Any normal person would have been embarrassed.

No, Wednesday Addams did not like you.

She did not like the way you had talked the whole way to your preferred spot in the forest. “It’s a bit late for birdwatching,” you had said on the walk over, “but it’s overcast, so it might be fine.” She did not like the way you actually took your harness off and ruffled your feathers. Or the way they puffed up a little, “because it’s cold,” you explained with a shrug and a blush on your neck. Then there was the way you were sat still as a statue, birdseed scattered around, just waiting for some birds to stop by.

No, she didn’t like you.

There were absolutely no feelings in her void of a soul when a bird finally did appear, standing directly in front of your outstretched hand. The gentle smile on your face was completely moronic. You would make an excellent side character in her book; the same character that would get herself killed off in the first chapter. Wednesday could see it now; you would be too focused at the park and would get yourself put on a hit list simply because you were an easy target.

She wouldn’t be caught dead watching your feathers ruffle when more birds appeared, flocking around you. Or listening intently to what you were saying to them, holding full conversations as they hopped around and picked at the birdseed you continuously scattered. No, she would not join you on the ground, she was just fine sitting with her back to the tree. And no she didn’t want to feed the birds, this is an outing for you, she’s just the chaperone.

Her cold, black heart did not stutter when the light caught your skin just right and illuminated the nearly-healed scrapes and bruises from your incident last week. Wednesday had always loved the colours of a bruise. The angry red reminiscent of a wound, or the healing yellow-green that was nearly the same as the colour of a waterlogged corpse. Although they didn’t look quite as stunning on you. For one odd reason or another, seeing the bruises and cuts on your skin, or the apparent stiffness of your joints brought no joy to her.

There is no way in heaven or hell that she would admit she watched you the way her father watched her mother. Watching your every move, from the rise and fall of your chest to the twitch in each individual feather. The way the veins on your forearms stood out when you lifted a bird up or the eyelash that now resided on your cheek that she so desperately wished to wipe off for you. Or that your small, airy little laugh made her feel like an arrow had impaled her heart and mind and soul, painfully tethering her to the tree she was leaning against.

No, she was not her father.

And no, she did not like you.

—---

You looked like a little kid sitting in the chair on the other side of Larissa’s desk. With a bowed head and hands folded tightly in your lap, you reminded her of the young children in normal schools who got sent to the principle’s office for something they hadn’t done. Except you very well had done what you were accused of; maybe that was why you looked so guilty.

“Miss Thornhill told me you’ve been struggling in class,” Larissa started off. “You’re struggling to focus.”

“I’m just not any good at it,” you said with a shrug. You still weren’t looking up.

“She also told me you had been given detention last Saturday,” she continued; you sunk further into the chair. “And you were nowhere to be found when she went to check on you.”

“Wow, that’s wild,” you said with a huff. “She probably needs to check that her perscriptions are up to date,” you said, tapping your finger to the corner of your eye, “might need a better one.”

“Did you skip your detention?” Larissa asked, far softer than she would be with any other student.

“I didn’t “skip” detention,” you started. “I was there until around 3, I think that was punishment enough.”

“What came along that was more important than your detention?” Larissa continued to pry.

“A date,” you said so quietly that she almost couldn’t hear you.

“A date? With whom?” She asked with a small smile and in the gentlest voice she could offer you.

To most, it would be an inappropriate question. No one wanted their principle to know all the juicy details of their personal lives. But Larissa knew you both had a… slightly different relationship. She knew you struggled, you had been a student at Nevermore for nearly eight years; she knew what damage your personal life had inflicted upon you. For eight years she had been able to provide some sort of comfort, a surrogate parent of sorts, and she was doing her best to give you that space to be a normal teenager with a normal parent.

You had talked with her about these things before, it wasn’t like she was implying something out of nowhere. Larissa had been your shoulder to cry on through all of your family woes, your frustrations, your first heartbreak. It shouldn’t have been such a surprise for her to ask, even though you had initially been sent to see her because you had evaded your justly-deserved detention.

But instead of your usual excitement, Larissa noticed a glaze cover your eyes and your arms wrap tightly around yourself. She had seen you like this multiple times; you still refused to see a therapist about it. And as much as she wanted to go to you and comfort you, previous experience had told her you needed to feel it all before coming back to the present.

“Y/N?” She asked quietly, leaning over her desk to get closer to you without invading your space.

You blinked once, slowly, a single tear falling onto your quivering bottom lip. Your tongue darted out to lick your lip before your eyes opened. The haze took its time in fading from your usually sparkly eyes, but you looked up at Larissa as it diminished. One shuddering breath in, a shaky breath out, and your body fell into a relaxed state once again.

“Wednesday Addams,” you choked out around the sobs that you were shoving back down your throat. Your eyes flickered away from her at the admission.

“What did you both go do?” Larissa asked with a smile that you definitely saw this time.

There was a hesitancy on your face; your lips were parted slightly as if you were about to speak, and your eyes shone brightly, but the slight tilt of your head gave you away. You weren’t one to outwardly share your emotions, but your body langauge always gave you away. It brought a joy to Larissa that she had never understood was possible before you had come around.

“Well, she bought some birdseed-,” you started, immediately going off about the entire date.

Larissa leaned forward, completely enthralled with your tale. The way your hands gestured this way and that, the movements eloquent in their own right. Pianist’s fingers, she recalled. The inflection in your voice a mirror of your younger self, back when you had less worries. You’re excited, she thought with a soft sigh. You haven’t been excited in years.

“-and then Miss Thornhill saw me and sent me straight here,” you finished with a huff, clearly out of breath.

“Will you go on another one?” Larissa asked after you had caught your breath slightly.

“Well, I think it’s my turn to ask next,” you shrugged; there was a sparkle in your eye. “So yes.”

“Then you’d better go prepare.” Larissa sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. “She set the bar pretty high, don’t you think?”

“Might find an autopsy she can watch,” you mused aloud as you pushed yourself off the chair. The stiffness of your injury had yet to ease, Larissa noticed as you essentially limped over to the doorway.

“Oh, Y/N,” she called out once you were halfway out the door.

“Yes ma’am?” You asked, leaning back into the office.

“You can make up your failed detention on Saturday,” she said with a smile that only got bigger as you groaned.

“This place is a fucking prison,” you grumbled as you walked away. Larissa sat back in her chair and looked over toward the fireplace. Maybe, she thought, Addams won’t be so bad afterall.

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams #wednesday x reader

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fandoms--fluff · 2 months

Note

Can you write a story with reader where she’s a workaholic and hope has to pull her away from her work because she’s been working on it all night

Overworked

Female witch reader x Hope Mikaelson

Warnings: none

A/n: I'm so excited for summer to come. I hope you like this!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's 11 o'clock at night, and you've been working on the same design for the last four hours. The deadline has been changed to a day away. So you bunkered down on your kitchen bar top, sketching and typing away.

You work as a head of costumry at a company that makes a bunch of the massive dresses and old timeybclothing for movies and productions and all those things. A new line of fairy dresses have been customed ordered, and you've been put in charge of them. You were excited when you got them, but now you kind of wish there was someone to share the workload with who you trusted would actually put hard work into.

You may have slight trust issues.

There's barely anyone at your work who's under you, takes it seriously. They will just put the least amount of work into something and call it a day. There have been times when you've just wanted to get violent with them, but alas, you can't. But that doesn't mean you haven't switched to a few other harmless methods.

You let out a groan as the tip of your pencil breaks again. It's the third time that's happened. You reach for the sharpener, and as you're twisting the pencil in it, it jams and the pencil breaks. "Seriously!" You exclaim stressfully.

Your girlfriend, Hope, looks up from where she was sat on the couch, watching TV. Her facial expression softens, turning the TV off before getting up.

She's been worried about you all night, but you wouldn't allow her to pull you away from it. But now she definalty has to, she doesn't want you to overwork yourself to this extent.

She walks over to you and places a hand on your back. "Why don't you stop for tonight and get back to work on it tomorrow, during work hours." She kisses your shoulder.

You look up from your sketch book, "I can't, there's no way I can get this all done tomorrow" you sigh. "I'll help you then, with the designs or talking to your boss"

"Talking?" You raise an eyebrow. "Or compulsion?"

"Which one will make you feel better?" She asks, making you let out a chuckle.

"...fine" you groan, "you win" you tell her, shutting your sketch book and turning your laptop off. "Thank you" she tells you, holding your hand as you get off the barstool.

She leads you to your guys' bedroom. As soon as you get in there, you flop onto the bed. "I've missed you" You told the bed.

"One of the many reasons you shouldn't be overworking yourself, not getting enough sleep. Come on, before falling asleep in your jeans, let's get pajamas on" She rubs her thumb in circles on your hand.

"Mmmm, fine" you comply, getting off the comfy bed. You reluctantly change out of your jeans and t-shirt into navy pajama pants and a white tank top. After you finish changing, you go to the bathroom washing your makeup off and brushing your teeth.

"Yay, comfy" you smile as you crawl into bed, next to where Hope's leaning against the headboard, in her pajamas as well.

You lean against, cuddling up to her. Your head falls to her chest and right arm thrown over her stomach. She wraps her her arms around you as well, placing a hand softly on the back of your head.

"I'm surprised you haven't spelled anyone at your work yet, it's impressive, considering if they really are like what you describe them" Hope says as she runs her fingers through your soft hair.

"Who says I haven't" you mumble into her chest. "Some of them are plain stupid, they should be thanking me for making them at least a little competent."

In the next minute, you're fast asleep, cuddled into your girlfriend.

"Okay, slightly less surprised" she shakes her head, playfully rolling her eyes as well. "They deserve it" you grumble.

"I bet they do, Baby" she places a kiss to the crown of your head.

#hope mikaelson #hope mikaelson x reader #hope mikaelson x witch reader #witch reader #hope mikaelson x female reader #hope mikaelson x fem reader #hope mikaelson is the best girlfriend #cuddles #overworking #cute #fluff #imagines #fanfic #thevampirediaries #writing #theoriginals #legacies

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xaphrin · 6 months

Text

Midnight Promises Broken at Dawn

It's Halloween! (just barely) and this is part of the colab I was working on with @inverted-typo. We decided to go with an Eros and Psyche theme.

There's so much more that's set to come out, because (of course) it got way out of control. I am aiming for the next part in two weeks, and I will post it to AO3.

Thank you so much for everything, and for being patient!

---

Damian felt the tug of someone breaking the seal that lined the wilderness of his estate. It was like a spider web thread snapping in the back of his mind, the delicate fiber straining until it broke and hung limp and loose against someone’s skin.

Curious.

The seal was designed to create a barrier along his sacred land so that wandering humans would have the sudden urge to panic and flee in the opposite direction. Anyone who managed to break through was either very powerful or very stupid. Or, maybe even a little desperate. After all, desperation bred fools.

He glanced up from the sketch he’d been working on and stared out the window into the dark gray of a blizzard at twilight, a mild annoyance creasing his brow. Damian may have been the grandson of a god, and have some minor powers of his own, but even he couldn't command the weather when it was like this.

Unfortunately, whoever had broken through his barrier would be allowed to remain close to his land until the storm calmed down.

Damian frowned and let go of a heavy sigh, glaring at nothing in particular. What an annoyance.

Raven could at least say that she had been given some small graces, even tiny ones. She had managed to harvest a few late mushrooms and set up additional traps in the woods farther from her cabin. It would have been better to have the traps be a bit closer to where she was currently taking shelter, but the storm had moved in faster than she anticipated, leaving her food sources scarce, and her choices even moreso.

The wind whipped overhead, shaking snow loose from the trees and scattering it over her shoulders. The noise was somehow both ear-deafening and eerily quiet. It shook her bones, but somehow never made a real sound.

