Dependence Pt. 3 (Roy!Sibling X Roy Family)

It's his song

Haiiiii !! I love the way you write and I wondered if I could request a gnreader x steve if that's okay and if u still have time! Like maybe a scene where Steve visits a music store to get somebody of the group (maybe Robin, Dustin or someone else) a birthday present but he's totally stumped nd doesn't know what to get and by total coincidence the Reader is there and helps! (i hope this isn't too over the top or that i wrote too much??)

You can ignore this bit if it limits your creativity in any way but maybe the Reader's a total airhead who seems to be addicted to the word dude and has kind of an cali valley boy vibe (but also a total metalhead ofc)

Thank you and i wish u a very comfortable day/night and send u lots of virtual hugs!

(ﾉﾞ⌯'⌄'⌯)ﾉﾞ*。⋆💓

gn!reader | thank you for the req!! virtual hugs right back at ya

Not once in his life has Steve been in a record shop.

Similarly, not once has he shopped for Robin and it was far beyond him what she generally liked.

Clothes — what if the stuff he bought didn’t fit her style? Food — did she have some allergies that he didn’t know about?

After much contemplation and a tip from Max, who had so graciously played messenger pigeon for him, he’d decided that it was only appropriate to buy her… something to do with music. He’d seen the bulky record player sitting on the end table by her door, the shelf under bare of actual records and, at this point, collecting dust.

The bell jingles as he steps into Dave’s Records on the far side of town, nose flooded with the scent of something musty and lemony window spray.

The air is cold, lights dim and displays colored orange by the sunset through the large glass windows. He’d figured it was wise to go at the tail end of the shop’s hours — more time for him to spend stalling because, in reality, he had no clue what Robin liked. Other than stuff on the radio, she’d never mentioned her music to him.

A sharp voice cuts suddenly through the Queen plays softly over the speakers hidden in the ceiling, shouting something unintelligible from the back of the store.

Steve peeks around the corner, seeing you in a heated argument with the shop’s owner.

“Twenty dollars for this is absurd, dude,” you borderline yell, hand slamming in a fist to the glass countertop. “Don’t be crazy, come on!”

The shopkeeper merely shakes his head. “Twenty. Take it or leave it.”

To his better judgement, Steve turns to the shelves to continue browsing in favor of interjecting. The selection is overwhelming — bands he’d never heard of, popular stuff that was an equivalent of working two weeks on minimum wage.

There’s a loud groan and a clattering sound, then angry footsteps approaching him.

“Twenty!” you exclaim softly from beside Steve, hands deftly flipping through the different cardboard jackets of red, purple, black, blue. “Twenty is absurd, don’t you think?”

“I dunno,” he says, staring intently at his sneakers looking pristine white next to your beat-up Converse, your laces tuned gray and rubber toes smeared with dirt and grime. Sharpie doodles litter the edges — sloppily-done stars, stick figures, other stuff he couldn’t make out long faded by the sun.

The white tips of your shoes turn to face his.

“Huh?”

“Like, I mean I don’t really know what’s a reasonable price,” Steve says quickly, pretending to be pointedly interested in whatever Overkill was. “I never shop here.”

“Oh.” You turn back to the display, lips set into a tight line.

The music fades out, leaving the air still and silent and stifling save for the whirring of a fan somewhere in the back.

There’s the scuffing of the carpet as you toe at a fraying line of loose thread, hands falling to your sides. “Didn’t take you for someone who likes metal,” you comment offhandedly in a way he suspects is only to fill the silence.

“What?” Steve glances up, then back to the display in front of him to realize he was, in fact, looking through the metal stuff that Robin definitely had no interest in. “Oh. I’m, uh, shopping for a friend.”

“Cool,” you say, hugging your choice of record to your chest. “Okay. Bye, then.”

You turn on your heel, halfway disappeared around the stand towards the counter to browse elsewhere, business finished in the metal section.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, deliberating for a moment, before reaching out to tap your shoulder before you can get too far.

“Could you help me really quick?”

He can see you considering it, cogs clicking in your brain before you offer a slight grimace.

“Sure, if it’s fast,” you say with palpable hesitance, “I have a… thing.”

“So, my friend Robin-”

“Robin Buckley?”

Steve gapes. “Huh? How’d you know?”

You start off towards the front of the store, weaving in between displays and stacks upon stacks of records.

“Who else in this town is named Robin?” you ask, stopping in front of a bunch of stuff Steve’d never taken the time to listen to. The Smiths, Depeche Mode, INXS. “And I know her from school. You shopping for her birthday?”

Steve reaches up, the fabric of his windbreaker crinkling as he rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, actually. I know she has a record player and she likes music, so-”

There’s the switch lightbulb over your head, eyes lighting up as you adjust your cap. “Oh, sure. We talk about music all the time,” you say, turning back to the stand.

Your fingers brush against the tops of numerous records before settling on what Steve can’t make out beyond a pinky-reddish blob with black around the edges.

