Hi!! I love your writing it is always so enjoyable. Would you be open to writing a snippet about a hero with invisibility powers? Maybe the villain can see them because they leave a bloody trail? Just a thought. Have a great day!
There are many things they don’t tell you about bleeding out–they tell you exactly how much blood you can lose before you lose consciousness, they tell you how much you can lose and still come back from, how much you can lose and not come back from.
They don’t tell you, however, about the panic that comes with it. The panic the hero had thought they would be–not immune from, but–able to handle, by now. They had been hurt, before. They had been bleeding out, pressing against a gash in their side, waiting for the end of a fight. They had been slumped in the pouring rain waiting for an evac, hand pressed tight around their panic button, listening for the sound of a helicopter.
But the hero had never been so scared. Never been quite this bloody.
The vast amount of blood was uncomfortable, actually, spreading down the hero’s side, and they were leaving bloody smudges of handprints on the walls behind them, and there was sort of this awful disconnect as they did it because their power kept fritzing in and out as if it, too, was panicked, and occasionally they would look down to see through their hand directly onto the resulting bloody handprint on the wall. Which was, by all accounts, not great.
They would blame all of it on that later–any questionable choice? Panicked, and bleeding out, and now, bleeding out in the closet.
Hyperventilating, shoving a random mildly chlorine scented rag against their side, inside a closet. They weren’t stupid enough to hope for a rescue–not inside the villain’s base. They were going to have to wait, probably hours, before the henchmen who had spotted them let the alarm drop and they all assumed the hero had escaped. Then, maybe hero could–
A shadow stopped outside the door. A moment later, there was the tiniest thud as whoever it was, leaned a shoulder against the door. It felt, despite the fact the hero couldn’t see them and the world was beginning to blur just faintly around the edges, almost conversational.
“Hey, love,” the villain said through the door, easy-going. Like this was a run-in at the town's only coffee shop. The hero stared, feeling a little sick and maybe a little dumb, at the crusty green of the door.
The hero swallowed, the fabric of the shitty towel grinding harder into their palm.
“See, the thing about being invisible,” the villain continued, as if the hero had given any sort of acknowledgement to the original comment. “Is that it’s only you that’s invisible. Not your blood. Which, by the way, I think you have substantially less of in you than you should right now.”
“I think my blood volume is none of your business,” the hero managed after another, too long moment. They were slow with it–the banter, and they knew that both wasn’t good and also that it was something the villain was carefully cataloguing.
“Considering the majority of it is in my hallway? I think it is,” the villain corrected amicably. “But that can be forgiven. Who doesn’t love a good cleaning spree? What can’t be corrected is if you die in my closet, however. That would be rather distressing.”
“I’m not going to die in your closet,” the hero said, feeling somewhat petulant about it. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve got about, hmm,” the villain wagered, “ten minutes before you pass out. And I need you to know I’m being very generous with those ten minutes because I am respectful of your capabilities as both a vigilante and a stubborn little shit.”
“You’re a lair.”
“I’m an optimist,” the villain corrected, still lounging against the other side of the door. “And you’re bleeding out in my closet.”
The hero’s leg cramped, kicking out just barely, sending a broom clattering down the shelves and to the floor. The villain’s silence was judgmental.
“What exactly do you expect me to do about it,” the hero said, annoyed. A muscle tensed in their jaw, then untensed when their vision swam. “Tell my blood to knock it off?”
“I expect you to let me come in there and stop you from bleeding out, for one, and then you’re either going to let me drag you to my medbay and keep you nice and safe and alive, or you’re going to let me take you back to your base and your medbay, where they will also keep you nice and safe and alive.”
“I don’t seem to have much agency in this.”
“You’re down to roughly eight minutes of consciousness, now. If we’re generous.”
“Villain–”
“Hero,” the villain’s voice was firm. “I’m sure you’ve realized how limited your options are. So you either let me, a person who likes you and is generally amused by your antics instead of enraged by them, take care of you, or one of my henchmen finds your cooling body later. Tell me, do you think your body will still be invisible even after you’re dead?”
The hero’s stomach sunk. The villain was right–the hero wasn’t stupid. They knew, with an unfortunate amount of clarity, that there was no way they would make it past the villain, all of their henchmen, and out through their needlessly complex security system before they passed out on the concrete floors.
It took them two, miserably pathetic tries to reach up and unlock the door, still half sprawled on the floor. The villain pulled it open before they had even fully sagged back on the floor–and though their voice had been calm, their eyes were half-wild, slightly wider than the hero was used to.
“God,” they said, eyes darting through a visual assessment faster than the hero had ever seen them. “You got yourself fucked up, didn’t you?”
“Are we victim blaming the person who got shot?” The hero asked, voice rasping by the end of the sentence. They winced, throat raw.
“You should know how to dodge by now,” the villain replied, and then their palms were pressed against the hero’s side and the hero was doing their best not to pass out. Their power flared, panicked, but the villain didn’t seem bothered by their brief stint in non-visibility. Sickeningly, the hero noticed once more, that their blood refused to go invisible with them, leaving half of their body outline only by the mess of red spreading across their side.
It was really, really annoying that their power would turn clothes invisible but not their blood, because their clothes were just on them and their blood was their blood–
“Fuck–” the hero finally managed to gasp out, blinking the white spots from their vision. “You could have–”
“Warned you? Sure, but it wouldn’t have made it hurt any less. I’m trying to stop you from bleeding out, hero, not woo you.”
Privately, the hero considered the fact that in their mind, those things weren’t mutually exclusive, before promptly dismissing that thought as a product of their severe bloodloss. Maybe when they had more blood they would consider it again–
“Did you hit your head?” The villain asked. They pressed down harder with one hand, pulling a punched out wheeze from the hero’s lungs, before grabbing the hero’s chin with their free hand, tilting it up to the light. The hero could feel their own blood slick across their skin, but it was a faint, muted sensation. “Ah, yeah. That’s a concussion.”
“I’m not concussed,” the hero said, petulant. The villain shot them a…mildly scathing look.
“So the mismatched pupils are a fashion choice, then?”
The hero gave them as much of a dirty look as they could manage. From the way the villain bit back a snort, the hero was pretty sure the message got across just fine.
“And what would you know about fashion,” they said. The villain raised a brow.
“Says the individual who wears a form fitting suit and domino, in perhaps the most basic superhero costume aesthetic known to man. Seriously, did you just open a random comic book and go from there?”
The hero fought a frown, insulted. “Hey, I’ll have you know people love the suit.”
“Right,” the villain said, head ducked low as they examined the wound. They ended up half-pressed against, half on top of the hero in the process, which the hero didn’t really mind. “Because it’s formfitting, and everyone loves to be saved by a hot, charming individual with a dashing grin. Why do you think people love firefighters so much?”
“You think I’m hot?” The hero asked, voice slightly slurred even to their own ears. A second later, they blinked, and blushed as much as they could out to the tips of their ears. They felt themselves flicker in and out of that comforting, all encompassing blur of light and image entirely, like a blink.
The villain looked up from where they were wrapping a bandage against the hero’s side, fingers deft as they taped a generous amount of gauze through the hole of the hero’s suit. The hero had no idea where they had gotten it from. “Darling, I thought we had established this earlier.”
“Maybe you established that earlier,” the hero muttered, and they felt more than heard the villain laugh through where they had settled against the hero’s side.
“This is as good as we’re getting with the supplies I brought,” the villain said, sitting back. The hero missed the contact immediately, like a lost limb.
The villain shifted slightly closer once more, as if they knew exactly what the hero had been thinking.
From the very tiny, sly smirk at the corner of their mouth, somehow, the villain did.
“Stop that,” the hero said. The smirk widened slightly.
“Stop what? Saving your life?”
“You know what,” the hero said, and the villain laughed.
“Let’s get you up,” the villain said, half-rising on their haunches. The hero peered up at them, side still flaring with pain.
“If you expect me to walk–”
The hero was settled in the villain’s arms. They weren’t…entirely sure how it had happened, but as they, vision dazed and half-blurred, watched their limbs flicker back into visibility, they figured they had probably passed out.
The villain tucked the hero’s head more firmly against their neck. Like they were worried the hero would fall, or hurt their neck–
“What,” the hero finally managed. The villain glanced down at them, face a painful mix of panic and amusement.
The hallway was beginning to swirl around the edges as they moved–the only concrete, certain thing the hero had was the villain.