With a curse staining her lips, she picked her way back along the path she created, making her way back to the dilapidated cabin she was taking shelter in. Her feet couldn’t move her fast enough. She felt strange being on this land, as if she wasn’t supposed to be here. It felt like a tug in her chest, a panicked feeling that made her breath short and her body shiver hard. But necessity drove her this far away from the cabin, and her options were growing more and more limited.

"Someday," she muttered to herself, brushing snow-wet hair from her eyes, "I am going to learn to live with others. In a society. With people."

It seemed more like an empty promise than a real one, and it was one she made at least three times a week. It had been well over a year since her bastard of a father had thankfully died, but his heavy shadow remained on her shoulders - oppressive and domineering. Her world should have opened up and grown larger with possibilities and friends, but the fingers of his crazed fear sank too deep into her own mind. And if she was honest with herself, she doubted she would ever be free of them.

For the protection of the world, you must remain alone. You are a stain here, Raven. Nothing better than a whore of Babylon.

Fuck him. Cursing his grave (wherever it was), she kicked at a rotting stump and made her way back to the abandoned forest ranger cabin that had become her temporary home. It didn't have much in the way of modern comforts, but at least it had a hand pump for water outside, and an outhouse. After some of the places she had stayed with her father, four walls around her while she did her business was practically palatial in comparison.

Raven made her way through the snow, following the marks she had left in the trees to show the path. The storm continued to rage around her, growing more and more violent and bitterly cold with each minute. Even the shelter of thick, ancient pines couldn’t shield her forever. She pulled her worn coat tighter around her, and eventually found her way back to the cabin.

When she stepped over the threshold, the pitch black of night had fallen, and the storm eased marginally. Small blessings, even if they were a little late.

Walking carefully over the packed dirt floor, Raven stoked the coals still smoldering in the fireplace, and sank down into the ragged remains of an armchair by the hearth. She looked through her ever thinning supplies until she located her last can of soup. Sighing, she tucked it near the coals of the fire, warming what was left of her food. She wasn't sure when she'd be able to go on a supply run into town, and she didn't feel great about the traps she set today, so she was going to have to make this last as long as she could.

Raven pulled herself close to the fire and tucked her thin blanket around her legs, feeling every muscle in her body ache with exertion. She was weary, and not just from the daily struggle of trying to survive. She was weary of being so utterly alone and isolated. Her father, in spite of all his bullshit, was at least some small amount of company. After he died, she had no one.

Her chest grew tight, and grief filled her until it was so heavy she wasn’t sure if she could bear the weight. A cold tear spilled over her cheek and she wiped it away with her sleeve. She wasn’t sad for his loss, but was sad that she had no one to turn to - no one to help her move forward in the world. She was, for all intents and purposes, alone.

Raven watched the coals' red glow fade, her mind drifting in and out of consciousness as she slipped into a half-sleep, where her dreams seemed far too real.

"A human. How pathetic."

Raven grit her teeth against the insult. She might have been a pathetic human, but she would survive out of spite, and that was a threat.

Her head rocked to the side, staring into the dark shadows of the half-rotted cabin. Hearing phantom voices and seeing unexpected things became a usual occurrence after being alone for so long, but this voice sounded different than it ever had before. "You're not any better…" She paused, trying to think of something to call this new hallucination. “…you ass.”

Very clever.

The was a soft grunt, proving that it was obviously not insulted by her weak name calling. The shadows moved like smoke, staying tight to the deepest part of the darkness. Raven felt something staring at her, as if trying to understand what she was. She turned her head and stared into the rafters, hearing the creak and groan of the roof under the weight of snow.

“What are you doing out here?”

“It’s public land. I am public.” She closed her eyes, trying to let herself fall deeper into sleep, but the shadows kept talking, much to her annoyance. Sometimes she wished her phantoms would just shut up.

“Not all of it is public land. You stepped past those boundaries.”

“Oh, please.” Raven snorted. “Will some absurdly rich recluse really know if I trap a few hares on their thousands of acres of unused land?”

The shadows responded with a strange breathy noise, as if it wasn’t sure whether or not she made a valid point.

“See?” Raven let her point seep into her tone. “Even you agree.”

There was another long pause, and the darkness spoke again. “Perhaps there is a reason to keep you off the land.”

“To make sure that their investment of land holdings is properly protected?”

“Hm.” The shadows moved like ink in water, spreading out against the walls as the coals’ light dimmed even farther. Finally it moved closer to her. “You seem to think you know a lot for someone who lives in a stolen hovel on public land.”

“Circumstances don’t always dictate the totality of a person.”

The shadows didn’t seem to know what to make of that comment, and stayed silent. Raven closed her eyes and let her body sink into the remains of the armchair, wrapping the threadbare blankets tighter around her. She shifted onto her side and faced the fading heat of the coals. The world grew heavy and dark, and Raven felt her body finally succumb to exhaustion, as she slipped into a dark, empty dreamless sleep.

But, she swore she heard one last word from her half-dream of shadows along the wall…

“Curious.”

She haunted his thoughts and that infuriated him more than anything.

This ragged slip of a human, who squatted in abandoned cabins and had the gall to tease him. Him. The grandson of a god, and a demigod in his own right.

And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He wondered if the traps she set remained bare, if she had managed to find food or warmth, and even if her firewood was dry enough. It was unbearable. Every moment he wasn’t completely focused on something else, she entered his thoughts.

Against his better judgment, Damian found himself visiting her again a few nights later, unable to stay away. He thought that if he saw her again, he might be less enamored by her - at least, that was what he kept telling himself.

She was interesting, even if he didn’t admit it out loud. There was something about the way she spoke to him that piqued his curiosity. It was as if she thought he was an echo or a dream, and not real in any sense of the word. He had spent most of his long life being surrounded by those who worshiped his grandfather, and while Damian appreciated the reverence and kowtowing, it felt almost refreshing to have someone treat him… normal.

Almost.

She should still have some verneration for him. He was technically still a god.

When Damian slipped into the shadows of the abandoned cabin, he found her floating in that space between awake and sleep where things seemed almost real. Her eyes lifted to the dark corner where he stood, trying to discern his shape from between the shadows.

“You came back.” Her voice was a slow drawling sound that slid over his skin like a spell. “I thought you’d disappeared. It’s been a few days since you’ve haunted me.”

Part of him wished he hadn’t returned here, and he had forgotten all about the trespasser on his land. But, here he was, watching a strange woman sleep on a rotting armchair. “You’re still here…” He trailed off, leaving the question unspoken in the air.

“Raven,” she muttered with an annoyed sigh. “I would have thought you would have at least known my name since you insist on following me around and invading my inner peace.” There was a long pause and he thought she had fallen asleep. Finally, her words slipped from behind her lips. “I’m here because I have nowhere else to go.”

He blinked and continued to watch her, letting her words settle. There was a story there he wanted to know, but he wasn’t sure if he should pry. Prying meant that there was a part of him that cared about her, and he didn’t. But… perhaps he was a little curious.

“You have no home?”

“Even if I did, it would not be a place I would go back to." Raven sighed, as if this conversation was exhausting her. “And, if I can't find strength in myself, then who else could I possibly find strength in?”

Damian was about to say something brave and gallant, but he stopped himself. He was not the type of person to offer platitudes and words of encouragement, and he certainly wasn't the type of person to offer help in any sense of the word. He liked his solitude and his privacy, and the only reason he was here was because this human was upsetting his perfectly manicured life.

Still…

“Seems to be a lonely life.”

“It is.” She gave a dry laugh, her blunt answer cutting through the weight of the room. There was a sorrow that clung to her, and a longing for something more than she had now. “After all, I'm talking to the shadows on the wall about my lack of home.”

He wondered if she would believe him if he said he was real, but chose to keep silent instead.

“You should go away, you’re keeping me from my well deserved sleep. You’re like an annoying fly buzzing around my head.” She gave a halfhearted wave, as if shooing him away, before she turned her face to the warmth of the fire. Her breath deepened, and Damian stood there for a long while, watching this curious human sleep.

There was an odd, uncomfortable stirring in his chest, as though his heart was waking up after a long, deep sleep.

His lips twitched in annoyance, and he glanced around the small cabin, taking stock of what she owned. It was so little, that it seemed as though she had simply walked out of a place one day with whatever she could carry on her back. A few clothes, a threadbare blanket, a backpack that had certainly seen better days, and…

His eyes rested on several beat up paperback books poking through the holes of her bag. That seemed like an odd choice, having books when she seemed to have such limited resources in the first place. Damian turned that observation around in his head for a moment, unsure of what to make of it.

Ultimately, it didn't matter. Mortals were of little concern to him.

Raven included.

Ignoring that strange flutter in his chest, he slipped back into the shadows and disappeared from the cabin.

#damirae #demonbirds #damian and raven #I WROTE A FIC #HOLY HADES #eros and psyche au

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lyrakanefanatic · 2 months

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Another tig characters kids hc post

again, nash has two daughters

jameson has two boys and a girl

grayson has one girl

and xander has a boy and girl

ive decided im gonna give them names so it doesn’t get confusing, so just bare with me here 😭😔

- jamesons eldest sons name is lucas, and he’s the most similar to avery

- averys middle child’s (the other son) name is michael (yes I stole it from the naturals shut up 😔) and he’s the most similar to jameson

-averys daughters name is hannah, and is a good mix of both her parents but still more similar to jameson

- graysons daughters’ name is calla and she’s a good mix of both her parents

- nash’s daughters are twins but are also two completely different people. the eldest one, (by like a minute) kylie, is more similar to nash, meanwhile mara is more like libby

- and last but not least, xanders eldest sons’ name is xavier, (something similar to xander LOL) and he’s very similiar to his mom, meanwhile his younger sister, whose name is nia, is more like her dad

- nia is 11 while xavier, calla, lucas, michael, and hannah are all 16-17-18-19 but they still make sure to include her!

- callas extremely close with averys children, but fights with michael ALL. THE. TIME.

- lucas is the most mature and makes sure the rest of them don’t get in trouble

- kylie and mara are both older than the rest of them but still always manage to be involved in their drama (partially for advice and so they don’t do something stupid)

- michael is the most wild person on april fools and literally goes CRAZY with his pranks

- in fact, every april fools teams are set up

- on one team there’s hannah, lucas, (who eventually agreed to set up teams) michael, kylie, and nia

- on the other team is calla, mara, and nia, whose their spy. she pretends that she’s on the other team, while giving her team information on their pranks

- parents eventually end up getting involved every year as the pranks get more and more diabolical

- all the kids have a sport that they enjoy doing, apart from xavier and calla, who really don’t like them. xaviers fine with playing a small match of soccer or football with his cousins sometimes if they force him, but calla will under no circumstances play anything involving a ball. she does do track though, and is a very fast runner (yes ik tracks a sport but pretend it’s not for like 2 mins pls 😔)

- there is always drama when they get together and do a big family dinner, and it’s usually michael or kylie starting the drama 💀

- hannah and calla both don’t have sisters but they see each other as their sisters and are practically inseparable 💗

- everybody favourites nia because she’s the youngest and she’s usually the one putting the star up on the christmas tree 😭😭 (but everyone loves her so it’s okay 🫶)

- calla is an academic weapon and is on the debate team

-michael and calla are often beefing and whenever they do, avery ALWAYS takes callas side and tells michael, “you’re older, you should know better” (he’s older by like 11 months 💀)

- lucas is the best chess player in the family next to avery and they regularly spend hours on a single match

- although calla takes more after her mother, one thing her and grayson have in common is their love for fashion. they both love making a good impression on people and often go on long shopping trips while callas mother (lyra 🤭) stays home because although she loves shopping, there is no way she could shop for as long as they do

- hannah loves drawing and has taken many different art classes before. she’s extremely talented now and loves sketching things/people around the house. it happens so much that it’s now just become normal to look up and see her drawing you 😭💀

- but she never really keeps her drawings and always wants to throw them out, but every time she tries to jameson takes the sketch from her and put it with his other folder of her art 💗

- hannah regularly takes her brothers’ sweatshirts and sweaters and whenever they see clothing missing from their closet they immediately know she took them 💀

- nia always loves having sleepovers with calla and hannah because then they can talk about anything and everything with each other (and binge watch movies till 4 am)

- they have a curse jar and jameson and michael are usually the ones putting most of the money in it

- lucas pretends to be so mature but in reality he’s an og gossip girl and often asks hannah and calla if they heard anything about anyone 💀 (the three of them stay up talking about people in their classes for HOURS)

OKAY THATS ALL SORRY IF THE NAMES WERE CONFUSING 💗💗

#the inheritance games #grayson hawthorne #nash hawthorne #xander hawthorne #jameson hawthorne #avery kylie grambs #the brothers hawthorne #libby grambs #lyra kane #maxine liu

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undreaming-fanfiction · 1 year

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Unlikely But Welcome

Hey, Duffers? Give me more Harrington-Byers content. Let me give you a suggestion.