“Man, she loves The Cure,” you state matter-of-factly, holding out your choice to him. “She never stops talking about ‘em. And I know she doesn’t have this one ‘cause she’s been talking about saving up for it. So I’m sure she’ll like it.”

Steve takes it with hesitance, staring at the cover. Pornography. Nice.

“Thanks,” he says, still squinting and trying to make out the faces on in middle. He looks back up. “Really. Thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” you say back, shooting him a quick, tight-lipped smile. “I’d better go. Nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, bye…” He watches your retreating finger as you disappear into the sunny parking lot, eventually making his way up to the counter on his own.

He slides the record across the counter, mildly disturbed by the guy with a cigarette between his lips.

“Twenty dollars,” he says.

I believe wholehwartedly that with every kid of the golden trio - Ken, Rome and Shiv - there has been a moment or multible moments when they were young (2 - 8 y.o) where they accidentally called Connor "Dad".

come watch eurovision we got:

funky uncle squad ready to throw hands with the nearest dictator

human neon conga line

thor in a toyota

pagan wedding rituals

edgar allan poe

token boyband

tiny woman in a box

possessed barbie dolls

xena, warrior singer

matrix cosplayers

glam rock fire lord ozai

cyberpunk ninjas and modern art sculptures

and lastly, europe when the votes come in

Pyrexia (Roy!Sibling x Kendall Roy)

Character/s: Kendall, Connor, Shiv, Rome, Logan

Word Count: 1,387

Requested: Hii! I love all of your baby Roy sibling fics, especially your new one with Rome. I love protective Kendall so so much, especially in the election so when he sticks up for Shiv against Tom. Could I request something with protective Kendall (maybe the other siblings if it suits) where they look after you while hurt or comfort you or something similar? If not that is fine!! Thank you so so much <;3 - anon

Requested: ohohoh!! Maybe roy!sibling being very sick to the point where they go into self-isolstion mode not contacting anybody and their siblings worry about them? Adore your fics and I always get really excited when you post a new one!! Hope you are recovering well from the tattoo! - anon

Warning/s: sickness

Tag: @locke-writes

A/N: I hope you don't mind my loves, I combined your requests. I hope you like it!!! Thank you for such kind words my loves!!! My tattoo is healing perfectly!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Your mother used to run the bath ice cold. She’d guide you in, even as you shuddered, even when you cried. She placed a stern hand around your shoulder, ever so lightly pushing you deeper into the water. She’d pour it over your head, warning you to close your eyes. You played with cups, filling and refilling, too old for toys. You’re never sure how long you stayed there. She’d leave you there, the bathroom door shut, until your teeth were chattering. Clicking out of your skull. Sometimes it was one of your siblings who stood you up again. Your mother had fallen asleep, drink perfectly in hand, on the couch. Sometimes she would leave the house, forgetting all about you. Rarely would she find her way back to you, years it felt passing you by, wrapping you in a towel. Those times were your favorite. Falling into her, smelling her perfume and favorite drink on her breath. Mostly though, it was one of your siblings pulling you from the bath. They’d pick out mismatched pajamas and tuck you in beside them, hushing you to sleep, wet hair sinking into the pillow. You’d still be shaking, freezing, and they would wrap you up tight in as many blankets as they could get. 

A cold bath will break this fever, you can still hear her voice. So clear, so sure, so far away. You weren’t sure if it really did work, if any tricks she pulled out of nowhere actually worked, or if it just made her feel like she was doing something, but you tried again anyways. It made you feel like you were four years old again. Chubby little hands splashing through the water. Despite yourself, the ache in your little bones, you could find a small ounce of joy. This time it was your tub, massive and pristine, filling up. Your wet pajamas falling off your body, drenched in sweat. You had to hold on to the edge just steady yourself, dizzy, lightheaded. You weren’t about to be sick, there was nothing left in your stomach. Please work, you begged whoever would listen, please let this work. You grit your teeth, stepping inside. All the way up to your chin, you sink deeper and deeper. Holding your breath, you dunk your head under, the cold kissing your burning cheeks. It makes you shiver. 

You catch your breath, leaning your head back. You half expect to hear your mother through the door, her shrill voice, on the phone, talking nonsense. She’d stick her head into the doorway, checking if you moved a muscle. You lay completely still trying not to grin. They weren’t always happy memories. She wasn’t always there when she should have been, but this you could laugh at. How ridiculous it all was. Forgetting about your child in the bath? How many pills was she on? You think of your brothers and sister pressing the back of their hand to your forehead, looking at you with startled eyes. You were so fussy, pushing them away, beginning to cry. You just wanted to feel better. That was all. You wanted to feel like yourself again. You remember little, everything is a haze. Kendall called Connor over when you stirred in his bed, when you became hysterical. Big brown eyes watching you, fearing for you. They’d always calm you down. They’d always find a way. He never minded that your hair was wet, that you’d whimper in your sleep, in your fever dreams. You were his baby. Always. 