Privately, again, they considered the fact that this was not in fact a new feeling–
“I’m taking you to the medical wing,” the villain reminded, soothingly, and the hero gave half a nod before slumping back against their chest.
“You’re really warm,” the hero informed them. The villain’s chest stuttered in a sort of half-laugh.
“This would be far funnier if you weren’t still actively bleeding out in my arms.”
“I’m not bleeding out,” the hero said. They glanced down at their side, but the villain’s arm, curled around the hero’s body, blocked their view. “You fixed that.”
“Fixed is generous,” the villain replied, and then they were half-turning to shoulder open some sort of swinging door. The hero, idly, watched it swish closed again as the villain settled them on to the medical bed.
“I’m going to grab you something for the pain while we wait for my staff to–” the villain paused, half a step away from the bed. They turned back to look at the hero, expectant. The hero just blinked at them.
A second later, the villain glanced down to where the hero’s hand had wrapped itself firmly around their wrist, slick with blood and about as strong as a newborn kitten.
The hero willed their very traitorous hand to let go. It did not.
“That’s–I’m not–”
The villain’s face softened.
“Hero,” they said gently. They made no effort to tug themself out of the hero’s grip, something the hero was secretly, viciously grateful for. It was cold in here, and the hero didn’t know if it was the bloodloss or the dizzyingly white walls of the medbay, but the hero hated it. “I’m going to be right back, alright?”
The hero nodded. Their hand still refused to move.
“Okay, hero,” the villain said, soft, all their edges dulled, and sat down at the side of the hero’s bed. They entwined their hand with the hero’s, seemingly unbothered by the blood. Considering how often injuries happened in this line of work, maybe they were. “I’ll stay.”
“It’s just–I can’t–”
“Hero,” the villain said, “you’re invisible.”
It took far more effort than it should have to force themself back into visibility, fighting to release their grip on light and mirage. By the time they managed, there was sweat slicking the side of their temple, their headache had sharpened to an unbearable point, and a medic had appeared and begun sorting through something against the far wall.
“Sorry,” they said, mouth heavy around the word, and the villain’s face tightened.
The villain just shook their head, fingers tightening around the hero’s. A second later, the medic passed the villain something that the hero couldn’t see.
“You’re probably going to pass out in a second,” the villain informed them. It didn’t scare the hero as much as it should. “But I’m not going to leave. Nobody is going to hurt you.”
“You mean more than the gunshot?” the hero managed. The villain’s face darkened.
“That will be handled.”
The hero managed a small nod in agreement, and then the world twisted in a sickening, thrumming way, and the hero was–
They woke up, bandaged, swaddled in blankets, and on what they could only assume was an insane level of pain killers, to find the villain half-asleep against the side of their bed, hair mussed.
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Characters: Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Petunia Evans Dursley, Tom Riddle Sr. | Tom Marvolo Riddle's Father, Cecilia | Tom Riddle Sr.'s Girlfriend
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle Grow Up Together, Harry Potter Lives in the Walls of Tom Riddle's House, Harry Potter Leaves the Dursley Family, this could have been funny but i took it too seriously
Summary:
Harry runs away and finds a home in someone else's home.
a/n: another @exquisitetomarrymortcorpse event! boograms for halloween 👻 we all submitted a few prompts anonymously and picked one we’d like to make something for, and i picked one from the lovely @chaos-bear
Summary: A soft toy giraffe just happens to be the groundwork of a lot of moments in your life including your childhood, your friendship with Harry Potter, and the reappearance of your father, Sirius Black.
POV: Reader, past tense
Tags: childhood soft toy, reader insert, Sirius Black needs a hug
Note: Author absolutely adores comments, so please let me know what you thought!
There is something about a child's toy, tossed out a car window in a fit of rage or sorrow, lost to an unforgiving world of car tyres and cold tarmac.
Harry had been barely one the first time such a thing had happened and, much to his parents horror, it wasn't even his own toy he had thrown. It was, in fact, yours. There had been some sort of unnamed dispute in the back seat which had ended with your favourite toy giraffe chucked out the tiny gap and into the great unknown. You had stared at him for a few moments in pure, unquestioned silence... and then you had screamed.
Lily had almost crashed the car she was so shocked, her neck cracking painfully as she spun to see what was wrong with the two of your. Her auburn hair had danced in the breeze coming through her window and her eyes had scanned the two of you desperately before the honk of an oncoming car brought her back to reality and she turned back to face the road. She pulled over in a lay-by two minutes later, but by then it was too late. Your toy was lost and you were practically inconsolable. Harry had also taken up sobbing, more because someone else was than because there was actually anything wrong with him, and he seemed fairly unrepentant for the tears being his fault.
It didn't take long for Lily and James to figure out what was wrong with you, both of them searching high and low throughout the car in the desperate hope that one of them would find the missing soft toy. It was a futile hope and the presence of more than a few Muggles stopped them simply summoning the item. They knew they wouldn't even be able to do it later in the day - it was a busy road and they couldn't risk getting into trouble with the Ministry for breaking the law. They were already on shifty ground as it was.
"Sirius is going to kill us," James said hollowly, running a hand wearily through his hair and staring at his wife. "That toy was her favourite."
Lily bit her lip as she thought, finally nodding before climbing back into the car. "Come on, better get it over with."
In the end, Sirius spent four hours out on the side of the road attempting to find the giraffe that night, taking his canine form in order to avoid the attention of passing Muggles and diving sideways into the brush whenever someone got too close to thinking it was odd there was an animal on the side of the road.
When dawn came and light returned, he came back to his house with exhaustion spread wide across his face and strands of hair escaping the loose bun he had shoved it in. His wife, Ella, met him with an equally weary smile, her arms cradling you.
"How is she?" Sirius's voice was hoarse.
"She only went off half an hour ago," Ella whispered, her eyes dropping shut as she rocked back and forth. "I'm hoping she's fine now, but I'm not sure. I don't want to risk putting her down."
"Get some sleep." Sirius pressed a gentle kiss to her lips as he took you from her, nestling your tiny body in his own arms as he stared lovingly down at you. "You deserve it."
"Are you sure? You must be exhausted." Ella watched him worriedly, though she didn't need much more persuasion to head off to bed, craving the warmth it would provide and more than willing to let her eyes fall shut.
Sirius stayed up for another two hours rocking you in his arms before he fell asleep on a chair in the living room, his neck tipped awkwardly against the back in a way which would surely end up hurting in the long run and his legs stretched out to rest on the table in the centre of the room - an action Ella would have reprimanded him for if she hadn't been so thankful he'd taken you from her.
None of you knew that he would one day find that toy again, and he would return it in a highly unexpected way...
•• ━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━ ••
"Come on, Mum!" you called over your shoulder, pushing the trunk-loaded trolley through the station and earning more than a few strange looks for the sleek black cat stretched across your shoulders, his head resting lazily against your neck. "We're going to be late!"
Your mother sighed, hastening her step slightly in an attempt to keep up with you. She was at a disadvantage, standing just a few inches shorter than yourself and not being near as motivated to get to the train as fast as possible.
"I've not been late yet. How long do you think I've been doing this?" she asked you as she caught up, brushing a strand of waist length hair over her shoulder and fixing her narrowed eyes on you.
"I don't know," you muttered, gazing around the station in hopes of spotting someone you knew, "you're ancient."
"I'm thirty," she corrected. "And that's quite enough cheek from you."
You refrained from mumbling a comment about her asking for it, standing on your tiptoes to gaze out over the sea of Muggles, hoping for a familiar magical face. You sighed as you realised there was no such person there to relieve your boredom.
"I don't know what you're sighing for," your mother said. "Some of us didn't know a single person when we first came to Hogwarts. You're lucky."
"I still need to find someone to sit with."
"I'm sure there'll be someone. Isn't the Weasley boy meant to be starting this year?"
You would have snorted at the vague statement if you couldn't feel the butterflies writhing in your stomach. "Ron, yeah."
"That's the one. Why can't you sit with him?"
It wasn't so much that you had anything against Ron as that you always felt distinctly awkward around him thanks to a particular playdate in which Fred had announced his youngest brother had a crush on you. Ever since, you always felt as though he was embarrassed enough he might explode when he was around you and you hated having to try to ignore the uncomfortable situations.
"Maybe."
Your mother let out a long sigh, her dark eyes fixed on you as she muttered, "This would be so much easier if your father were here."