Give me Jonathan who realizes that Steve has really grown as a person and eventually decides to give him a chance, they start a reluctant friendship. It's not easy or fast, but they often drop the kids off to the Hellfire Club campaigns and they sometimes have to wait together outside, maybe share a cigarette or something and chat about anything and everything.

Jonathan talks about the life he had in California and maybe admits to Steve that he never feels that carefree here, it's like having constant weight on his shoulders. It feels weird, talking to the former King Steve about the guilt and paranoia, but Steve actually listens and understands, he just chuckles and takes a drag from the cigarette, admits to Jonathan that he is going out of his mind whenever the kids don't walkie him for several days. "But that's what we're here for, right?" he smiles at Jonathan and passes the smoke back, "we're scared shitless for them and worry about every stupid thing so they can have a good time. As much as possible after all that."

They start hanging out at Steve's house, planning outings for the little shitheads, fairs, Halloween parties, anything with the promise of giving the kids back at least pieces of their lost childhoods. The rest of the young adults join in too, Argyle with his constant enthusiasm, Eddie and his manic energy, Robin with her undying sarcasm and Nancy who is ridden by the same guilt as the two of them, seeing what the Upside Down did to Mike and his friends.

It's there that Jonathan notices Steve's house is devoid of any personality, he only has a few polaroids in his room and those are carefully stored in his drawer, as if he's ashamed of them. So Jonathan picks up his camera again, after the long break in California, and gets to what he knows the best. He snaps pictures of Steve and Robin giggling, drunk on punch, as she re-creates the YOU SUCK / YOU RULE scoreboard on a random paper, he captures the exact moment Eddie tackles Steve into the pool when they're sweating like crazy while preparing a barbecue for their gaggle of kids. He smiles to himself as he captures Eddie shotgunning with Steve for the first time, documents Steve's wide smile as he's high as a kite and discussing very important topics with Argyle, such as whether tabby or ginger cats are superior. There are more pictures - Steve with Nancy as they argue about the format of the Halloween party invitations while Eddie sketches suggestions in the background, Dustin jumping at Steve to hug him, the reluctant fist bump between Steve and Mike, Steve sitting between Erica and Max, all three with sunglasses and a sign that says "the cool trio". When he knocks on Steve's door on one day and gives him the photographs, Steve's face lights up like a Christmas tree. He gets all of them framed and completely covers the walls of his room with his found family.

There is a stupid assignment that has Dustin frustrated, presentations on their families - apparently a male influence is needed, a single family member isn't enough, so Jonathan nudges him and whispers "what about Steve? Does an older brother count?" and Dustin's face lights up, drags Steve over for a picture for his presentation. They pose for several pictures, Steve holding Dustin in the air, leaning on each other like partners in crime, and everyone's laughing, maybe sheds a tear or two.

If Jonathan had any doubts about Steve, they disappear the second he takes the last picture and Steve comes over to him, hugs him with a quiet thank you. And then he taps his camera and asks: "hey, show me how to operate this thing? I'm pretty sure I need to take over for a second." Jonathan is confused for a moment, but then he sees Will looking at him with a shy expression and realizes - oh. Maybe this is why they work so well as friends, because they have this in common - filling in the roles they were never supposed to have, but would not give up for the world. He gives Steve a quick rundown and then drags Will to the living room, posing for pictures and reenacting Steve's suggestions, fighting with imaginary swords and slaying dragons (or Dustin who offered to stand in for the legendary creature). In the end, Steve's pictures are a bit blurry, but Jonathan treasures them.

And then there's the incident outside of Hellfire, they're smoking together again, laughing about the secret Santa they're organizing for the kids ("I swear to god, Jonathan, Dustin's learning to knit. He's determined to send Suzie-poo a handmade scarf and I'm trying to be supportive, I really am, but it looks like a blob of cotton"). The kids barge outside, excited as always, and Will is beaming too, he found so much in common with Eddie and they're rapidly talking, exchanging ideas for the next sessions. But of course, there's no rest for the freaks - the basketball practice ends around the same time and one of Jason's lackeys bumps into Will, snarls at him. "Of course you two get along. A freak and a fag, hard to tell which one is which." The smile instantly drops from Will's face and Eddie's straightening up, glaring at the sophomore, and Jonathan's blood runs cold when-

It's Steve who takes the first step towards the boy and even though his legend is long gone, the boy staggers back. Memories flash in Jonathan's head, remembering how he lost the first camera, how terrifying Steve's anger could be, but Steve only grasps the boy's shoulder and smiles at him, as pleasant as possible. "I remember you, kid. Aren't you the one who always tries to sneak into the adult section of the Family Video, hm? And smokes in front of the store. Now if I recall, your mother is a very strict lady, I've met her once or twice...does she know?" And when the bully shakes his head, Steve's voice lowers to a growl. "Do you want her to know?" Another shake. "That's what I thought."

And with that, the bully his gone and Jonathan wants to check on his brother, except there is something happening in the group before him - Steve is whispering something into Eddie's ear and the older boy nods, his face serious and determined. Steve shoots an apologetic look at Jonathan, mouths "just a second" at him and they take Will to the side, talk to him in hushed voices. The rest of the party is chatting again, recalling their latest adventures, but Jonathan only has eyes for his younger brother and the strange new friend he made. He watches as Steve reaches under the collar of his shirt and pulls out a familiar looking pendant with a guitar pick. Watches as Eddie moves his watch to the side and reveals a fresh looking tattoo of a spiked bat. Will's eyes water and he hugs both of them, laughing into the embrace and Jonathan finally understands what Nancy meant, that Steve's grown up and he's a different person now, in more ways than one. He sees Steve and Eddie's fingers brush against each other, the shy glances masked in their usual teasing. And Will looks so much happier now, so much more confident that he knows - he could never hate Steve Harrington again.

When they both manage to get the kids (and Eddie who rides with Steve, of course he does) into their cars, Jonathan and Steve smile at each other, and then Jonathan, the distant Jonathan who is used to only observing, never initiating, embraces Steve. "I don't know how to repay you for what you did for Will, Steve," he admits.

Steve just laughs and pats Jonathan's back. "I only did what felt right. The kid deserves the world. But," he adds and grins at Jonathan, "if you're insistent on the repayment, how about you pick up some good beer for this week's movie night? I don't think I can survive more experimentation, Eddie and Robin are competing who can get a more obscure brand and I'm too old for that crap."

Jonathan snickers and gives Steve a thumbs up. Lame, but he doesn't seem to mind. "You've got it."

#steve harrington #eddie munson #jonathan byers #the party #will byers #dustin henderson #steddie #steddie drabble #stranger things #stranger things drabble #stranger things ficlet #steddie ficlet #strangerthings #strangerthingsdrabble

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dontforgetoctober3rd · 6 months

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Come Go With Me

A Michael Gavey fic.

EDIT: Now with art! (just a sketch tho)

Summary: It's the spring of 2007 and Michael Gavey has so far kept to the vow he made to never socialize again after Oliver ditched him. Then he meets a cute girl at a coffee shop. Will the vow stand strong or immediately go down the drain?

Word Count: 3986

Rating: T (plenty of swearing, instances of misogyny, objectification of the female body, atrociously incorrect bagel eating, New York City slander, etc.)

Author's Note: yes, the title is the song by Expose. Also, I'm a corny writer.

Divider by @cafekitsune

“I don’t know or care what Oliver Quick is doing this summer,” Michael said, continuing to type on his laptop, not even making eye contact with whoever asked the question. The guy who asked left without saying anything further.

Some random guy in the library asked Michael if it was true that Oliver was going to be spending the summer with Felix on his family’s estate. It was more about prying into Felix’s business than him wanting to know anything about Oliver, Michael thought. Oliver was not on the same level of being interesting (in the eyes of the general student populace) that the Cattons were.

Michael didn’t give a shit that Oliver was going to fancy fucking Saltburn with his new, snobby, loser, nepo baby friends for the summer. Really, he didn’t. When Oliver humiliated him at the bar, he made the decision then to swear off any further socializing at the university. It was the best thing he ever did.

Already, he felt less anxious. He had more time to focus on his coursework. More time to read new books, attend off campus lectures. Walks in the park by himself were quite relaxing when he didn’t have to think about topics to keep a stilted, dying conversation going. He even went so far as to set aside time to play video games again. Every weekend, for one hour and a half, he lost himself in Fable on his Xbox.

Michael still felt the sting of the bar betrayal from time to time, as he thought he had finally found a true friend in Oliver (or at least, the potential for him to become one). The new, lone path taken had helped him realize that he was not the problem. Oliver was just an asshole, like the majority of those who went to Oxford.

Sometimes Michael wondered why people didn’t like him. Must be how smart he was. There was nothing weird about being good at math. What was so awful about being good at math, anyway? He guessed that most peoples’ biggest issue with his smarts was that it reminded them they were stupid. Oh well! Plenty of time for activities by himself now.

One of those activities was fast became his favorite, after only his fourth visit. Visiting a little coffee shop he had discovered near the river, he was able to “mingle” among people without having to talk to anyone. No one would bother him here and he would still get his dose of human contact which, after all, was vital to the psychological constitution of a person. As rigid as he intended on being with his new No Socializing At Oxford vows, Michael did not intend on becoming a psychopath. Besides, the baristas never got his order wrong. They never talked to him beyond the perfunctory taking of his order but after the third time, when he walked in, instead of asking what he would like the person at the register had asked “The usual?” and Michael would just say yes, thank you, and then pay.

Michael packed up his laptop, shoving it and the charger into his reusable Tescoe bag along with his notebooks. He stood and adjusted his sweater, checked all his pant pockets were buttoned up and zipped closed. He kept his visits only to every other day so as to not have the monotony grate on his nerves. The coffee shop made fresh bagels every day, however, and he had been looking forward to enjoying one all morning (his favorite was blueberry). He liked to eat his a certain way, scooping out the insides of each slice before finally eating the hollowed out crusts. Someone at school would surely have an opinion about his bagel-eating method (not that he cared) but at the coffee shop, Michael was left in peace.

Walking briskly through the library doors and outside in the crisp spring air, he didn’t even look in direction of Oliver walking up the steps into the library with Felix. They were laughing about something but Michael didn’t even breathe in their direction.

—---------

The delicious smell of bread baking hit him in a wave as he stepped into the coffee shop. It looked like a rush had just hit, the baristas busy cleaning and restocking various items.

“Hi! I’ll take your order right over here.” came the chipper voice. Michael turned.