Your fingers prune. The cool settles. Your cheeks are still burning, your forehead on fire. You don’t remember climbing out, draining the tub. You don’t remember settling there on the bathroom rug, towel wrapped around you. Your muscles ache, your joints flare. Even if you wanted, the bed was too far. Besides, you’d been camped out on the couch in front of the tv for days. All your things remained untouched in the living room. Your phone, put on silent, in between the cushions. Cups lined the coffee table, an army of half-finished drinks. You think you’re dreaming when you hear his voice again. Y/n? Y/n? Come on kid, let’s get you up. Gentle hands guiding you up, those familiar eyes startled, scared. You forgot you gave him a key. He holds you close, your skin dry. How long were you asleep? He waits while you get dressed, painstakingly slow. Everything hurts.

You don’t have the energy to ask him questions, you can barely pull your shirt over your head. Why was he here? How did he know you were home? Wasn’t he supposed to be at work, with dad? Patiently, he waits outside the door, checking in every few minutes. You must look awful. His expression looked pained, as if looking at you made him hurt. I tried a cold bath, you start, but never finish. He nods, bringing you into the living room. You’d collected every blanket you could only to kick them all off, too hot for your own skin. He sits you down, trying to figure out what to do first. Indecisive, he grabs your phone and all the cups, putting them in the sink, grabbing a charger. You hadn’t noticed all the missed texts. From him, from Connor and Shiv and Rome. all of them worried about you. I’m sorry, I was so tired, I didn’t- It’s okay. His tone is so gentle, so tender, his expression melting into an understanding smile. No one’s upset, we were just worried, that’s all. 

He gets you capfuls of medicine, orange and berry-flavored. Thick, syrupy, sticky. You feel like you’ll throw it all up again. He tucks you in, pulling the covers over you. You look so small, so little, like you did when you were a child. You sleep the same way: restless. The fever dreams are vivid and scary and every time you wake up, he’s there. He’s always there. The tv changes, and his jacket is left on the other side of the couch. There’s a bowl of soup before you that is first steaming and then cold. He’s on the phone, speaking quietly. To your brothers, your sister, even your father. They are all worried. Just a fever, he assures them, though the lines on his forehead tell another story. Every once in a while he places his hand to your forehead. Slowly, so slowly, you seem to be cooling down. You’re not eating or drinking, just sleeping. In and out. The lighting has changed, the sun has set, and though you insist, he has no intentions of sleeping. 

Kendall should have known. He should have known because you always do this. You didn’t want to bother anyone when you weren’t feeling well. You didn’t want to worry anyone. It was easier to self-isolate, to crawl back to sleep and re-emerge when you were back to yourself again. He cleaned up the kitchen, the bathroom, and threw in a load of laundry. Anything to get this nervous energy out. Finally you calmed down a bit, your dreams becoming less and less vivid. He still remembers those long nights when you were a kid. Your wet hair, your baby breath, the colorful pajamas. How he’d sit and wait and worry until your fever broke, until the coughing stopped, until your shivering subsided. Your mother would check on you in the morning, but he watched you all night. He was your big brother. He had to protect you from everything. He should, at least, but he can’t. So he waits. He checks on you. He gives you more medicine, hating to wake you up. He assures everyone that it’s nothing, he’s got it handled. Even Logan, so unlike himself, was as concerned as he could be. No one had heard from you in days. They’re getting better, he says, and you are. He’s thankful. Grateful. Relieved. In the morning you’ll eat something. You’ll drink tea and water. You’ll talk with him about work, about Rava and the kids, about your family. You’ll laugh and for the first time since he got there he’ll see you through the sickness. You’re getting better. He wasn’t there in the beginning, but he’s glad he could be there now. He’ll  always be there for you.

this broken design, ch11

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: “Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: kidnapping, canon typical blood/violence/gore, mentions of animal dissection (just the words "animal dissection")

You fall in and out of consciousness. One moment, you’re roughly dragged along the ground past Alana’s house; the next moment, there’s a blindfold secured over your eyes and you’re situated in what you guess to be the trunk of a car. You feel every minute bump in the road and you swear the driver is intentionally hitting potholes, if only to jostle you around more. At some point, you feel your vision fading—even amidst your best efforts to remain awake. You know you need to stay conscious to escape, but your body refuses to obey your commands.

The next time you wake, you’re met with an incessant, throbbing headache. You wearily blink your dry eyes open, wincing as light sears into your vision. Left with nothing but a buzzing silence and your thoughts, you berate yourself for letting your guard down. You had forgotten the nature of the people you were investigating. You’re in danger. You take a deep breath around the gag in your mouth and try to remain calm. Thankfully, your blindfold must have been removed at some point. 