You had heard the words before on many occasions. So much, in fact, that you could have guessed she would say them. There hadn't been many occasions over the last ten years on which your mother and you managed to have a day out without her wishing for your father's presence. It had taken her a long time to explain where he had gone, though, and she had done her best to make sure that the past didn't lie on your shoulders even if she still went on about him all the time.
For a start, she had changed all of your records so you were registered as a Linder rather than a Black, hoping that the change in name might be enough for people to overlook the features you had inherited from your father. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't, but you were hoping that you would be able to make it more than a few weeks at Hogwarts without anyone working it out. Just so long as none of the Weasleys slipped and mentioned it...
Anyway, you knew that it was bound to happen eventually and you had resigned yourself to the fact that your father's actions would forever haunt your steps, regardless of whether or not he had actually committed the crimes. Your mum was convinced he hadn't, but every other record of the incident seemed to say otherwise and you couldn't remember enough of the man to form your own opinion, so you were left constantly hanging in the balance.
The farewell between you and your mother wasn't particularly touchy-feely; there weren't any tears involved and she left the station almost as soon as you were on the train, claiming she had to get to work. You didn't call her out on the lie, knowing that it must be difficult to see the train again after so many years when it held so many memories of her younger years. Still, it would have been nice of her to act as if she cared that she was sending her little girl off to school for a whole year.
Marching onto the train, you lugged your trunk behind you, already wishing you were able to use the levitation charm to carry it. It would make life a lot easier for you and it would save you a lot of aching muscles later.
Finally finding yourself at a compartment with only one occupant, you dropped your trunk, wincing at the loud thud. Taking a long breath, you decided you probably weren't going to do any better than this - you might not have been late to the train station, but there weren't many empty spaces left and they were filling up fast.
Fixing your most confident expression on your face - and not knowing how scarily reminiscent of your father you looked - you slid the door across, pretending you didn't notice the way the boy inside flinched at the sound, and strode inside with your trunk in your hand.
"Can I sit?" you asked, though you didn't really give him a chance to refuse as you sank into the seat across from him, quickly introducing yourself.
"Oh, hi, I'm Harry Potter." The boy smiled nervously. Your mouth dropped at this admission.
"You threw my giraffe out the window."
Clearly, this was not the response Harry had expected and he stared at you in total, baffled silence for a few moments before uttering a confused, "Sorry?"
"You should be. It was my favourite."
It didn't take long for you to recount the few details you had been told of the incident and Harry quickly latched onto the idea of you having known his parents, a reaction you probably should have expected. Soon you found yourself telling him just about every detail you could remember of the time you had spent together as children, though you knew your stories would be slightly skewed by the fact that your mother had shared all of them with you. And you made sure not to mention the part your father may or may not have played in his parents' deaths.
When Ronald Weasley showed up at the compartment door not long after with a trunk in one hand, a rat in the other, and a nervous smile on his face, you decided that you could try to be friends with him and you welcomed him into the compartment with all the grace you could muster.
You had a feeling that the three of you might just turn out to be very good friends...
•• ━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━ ••
"Stop!" The word escaped you in a burst of fury combined with fear, freezing everyone in their tracks and causing the dirt-covered man to turn to face you.
There was something terrifyingly familiar about his face, the steel grey eyes and the elegant features which weren't all that far from your own. It took all your strength to stare him down as you stood in front of Harry, wishing beyond all hope that he wasn't really your father, that this mess of a human being was just some lunatic who believed you were related to him.
He barked out a laugh, harsh and hoarse from years of no use, grinning lopsidedly at you as he muttered, "You're just like her."
"Like who?" you scoffed, though you worried your words didn't hold the bite you had intended.
"Ella, of course."
Anger flared inside you at the words, burning hot and bright as you scowled at him. "You don't know her. And you don't know me."
"I used to." His smile was wistful, but it didn't quell your ire. "Maybe I will again one day."
"You won't."
"I thought you might say that."
You watched as he shoved a hand deep into his torn robes, extracting something you barely recognised. He tossed it towards you and you caught it, hoping that it didn't turn out to be anything dangerous.
The material was muddied and ripped in places, clumps of stuffing escaping from the creature, but it was definitely recognisable as a giraffe.
"Took me twelve years to get it back to you," Sirius Black muttered gruffly, watching as you inspected it.
You couldn't believe it. This was the soft toy which had been lost when you were a baby, the one which had inspired the friendship between you and Harry. And somehow your father had brought it back to you.
"Where did you find it?" you whispered, gazing down at the giraffe with tears gathering in your eyes. Suddenly, you found yourself convinced that your father couldn't be guilty. How could he possibly have gone to the effort to find it if he was such an awful person?
"Don't even ask," he replied, screwing his nose up in disgust. "Do you believe me now?"
It was strange how such a simple action could matter, and yet you were convinced by it. Glancing over at Harry, you could see the same sort of realisation beginning to pool in his vivid eyes and you bit your lip in thought. Moving to stand beside Harry, you looped your hand through his, knowing you were both going to need each other's support here.
The first time they meet Shen Qingqiu sends Liu Qingge to the hospital. Really a romantic tale for the ages.
It goes like this.
Shen Qingqiu is drinking tea in the library out of a steel water bottle so that he can pretend to all the onlookers that it’s actually water. Because he is obviously a man of dignity and rule following. Shang Qinghua is next to him, ostensibly studying, but actually wrinkling his nose every few seconds because he dislikes the smell of Shen Qingqiu’s favourite tea.
This is just one of many of Shang Qinghua’s flaws.
But Liu Qingge, Shen Qingqiu doesn’t know who Liu Qingge is, he’s just some fool in the corner of the library looking at the shelves like he wants to fight them.
Snidely, Shen Qingqiu wonders if he’d have a better chance fighting than reading them. Not that the man should be reading them because he’s currently eating fried chicken in the library.
Of all foods, really, where’s his style. The brazen rulebreaking!!
There may not technically be any rules against eating in the library, but they’re implicit. Written into the very fabric of the building, one does not desecrate the books with the smell of food or drink. At least put up a pretence of following the rules!
So Shen Qingqiu is watching the guy with the biceps straining his shirt and pretty eyes eating fried chicken for valid reasons. Just so everyone (Shang Qinghua) is aware.
He takes another sip of tea.
The chicken guy makes a strange hacking sound, and Shen Qingqiu quickly darts his eyes away in case he’s been spotted staring. A few quick judgemental stares are acceptable, staring could be construed as something other than judgement- because he was judging, Shang Qinghua.
Shen Qingqiu watches again out of the corner of his eyes. The guy’s gone red.
Shen Qingqiu stares at his book.
The hacking and coughing is getting louder.
Shen Qingqiu makes a very deliberate hmpf sound. The guy does not quiet down, so he turns around again to make him understand the rules of the library.
He’s completely red now, eyes bulging, clawing and hitting at his chest.
Oh no.
Shen Qingqiu eyes Shang Qinghua nervously, but the idiot has a spreadsheet open on his laptop, so he’s dead to everything and everyone.
Dead.
Shen Qingqiu looks at the other guy again.
“Do you need a hand- are you choking?” he asks the stranger nervously, what if this is all a ploy?
The guy coughs.
Well, Shen Qingqiu takes that as answer enough and positions himself behind the handsome, choking, stranger.
It’s the fifth time Shen Qingqiu digs his clasped fists into the guy’s sternum, dragging upwards that something small flies out of the guy’s mouth and there’s the sound of him taking in a deep, deep breath.
“You shouldn’t be choking in the library,” Shen Qingqiu informs the stranger, only to be met with an incredulous look. And sure, okay maybe that came out a little bad, but if the guy had only not eaten food in the library this wouldn’t have happened.
Fate. Karma. Fortune, what have you. Clearly this could have all been avoided.
The guy lets out another cough, and this time there’s a bit of blood with it.
Shen Qingqiu watches it nervously. As if summoned by the supernatural knowledge of the presence of blood at all times, Shang Qinghua is hanging off his shoulder.
Shen Qingqiu tries to knock him off.
“Dude! Did you just cough up some blood!”
Shen Qingqiu glares at the idiot. He catches the stranger glaring in their direction too.
“We’re in a library,” Shen Qingqiu hisses, “Keep your voice down.”
When he turns around again, the hot stranger is giving him an incredulous look that’s quickly interrupted by another bloody hack.
Well, that’s not good. For the floor or for the guy.
“You’re too goddamn pretty to die,” Shen Qingqiu mutters before informing the stranger, “I think you should go to the hospital”.