Oh god, a new hire. An American one (he was pretty sure the accent he heard was American) Maybe he wasn’t entitled to feel irritated about changes in the store, it's not like he owned the damn thing, but Michael felt irritated just the same. This was HIS spot and someone new had just invaded it.

The new girl had long hair parted in the middle, tied back in a bun. The hair was turquoise. A very bright turquoise, almost neon, he would say. It pissed him off even more. Dyed hair was so fucking tacky.

He trudged to the register, hating every second of anticipating having to deal with someone new, someone chatty, even for something as impersonal as coffee.

The girl was almost as tall as he was, eye-level to him, smiling the fakest fucking smile he had ever seen. I mean, it had to be fake. Who looked this happy to be taking a stranger’s order? He didn’t even bother attempting to smile back. Whatever. Get my coffee, bitch Michael though.

“I’ll have a large vanilla coffee, sugar free, with a blueberry bagel.”

“Ah, so just cutting back on the sugar but can’t quite quit it altogether, eh?” the girl said with a wink and another smile, totally unperturbed by his attitude.

Michael pursed his lips and said nothing. The girl, still unbothered, looked down and clacked away on the touch screen. He quickly looked over her in the few seconds she imputed his order.

She had long, acrylic nails, painted a pastel kind of purple. Her name tag said Cat, which he guessed was short for Catherine. Maybe. Also her boobs were big. Not normal big, but stripper big. Not that he would know, but still. Too big for the word “boobs”, for sure. Tits seemed like a more appropriate word. If he had ever been to a strip club he was pretty damn sure stripper tits would look exactly like hers. And she had tattoos covering the entirety of her left arm. Classy, he thought condescendingly. No wonder she was working here instead of somewhere like a bank.

Michael wondered if she had tattoos on her chest as well…he was so sure he could avert his gaze before she noticed but suddenly her fingers snapped and her head lowered into his line of vision, a smug look on her face. Small wisps of hair hung in front of her ears, he noticed.

“You lose something. buddy?” she asked.

“I didn’t mean-I was just looking at your name tag.” he sputtered, fidgeting with a cuff of his sweater.

“Look, it's fine. They’re tits.”

Michael flinched slightly at her casual use of the word. It was one thing to talk like that with other guys, but girls? What was she trying to prove? Tits tits tits. He made a point to stare straight into her eyes and not look away while she continued to speak. “Its not a big deal, I promise,” she said, finishing up his order on the register and offering her hand to take payment.

Choosing not to respond, Michael set his Tesco bag on the counter so he could unzip one of his pockets to get at his credit card. The pocket it was in was hard to open and the zipper always caught, so two hands were needed.

“You can look, you know, just don’t be creepy about it.” she continued, as he struggled slightly with the pocket.

Michael did not look at her as he handed over the card.

Being branded a “creep” was the last thing Michael needed. He was already the Lonely Nerd at university, he really did not want to become the Creepy Lonely Nerd (that ogles stranger’s tits). Not that he would give a shit what people thought, but one less socially crippling label was better than one more.

“I mean, it’s not like I can leave them at home, right? I don’t mind a little look here and there!” she said with a laugh, handing back his card. Unbelievable. She was still talking about her tits!

“Can I get that to go?” Michael answered more than asked.

“Sure thing. Uh, what’s your name?”

“I’m Michael.” He was not staying here. He was not going to stay and become the Creepy Tit Guy. Given her outgoing nature, Cat would probably have something to say about the way he ate his bagel, too, he was sure of it. He would become Creepy Tit And Weirdo Bagel Eating Method Guy if he stayed. Maybe dealing with this at university would have been easier but this was supposed to be his relaxation spot. The coffee shop was ruined for him now, he would never come back. Ever. Fuck this place and fuck her.

“Alrighty, dude. Be right back!”

“My name is not…dude..” Michael stepped away from the register, his voice fading away to nothing as Cat got his order ready, unable to hear him. There was no one else coming in right now, it seemed he came during a lull. The other employees were still cleaning and restocking.

“Here you go!” Cat said with a smile, handing him his bagel in a paper wrap and his coffee.

Still not looking at her, he took his bagel and his coffee and got the fuck out of there, practically powerwalking away.

It was only until he made it to a nearby park bench that he finally saw what Cat had written on the other side of his bagel wrapper. A whole paragraph, practically. Michael, sorry for making you feel uncomfortable. I was just trying to be funny, I swear. Enjoy your coffee. Hope you come back!

Michael felt relief for a moment, before loudly groaning and spilling some of his coffee as he made to slap his forehead with that same hand. He had left his fucking Tescoe bag at the coffee shop. His bag that had his computer, his notebooks, his finished papers for a couple of classes.

He had to go back. Fuck.

“Yeah, sorry, but she said she knew you.”

Michael swore. The cashier informed him that Cat had just left, her shift was over. She had taken the bag with her to the Oxford library. Apparently, she was a student there? Who fucking knew!?

“You need me to call the police?”

“No, that’s all right, I do know her.” Michael lied. “I told her earlier I’d be headed to the library later. She probably figures she can catch me there.” Without a single, civil ‘thank you’, Michael practically fled the shop.

He didn’t care how dumb it looked that he was frantically looking everywhere in the library for the familiar, turquoise hair. People always looked at him funny. It’s not like he could go to each of them individually and ask them hey could you please stop snidely whispering every time you look in my direction? Old Michael would go back to his dorm, have a cry, wonder why no one liked him and then quickly finish his homework in his dungeon of a bedroom before crying some more and then going to sleep.

New Michael didn’t give a shit. New Michael was focused 100 percent on his academics and self-care, and right now his academics were in jeopardy because that Tesco bag held papers he had yet to type (Michael liked to hand write his work first, he felt it was more thorough). Also, maybe New Michael should better remember to not forget his shit at random shops. Old Michael wouldn’t have forgotten. Whatever.

After scanning the entire first floor of the library, he stomped to the second floor. If she was a student here, how had he never seen her? The hair would have been hard to miss. Of course, it's not like he made it a habit to people watch anymore, especially in the library.

Suddenly, he saw her. Way in the corner, at a table right under a huge window, he saw her returning with her nose in a book from the shelves. On the table, his bag.

“Give it here.” Michael said, approaching the table. Cat looked up from her book.

God, she was pretty. He felt like a troll next to her. It was so fucking unfair. More importantly though…why was he telling her to hand the bag back? It was HIS. He should just take it and go, without a word. She had basically stolen it. The girl was a thief and took it to give him a hard time because she was a bitch, like every other pretty girl he had ever interacted with and been cut down by. Maybe he could like her if he gave it a try…but the days of trying to get people to think he was cool or amazing were over. She was a bitch and he knew it.

Mmm not what the note on your bagel showed, an annoying voice in his head began. That note could only have been written if she liked you because who would write that for a random customer? You should talk to her an-

Oh, fucking christ. Old Michael. Desperate-to-be-liked-by-someone-ANYONE Michael. Shut the fuck up, Old Michael. You are dead.

“Yeah, no problem, I mean it is your bag!” Cat said cheerfully, closing her book and holding the bag out to him. “Sorry you had to run all this way to get it, Michael.”

“Um, it’s ok. I run fast.” Michael said, immediately regretting it. God, that sounded so fucking stupid. He reached out for his bag.

Oh, so we’re no longer on that socializing ban, huh, Mr. Comedian? I mean, what was THAT?! Old Michael thought slyly. Shut up shut up shut up shut up!!!!! And, look! She remembers your name! SHUT UP.

“-couldn’t just leave it there, you know?” Cat had finished saying.

Michael froze. “Huh?”

What had she been talking about? Shit. “Uh, why not?” Please let that be the right response. Please let that be relevant to what she was fucking saying, Michael thought desperately.

Cat rolled her eyes, but still sounded…not like a bitch? “The laptop would definitely have been long gone if I hadn’t taken the bag. I couldn’t just leave it there.”

Oh. That was it. That had been all she had said. Michael nodded and mumbled his thanks, ready to go…except Cat still held onto the bag. And stopped him with her next words.

“You play Fable a lot?”she asked.

It’s a trap. She is going to make fun of you, he thought to himself. Just get your shit and go. His hand was also still on HIS bag. That she was not letting go of, for some reason.

“Yeah, I like it a lot.”

Oh, how riveting. That will make her swoon! Old Michael chimed in.

“Really?” Cat responded. Her tone wasn’t mocking. It was…interested? “I like it too but it feels unfinished, somehow. I wish they would release Fallout 3 for these new consoles already, I bet it would be 1000 times better than this crap that Lionhead put out.”

Michael nodded. She liked Fallout? She was impatient for the release?? Ask her to go with you to the midnight release next year!!! Ask her ask her ask her ask- No. Shut up. Be normal, for once in your life, be normal and chill about something.

“-able doesn’t feel like it’s TRULY a good rpg, where you can do whatever you want, you know? You can only go in one direction and can’t put off the main quest at all.”

She was still talking about Fable. She was still talking about video games, something they both liked, something they had in common.

This is your chance, you know. Old Michael piped in. Did any of those other people ever show even the slightest interest in the stuff you were into? Ever? Ask her out!

“Ok,” Michael began. “I see your point, but the mechanics of the game aren’t the star so much as the incredible story and character designs-”

While he continued to go on a tangent of Fable’s good qualities to Cat, trying his best not to sound too rant-y, Michael frantically gave the idea of asking her out some thought…

What if she said no? Hm what if she says yes?

It’s stupid. The release for Fallout 3 is next year. No, not even. It’s October of that year, so…over a year away! Almost two fucking years! What kind of weirdo would ask someone on a date almost two years from now?! Plus, she isn’t even into me. She just likes video games, like any other person.

Why is she still holding onto your bag, then? Old Michael thought smugly. Why did she write that little note on your bagel? Why did she remember your name? Why-

All right, all right.

“Right, so…want to come? To the midnight release for it? For Fallout 3?” Michael asked, throwing all caution to the wind and swallowing his preemptive rejection rage that already was bubbling up.

“For Fallout?” Cat said, still holding onto the bag. “Which store you going to?”

“Target.” Please say yes. I don’t even know you and I know it’s weird to ask you somewhere practically two years from now but PLEASE SAy YES, Michael thought.

“Mm, nah.” Cat, said, letting go of the bag to dig in her bookbag.

Shit.

Michael’s chest began to hurt, the hand holding his bag falling limply to his side. He could feel his eyes begin to water. She was just like the rest of them. Pathetic. So pathe-

“You should come with me to Game on Queen Street, they always price cut!” Cat said, whipping out her blackberry. “Whatever price we show them for the game, they’ll shave 5 off it! I mean, it’s not much but I’ll take what I can get! Here, put your number in.”

On sheer autopilot, Michael put his number in. He felt ashamed the entire time, having choked back a scathing insult at the last minute before Cat had shoved her phone at him.

“Are you ok?” Cat took her phone back, eyeing him with a concerned look.

“I’m fine! It’s just-probably something I caught the other day, I can already feel the sniffles coming on and whatnot. It’s nothing!” Michael babbled.

It cannot be this easy, Michael thought. It’s been this easy the entire time? Hanging out with a girl? Talking to her? Making plans? Why did Oliver never like him when they had so much in common?

Holy shit, forget about fucking Oliver! You have a date with your future wife! Old Michael practically screeched. Jesus fucking Christ, you are desperate. Shut the fuck up!! Be Normal!

“You wanna go back to the shop and get another bagel?” Cat asked, putting her books away and sliding on her bookbag. “ We could use my discount, that way-”

“Yeah, let's go.” Michael cut in. Grabbing her wrist and not waiting for her answer, he turned and began to swiftly move through the library. He tried not to get excited as Cat uttered a quick ‘cool’ and kept pace with him.

He also tried not to think about how awkwardly he was holding her hand. Everyone in the library was staring, he saw it in his peripheral. It had looked so cool in his brain but now everyone could see how his stupid hand around her wrist slightly resembled him holding his limp-no no no no noooo shut up shut up SHUT UP.