Surveying your surroundings, you find a dilapidated dining room with dusty trinkets lining the walls. There’s a fanciful chandelier hanging over the luxurious dining table, which has seven empty seats. You’re located at the back head of the table—your wrists bound to the arms of the chair you were placed in. There are mere ropes holding you to the chair, but somehow, you can hardly even move, let alone try to get out of them. You must have been drugged—with something potent enough to remove all traces of physical resistance from your system. You can’t do anything more than make your fingers twitch from where they’re resting on the edges of the chair arms. Moreover, when you do manage to move them, your hand twitches sporadically. That’s definitely not a good sign.

It’s hard to stay awake, even though you know you need to be conscious and aware of your surroundings to keep yourself safe. There’s nothing to occupy you except for the monotonous ticking of a clock in the hall behind you, your blurred vision, and your aching limbs. 

At one point, when you drag yourself out of the void of unconsciousness, you find that you have a companion. Frederick Chilton is sitting in the chair on your right. You blink at him blearily and try to get his attention, only to remember that you’re both gagged and nearly unable to move. Upon closer investigation, it looks like he’s unconscious. You don’t stay conscious long enough to learn anything about Chilton’s situation or see your captor. Weirdly enough, your captor has been strangely absent—leaving you to decay amidst molding walls in solitude. Each time you fight off unconsciousness, you notice that Chilton is more roughed up. Your captor has a grudge against him, and it doesn’t take you long to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Ironically, by trying to protect Alana, you only ended up putting yourself in more danger. If you had the strength, you’d shake your head in disbelief. 

The opportunity to speak with your captor finally comes the next time you wake. The man, evidently finished with torturing Chilton for the day—judging by the blood soaking through the man’s shirt—tightens the ropes around Chilton’s wrists. This is your chance. “Gideon?” You feel yourself asking. It comes out muffled because of the gag. Your voice is dry and raspy; your entire mouth is dry and the words almost seem to bounce around restlessly. 

You blink at the figure. It looks like Hobbs. But, no, it can’t be Hobbs—Hobbs is dead. You blink and try to peel away the Minnesota Shrike’s cloying visage. The sickly emerald tones in his eyes fall away to reveal a sharp blue-eyed gaze. Dr. Abel Gideon is looking at you with interest; Chilton is no longer the subject of his attention. You cast a hateful gaze at Chilton’s prone form, feeling a momentary stab of satisfaction at seeing him hurt. You have to rip yourself from those thoughts to focus on Gideon, who is now standing next to you. 

“I must say, you were out for quite a while,” Gideon hums. You can’t tell if he’s speaking to himself or to you. He turns your chair ninety degrees to make you face him. “Perhaps I overdid it with the drugs. I haven’t been at the operating table in quite a while…” His focused musings are eerie. The man is treating you as if you’re an experiment—an animal on his dissection table. Eventually, Gideon sighs and removes the gag from your mouth. 

“Why did you take me?” You ask immediately. That’s the first thing you want to know. You can justify Chilton’s presence here—he worked with Gideon in the past and nearly convinced him he was the Chesapeake Ripper. You’ve never done anything of the sort, however. You’re not a mental health professional, nor have you even spoken to Gideon aside from the single conversation you had through the bars of his cell. 

Unsurprisingly, Gideon doesn’t answer your question. You’re not even sure if he can hear what you’re saying. “Say hello, Frederick.” Your assailant says instead, momentarily stepping aside to make sure you can see the man in question. Frederick Chilton cannot say hello, since several of his organs have been evidently removed and he is unconscious. You grimace. You don’t like the man, but you don’t think he deserves to be mutilated so cruelly. You swallow hard. “Might as well have some fun before I dispose of you properly.”

It takes you a moment to comprehend that statement. You look up, only to find that Gideon isn’t looking at Chilton anymore—he’s looking at you. You take a rattling breath in. Gideon walks away for a treacherous moment. Your heart is racing in your chest, so loudly that its rhythm reverberates in your ears. He’s back a moment later with a knife in hand. His fascination with Chilton is gone. The psychiatrist lies neglected in his chair, unconscious but ignored. For the first time in your life, you envy Frederick Chilton.

“Dr. Lecter is rather fond of you. Perhaps if I…” Gideon breaks off. Quick as lightning, he drags his knife along the skin near your left eye. You scream and writhe in your bonds, but he only smirks. You know that’s going to leave a nasty scar. That must be the point, you think to yourself faintly. He wants to leave a mark on you. “I forgot how enjoyable this was.” You want to kick at him, but Gideon must sense your thought process because he quickly steps out of range. 

You’re left to slowly dissipate in your chair, the uncomfortable sensation of warm blood trickling down your face. At one point, you feel droplets fall from your eye in a manner rather similar to tears. The next time you blink, your vision is crimson-tainted. Your vision doesn’t seem to be affected, other than the blood falling into your eyes. The entire left side of your face is stinging. This time, when you feel your eyes slip shut, you don’t fight it. 

You have no idea how much time passes after that. It’s clear that the drug is still in your system, because you can’t keep yourself awake for more than what you assume to be an hour or two. Chilton remains a steady, silent presence at your side. Each time you wake, you realize that he looks no better than before. You can hardly focus on him, though—not when it’s been several days (you can assume) since you’ve had anything to eat or drink. Your limbs are cooperating with your commands a bit more than before, but you know you’re still nowhere near your usual level of fitness. 