////////////////
The only good thing about having to go to the hospital with a stranger is that Shang Qinghua does not follow. Shang Qinghua does not go to hospitals. Apparently they smell and they’re sticky, they don’t let you keep any of the blood and, they never have shoes in your size.
Shen Qingqiu has questions but he doesn’t really want answers so he never asks them.
On the other hand, Shen Qingqiu is now in an uber with a guy who’s already coughed blood. At least Shen Qingqiu had the foresight to give the guy a paper bag, in case there’s any more coughing. Shen Qingqiu is not being fined on top of an uber.
Frankly he would have taken the bus, but he wanted to make a good impression on the guy.
Even with his hair in disarray from… the escapade in the library he’s still good looking. And Shen Qingqiu’s human. Needs to learn library rules, but good looking.
So they get to the hospital, and Shen Qingqiu explains what happened (and gets the guy’s name- Liu Qingge, he gives it at the desk and Shen Qingqiu internally whoops) and he’s going to go. Because he’s not a stalker, and the guy thanks him for helping him in a weirdly stilted way.
Which is kind of code for leave.
So Shen Qingqiu gets ready to walk back.
And gets hit by an ambulance in the parking lot.
So. Shen Qingqiu does not leave.
/////////////////////////////////////////////
He wakes up in a white bed, feeling a little like he’s been wrapped in cotton wool.
Shen Qingqiu is hyper-aware of a set of eyes boring into him.
Slowly, he turns his head.
“Hello again,” he tells Liu Qingge. Liu Qingge keeps staring at him like he’s refusing to believe his eyes.
“I had a small accident,” he explains, although, he’s not entirely sure how small it was. Where are doctors when you need them?
“I had internal bleeding,” Liu Qingge, the handsome, choking library stranger, says voice flat. Shen Qingqiu tries to hide his wince.
“Ah,” Shen Qingqiu manages with as much dignity as he can, “Was that because of me?”
“Yes.”
Ah. Still, what was Shen Qingqiu supposed to do? Let the guy choke to death? It would have paid him back for eating in the library, but even Shen Qingqiu isn’t that cruel. To avoid looking at Liu Qingge in embarrassment, he looks down instead.
One of his legs is in a cast.
Why is the universe so very cruel to him?
“What happened to you?” Liu Qingge’s voice breaks the silence.
Shen Qingqiu considers for a moment.
“I got hit by an ambulance when I left,” he admits. Embarrassing and all. “Oh the irony.”
Liu Qingge hums.
“Sorry,” the handsome stranger tells him, and Shen Qingqiu has to fight back a blink.
“Were you the one driving?” he asks. Because that would be impressive.
“No. I had internal bleeding.”
Shen Qingqiu waits, but there’s nothing else. What a verbose individual Liu Qingge is.
////////////////////////////////
They actually wind up being discharged at around the same time, Liu Qingge vacates his bed only a few hours before Shen Qingqiu.
Once he’s released though, Shen Qingqiu hobbles towards the hospital entrance on his crutches looking like trash to call Shang Qinghua and let him know he’s not dead.
(“Good”, Shang Qinghua had said, “You’re not meant to die yet”, and wasn’t that ominous. The useless idiot had hung up then, before Shen Qingqiu could drop enough hints about getting a lift. It’s raining pathetically outside and Shen Qingqiu has no desire to look like a bedraggled cat on top of everything else.)
And that’s when Shen Qingqiu sees him. Liu Qingge, looking far better than Shen Qingqiu.
His hair is neatly styled, he’s got a different shirt on from that day in the library, rolled up to the elbows. He’s holding something in his hand, that as Shen Qingqiu nears, look rather like keys.
“Would you like a lift?”
Shen Qingqiu could fall to his knees and sob right there. Except not because he’s not sure how he’d get back up again on crutches.
“God yes,” he agrees, the words barely out of his mouth before Liu Qingge places a hand on Shen Qingqiu’s elbow and helps to steer him towards a car and into a comfortable seat. With the warmth on his elbow, he barely minds the rain.
Shen Qingqiu rattles off his address and settles back into the seat. Arguably this is a stupid decision. On the other hand, the guy is hot, Shen Qingqiu is armed with crutches, and the guy seems nice enough.
Shen Qingqiu versus one man who recently experienced internal bleeding. He fancies his chances.
“So I hear you’re running your own wiki page for this show,” Liu Qingge says, apropos of nothing, seemingly unaware of the truck he’s just hit Shen Qingqiu with.
“What?!” he exclaims, “How do you know-” Is the handsome man a murderer after all? This is all Shang Qinghua’s fault, he’s sure of it. It would be just like Shang Qinghua to catch a stalker because of his shitty book and then spread it to Shen Qingqiu like some kind of stalkery-cold.
“Yue Qingyuan’s also my peer mentor, he mentions you sometimes” Liu Qingge says, his brows have crinkled a little, “We had all those meetings at the beginning of the year. Do you not remember?”
Yue Qingyuan. Yeah Shen Qingqiu remembers those meetings, he’d been bored and found them a little useless. Yue Qingyuan probably meant well, but he hadn’t said anything useful, and instead Shen Qingqiu had mostly napped and ignored everything happening except to glare in the direction of anything that disturbed him.
It had even been the place where he’d met Shang Qinghua, if that didn’t explain how awful the whole thing was. Though apparently he could have talked to Liu Qingge there too.
“Right!” Shen Qingqiu exclaims, trying to work out how he’d not recognised Liu Qingge or seemed to have seen him before. What a fool he was.
“I thought you hated me.” There’s no judgement in the tone, but Shen Qingqiu coughs awkwardly.
“No, no!” he exclaims, “Not you, just the meeting.” He’s rewarded with Liu Qingge laughing, it’s the first laugh he’s heard, and the other man seems to soften entirely, just for a moment.
And it’s like that. Shen Qingqiu suddenly knows he is so gone.
“So this might be a stupid question,” Shen Qingqiu says, as Liu Qingge helps him out of the car. “But would you like to go on a date?”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth Shen Qingqiu feels like a fool. He looks like trash, his hair needs a wash, he’s in ugly hospital pants and carrying a shoe.
Liu Qingge looks like some sort of god, what is he thinking-
“Not right now.” At the word ‘not’ Shen Qingqiu feels himself start to deflate, but it improves and-
“Next Thursday? Evening. I won’t choke this time.”
Thursday, eight days. Shen Qingqiu could dance from excitement, crutches and all.
“You better not,” he replies though, he has to play it cool. Has to play it cool until he gets inside and can yell at Shang Qinghua.
If Liu Qingge’s laugh was good, then his smile is something else. Shen Qingqiu feels a little like he’s melting, sliding towards the floor.
Or maybe that’s just the crutches. He barely yelps before he’s falling backwards, only to be caught in Liu Qingge’s arms.
“Next Thursday,” Liu Qingge repeats, supporting Shen Qingqiu’s elbow as he wrestles his key into the door.
Shen Qingqiu is living for Thursday. And to scream at Shang Qinghua.
So Shen Qingqiu turns to wave Liu Qingge off, except he steps into the flat as well- and
Well. Shen Qingiu doesn’t object, except he’s kind of confused and probably needs to shower.
“Um,” Shen Qingqiu says eloquently, Liu Qingge blinks. Shen Qingqiu blinks back. They probably would have kept on like that for a while, but that’s when Shang Qinghua emerges, laptop tucked under one arm, in only a shirt and his pants, and eating from a bag of chips.
“Oh hi,” the worst flatmate known to man responds. “Want to go over that spreadsheet now?”
Shen Qingqiu splutters.
“What spreadsheet?!” he exclaims, “Why would I-”
“Okay,” Liu Qingge cuts in smoothly making Shen Qingqiu turn around so fast he almost falls over. Liu Qingge catches him though, bless him and his strong arms.
“You two know each other?” Shen Qingqiu says weakly from his position on the couch.
Liu Qingge blinks at him again while Shang Qinghua keeps eating his chips.
“We were in the same peer mentor sessions,” Liu Qingge says, looking confused and a little worried. “Do you have a concussion?”
Shen Qingqiu does not have a concussion. He thinks. He is very confused.
Shang Qinghua takes another large handful of his chips, biting down on them obnoxiously before turning around and walking into his room.
Worst, flatmate, ever.
Liu Qingge’s started gently probing around Shen Qingqiu’s head, it’s kind of nice. He’s letting himself relax into it before he remembers he’s got a future date with this guy, and doesn’t want to put him off before it even begins with unwashed hair.