“Blueberry runs out quick.” Michael said, as they both briskly walked. “I went one time at around this hour instead of my usual time and I had to settle for onion, which is gross as shit.” You’re rambling, Old Michael chided. She fucking works there, she doesn’t need a play-by-play of bagel supply issues. Let her say something, idiot! The reason he never noticed her before, it turned out, was that she hadn’t dyed her hair yet. Cat also began to tell him about her history degree. Something about the American Gilded age and how she was deep into research of the British Astors or something. Michael surprisingly found himself not bored. Were her eyes fucking green? Oh, fuck, they were green!

They finally saw the shop in the distance. Right after his anti-onion bagel tirade and her talk of her studies, he set straight into a long-winded verbal onslaught on the statistics of how rare green eyes were. Micheal thought his heart would fall out of his asshole when Cat adjusted their hands so her fingers were laced with his. About halfway through the distance, he had cut in when she mentioned her favorite bagel flavor (pineapple) and talked her ear off the rest of the way about his bagel eating method, insisting on its practicality but really prepping her so that she wouldn’t be horrified when she saw him do it and ditch him like fucking Oliver. She laughed.

“That’s so L.A. of you. New York would hate your fucking guts, though.” she said, with a grin. “Good thing I’m a California girl! I’d rather deal with horrible traffic and scooped bagels than having to fight rats for sidewalk space.”

Right before they got to the doors, Michael went for it. “I’m telling people that you’re my girlfriend.”, he said seriously. She hadn’t run off when he had taken her hand (wrist). She had noticed the Fable stickers on his computer. She had remembered his name after one interaction. The American thing was a slight issue but hey, no one was perfect!

“Cool, because I already told the staff that you were my boyfriend when I took your bag!” Cat responded. “I told them you like to pretend you don’t know me when you get mad and I just play along to pacify you. It was the only way they were comfortable letting me take your bag!”

Be cool! Do not fucking freak out! Act fucking normal! Do NOT scare her away! Say something a fucking weirdo would never in a million years say! Old Michael reminded him.

“Let’s go back to my place after and study some calculus. Your grades in that sound horrendous.” Fucccccck. You just got yourself a girlfriend and this is the shit you respond with?! Old Michael panicked.

Cat smirked. “Only if you promise to fuck me into your mattress after.”

Michael stared at her, almost daring her to say she was kidding. When she didn’t and her gaze briefly dropped to his lips, he abandoned any doubts he had and turned to walk away from the shop, practically dragging Cat with him.

Cat giggled and adjusted herself to clutch at his arm with both hands, her legs and his in perfect sync as they made their way to Michael’s room.

—------------

“What the fuck?” Felix said to Oliver, pointing. Both were sitting on a bench, relaxing a bit before their next class.

“Didn’t he go fucking mental at you the first day? Not to be a dick or anything but is she safe with that guy?”

Oliver followed Felix’s finger and froze.

He gaped at what he saw:

Michael fucking Gavey, math genius slash freak of nature, walking happily with the pretty American girl who had said no to their bar hopping invite just last week. It was definitely surprising, but Oliver was now more determined than ever. If a fucking social reject like Gavey could get what he was after, then someone like himself was sure to have the same luck if he continued to put in the effort.

THE END

#Michael Gavey #Michael Gavey fic #ewanverse #writeblr #Michael Gavey fanfiction #fanfiction #I DID IT I FINISHED IT #*jeb bush voice* please clap #I WAS going to put smut in it but despite some excellent advice i still couldn't do it!#I need to practice more! i really want to write a good fuck one day!#curse my catholic upbringing ugrrrrhhhh #yes this is corny but have you taken into consideration the fact that I DO NOT CARE???#i live life on the cob baby #and if the only way to improve my writing is by embarrassing myself on this hellsite then so fucking BE IT

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inkperch · 2 months

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Bored, have my backstory headcanons for the Vees when they were alive:

Val:

-He was a nobody.

-Literally a nobody.

-If the internet had been around when he was alive, he'd be one of those guys who spend all their time on reddit and 4chan posting Incel vs Chad memes and not realising it's a self report-

-Instead he just. Seethed. At how nobody wanted him. Fantasised constantly at doing Canon Val Things but was too cowardly to do so when his victims could fight back.

-died from a random illness in his late thirties, his coworkers missed him for a few weeks but quietly whispered between themselves that yeah it's sad to see a guy die so young but there was always something off about him... (as bored gossips do)

-worked some dead end job, I don't know enough about the time frame he lives in to get me specific

Vox:

-used car salesman before it was cool

-wanted to be on tv

-spent most nights drinking himself into a stupor rambling about how he was gonna make it big one day, he knows it!

-scam artist on the side, good at fast talking you out of realising it but the quality of the scams was. Less than good. Even getting a customer completely and utterly on the hook he'd barely get a 20 out of them-

-auditioned for a lot of roles, got none of them, put the blame in all the wrong places instead of actually working to hone his genuine natural talent for the screen

-saw TV as an easy road to fame and money (regrets it in hell, regrets it so much in hell-)

-eventually tried to scam someone it was really, really stupid to scam. Got the cinderblocks and a river treatment

Vel:

-timid, shy, dorky art student

-if you got her talking she'd tell you for hours about the fashion sketches in her sketchbook

-if you really let her cook you'd hear the full history of the last century of fashion trends

-got bullied. A lot

-took out her frustrations by being an absolute nightmare online

--like. Canon Vel behaviour is the happy medium of the shit she was saying on anon and what she'd dare say in person-

-probably doxxed at least one person over fandom beef she wasn't even involved in

-got hit by a speeding car, driver was never caught

-isn't actually all that happy about being an influencer, but hey, it's hell, people clap when she tells someone to die in a hole-

#the vees #valentino #hazbin velvette #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel

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genericpuff · 1 year

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lmao so RS just confirmed she STILL does not, in fact, have a buffer.

FAST PASS SPOILERS AHEAD

To kick this off, let's be real, 2 weeks is NOT enough time to build up a reasonable buffer.

When she took that 2 week break after the wedding episode went up, I knew 1 of 2 things was going to happen:

She was going to piss away the entire break on social media not getting anything done

Even if she DID get anything done and a reasonable buffer of more than 3-5 episodes built up, the episodes likely wouldn't be very high quality as you can't turn out shitloads of decent quality panels like that in just 2 weeks.

I think Rachel really just needs to acknowledge and take ownership of the fact that she is not good at managing herself, her time, or her team. When she started LO in the Originals section, she even admitted to not having a very strong buffer.

Now yes, in her defense, she hadn't fully transitioned to drawing LO full time when she started, but even still, she seems to treat her FastPass episodes as her buffer rather than creating an actual buffer.

A buffer is not "well I still have 3 episodes locked to the general public" or "I have the next couple episodes sketched up".

A proper buffer is "I have the next several episodes finished and exported and ready for their respective release dates." This ensures that they aren't racing to meet deadlines during the release period after pre-production (which is a surefire way to screw yourself over or write yourself into a corner) and that if anything happens in real life that prevents them from working on future episodes, they can still put out new episodes because they have a cushion of episodes still waiting to be released. Webtoons typically recommends its creators have anywhere from 9-15 episodes of buffer ready by the end of the pre-production phase. That usually means 3 free episodes, 3 FastPass episodes, and at minimum, 9 more episodes sitting on the backend, adding up to a minimum of 15 episodes. It sounds like a lot, but when many WT series run for 40+ episodes per season, 15 is a small number. Especially for a comic like LO which had 90 episodes in its S2 run and 116 in its first season. S3 of LO is already 37 episodes in.

She's also basically admitted to just writing as she goes in the past because most people working on their webtoons in productions like these have at least a decent skeleton of a story going on that they don't have to write as they draw. Writer's block doesn't happen in webcomics unless you're writing as you're going, same as how it doesn't typically happen in animated movies because you should already have a basis to work off of before you start the brunt of the visual work that needs a narrative structure to exist.

Now, all that aside, the reason I'm bringing this up again (as I've talked about her buffer range before) is because I've once again been proven that Rachel doesn't have a shred of a real buffer.

And the smoking gun this time was the horse.

This stupid fucking horse.

Now, besides the fact that we're a little sus this is meant to be an in-comic jab at all the criticism of LO pointing out how Persephone always looks like an MLP character-

-but that pony toy drawing didn't make its first appearance in Episode 241, it made its first appearance on Instagram. Not as a preview for episode 241 or as an official LO drawing, in her own words, 'just a pony'.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Rachel Smythe (@usedbandaid)

instagram

As always, this is still just an estimation based on what goes out in LO and what Rachel posts to her IG/Twitter, but this pretty much tells me her buffer is STILL only 1-2 weeks ahead of time, because that pony drawing time lapse was posted two weeks ago. When we checked the actual timestamp of the post the day the episode it showed up in went up (Episode 241) it was ten days old.

Not to mention, the timestamps on those reddit posts? A month old. Granted, we had been making MLP jokes in the ULO/antiLO community prior to that, but the fact that this "my pretty pony" gimmick came out so soon after someone did literal art of Persephone crossed over with MLP, it really just furthers the suspicion (in addition to shitloads of other instances) that Rachel is snooping in on these crit communities to try and "clap back" at them through her comic. Which is something she'd only be able to do with a limited buffer anyways as it allows her to change things on the fly in response to criticism or whatever hurt her feelings that week.

That said, I won't be certain of this 1-2 week buffer estimation until we see when cowboy hat Hades shows up.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Rachel Smythe (@usedbandaid)

instagram

I'm calling it now - it will be showing up in this week's episode which goes up April 22nd.

Place your bets, folks.

#lore olympus critical #lo critical #anti lore olympus #antiloreolympus #essay post #unpopularLO #unpopularloreolympus

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painted-bees · 5 months

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"Lacey and Raf brought out the worst in each other" you mention that they snarked about other people and each other. The sketch of them give bad vibes. Was Raf kind of a dick before he met Lacey? Or did he just act like a dick to impress her?

Hm lmao

Before meeting his Uncle, and before his diagnosis, Raf maintained a very...pessimistic opinion of people, and read a lot of negative things into people's behaviors and words. Largely informed by his experiences throughout his childhood. Typically, he kept his thoughts to himself, unless something really triggered a defensive outburst. He didn't engage in gossip out of fear that it'd be used against him. He believed that he ought to be nice/kind to people--for the sake of appearances, to avoid being talked about behind his back, to win trust, and because he would have liked someone to exercise kindness with him. But he himself could (and often would) find a personal slight against him in anything anyone did around him. And he'd keep track of it for himself. It was a score he tallied only for his own reference, and would affect how he interacted with people.

To anyone who knew him better than an acquaintance (which was to say--not many), undiagnosed Raf was a very quiet, very mercurial sort who could occassionally grow very upset, very suddenly, over seemingly nothing at all. To anyone else, he was a charming glad hander who could work and room and was very entertaining to be around, unless he Didn't Like You. In which case, he'd quietly, subtlely shoulder you out of his life, usually via passive aggressive means.

Then he moved to Vancouver, met his Uncle Bill, realized there was something really very wrong with himself, and reluctantly got his formal diagnosis. Around the same time he was diagnosed, he started dating Lacey.

Him and Lacey got on real fast, largely because Lacey seemed to get him. She had come from similar hardships regarding exploitative, controlling parents, and had bucked against them at a much earlier age. She agreed with Raf that everyone was just out to get their pound of flesh from everyone else, and knowing that--made people exhausting to deal with. The two of them bonded over their similar traumatic experiences and their shared bitter outlooks...and they began finding small validation in sharing their thoughts and observations with each other about the world around them--the thoughts and observations that were mean and cruel, that they had kept to themselves up until they found each other. Thoughts and observations that were often based on vibes and gut feelings more than anything that was actually observable. And they'd agree with eachother's negative verdicts and poor opinions, because it felt good.