The ugly sound of a chair scraping against the ground jerks you out of your thoughts. Gideon is dragging a chair towards the table—a chair that is inhabited by a redheaded woman that looks far too familiar. It doesn’t take you long to recognize where you know her from—she’s Freddie Lounds, the same reporter who has been dragging your reputation through the mud all these years. Gideon pushes her to a place at the table at your left, opposite Frederick Chilton. Dread stews in your chest. This feels more significant than you can currently comprehend. Gideon stands at the other end of the table, his gaze contemplative as he looks from Chilton to Lounds, before finally settling on you. You immediately dislike the strange resolve in his eyes. 

“Choose.”

“What?” You say. 

“Choose,” Gideon repeats. There is nothing short of complete, utter sincerity in his voice. “Choose who lives and who dies.” You stare at him in disbelief, wondering if you misheard him. Evidently, you didn’t—Gideon is holding a gun in his right hand and seems to be waiting for your command. There’s an entertained smile on his face. He must be enjoying this spectacle—seeing you come to terms with the fact that you will be the cause of an onlooker’s death. 

You glance between Freddie Lounds and Frederick Chilton. Who should live? Who should die? You have both of their lives in your hands right now. Freddie shoots you a wide-eyed look. Frederick looks equally terrified and his eyes are begging you for help. You experimentally tug at the ropes binding your wrists to the chair. Unsurprisingly, they don’t budge. You try to think of a way out of this. It takes you a few moments to remember that you do have a weapon—a dagger concealed in your boot. However, it’s nearly impossible to reach without informing Gideon of its presence. It seems you’re well and truly cornered. You have no choice but to kill. 

You contemplate who to save. It’s a macabre thought, but a necessary one nonetheless. You’re sure that your hesitation would only encourage Gideon to kill both Lounds and Chilton. You take a deep breath. Chilton worked with Gideon on numerous occasions, and manipulated him into thinking he was someone else. Lounds wrote some unsavory things about you, but she’s ultimately innocent in all this. She’s nothing but a bystander—a civilian in the wrong place at the wrong time. You take a shuddering breath in.  

Gideon is waiting expectantly. You return his gaze and incline your head towards Chilton. In a true show of cowardice, you can’t say his name. You don’t want to utter his name—don’t want to succumb to the reality that he will die because of you. The smirk on Gideon’s face widens impossibly, showing crooked pointed teeth and a truly maleficent elation. You watch as he pulls a gun from his belt—evidently stolen from his prison transports—and cocks it. Gideon steps around the table and moves to stand a mere few feet away from Chilton—far too close for him to miss. The gun is steadily aimed at Chilton’s temple. 

Gideon’s finger squeezes the trigger. Your heart is thundering in your ears, but you know what you need to do. Your arms are trapped but, thankfully, your ankles aren’t bound to the chair. You lean forward and kick Chilton’s chair as hard as you can. 

The gun fires. 

Chilton falls to the ground. The bullet resides in the wall behind him, leaving the drywall to crumble around the entrance point. You wait for a puddle of crimson blood to grow on the floor, turning the carpet red. Nothing of the sort is present. Frederick is unscathed. 

“Well, well,” Gideon remarks, putting the gun on his belt for a minute to deliver a slow, mocking clap. The applause echoes in the hollow space around you, creating a horrible rhythm. Freddie’s eyes are wide and the expression on her face is indecipherable; it almost looks as if she’s truly seeing you for the first time. “You think you’re clever, do you?” You don’t elect to respond. 

“Fine,” Gideon remarks. “You’ve made your choice.” 

Gideon cocks his gun and pushes it against your own temple this time. He raises an eyebrow, as if daring you to utter your last words. You stare back at him defiantly, heart in your throat. Just as his finger squeezes the trigger once more, you rock your chair to the side with enough momentum to send you crashing down to the ground. You sense the cold metal of your dagger resting against your ankle, and it only takes a second of manipulation for the dagger to fall down to the floor. From there, you twist and lean back until you can grasp at it with your bound hands. You maneuver to the side and duck under the table to guard yourself from the onslaught of gunfire. With the momentary coverage, you’re able to cut through the ropes binding your wrists to the chair. The effort is rather awkward and certainly hurts, but you’re miraculously able to get your hands free. You idly wonder if Gideon is giving you this time to break free of your bonds, if he wants the thrill of the hunt. The thought makes your stomach turn.  You crawl under the table and jump out at the side. You’re quickly met with the business end of Gideon’s gun and a malicious smirk. You dive to the side and roll, swiftly getting to your feet and wielding your dagger. 