“I’m going to wash my hair in the sink or something,” he declares, and if he’s planning to scream a little too about the fact that Shang Qinghua knew Liu Qingge and-
“Okay,” Liu Qingge says, helping him back to his feet. It makes Shen Qingqiu tingle. “I’m going to go work on my spreadsheet-” Liu Qingge gestures to Shang Qinghua’s bedroom door, “Fencing wanted it two days ago.”
Shen Qingqiu nods. It’s only when he reaches the bathroom he thinks.
Dean’s been anticipating his own death since he was four years old. He's been training himself to be ready for it since he was seven. More or less resigned to its inevitability since some unknown point in between. He's learned to live with it.
When Dean was four years old, a cardinal collided with his bedroom window.
Cracks spiderwebbed outward from the place it struck, and his mom, who'd been sitting in her rocking chair reading The Together Book aloud, had jumped so hard at the sound that she'd torn a page.
The bird had been singing until it hit the glass. Had been swooping back and forth in the afternoon sun and letting out the high, musical trills that Dean liked to imitate whenever he was playing in the garden. But Dean couldn't hear the song anymore. Just the sound of the breeze in the trees and the excited barking of the dog next door.
Within seconds, he'd been on his feet and running downstairs to see if the bird was okay, ignoring his mom calling out to him. By the time she'd caught up--moving in a slow shuffle thanks to the added weight of Dean's baby brother who was due any day now--it was too late. Dean was already in the living room, ducking under the gauzy curtains to press his face to the glass.
"Don't look," Mary called out, but he'd already seen.
Even from inside the house he could tell that the cardinal wasn’t moving.
It’s brilliant red wing was bent sideways beneath its tiny body. Black eyes glassy and unblinking.
"I think he needs a helper," Dean told his mom, and she had pulled him away from the window.
"My sweet Dean," she'd said through a watery smile, cupping his face in her palm. "You are such a good helper, but sometimes there isn't anything we can do except say goodbye."
He'd learned, then, what it was to die.
A few months later, with the heat of fire on the back of his neck, and baby Sam clutched tightly to his chest, and his heart racing at the sight of his dad looking scared for the first time in Dean's short memory, he’d learned that death wasn’t just something that came for wayward birds.
That's when it started. The anticipation. Knowing that someday, it would be him that death would come for. Or Dad. Or Sam.
He'd carried the fear quietly at first, knowing that if he seemed scared, Sammy would get scared. Dad didn't know how to make him stop crying the way Mom did, so it was up to Dean to be the strong one. The brave one.
Being afraid meant failing Sam, so he hid his fear away. Held it the way his mom had held the cardinal; its limp body cradled in a hand towel as she'd carried it down to the corner of the garden to bury among the yellow columbines. He held it gently. Held it as though one wrong move might somehow make it worse.
When he was seven years old, Dean held his first gun the same way.
It was late spring, hotter than it should've been, and Dad had left Sam with Pastor Jim to bring Dean out to an abandoned farm on the outskirts of Blue Earth, Minnesota. They'd parked outside a rusted gate near the mouth of the driveway, and Dean scraped his palms on the rough metal as he climbed over it. Twisted his ankle when he dropped down onto the hard-packed earth on the other side. It hurt, but he didn't cry. He knew not to.
In his hand, he carried a plastic grocery bag that reeked of stale beer, and the empty bottles inside clinked together with each step he took. He'd been careful not to swing it too much as they'd made their way across the overgrown front yard, through tall, scratchy grass. Through patches of dandelions that he wasn't supposed to pick, no matter how much he wanted to.
When they finally reached the house and barn, John had directed him around the back and past a sagging wooden fence that separated the small backyard from the fields beyond. He'd lined up the bottles along the middle rung of the fence to put them within Dean's eyeline, and facing the barn, he'd pushed the rifle into Dean's hands.
The Ruger was heavier than it looked. Long and cold and difficult for Dean to balance until John had directed him on how to center its weight. He'd been scared, holding it. Scared that if he tried to do as Dad told him and missed the bottles, the bullet could hit one of the birds he could see nesting in the eaves of the empty barn. That if he did as he was told, he could end up being the thing that brought death to something else. Someone else.
But Dad had given him an order. Had told him that this was how he'd be able to protect his brother. So he'd swallowed his fear, and lifted the gun until he could line up the sight. Pushed his fear down and told himself that he had to get it right. Did as he was told. Slowly exhaled as he squeezed the trigger. Once. Twice. Five times.
He hit every bottle, each one exploding outward in a burst of brown glass, and when he looked up at his dad it was the first time Dean had ever seen him proud.
"That's my man," he'd said, and clapped Dean firmly on the back as he took the gun and slung it over his own shoulder. "Now you can keep your brother safe when I'm not around to help you."
It had been equal parts gratifying and awful to hear. Knowing that Dad thought he was grown up enough to be trusted felt good. Knowing that sometime soon, he might be the one thing between Sam and the looming threat of death felt like having the floor pulled out from under him.
When he was sixteen, a few months before he gave up on high school for good, Dean had an English teacher who made the class discuss their hopes for the future.
They'd gone around the room one by one, each student listing out their plans and dreams and lofty goals, and when it had come to Dean he'd been honest. He'd said that he didn't think about it. That as far as he saw it, he could die any day. Any minute. Any second, his time could come, and he'd be done, and he didn't want to waste even a moment of what little time he might have with something as pointless as planning.
He didn't mention that he used to have plans. Dreams. Lofty goals.
Didn't mention that when he was just a little bit younger, he'd wanted to be a mechanic, maybe. A firefighter. A rockstar. Someone who fixes things or creates things that make people happy; someone who helps. Talking about it, the few times he had, made him feel like he was being a bad son. A bad brother. Like wanting something for himself was the same as neglecting his responsibilities.
So he'd learned to push all of that down, too. Compressed it into a tight ball in his chest until it collapsed in on itself like a black hole; something that he couldn't really look inside, but could always feed into.
The teacher had pulled him aside after class to discuss his nihilistic attitude, but even then, Dean had thought there was a pretty big difference between being aware of the futility of planning for a future he wouldn't have, and being defeated by it, but he hadn't bothered to argue. He hadn't seen the point.
(He had seen the irony in that, though--and fuck anyone who thought he didn't.)
Now, twenty-six years old and in his prime, he still feels it.
The fear is like a chronic condition his body has acclimated to. He's readjusted his baseline tolerance, so that despite the fact that it's always there under his skin, hovering at the back of his neck like a phantom hand waiting to catch hold of him at any moment, he's able to mentally separate himself from it enough to get by.
When it's a good day, he can ignore it. When it's a bad day, when the threat of death is tangible and immediate--a werewolf slashing at his chest with jagged claws, a ghost pressing icy fingers beyond the surface of his skin to crush his windpipe--the fear becomes fuel. Oxygen to feed the fire in his belly. It sharpens his focus. Gives him the edge he needs to wrestle some kind of control back from the void that's trying to claim him. And so long as he can fight it, tooth and nail, it's okay. Even if he fails. Even if he dies.
Death comes for everyone sometime, and if he's gotta go down, he's gonna be damn sure he goes down swinging.
This…
This is not that.
Right now, the threat of death is tangible and immediate, but it's not something he can control in the slightest. There's nowhere for him to channel his fear. Nothing to fight against but the threat of gravity and forty-thousand feet of open air.
The plane banks hard to the right, forcing his side against the arm rest as the engines roar, and Dean falters in his quiet repetition of Metallica’s Some Kind of Monster for just long enough that his brain supplies him with a torrent of horrific scenarios he has absolutely no hope of preventing.
A flock of birds sucked into the engine. A freak storm. A crack in the fuselage that none of the safety technicians caught during their inspection, catching the wind and peeling the plane like an orange.
Another plane on a collision path, with the air traffic controller succumbing to the relentless stress of their job and breaking down for just long enough that the pilots have no chance at correcting course.
Outside, the clouds are thick and dark, whipping past the window at a pace, and Dean can't help but think of restless spirits. Fuck, who knows what is out there. They deal with so much shit on the surface of the Earth--where they're supposed to be--that he figures there are probably hundreds of things up here that nobody's even begun to figure out how to fight.
Not to mention the demon he knows is somewhere on board.
Because it's not enough to be trapped in a flying metal death tube--the universe might as well throw in something several notches above his pay grade as well. Just for the hell of it.
If Sam tells him to breathe one more time, Dean’s going to kill him before this plane can.
"Breathe," Sam tells him.
"Choke," Dean replies.
Sam has the audacity to look affronted.