But--being with someone who tells you just how poorly they think of everyone else...quickly gets you wondering if they think poorly of you, too. Or, at the very least, it makes you want to ensure that you never do anything to win their negative judgment. Avoiding anything that they deem as stupid or tacky or embarrassing, and so forth.

Anyways, therapy ends up being pretty good for Raf, and over the course of two years, he does start curbing these behaviors and monitoring his thoughts more strictly. And as he does this more and more, Lacey finds him more and more annoying to navigate. Raf begins to take on a more mediating voice when it comes to indulging critical/snarky observations and remarks, and Lacey begins to feel like he's kinda turning on her and growing weird and distant. That, as well as a handful of other things, gets them fighting a lot more...and more passionately. They've always had pretty bombastic yelling matches from time to time, but it becomes a near daily occurrence during the final year of their relationship. By the time they break up, Raf has already decided on the kind of person he wants to be, that he doesn't want his PD to be his personality and has been making steady strides towards that goal.

So to answer your question, I am not really sure! He's mentally ill and has been doing his best this whole time.

For that matter, so is she. But Lace wouldn't receive her diagnosis of BPD until finally seeking therapy to deal with the aftermath of her bitterly traumatic relationship with Raf.

#hi-note #Rafael

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chainmailchalamet · 9 months

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Run Rabbit, Run (Dark! Eddie Munson 🍒🪽) Pt. 4

tags: roommates to lovers, modern!metalhead!eddie munson(maybe not a complete face match to ST!Eddie, but his look is up to your imagination), predator/prey dynamic , a lil degradation, impact, knife play, jealousy, possessive behavior + language, dacryphilia, kind of fucked up intense dirty talk, face slapping, choking, morallygrey!eddie, they may or may not be completely human (also up to interpretation), and as usual always!black always!non-binary POV 🌟🍒

the least eddie could do, he thinks, is be sweet about it.

vulnerable as you are, fresh out of a relationship with someone who didn’t deserve to have your love, your patience, your back to stab, your heart to mishandle. brave little thing, you’d left him, left behind the home you’d built together, the home you built for him. the wound was still fresh, eddie knew. you spoke about it sparingly at first, in watery tones. tried to be tough about it, keep your voice strong, give off an air of nonchalance when you spoke about the ex. he was cheating on me, which is just so original. she’s more his type, i think. blonder hair, lighter skin, cis girl, you know…guess he was done experimenting.

stupid, stupid boy, eddie thought. he didn’t need to see the ex to know that you were too much for him. to bright, too sharp, too good. you’d cooked for him, kept his home, made his friends your family, shrunk yourself down to almost nothing. could barely talk about your own accomplishments without that unsure glint in your eyes, like you weren’t sure you were allowed to take up so much space. he’d watch you at your work table, making magic, cutting and measuring and sewing — putting together intricately constructed jackets and corsets in the span of a few days, face scrunched up in concentration as you sketched up new designs, fingers smeared with oil pastel.

you’d feel his eyes, look up and smile all shy, what are you lookin’ at, eddie? and his heart would lurch in his chest. he felt like he could drown in you, in your soft voice, the slope of your nose, the little gap between your front teeth, your baby hairs curling soft and wild when your braids settled in. your deep brown skin, the gold hoops in your ears, your pretty eyelashes, your strong arms.

the way you would swing your hips to reggaeton while you cooked, insisting he just sit in the living room and read, c’mon eds, you always cook, just lemme make you something, just this one time.

he liked to feed you, loved the look on your face when you tasted something good (eyes rolling closed, tongue darting over your bottom lip to catch a rogue bit of food, the soft little sigh of pleasure. god it drove him crazy, had him digging his fingers into his thighs so he didn’t reach out and touch, just this once).

he loved the way you put up a fight too, the way you put your foot down and crossed your arms and pouted up at him all stern. made him feel warm, made him tease you, yeah, darlin’, you gonna take care of me? not even gonna let me help you prep? because he knew you weren’t as good with a knife as he was. but you held fast, pointed to the couch and said sit your ass down, munson, lemme show you how it’s done.

you made him feel wild. made his mouth water just at the sight of you with your hair pulled up while you cooked, the scrunch between your eyes while you read a book splayed out on the carpet, bathed in the warm flicker of the fireplace. looked so pretty he wanted to shuffle up behind you, keep you pinned to the carpet with a hand on the small of your back, grind you into the fluff, cup you by your neck and kiss you wet and dirty from behind, swallowing up every little noise.

wanted to bend you over the counter, spread your legs and devour you. loved you sleepy and sweet in the morning, mumbling scuse me, ‘ddie, when you walked past each other on the way to the bathroom. loved to lay in your bed surrounded by stuffed toys, sheets smelling like you and making his head swim, drowning in the scent of laundry detergent and strawberries. loved you dressed down before bed in an oversized tee, big dorky glasses perched on your nose because they helped you sew (you sure they’re just for sewing, darlin’? he’d tease, giggling and ducking when you told him to shut the fuck up, eddie and tossed a pusheen plush at his head. cuz you were squinting all the way through practical magic last night, and the laptop was right in front of you, don’t think i didn’t see that shit.), loved the way you let him in, made space for him.

he was wild for you, fucking feral for every drop of your attention. he wanted you in his bed, wanted to wrap himself around you and keep you warm while you slept. wanted to kiss you first thing in the morning, lick the sleep right out of your mouth, take you apart slow. you made his mouth go dry, every last bit of you made to fit in his hands, in his mouth. he’d touch himself to the thought of your nipples poking through your shirt. bet they’re sensitive, he thought. bet they’d cry if i licked them there, used my teeth, roughed them up a little bit.

he stripped his dick damn near raw imagining the taste of you, laying you on your back, spreading you wide and dragging his tongue through your pussy, making you watch. making you cry, licking the tears from your cheeks, fucking you deep, holding your hand over your stomach and pressing down. he’d wrap his fingers round your throat (bet you’d wear him so pretty, bet your eyes would roll right back into your fucking head when he squeezed hard), croon filth in your ear, get you worked up and squirming. right there, sweetheart, you feel me? tell me, c’mon? feels good? mm, i bet it does.

the way you looked at him sometimes, it took everything in him to keep his cool, to lay across from you in your bed at night while you ran your fingers through his hair and breathed you make me feel so safe, eddie. to not press a kiss to your pouty mouth, bite at your lips until they went cherry red, taste you. he wanted so much.

but he wanted to do it right. wanted to treat you so good that you’d feel it, know that no one could give you what he could give you. no one could even come close to making you feel as good. he needed you to know that. didn’t want you to feel used, to feel backed into a corner. needed you to come to him, to say i want this eddie, need this, need you. he promised himself that when you let him have you, he’d be so good, so, so sweet. he’d take his time, make you feel so good, give and give and give until you couldn’t take it anymore. he promised himself, swore it. he’d be sweet, so so sweet.

and then you put your hands in his hair and pressed your body against him, and he felt just how soft your skin was underneath the gauzy fabric you wrapped yourself up in, just how easily you gave underneath his hands. you ran your teeth across his skin, gave him your neck to bite, whispered in his ear. what will you do to me, eddie? what first?, mewled like a cat in heat when he told you. when he said he’d take a knife to you, that he’d spit in your mouth, hold you down, play with you. you moaned in his ears like a needy little slut, pulled him in closer, whined take me home eddie take me home and fuck me and feed me and don’t let me out of your bed, eddie. you better make it hard to leave your bed, eddie. demanded it, like the mouthy little brat he knew you could be, like a goddamn dream.

and well. when you said it like that, demanded it, even. he really had no choice but to give it to you.

#eddie munson #dark!eddie munson #dom eddie munson #eddie x y/n #eddie x reader #eddie x black!reader #black!y/n #black!oc #eddie stranger things #eddie munson smut #eddie munson blurb

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lemissingmask · 7 months

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[ID: Partially coloured sketch of part of an old building, with an old wooden door and low wall showing, and some red flowers on the left side of the image. The low wall has a crudely drawn block image of a wolf with a bushy tail and fangs and breathing fire. End ID]

Day 19: Taken for granted

The Leverage crew take for granted the story of someone who flees into the brewpub for protection, and suffer the consequences.

Ficlet below the cut, which hopefully explains the obscure art.

It had been a mistake, a stupid failure in their personal security, and one that Hardison would never forgive himself for if they failed to get Eliot back.

Checking out the clients, verifying their stories and their backgrounds, that was his job. He was the only one with the skills to do it.

And he did. He usually always did.

But this time, he had not.

At least not until it was too late.

He took for granted that the terrified woman who had fled into the brewpub to hide from her two pursuers was legit. Hell, there had been two suits - former marines according to some distinctive feature Eliot picked out - lurking outside the building waiting for her.

Eliot had dealt with the muscle without the least difficulty, and then they had all listened to her story.

She told the leverage crew that she had been on her way to meet with her lawyer, who was helping her take down her former boss for money laundering, when she found the two men to be following her.

She gave them a background on her boss, how she found out about the criminal activity, and how since then she had been fired, harassed and had her car broken into.

So they took her on as a client, and Eliot drove her to a safehouse while Parker and Hardison got started on the case.

They had only just finished and wrapped up their last one, they were all on the tired side, but they could hardly do nothing when this woman needed help.

Except she didn’t.

The boss existed but she had never worked for him. He ran the company she claimed to have been employed by, but neither the financial situation of the company nor the boss was good enough to imply any sort of money laundering activity. What’s more, there was no digital trail to suggest any payments from that boss or anyone or anything linked to him to imply that he had hired professional muscle.

It wasn’t definitive, but something didn’t feel right, so then, and only then, Hardison got around to looking into their client.

Her background looked believable on the surface but one layer down it fell apart.

Profiles on social media built within the last month and backdated to make them seem older, no digital trail for her existence. No bank accounts, no SSN, no credit history.

And then facial recognition said her name was not Lucy, but Mary. And Sophia. And Clarissa, Diana, Francesca…

“She’s a grifter?!” Parker looked up at the screens where Hardison had the salient information projected, “Why? What does she want?”

“Maybe she heard of us and is auditioning?” Hardison suggested, not believing that idea for a second, “Eliot, you catch that?”

Silence over the comms.

Hardison pulled up their comm feeds. Working fine, Eliot’s was still on, sending system updates and pings.

“Eliot?” Parker asked, her comm showing the sound waves.

Eliot’s remained nothing more than base level of noise.

“Where is he?”

Hardison accessed the gps, “Safe house.”

Parker frowned, “Eliot! You copy us?”

“Maybe he and Lucy or whatever her name is are…”

“No,” Parker glared at the fake IDs on the screen, “Eliot wouldn’t do that. He still gets angry with himself for taking his comms out once before.”

More than once, to Hardison’s count, but it was true, not since the incident with the music producer and Nate having no backup.

She gave those IDs one more, lingering glare, and straightened, “I’ll drive.”

For once Hardison didn’t object. If something was wrong, even just potentially wrong, they needed to get to that safehouse and to Eliot as fast as they could, which meant Parker driving Lucille..

Hardison kept his laptop open in the passenger seat, checking the gps signal and keeping up attempts to reach Eliot by phone or comms. He and laptop only slammed into the window about four or five times in fifteen minute drive, which was pretty good he thought.

Not that there was time to feel proud.

Eliot’s Challenger was in the drive out front, parked normally. Nothing odd or hurried or wrong there.

Inside the house itself things were similarly apparently fine.