In a gunfight, the person with a dagger is far outmatched. Right now, Gideon has the upper hand, since he has a gun. You need to fight offensively—fighting defensively will get you killed here. You also need to be unpredictable—fight dirty, use common household objects as weapons. Perhaps most importantly, you need to move the fight elsewhere. Otherwise, Chilton and Lounds could be injured in the conflict. Knowing this, you decide to turn and duck down the hallway behind you, confident that Gideon will follow after you. Sure enough, you hear his footsteps follow you through the hall. You sprint down the hall, ducking around corners until you come across a small supply closet. It’s just barely big enough to stand in and you do so, before pressing your lips together and holding your breath. 

“Ready or not, here I come,” Gideon announces, his footsteps echoing in the eerily silent hall. The floorboards in front of the closet creak and you have to put a hand over your mouth to stifle your breathing. The killer pauses in his tracks just outside where you’re hiding. 

You duck down instinctually and a bullet rifles through the closet door where your head had been just seconds ago. Gideon shoots another bullet a short distance from the first and it nearly skims the top of your head as you’re bending down. Eventually, he must decide that you’re not in the closet, because he continues walking forward. 

You take the gifted opportunity and shove the closet door open, before lunging forward and stabbing Gideon in the back of the neck. He lets out a pained hiss and claps a hand over his neck, before turning around and firing at you. That shot seems far too close for you to dodge, but soon Gideon is lunging at you and the thought slips to the back of your mind. You bend low and manage to tackle him to the ground, before making a grab for the gun. Your effort fails as Gideon throws you off of him with ease. Quick as lightning, he pushes you into the ground and chokes you. His gun meets the side of your head and his grip on your neck tightens, effectively robbing you of breath. 

Your vision is beginning to blur. You know you’re near the end; you don’t have much air left. You try to kick out at him, but Gideon doesn’t budge. Your hand scrabbles for purchase on his relentless grip, trying to free your airway. In the scuffle, you somehow lost your dagger. You blindly reach behind you with your free hand, praying that it fell to the floor behind you. To your surprise, your hand closes around something sharp—your dagger. You don’t hesitate to stab upward into his left eye. Gideon screams and instinctively loosens his grip on your neck. His hold on his gun is loose; you twist to the side, ignoring the inexplicable stab of pain in your side when you do so, and rip it from his grasp. Gideon’s left hand covers his eye and his right hand reaches out towards his gun, which you’re now holding. You don’t give him the chance to get it back, instead putting the pistol to his temple and firing. 

Gideon falls backward, hitting the ground with a loud thump. You push yourself up to a sitting position before twisting to kneel, desperately hacking and coughing as you regain your breath. You’re certain you’d never been closer to death than in that awful moment, with Gideon looming over you with a devilish smirk on his face. You must’ve bitten your cheek somehow, because there’s the coppery taste of blood in your mouth. It hurts to swallow. Once you regain your breath, you stumble up and brace yourself against the wall. Gideon’s corpse burns into your vision. 

Laughter reverberates in your ears. Garret Jacob Hobbs stands further down the hall, a brilliant maniacal smirk on his face. There is nothing but malicious glee in his eyes. Your first victim regards your latest. You blink and Hobbs becomes Franklyn Froideveaux. Franklyn stares at you with hollow, unseeing pits for eyes. His skin rifles outward, exposing the mess of bloodied organs residing in his chest and stomach.

For a fraction of a moment, the pendulum swings before your eyes. Gideon’s body is still in front of you but, when you blink, it’s gone. You hiss and grit your teeth hard, trying to rip yourself out of this reverie. This is your design. This is your design. Your bullet carved a neat hole in his forehead, allowing crimson droplets to flow down his face and onto the ground. The wound on his neck must be adding to the accumulating puddle of blood. 

There’s a stifled yell from behind you and you’re broken from your thoughts. You turn your back on Gideon’s corpse and run back to the dining room, only to meet the eyes of Freddie Lounds. “Miss Lounds,” you remark, wincing at how raspy your voice is. The effort to speak feels slightly uncomfortable. You continue anyway. “I’m sorry, let me help you there.” You move toward her and use your dagger to cut the ropes binding her wrists. Then, you cut the gag off from where it’s knotted at the back of her head. Freddie doesn’t say anything, but she does rub her wrists with a pained grimace. You immediately feel guilty. Somehow, it feels as if it’s your fault that she’s here. 

There’s a strange expression on Freddie’s face as she regards you. She almost looks… worried. “What’s the matter?” You feel the need to ask. Freddie wordlessly points at your torso. You look down and grit your teeth, feeling a brutal pain ripping the breath right from your chest. 

There’s a bullet lodged in your side—the oblique, you remember from your lectures. You immediately remember the shot from earlier—the one that came far too close to dodge. In the heat of the battle, you hadn’t noticed. Now, you wince and bring a hand down to exert pressure on the wound. Freddie’s staring at you in disbelief. For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence as the two of you remain quiet. Then, Freddie inexplicably moves towards the table and grabs a napkin. She hands it to you and you thank her, pressing it up against your side. Unsurprisingly, the fabric is quickly growing bloodstained. You take a deep breath and try to look over your shoulder, despite the pain it triggers in your side. It seems the bullet didn’t exit your body. 