Several hours later, after the demon has been exorcized and the plane is back on solid ground, Dean feels a little like he might pass out. His limbs are loose and tingly. His chest is tight. His stomach churning. His fear has shifted back into its usual holding pattern, but he can still feel sharp edges where it's usually dulled.
He needs to do something. Needs to wrestle back some scrap of control to feel like he's in charge of his own body again.
Suddenly, the fact that they're a sixteen hour drive away from the Impala is all he can think about.
"I'm guessing you don't wanna fly back to Indianapolis?" Sam asks as they make their way through the throngs of travelers at Denver airport, and Dean just levels him with an exhausted stare. "Yeah, stupid question. I'll get us a car."
Dean lets him go, wandering over to the nearest wall and sinking down onto his haunches to sit against it. To breathe. While he waits, he finds himself staring at a sparrow flitting around near the ceiling. Watching the way it swoops and dives over the bustling crowd, searching for a way out. It's probably safer where it is, trapped in the terminal and away from the elements. Free from the threat of predators and planes.
Dean watches it and wonders what it must be like, to be so unaware. To live without fear. He doesn't know if it's better or worse than knowing; if a lack of control is easier to bear if you don't understand the consequences.
As soon as Sam returns with a set of keys, Dean stands and makes a grab for them. Sam yanks them out of reach before he can make contact.
"Dude, what the hell?"
"C'mon, hand 'em over."
"You still kinda look like you're gonna puke."
"Already did in the plane bathroom," Dean tells him, ignoring the wrinkled nose he gets in response. "And driving calms me down."
"It's a long ass drive."
"No shit. I'm not planning on pulling the whole sixteen hours in one go. C'mon, just let me take the first leg."
Sam squints, lips pursed tight, then relents with a sigh.
"Fine." He hands Dean the keys. Even just having them in his hand is grounding.
"What'd you get us, anyway?"
"A car," Sam answers, and heads off toward the door without another word.
"A car," Dean mocks, and follows.
Together, they pick their way through rows of sedans until Sam finally announces that they've reached their rental, and Dean blinks a few times as he looks at the thing Sam is pointing him toward. A bland white paint job. A generic round bumper. An utter lack of soul. He stares at it in disgust.
"What the fuck is this?"
"It's an Impala," Sam says.
"It's a crime."
"It's the 2001 model," Sam adds, and Dean doesn't have to look at him to know he's biting back a smirk. "Apparently it has cup holders."
Despite the car being one of the most offensive things he's ever seen, sinking behind the wheel makes the last of Dean's frayed nerves settle. His chest loosens. His hands feel like his own. With a slow exhale, he turns the ignition and gets them on the road. The drive back to Indianapolis stretches out ahead of him, a long, familiar stretch of blacktop and open plains, and while he can't anticipate every part of the journey, he's prepared for it.
His fear is a silent passenger in the back seat. He carries it carefully across state lines.
read again on ao3 | subscribe to series | about the series
A small something pinged at the edge of her senses. A shift in the breeze, a rustle of something. Fringilla held her posture, back ramrod straight as she extended her awareness to identify the culprit. An animal perhaps or— no. Not an animal. A child.
Or: Fringilla and Dara meet at Sodden Hill and have a conversation about loyalty
Request: Hey, I have a Steve Harrington X reader request... U know when eleven gets bitten by the ST3 monster and then that weird thing comes out of the bite on her leg, could u possibly do it so it's the reader who gets bitten and Steve is helping them. I hope this isn't too much to ask for 😊 - @nerdy-collector-festival
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader
Warnings: STRANGER THINGS SEASON 3 SPOILERS! Profanity, descriptions of blood and gore.
A/n: I reblog all gifs I use under #gif.
“Y/n? Y/n — hey hey hey hey hey—!” Steve grabs you when you try to walk away. You don’t get far but regardless you keep trying, even when his arms. You’re burning up yet feel so cold, and his warmth does nothing to help you feel good. You can’t even think of his comfort or why he’d be worried, you just try to get out and on your own. But that quickly your energy is all gone and you’re still, limp against him.
“Y/n, what’s…?”
That look he first thought to be scorn on your face for all the things Dustin described the two of them doing…with a deeper look, Steve realizes it’s much more pitiful. You’re in pain.
He looks over his shoulder where your eyes are crossed over, looks at El and Mike in a loose grasp, Jonathan hugging his brother Will tight, even Lucas and Erica bickering admits his reunion with Dustin, but he can’t help but give his little sister a faint hug no matter how hard she pretends to be disgusted by it.
It’s all so sweet. And you huff, forcing a smile. But as your eyes go back over one person to the next, you can feel a terrible throbbing and hear a sickening buzz inside of your head. You gently push away from Steve, just a step or two, breathing quicker than your lungs can keep up with as the world starts spinning and this pain in your leg — in everything — gets worse and worse and—
He just took his eyes off for a second or two. For you, it was much longer than that. A second out of his arms and you collapse onto the floor.
“Y/n?!” He yelps, attempting to lung forward and catch you. He barely saves your head from meeting the hard ground, but his grip begins to slip and he yells “Guys?!” As he lowers you completely and comes to kneel around your head.
He leans forward, dropping both knees to the sides of your head to make it easier for him to get in your face.
“Y/n? Y/n?!” He shouts while shaking you.
And then you begin to stir and he reels back relieved, chuckling madly. Until you begin to groan and that strange uncomfortable smile you had from before makes much more sense as you violently kick your leg forward and grab onto him.
Steve looks on slightly clueless and with his jaw slack as Jonathan thinks to hold your leg still and peel off the bandages that were applied earlier.
Back then it was just a cut.
A collective groan at the entity that’s embedded itself into your flesh.
“What is that?” Erica scoffs while Dustin gags into his fist.
Then Steve knows what’s up. He hugs around your shoulders and neck, pulling your upper half into his lap as though he can somehow drag you away from your own, hostile leg. He keeps his hands on your cheeks as best as he can despite the painful twisting of his wrist, and dips his head to keep his lips against your forehead.
He presses rapid kisses and does you the favor of wiping beads of sweat from your skin as your chest rises taller and taller faster and faster.
Mike is by your side, holding his hands on the floor right by our stomach. “There’s something in there.” He says in a hurried breath and gesture for El to come over, but she’s stuck staring at your leg in disbelief as whatever is in there begins to writhe, the swollen flesh no longer just pulsing.
“Jesus Christ,” Dustin mutters. He looks at Steve and tries getting into a position where he’ll even bother to look at him.
“Uh k-keep her talking.” Jonathan is up off the ground, his only moment of hesitation being when he sees Steve’s complacency. He’s hugging you, comforting you, but getting comfort from you. Before he leaves he kneels by Steve to get in his face. “Keep her awake, okay?” He nods along witH Steve, only able to hope that he’s listening.
And then he’s up and gone, running from the group and gathering any tool and utensil he can at nearest food stand in the court.
When he comes back around he drops to his knees with a damn butcher’s knife in hand and Steve wonders if he’s lost his mind.
“J-Jonathan? Jonathan?!” Steve holds his hand out to try and stop him but Jonathan looks at you. You squirm in pain but ultimately nod, giving him the go ahead. Then you squeeze your eyes shut in preparation and Steve feels your nails begins to dig into him.
“No no no no no! Jonathan what are you doin—AH!” He hisses as Jonathan pushes the knife into your wound. That’s when you hold your tongue and dig your nails into Steve’s flesh even deeper. “Jonathan STOP you’re hurting her!”
Jonathan holds his hand out to the wound, bloody and full of pus. His voice is raspy and seems to hurt when he raises it so high but Steve can’t deny that the urgency in his words is justified. “I have to! I have to get it out!”
You grit your teeth and nod as best as you can.
Steve reluctantly leans down again and presses a kiss to your forehead. He stays with his lips against your skin and takes one of your hands away from your face so he can hold it down by your stomach where it’s a more natural position for you. Your squeeze alone hurts like a bitch.
“We’re gonna get it out. It’s gonna be okay, okay Y/n?” He coos.
Then Jonathan pushes his fingers in and you start screaming instead of letting out those organized grunts you managed you hide your pain behind previously.
Steve starts to backtrack on his thought process, really unsure if there’s any way to help you.
God, he doesn’t know how to help you.
He watches with tears brimming his eyes before he forces them shut, letting you squeeze his hand tighter and tighter. The way he stretches so you can hold his hand lifts your head up just enough to also watch as Jonathan struggles with the little devil inside your leg.