Alarms correctly disabled, mechanical locks unbroken, no sign of a struggle. In fact nothing out of place other than the two cups of coffee unfinished on the kitchen counter, and beside one of them Eliot’s phone and earbud, both in tact and still switched on. Alongside them lay the necklace Eliot almost never removed.

Hardison slipped that into his pocket and picked up the phone.

“I’m gonna search the house.”

Hardison turned quickly from the counter to Parker, putting the phone back down and immediately abandoning his plans to check through it, “Not alone you’re not.”

Whoever got the jump on Eliot - something nearly impossible on its own - could still be there, not expecting them to realise the grift so quickly, or maybe waiting for them in a trap that this could very easily be.

The house was empty and undisturbed. No trap but also no Eliot.

Traffic cams. Find the cars that could have left that area in the window between them arriving and their last contact with Eliot. Trace each identified car through the network of cameras, run each plate, look for something that seemed to be a lead.

Parker was still driving Lucille as Hardison initiated this search.

On top of Eliot going missing, someone luring him from the brewpub meant it was burned. Someone who had bad intentions for at least one of them now knew their base of operations. Before they could do anything further, they needed to head back and get everything essential or sensitive and get it into Lucille. They’d have to go on the road for a while, move to one of the safe houses, and operate from there until they had a handle on this fresh disaster.

They could do that while Hardison’s codes ran, scouring traffic cams and DVLA databases and cross-referencing with everyone - all the aliases of those people - who had ever or might ever have a grudge against Leverage.

Luckily, they did have a clear protocol for moments like this, and they had a specific plan for the brewpub, which served as a place of employment for a few dozen people as well as their base.

They dealt with the Leverage part of things - data, files, emergency funds, possessions of personal value - then told the employees to take two weeks paid leave starting when the last customers there already had gone. After two weeks, they would evaluate the safety of keeping the pub open, or even of returning to Portland, but whatever they did, the staff would not be collateral damage.

By the time the two of them had finished these tasks and returned to Lucille, Parker starting back out in the direction of the safe house where Eliot had been lost, Hardison’s codes had produced some usable data, and even more usable intelligence.

The data, lists of car registrations and their owners, was essentially useless, until cross-referenced against aliases they knew, which picked out one belonging to their recent grifter. Tracking that car through the cameras led to either an airfield or an industrial complex.

Hardison immediately started looking into who owned or rented property at the industrial site, and what flights had left the airfield within the window of Eliot’s disappearance.

There was a Dean Chesney who rented a warehouse in the industrial area, but obviously not the same Dean Chesney they had wrangled with since that guy had been dead some years now. There was a supervisor elsewhere in the district whose surname was Doyle, who couldn’t be utterly discounted as a relative of the Doyle who they had conned, but even if it was the same person, luring and kidnapping the hitter was not his style.

The airfield showed one flight landing, two leaving, in the time window they had approximated. The departures were, respectively, to Malta and Cyprus.

Hardison’s hope dwindled as he looked at the names of the people who owned the planes and their known associates, not a single one coming up as any likely enemy of them or of Eliot specifically.

But then he looked at the photo IDs.

And, now it all made horrifying, sickening sense.

“Damien Moreau?!” Parker was pacing back and forth in front of the comparatively small screen in their safehouse, “He escaped San Lorenzo and we didn’t know about it?!”

Hardison shook his head, looking from her back to his screen, “I’m contacting Eliot’s friend there now. If he knew, he would have told Eliot.”

“And Eliot would have told us,” Parker paused for a moment, pursing her lips, then resumed the pacing, “We need to warn Nate and Sophie. If Moreau wants revenge…”

“I’ll send an encrypted message, tell they to lay low, be cautious, but,” he looked back up, “If I tell them it’s Moreau and he’s taken Eliot…”

“They’ll want to get involved.”

They lapsed into silence, Hardison working on both the lines of contact, Parker pacing in her anxiety and frustration.

Moreau had to want revenge. It made sense. They had ruined him, got him locked up in some hole of a prison, and put him on the most-wanted list for some of the most powerful governments.

So, at least he probably wasn’t going to just kill Eliot…they had time to rescue him…

“What do we know about this alias?” Parker asked, appearing over his shoulder just as the messages both disappeared to their destined inboxes.

Hardison pulled up the information he had obtained but thus far only glanced briefly at, “Not much. The digital trail only goes back about a year, but it starts, pretty much, with one very big payment into a bank based in Bermuda from a…”

He dug a bit deeper into the source of the money, a company that didn’t really exist in any proper sense, set up just to make that payment, and set up by one of the very powerful billionaires who Moreau had once worked with.

Maybe he blackmailed his way out and back into a fortune.

“Looks like from someone he used to do business with,” Hardison shrugged, “He also paid a large part of it straight back out to a law firm, with another two payments over the following year.”

“So he got himself a lawyer?” Parker frowned, “A lawyer good enough to get him released from San Lorenzo under a new name and with a lovely big cheque waiting for him on the other side?”

“Maybe,” Hardison carried on searching, an activity fairly routine for him by now, “We gotta figure out where he took Eliot.”

“And how to get Eliot back. Moreau’s security is going to be tight, even if he’s lost most of his money and influence…the flight went to Cyprus, right?”

“Yeah,” Hardison was about to continue his answer when he saw an email from General Flores, which he quickly read before related to Parker, “Flores knew nothing about Moreau’s release. None of the government did…it was done on the whisper. And I mean, the serious whisper…someone with a lot of money or power had to have orchestrated it…”

“And we can dig into that later,” Parker said firmly, “First we have to get Eliot back.”

Hardison couldn’t agree more, “Two tickets to Cyprus, coming right up.”

Cyprus. Over twenty hours total of travelling, only about five of which allowed any sort of digital investigation into where Moreau was, what his security was like, and who had managed to get him released without anyone knowing. They had enough information for Parker to be rotating possible plans in her mind during the flight, much of which was spent looking absently out the window at the wing of the plane, and during which neither of them slept at all.

It was impossible not to think about what Moreau would do to Eliot, and the myriad dark thoughts that crossed Hardison’s mind made him really wished he had watched fewer horror films.

The guy had earned his reputation among the criminal community. He was ruthless and people did not cross him. Until Leverage had, and now they were paying for it.

By the time they reached Cyprus, they had three likely locations where Eliot would have been taken, approximate security profiles for two of them, and maybe half a formed Plan A for getting their hitter back.

This had become three complete security profiles and a hierarchy of probabilities for the locations, as well as vague Plans A-S (skipping M), by the time they reached the town in Pafos where Moreau had at least one property.

It was early morning when they reached the town, the old streets nearly devoid of human life, making the slow approach towards Moreau’s property feel almost dreamlike as the small rental car moved through the pale, thin light. They expected to see some sort of security outside the building, but as they approached closer on foot, they saw nothing. Some lights on inside, but no people or movement other than the gentle rustling of the oleander plants scattered around the exterior.

It was quiet, peaceful, calm.

Hardison jumped, almost screamed, at the suddenly hard nudge Parker gave him. But he managed to keep quiet, and turned, seeing where she was pointing.

On a low wall at the far side of the building from them, in thick, black paint, there was a sort of stick-figure wolf with a bushy tail and that seemed to be breathing fire. The paint had dripped in places, and in others, over the pale bricks, it seemed to have either faded or deeper into the porous rock. Not enough to obscure the image, however.

“Eliot signal?” Parker mouthed, hope blossoming in her eyes.

Hardison swallowed.

Maybe.

Moreau wouldn’t know anything about that, and it couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.

“Stay here,” Parker whispered into his ear, and began to make her way towards the signal, but Hardison quickly caught her arm and pointed to a camera camouflaged with the building's wall.

"Can you disable them?"

"I'm working on it..." he carried out the same procedure he had thousands of times before, assessing the cameras, working out if and how to get into them - loop the feed. Just needed to record a few seconds. Enough for Parker to get past unseen. There were five exterior cameras...except they were all showing static on his phone screen, already disabled. The same for the interior cameras.

"Someone beat us to it," Hardison looked back at Parker nervously. It had to have been Eliot, and that was a good thing, but then why did he feel so uneasy.

"I'm going," she whispered, "Stay here."

Cameras were out, but there might still be patrols, people inside, even though it was still very early and hopefully they were asleep.

Hardison watched Parker until she disappeared around the corner of the building, and he was left alone to wait in that eerily peaceful silence. He kept his phone out, watching the camera feeds and looking into what he could access of other systems inside.

The feeds never deviated from the static, and there didn't seem to be anything else with an operating system inside to attack, other than a few smartphones. But Moreau hadn't exactly been a high-tech bad guy. More of an old-school, send goons in the night to assassinate his enemies bad guy.

Hardison grimaced at that thought.

Eliot had once been one of those goons.

“Hardison!”

The hissed name over comms nearly made him jump, breaking his train of thought.

“I’ve found Eliot,” Parker whispered, “He’s unconscious and he's not waking up. His leg's shot and his feet are all messed up, and he…he looks really bad...should I taser him?”

"What?!"

"To wake him up!"

"No, Parker. Don't taser him," Hardison replied very extra care to be very clear, then added, “You see any guards anywhere?”

“No. You're clear. It's totally quiet. Just stay low and avoid the windows."

Hardison took a deep breath and followed Parker’s path along the side of the building, round the corner, and into a yard that overlooked the ocean.

The two were a lot closer than Hardison expected, in a small half-covered alcove at the back of the yard.

Eliot was sitting up, leaning back against the stone wall with Parker beside him. His left leg was bloody, a tourniquet tied not far above his knee, and the soles of his bare feet were, as Parker had said, pretty messed up. Bloody and red and bruised. His right hand, unmoving on his lap, was obviously broken, and two bands of deep bruising crossed his exposed torso, stark against his too pale skin.

Matching bruises over his arms and wrists suggested some sort of restraint strong enough to have bruised the skin. Maybe fractured the bone beneath. Maybe internal injuries…

Hardison swallowed back his nausea, burying the worst case scenarios running through his brain.

Eliot had escaped far enough to get here and to leave them a signal, so he had to be okay-ish. Nothing acutely urgent...maybe it was blood loss or dehydration or hypothermia...he did look very pale and his lips maybe a touch blue. Moreau probably hadn't been exactly generous with food or drink, so it might be something as simple as that.

“Okay,” Hardison took a slow, steadying breath as he felt Eliot's thready pulse, “Parker, go ahead and let me know if anyone’s in the windows. I’ll carry him. We get him to the car, get some supplies, and get outta here.”

She nodded and hopped to her feet, running ahead. Hardison carefully slipped his arms under Eliot and stood, gritting his teeth as his legs and back protested him standing with the added weight.

The first few metres were fine, but with all the stopping and starting while Parker checked the way was clear, Hardison’s legs and arms were burning by the time he reached the car. He didn’t have time to deal with it though. They needed to get the hell out of here.

With minimal discussion, they arranged themselves so Parker drove and Hardison sat up across the back seats, Eliot propped up against him, hopefully absorbing some of his body heat. As much as Parker driving was not the best thing for someone with severe injuries, this was the way it had to be for when they stopped at a pharmacy.

It was still too early for anything to be open, so Hardison disabled the alarm and camera remotely, while Parker broke into the first pharmacy they found with no one nearby.

“Grab sterile gauze, bandages, disinfectant, painkillers…electrolyte replenishing stuff…if they’ve got one an emergency blanket.”

“The shiny one?”

“Yeah.”

“Got it.”

A few minutes later she reappeared, a lollipop in her mouth, and shoved the supplies into the car, ripping open the blanket and tossing it at Hardison while he rearmed the alarm and cameras to hide the break in as much as possible.

They really needed to not leave any sort of trail behind them.

While Parker kept driving, heading towards the next district, Hardison wrapped the blanket over Eliot. He should try to make him drink something, but doing that while he was unconscious would probably just make him choke.