You weakly grasp at the wall, before slowly sliding down until you’re seated on the ground. There’s a bead of sweat trickling down your neck. Your adrenaline was pumping before, bringing your attention away from the inexplicable discomfort at your side. Now, however, all you can focus on is the throbbing pain. 

“Freddie,” you remark. The reporter raises an eyebrow. “Can you…?” You break off, looking at the phone mounted to the wall in the other room. It’s just barely visible from your current position on the ground. Freddie seems to understand what you’re saying, because she runs over to the phone and dials 911. You raspily tell her to mention Jack Crawford and she does, from what you can hear. 

“They’re on their way,” Freddie says. It’s the first time she’s spoken since Gideon first brought her into the dining room. Your vision is blurry at the edges, but you can still make out the shell shocked expression on Freddie’s face. She looks completely out of her element—startled and disturbed, as if the world has just flipped on its axis. Guilt finds a way into your heart again. 

“I’m sorry.” You manage to say, past the bloody taste in your mouth. 

“Why are you apologizing?” Freddie asks. She’s squinting at you in suspicion. 

“My fault,” you respond through gritted teeth. Somehow, the effort to talk is now met with a harsh twist of pain that bolts through you like lightning. You continue to apply a rather shaky pressure to the wound, grimacing when you see the napkin is now crimson. Freddie gets up and grabs a few more napkins, before squatting down next to you once more. 

“It’s not your fault,” Freddie murmurs, shaking her head and averting her eyes. She looks relatively unharmed—at least, physically speaking. She is justifiably shaken by the events that transpired. Freddie changes the napkin in your hand for a fresh one. You whisper a word of gratitude and she nods, her lips drawn tight in a flat line. 

Time drags on. Everything around you is fuzzy. Freddie hovers over you, a surprisingly worried expression on her face. You try to reach out to her, weakly reassure her that she’ll be okay, but you can’t move. Everything burns. The adrenaline you had earlier must be wearing off, because now you’re intimately aware of all your wounds. Blood trickles down your lips, likely creating a rather gruesome picture—if Freddie’s expression is anything to go by. 

It feels like it takes years for help to arrive. You know it can’t be more than fifteen minutes, yet it feels as if you wait for an eternity. When you finally hear the distant sound of a door getting kicked in, you can’t help but let out a small relieved breath. Admittedly, even breathing hurts. You feebly adjust the napkin against your side. You hear the familiar words of agents announcing their entrance to the building. In moments, there are several agents entering the room. A tactical medic approaches you within moments. There’s blood seeping down your skin and soaking through your clothes. You don’t have the strength to do anything except exert a weak pressure on your wound. Your breaths are harsh gasps and increasingly hard to come by. You blink.

It’s hard to be aware of your surroundings. You manage to fight the urge to remain in this dreary darkness and your eyes flutter open. You’re reclined on a stretcher in an ambulance, with several straps preventing you from movement. Your vision is swimming, but you can vaguely make out faces looking over you. You blink a few times in an attempt to clear your sight; when your vision finally returns to normal, you feel fear strike through your heart. Hannibal is sitting at your side, a sharp gleam in his eyes. His brows are pinched in what you assume to be manufactured concern. There’s a paramedic at your side asking you questions, but the words all sound garbled. When you look back to Hannibal, you swear you see him smirking. A trick of the light, you tell yourself. Your heart starts thundering in your chest and a machine begins to beep incessantly. You don’t want to be so vulnerable in front of the Chesapeake Ripper, but you don’t quite have a choice. Your vision falls to black within a few moments. 

You manage to catch glimpses of the starry night sky, then the white ceiling of what must be a hospital. When you realize you’re being wheeled through a hospital hallway, you can’t help but grow more nervous. You’re tightly secured to the stretcher and you feel trapped. There’s an oxygen mask secured over your mouth and nose. You grimace instinctually from the pain shooting through you, rippling up your torso and down your skin. You try to move your hand, but you can only slightly bend your fingers. Alarms are blaring. 

Several nurses hover over you. They’re trying to speak to you, you think. You can’t answer. There’s nothing but overwhelming pain. Your fingers are twitching again. A tear slides down your cheek. The light above is blinding. Your hand is restless. You can’t stop fidgeting. 

Suddenly, Hannibal’s hand is on your forearm. His grip is incredibly loose but the pressure is somehow—regrettably—reassuring. Before you can contemplate the meaning behind the gesture, you’re slipping into unconsciousness once more. This time, however, you don’t wake. Instead, you’re left to drown in your own dreams and nightmares, removed from reality. 

taglist [comment if you'd like to be added/removed]: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown

For those of y'all who do have access to follow a TikTok link. Here's the video!!