“Jonathan hurry up!” Looking to Steve Jonathan can see his brows low and thick, his whole face heavy with anger. He sees Steve’s uneven breath as he tries to steady them for you, to make you feel comfortable in his lap despite the circumstances.
And then you choke out “St—OP! ST—“ your voice getting lost halfway. “STOP!” You shout desperately with strain.
But Jonathan keeps going. He understands your pain but he just needs to get the damned thing out of your leg.
Steve leans forward and tries his best to flick at him. “Jonathan! She said stop!”
He does again. But before he can start up for what he considers the grater good, El nudges him.
She looks at you, she looks at Steve, she looks at Jonathan and Mike too. She gets the nod from you and Mike and Jonathan but Steve just stares in disbelief.
Then you’re pouting and whimpering and whining up at him. He sees your lips trembling as the discomfort of the situation still gives you an uncontrollable smile.
Steve nods.
And Eleven focuses herself.
And you scream louder and louder.
It hurts her to go so far, without the doubt the worst pain you’ve ever had the misfortune to feel. And damn if the Russians can’t hear you right now.
Everybody’s screaming with you. Either to cheer you on, cheer Eleven on, or out of disgust when she gets just the tail-end of the create out before it slithers back into the cavity its made. When you get a look at the damn thing you scream even louder out of fear this time knowing it’s something so, so disgusting.
Focusing her brows, the veins on her head popping out, Eleven stretches her fingers as far out as she can muster before ripping the sucker from your leg with a gush of blood coming out where it blocked and attached to your blood flow. The glass of the store behind you completely shatters as she screams, and without a thought, she throws it a good distance, absolutely heated. It lands with a weak plop as it hits the linoleum, and she gets on her knees to hold your feet and coo while you finally get a chance to breathe.
You swear you almost have a heart attack when there’s a loud thump in the direction where she threw it. You all look back…and there’s Hopper having killed the thing under his boot.
You’re mildly relieved.
But there’s still blood. Lots of blood.
Steve was biting on his thumb the whole time in between kissing your temples. He’s relieved too and lets out a shaky laugh. It’s soft and only between you two, so you laugh too from relief that the damn thing is gone.
Jonathan gets back up on his feet and is hesitant to either keep the job going (after all you’re bleeding out) or stop for his mother’s sake.
He stares her in the eyes as she approaches, and holds a hand out. “Bandages,” he says. “We need more bandages.”
Max goes “Oh!” And remembers the little box she smuggled out of the store and stored into her pocket. Jonathan does his best to put pressure on the wound with some of the dish towels he picked up but no way is he letting cloths soaked in the grease and sweat off fry cook’s hands wrap around your leg for God knows how long.
He mutters “Sorry Y/n,” right as he does it but it’s nothing compared to that.
Max fumbles, getting out the tightly rolled bandages from the package. It’s only as thick as her two thumbs and she worries it won’t be enough, but when you grab onto her hand before she stands back up, she feels comfortable with her contribution. You smile at her and squeeze her knuckles before letting her go.
“Uhm, rubbing alcohol? Wherever you got the bandages—did you get rubbing alcohol?”
“Yup!” Lucas slips off his bag and drops it on his knee beside you. Your eyes are not focusing and your whole demeanor is quite loopy, so you giggle when Lucas winks and smiles at you before whipping out the bottle he smuggled. He figured you’ve been at this long enough to have known you would all potentially be needing multiple trips to the supermarket.
Jonathan unrolls the bandage but is stuck. He stutters, “Uh-I uh—“
Then Steve sighs and starts to get up. “Give it. You go find clean towels.” Jonathan nods and tosses it to Steve. He barely catches it but pushes it against his palm to keep it safe. “You,” he nods at Mike, then down at you and while he gets up Mike comes around to where he once sat so he can keep your head cushioned.
Steve kneels down by your feet. When his eyes meet yours his flicker away immediately. But you’re smiling and he can’t help smiling too. He knows you don’t mind it, but he feels like an ass in this instance.
He props up your leg and pulls at the bandage to figure out which way it needs to go. It’s one of the ones with a sticky portion at the end to hold it all together and not the kind that you tuck. Lucas hands him the rubbing alcohol just as Jonathan jogs back with a towel. You can see him sniff it softly to make sure it’s actually clean and not reeking of more grease.
“Thank you,” Steve mumbles. He tries avoiding your eyes again but can’t and says “Sorry about this,” as he pours the rubbing alcohol over the bunched up towel. He holds it over your leg so of course it stings when some of it goes right through. Still, it’s nothing compared to what you’ve just been through.
“Sorry,” he says again as he puts the soaked towel to your injury with purpose.
Now that hurts like a bitch.
And apparently, your hands do too.
“Ow ow ouch ouch,” Mike seethes. Max slaps him on the arm and he yells “Sorry!” Before Hopper comes around. He nudges his leg with his foot and nods his head for Mike to go anywhere else. Hopper kneels and Mike gives him reign over your comfort, your head resting in his lap instead.
He immediately gives his hand and you squeeze as soon as you get it. Steve doesn’t miss a spot. He basically cleans your whole leg before he’s comfortable enough to bandage it up.
“You doin’ okay Y/n?” Steve asks.
You force a smile. “Never better.”
His high school and sports days have suited him for knowing how to tie a good bandage.
He finishes up and despite the sticky assistance at the end of the roll, he also remembers to tuck the end down under the rest of it to keep it extra secure.
Steve and the others get up, with Steve leaning forward and holding both hands to you to help. You grab onto him and Hopper helps even more when he stands. You stumble forward into Steve’s arms and he holds your head against his chest while whispering in your ear.
“We’re never doing this again,” he chuckles.
“Ugh.” He kisses your forehead. “I hope the hell not.”
Things go quiet and it’s like you can hear the ticking of a watch. Maybe it’s a clock somewhere overhead. With the tick, tick, tick making your head ache, you close your eyes and wrap your arms around Steve knowing his presence alone can make it better.
Then Hopper clears his throat and popping an eye open, you realize that tick tick ticking sound is him tapping his foot on the ground.
“Oh yeah…” Steve mutters. “Looks like the gang’s got some explaining to do.”
You roll your eyes and can only assume everybody else does too.
⋆｡°✩ mga season four. ep v. mashup. ‹ #4010 ›
⇢ performance: hate monster –– 4minute x exo // line distribution
TEAM STYX ( #4004 #4011 #4032 #4043 )
the last episode had been tough. he had to watch jeongguk, his leader, get eliminated and to top it off, he had to watch juyeon leave as well. it felt terrible, like something had been hurled towards him at lightning speed and haknyeon wasn’t able to take it all in stride despite his attempts at trying to act like everything was okay (it wasn’t).
and he can’t help thinking that it was all his fault –– it had to be his fault. if he’d pushed himself harder, if he’d done more maybe at least, something would’ve changed. his heart is heavy when they’re announced new teams and he looks visibly down. he’d usually be all smiles, ready to get along with the rest of the team but his eyes are downcast and there’s this odd feeling in his chest.
the walk to the kt building feels heavy, he feels odd but he knows he shouldn’t feel too sad about it for long –– or at the very least that he needs to get over it. it just felt awful, watching your own teammate get eliminated. and then watching one of your closest friends getting sent home too. it didn’t sit well with haknyeon.
he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a second, before he walks into the building.
at the very least he’s not surrounded by unfamiliar faces. he’s been in the same team with doyeon before so he knows her pretty well –– the others though, he finds himself having to get to know. he feels a little worn out emotionally but he needs to pull through, after all it’s a competition and haknyeon... haknyeon needs to win.
there’s minho, jei and moonbin on his team and while he’s not too familiar with all of them just yet, thankfully he’s around the same age as the two boys and they get along well fairly quickly. in the three boys, haknyeon finds himself washing away the saddest he’d been holding in.
it actually starts when they’re trying to figure out a team name and someone brings up ceberus. now, haknyeon wasn’t exactly book smart enough to know what it meant but when someone else explains he lets out a soft ‘oh’. somehow though, this ends up with him and three other boys letting out soft ‘woofs’ and haknyeon breaks out into a bright smile, turning to minho and gently tapping his shoulder.
this ends up with them letting out woofs at random times but haknyeon though, decides to let out... a nyan instead (and he doesn’t miss the look jei gives either him or the two other boys whenever they make animal sounds. he finds it kind of endearing). and like that, he tries to forget about the heaviness in his chest; able to bond quickly with the two other boys as well.