Just as Hardison was mentally running through all the first aid Eliot had taught them, he felt the man in his arms shift slightly.

Then he fell motionless again.

Hardison squeezed him very lightly, "El? Eliot?"

Eliot moved again, making a soft, almost pained, sound.

"Parker! Parker, pull over."

She did with a little more abruptness than Hardison had hoped for, but then he had sounded pretty urgent. Urgent enough that she looked outright terrified when she opened the door to the back seats.

But then she broke into a smile.

"Eliot!"

"Hey," he rasped, voice heavy and rough.

Parker hopped into the back with them as Eliot tried to sit up, helping him to shift to rest against the back of a seat rather than Hardison. Able to see him better now, Eliot looked just as awful as back at Moreau's place. Maybe a bit more colour to his cheeks, but that was it.

"You okay, man?"

Eliot glared tiredly. He never liked that question.

"You were very unconscious."

"Drugged," he replied, and now his groggy state made more sense, "Moreau was gettin' ready to transport me somewhere else. Got out before it took effect."

Got out, but not fully away.

He must have had just enough time to escape before whatever sedative or paralytic or cocktail it was got to him. Enough time to escape and leave a signal for them to find.

"Here," Hardison twisted the top off a bottle of isotonic flavoured water from the pharmacy and passed it over, "You got it?"

This last as Eliot's hand shook when he took the bottle. But the hitter just nodded tiredly and drank steadily. Three long gulps, and he passed it back.

"Thanks."

"We liked the Eliot signal," Parker smiled up from her new position sitting comfortably in the footwell where no adult human should be able to sit comfortably.

"How'd you know we'd be there?" Hardison asked, "I mean, what if someone else found your graffiti or it washed away?"

"Moreau was keepin' tabs on you. Heard 'im say somethin' 'bout a plane arrivin' from Oregon. Figured you'd find the place soon enough."

"Speaking of, we should probably get going before Moreau comes after us..."

"Moreau ain't gonna be a problem anymore."

They both looked sharply at him. And then looked away, Hardison first, then Parker, realising the blunder in their evident alarm.

Eliot hadn't missed their reactions, but he spoke on as if he had been entirely unaware, "Should call cops an' get 'em to that place.”

“Do you think his men will try to follow us?” Parker asked.

Eliot began to reply, but he broke off. He shut his eyes, jaw clenching, and took an unsteady breath. Whatever Moreau had drugged him with was strong.

“Don’ know. Maybe. They might try to score an easy bounty or somethin’,” he paused again, and Hardison could see him shaking slightly under the blanket, “With cops on ‘em they’ll hafta lay low. Less likely to chase us.”

Hardison nodded, watching as Eliot continued to struggle against some pain or exhaustion or whatever it was, "Yeah. Yeah, I'll get on that now. Cops to Moreau's place...but we should get going. Stop at a hotel...you look pretty bad, El."

Eliot half-glared, half-frowned, caught between confusion and irritation, like he was attempting his usual grumpy but the lingering effects of the drug were getting in the way.

If it wasn’t for the fact that Eliot did, really, look damn awful, it would have been adorable. Hardison almost smiled as he turned his focus to his phone to make the call.

As Parker drove, Hardison kept a close eye on Eliot, who slowly drank his way through the electrolyte drink. More than twice, he seemed to almost slip back into unconsciousness or sleep, but he was obviously trying to fight it.

Hardison had got pretty good at knowing when Eliot wanted to talk, when he wanted just to listen, and when he wanted only silence. Now he wanted silence, and Hardison and Parker gave it to him.

Twenty minute to drive to the nearest fancy hotel, where Parker helped Eliot sneak in while Hardison checked him and Parker in under their aliases.

Then over an hour while Eliot cleaned and patched up his injuries, Parker and Hardison helping where he couldn’t manage with his left hand alone or when his strength started to slip.

They had to help with the extraction of a bullet from his shin, which was particularly gory and made Hardison very glad of Parker’s dexterity and not being bothered by blood, with getting some splinters of wood out of the cuts on his feet. Cleaned up, those didn’t look as bad as before. There were numerous narrow gashes and a lot of bruising, but nothing was too deep. It still looked horrible and was probably really painful. But it wasn’t damage to the extent Hardison had feared.

But by the end of their makeshift medical activities, and after a bath during which Eliot submitted to allowing them both to help, their hitter looked more like himself again. Worn out and subdued in the way he usually was after especially rough fights or bad injuries, but no worse than they had seen him before.

And he was behaving more like himself too, with the effects of the drug wearing off. It did away with the unease that Eliot's remark about Moreau had set upon them. Even after all this time, Hardison could never fully reconcile the Eliot he knew with the Eliot who killed people, and that moment had been the closest the two had ever come to meeting.

But now, their Eliot sat on the plush couch of their hotel suite, bandaged feet resting on a cushion on the coffee table, with Parker pressed close on one side, munching on a sweet pastry she had stolen from the hotel restaurant. Hardison was a little way off, making use of the small desk to work on bolstering their cover.

He had just posted a couple of photos to the social media of his alias to help their covers.

“Parker and I are here on holiday," he said, finishing a Tweet and looking up, "Eliot I’ve got you an alias set up for when we head back. How long do you need before you fly?”

“Couple of days.”

“We should stay at least a week to keep our covers good,” Parker pointed out, “A few days vacation is gonna look odd.”

“Two weeks?” Hardison suggested, “That’ll give me time to start sorting out a new base.”

Eliot frowned, “New base?”

“Portland’s blown. Moreau knew where to find us. No way to tell who else might know.”

The hitter looked away, letting out a frustrated breath.

“What we gonna do with the brewpub?”

“I’ll sell it. Make sure the employees are kept on or get compensation…we still need to move some things, clear out, but…”

“Can we set up our new base in Pennsylvania?” Parker interrupted excitedly.

Hardison frowned, and Eliot supplied the answer, “It’s the state that produces the most chocolate.”

“I was thinking Florida.”

Parker pouted, “Doesn’t Florida pollen make you cry?”

“Yeah man,” Eliot smiled teasingly, reassuringly like himself, “Can’t have you cryin’ your way through our jobs.”

Hardison rolled his eyes and moved over to join them, bringing his laptop and prepared to launch into the inevitably long debate over where they should move next. They had two weeks here, so they had time to discuss it in depth. Maybe enough time to go see some sights, do some touristy things, or just binge watch some classic TV and movies in the hotel.

#ailesswhumptober2023 #Day 19: Taken for granted #leverage #alec hardison #parker #eliot spencer #damien moreau #cw implied torture #cw blood mention

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imhereformr · 5 months

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can u do the getting the other to dance with them one for musa and riven

The Solarian ballroom was huge. Huge and ornate. Musa didn’t think she’d ever set foot in a room so grand. Then again, the most grandiose room she’d seen in her entire life was the Alfea ballroom and, while it was nice, it wasn’t exactly what one would call opulent. Alfea’s ballroom, while very pretty, was very plain. Solaria’s ballroom, on the other hand, was all gold and mirrors and draping. It was beautiful, and large and long, making Alfea’s ballroom feel like a broom closet compared to it.

The party itself was quite the affair too. The guests were dressed to impress and, if the guest of honour hadn’t been Stella, they very well may have outdone the princess. The food was probably the best Musa had ever tasted and the drinks were prepared with such spectacular flair that they were their own show. Entertainment hid in every corner; there was a sketch artist, a sun dancer, living topiary, aerial silks and many others Musa was sure she hadn’t come across yet.

Musa’s favourite was the band. Predictable, simple and classic, but they were truly something else. They played in perfect harmony with one another and the crowd, always seeming to know which song would bring the most people to the dance floor. The floor hadn’t been empty for a single song since the party had started. Upbeat songs brought out the hordes of dancing guests, and the slow ones all the lovers.

All except hers.

Riven, Timmy and Helia had had engine troubles, but they ended up making it just in time for Stella to make her grand entrance. The whole situation that had followed was... awkward to say the least, but Stella was determined to enjoy her ball and not let her father’s news ruin her evening. Musa had thought that – after they’d confirmed that Stella wasn’t going to throw herself out of the top level of the aviary – she and Riven would spend the night dancing to every slow song like they had at the end of year dance, but they’d barely even interacted.

Not for lack of trying either, she’d broken off from dancing with Aisha (and sometimes the other girls) to go see him, but he and Timmy were so deep into their conversation that he barely noticed she’d come around. Or if he did, he gave no visible sign of it.

“Girl, just go ask him to dance” Aisha sighed as Musa stared over at the spot where Riven and Timmy were standing. Musa looked back at the Androsi princess, trying to pretend she hadn’t been caught being incredibly obviously distracted.

“Don’t even look at me like that” Aisha rolled her eyes. “I know very well that you’re staring at Riven and trying to figure out how to get him to notice you. That boy is emotionally constipated and stupid. He doesn’t know you want him to dance with you. So ask”

“But...”

“But fucking what? You like him, he likes you. You’re - I think – in a relationship with him.”

“He’s not paid the littlest bit of attention to me...”

“I find that very hard to believe. That boy is always staring at you.”

“No he’s not” Musa replied, taking Aisha’s hands as the fast song faded into a slow one. Guests coupled up and took to the floor, spinning circles around the two girls.

“Yeah, he is” Aisha insisted, looking behind the musical fairy to where their coupled friends had taken to the floor and waving the two closest ones over. “Flora, Helia, is Riven always staring at Musa?”

“Oh yeah, he can’t ever seem to take his eyes off you” The nature fairy replied almost immediately. “It’s very sweet.”

“He talks about you a lot too” Helia added before twirling Flora away from them. Musa could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. It quickly dissolved into confidence as she turned to look at Riven and caught him looking at her. He turned away, focusing his attention on Timmy and pretending he hadn’t been looking at her, but even from a dozen or so feet away she could see him turning red with embarrassment.

Musa flipped off Aisha and her see, I told you expression before waltzing over to the two boys. She took Riven’s hand, forcing his attention away from Timmy. “Dance with me.”

“Dance?” he asked uncertainly. His free hand came up to scratch the nape of his neck, stretching the suit jacket over his chest. He turned back towards Timmy, insisting that he couldn’t just drop the conversation, but the redheaded specialist was nowhere to be seen.

“Timmy seems fine with it” Musa chuckled, pulling Riven – her boyfriend, she reminded herself – towards the dance floor. She took his other hand in hers and slid herself closer to him, forcing him to sway along with her. He moved awkwardly with her and didn’t say much, but he was dancing with her.

“You look really nice” he whispered as the music faded out and the band started their next song. Mercifully, it was also a slow one.

Musa blushed furiously. Her instinct was to stare at the ground and hope he didn’t see her turning red, but she forced herself to look up at him. He smiled shyly and she returned it with a big, genuine smile. He liked her, she reminded herself; there was no need to be embarrassed by liking his attention. “You do too.”

“I feel like an idiot in this suit.”

“Well, that may be, but you look...” Musa stood back, never letting go of his hands, to look him over. She wasn’t sure where he’d gotten the suit (she was 99% sure he didn’t own it before this party), but it fit him like it was tailor-made for him. “Very nice.”

The slow song gave way to a faster one and they hadn’t done much but smile at each other like a bunch of idiots as they swayed. Riven seemed to freeze up at the frenzied beat so she allowed him to step off the dance floor. Musa thought that Aisha would be her dance partner for the rest of the night and tried to content herself with having had that one dance, but when the next slow song came on (and every other slow song after that), Riven was right there asking her to dance with him.

#dont let these oneshots convince you anything is going to come out faster #im just really bored at work and i need to seem like im doing something #writing allows me to be typing and that makes it seem like im working #winx club #winx #winx musa #winx riven #winx aisha #winx layla #set in season 3 #prompt #oneshot #fanfiction

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