soon after though, they decide to go with a better, less comical name. styx. it’s a nice name and while haknyeon still doesn’t know much about myths or gods or anything like that, he enjoys the concept about it and learning more about them. the name suits their concept as well.
they’ve chosen a mashup of hate and monster. something a little darker than haknyeon’s used to but he’s more than ready to try and show a different side of him on the stage.
throughout his time on the show, haknyeon’s only ever actually done more... upbeat concepts. the boys was chic whilst my flower was more bright. this though, this would be very different. he’s thankful that minho’s knowledgeable enough with mashups to create one for the team and he lets his thankfulness show when he gives minho a high five and thumbs up.
the three boys get along fairly well –– he has no qualms with any other of his teammates (they’re all great people and he’s glad they’re on the same team as him) but maybe it’s because they’re boys of similar age that haknyeon finds himself more comfortable around both minho and moonbin.
he stands in front of the camera with minho and during their short break, plays around with him. “hyung, hyung!” he laughs brightly, shaking his body to no music in particular, before minho joins him and they’re both simply laughing and dancing in front of the camera. they continue making funny faces in front of the camera and haknyeon can’t stop smiling while he’s fooling around briefly with minho. “alright!” he says after they’re done fooling around, “we should get back to practice! fighting, fighting!”
and when they practice, haknyeon doesn’t really stop.
while his team is great, there’s still this fear bubbling from within him. the fear of last week, of not being placed in a safe rank. of watching people leave him. he needs to do well –– for everyone (for himself). the choreography comes together, and thankfully, most of them are well acquainted with dance and it has haknyeon hyped up with the idea of doing something darker.
it’s a new genre and haknyeon needs to show a different side of him. he’s no dummy, and while he’s not exactly book smart, he’s aware of the comments that are made about him –– comments saying that he’s been using his sister, that connections were what got him so far (that they were what got him attention).
and it hurts. it feels dumb, but haknyeon wants to be known as his own person, not just his sister’s little brother. so it pushes him harder and harder and harder until he finds himself in the same position that he was in last week.
(tw: blood)
a sudden feeling, a sudden rush of sorts, and the wet feeling in his nostril. ah, he thinks, it happened again. he puts a hand below his nostril and he sees red. another nosebleed. great. quickly looking up at the mirror to confirm it, haknyeon places a hand over his nose and tries to rush to the toilet.
though he catches the attention of jei. “noona,” he says when he sees jei standing nearby. “sorry, i have to go to the bathroom for a bit. i’ll be right back, promise.” he doesn’t want to be a burden to anybody, doesn’t like wasting time like this. but jei helps him before he can go to the bathroom, gently placing a towel below his nose.
“again? ... is this normal for you? it happened last week too.”
“no...” he admits. “this… doesn’t usually happen often. i think i’m just a little tired and forgot to drink more water,” it’s the truth; lately he’s had this tendency to forget to do a lot of things, too focused on trying to get choreography right, on trying to sound good on stage –– to have a good stage.
he’s got a lot bottled up inside of him, probably, a lot more than he lets show but he’s always preferred to keep things to himself. “i’m sorry noona,” he apologizes,. “i’m probably just wasting your time now. we should get back to practicing… we need to put on a good show! i’ll quickly go get some tissue from the bathroom!” he attempts to laugh it off, but the red from the towel is a contrast to his words.
“that’s not something you just forget,” the look jei gives him, is enough for him to know that he isn’t getting out of this easily; and so he doesn’t say anything back when she tells him to quickly go to the bathroom and then to come back and talk to her.
he comes back from the bathroom with tissue stuffed up one of his nostrils and the feeling of guilt. “thanks for helping me noona,” he says. “i’m really sorry. i just… need to do well… and prove something.”
jei, for some reason, reminds haknyeon of his own sister back home. so with just a look and a few words from her, haknyeon speaks on a little more. “i know i shouldn’t let it get to me but... people have been saying things, about how i’m only here because of my sister, that i’m using her fame... and stuff like that... i want to prove something to them. and prove something to myself. that i’m here because i’m me. i need to do well, so they can realize that i’m my own person with my own dreams... i need to do well. i’ll take better care of myself, i promise.”
(tw: blood end)
and he feels a little closer to jei after that, despite her giving him a look (the kind of look that really did remind him of his older sister back home). haknyeon somehow finds himself finally getting some rest along with the two other boys, the three of them cuddled up in a corner, lying down and sleeping. it’s moments later that he feels something warm on top of him and he cracks an eye open to see jei placing a blanket over them (and then to hear moonbin letting out a woof).
the day of the performance comes and haknyeon’s dressed a lot more darkly than he’d been in previous performances. he takes in the crowd and a smile forms on his face, he remembers his name being mentioned in the previous episode, a girl claiming that she was a fan of his. a fan. he wonders briefly how many he has there in the crowd.
“as above, so below! hello we are team styx!” they say in unison before they bow. “here to bring the team luck! i’m styx’s lucky boy, haknyeon!” he winks to the camera and he can’t help the way his face gets a little red out of embarrassment after his introduction.
they get into position after the introductions and haknyeon’s gaze immediately changes. he’s no longer the bright kid he’d been just seconds ago whilst introducing himself, he was a villain now. a tormentor of sorts.
the stage is completely back save for a spotlight on the girls, and jei begins to sing. then moonbin begins to sing and haknyeon dances to the choreography they’ve had made.
it’s a dark storyline after all, and he makes sure his facial expression matches the genre of their performance. a song about toxic love –– haknyeon delves deep into himself to bring out his role in the performance.
as the song builds up, so does the choreography and haknyeon dances, eyes intense whenever he meets the camera as he dances. the chorus comes to an end and it’s haknyeon’s turn to rap.
during the previous performance, he’d been able to showcase his abilities and he’s a lot more confident now with his rap, ready to show the audience and judges that he can do a lot more.
dabi eomneun dabane damman jugeorago sseo
sarange kongkkakjiga anin saegangyeongeul kkyeo
ireon sigeuro hal baen geunyang heeojineun ge naasseo
neol mannaseo oeropdamyeon honja oeropgo malgesseo
( i write answers to the questions which haven’t got answers
i now get to have doubt instead of crush
rather than being like this we’d better break up
if i get lonely with you, i get lonely alone )
the lyrics are dark and haknyeon shows a different side of him as he raps. lifting a brow at the words with a sinister smirk plastered across his face. he dances, intense before it’s his turn once more.
sirheo sirheo nan neo sirheo
sirheo sirheo nan neo sirheo
( hate hate, i hate you, hate
hate hate, i hate you, hate )
he lifts his hands up and points to the front as he raps, gaze intense. at the last line, he makes a gun gesture and ‘shoots’.
the dancing and storyline continues as the other’s sing their lines and haknyeon gets ready for his joint rap duo moment with minho after moonbin sings his high note. he’s glad that he gets along well with minho, somewhat confident that the both of them would be able to pull off a good performance.
modu nal duryeoweohae so I’m untouchable man
geunde ne jinshimeun wae gyeolguge nal geobu motae
( everyone’s afraid of me, so i’m untouchable man
but in the end, you can’t reject me )
he starts off the rapping, furiously running a hand through his hair as he does so, dark smile on his face. the next lines go to minho and haknyeon backs him up. “who?” he says in the background, followed by “how we do!”
nal geudaero badadeuryeo
( accept me for who i am )
haknyeon raps again and then minho’s line comes in, the both of them in sync with each other.
niga gyeondil manhan gotongeul nuryeo
deo gipi ppajeodeureo
( enjoy the pain that you’re able to endure
fall deeper inside )
the lyrics are dark, tormenting even, and it suits the character that he’s playing right now –– the storyline that their team has decided to go with.
domanggaji ma neon yeongweonhi maemdora brah
( don’t run away, you’ll forever linger near )
and with that the chorus of monster plays and they dance, following their own choreography. haknyeon’s quite into the role of the tormentor he has and truth be told, he’s glad that he was able to rap as a duo with minho.
“i don’t need you, hate, no no,” he raps to blend into the mashup. “sirheo sirheo nan neo sirheo, sirheo sirheo nan neo sirheo, sirheo, sirheo nan neo sirheo” he continues, still dancing as he raps.
the song comes to an end and haknyeon exits through the side as it focuses back on the couple and jei. he watches as the stage ends, satisfied.
when they get backstage haknyeon can’t help the satisfied smile that makes it’s way across his face. “we’ve all worked hard!” he says, “thank you for that performance.”