Scintilla

An omega Steve Harrington x alpha reader fic- where Steve hides his secondary gender, nears the last of his heat suppressants, and resorts to anonymously ask the reader, a known 'omega' at the school to buy him some. Unbeknownst to him though, the reader aids the other 'hidden' omegas in the school to get them their suppressants without rumours circulating- The exchange of gifts between the two, which may lead to something... bigger?

So uh- this is my first Stranger Things fic, and truth be told I am still halfway through the first season, but Steve was to pretty for his own good, and uh- I love him sm- so here we are.

All my love and appreciation to my wonderful friend, @mysyerious who kindly beta read the fic, and supported the creation of this fic- ily sm, and thank you so much!!!

Masterlist

Scintilla: a spark or a trace of something

Ah, the small town of Hawkins. A place you had been born in. Where everyone knew everyone- which was simultaneously a good thing and a bad thing. A good thing in a sense, because people would notice if you went missing or if you wound up dead. At least you’d be found pretty early on. A bad thing, because everyone- literally everyone knows a lot about you. Not only that-

“More heat suppressants, eh?”

You nodded absentmindedly. The clerk ringing up your things gave you a knowing smirk.

“Y’know, heats usually pass by quicker if-”

You knew what was coming next. It was going to be the usual thing- an offer to quote unquote ease away the bi-annual occurrence.

Alphas and omegas were rare. Even rarer in a small place like Hawkins. Which meant- Rumours flew quickly. Gossips and whispers trailed behind those who bought heat suppressants and scent blockers.

“Fuck off,” you hissed out, shoving the wad of cash onto the counter before shoving the boxes of heat suppressants and scent blockers into your open bag.

You swiped the change the clerk handed you and glared at the man, to which he responded to with a shrug.

“Not my fault you’re the only omega around this place.”

You didn’t even bother to respond, instead pulling up your turtle neck sweater up to your nose, your lips tugging into a snarl.

You stomped out of Melvald’s General store, and let the slightly cool breeze brush your bare skin.

Despite the rumours and the whispers surrounding you- following you- you weren’t the only omega in Hawkins. Hell, you weren’t even an omega.

You were an alpha. One that bought necessities for the younger, hidden omegas. You were the one to direct all the rumours- the stereotypical jabs, the whispers and gazes- towards yourself.

You would endure it. The judging looks you got as you strutted down the halls, head held high, your scent forcibly pushed down. If they believed you were an omega, then you would allow them to think that.

The grateful looks thrown your way by the omegas you were protecting- the small parcels of sweets in your locker- notes of thanks, scrawled on a lined piece of paper or on the back of a half-completed worksheet- those all made you continue to help them all.

Even if you wanted to get out of this shitty place as soon as you could.

~ ♥~

You weren’t particularly fond of Hawkins High. It was a… school. Nothing more, and nothing less. Bustling of students- whispers and giggles- creaking of metal- the swirling of different scents merging into one. Lavender, tinges of nutmeg, and other scents you couldn’t place a finger on.

You leaned against your locker, letting your cheek rest on the cool metal momentarily before opening it to get your notebooks and folders. But something fluttered from in between the pages of your book.

The crumpled piece of paper slowly fell down onto the dirty hall floor and you were quick to step on it to prevent it from flying away somewhere else.

You were used to the fleeting, fading scents of your… ‘regulars’ on pieces of paper and wrapping. But this one- you lifted the paper to your face, sniffing slightly- you didn’t know it. That was weird. Mainly because you prided yourself in your ability to distinguish between different scents and matching them to the person. For example, Jonathan Byers had a faint, woody scent- oak. Nancy Wheeler had a scent so soft that it usually was smothered by the other scents around her- but you could smell it. The scent of detergent- of freshly done laundry.

But this? You don’t think you’ve ever smelt this metallic scent before. Not in this school- and not in this town.

You looked at the scrawled words written on the piece of paper.

Junkyard. 10 p.m. 3 bottles of suppressants + 6 sticks of scent blockers Leave them on the ground and go.

You scoffed slightly and neatly folded the piece of paper. This person was rude- weren’t they? You contemplated on whether or not you should just drop it on the ground and leave it there. Their words were demanding- and not at all polite. You weren’t really picky about attitudes, but- the words written rubbed you the wrong way.

Three bottles of heat suppressants? And six scent blockers? This omega must be desperate. And you did start buying all these omegan products to help them- the omegas who needed all these things but were afraid of the judgement of being one.

You looked down at the paper, rubbing the note with the pad of your thumb. You tilted your head up when you could feel a prickling stare at the top of your head. But- in front of you was the quote unquote popular kids; Tommy, Carol, and Steve.

You must have been imagining the sensation. The three of them wouldn’t pay attention to you. They were betas, and Harrington was an alpha. And you were, as perceived by the larger student body, an omega. Someone that should be ignored.

“Fuck it,” you lowly muttered, before shoving the piece of paper into your pocket. If this person wanted help, then you would give them help. It was what your inner alpha wanted to do. You didn’t have a pack of your own, so you would be content with taking care of other omegas. Maybe form a couple bonds.

As you twirled on your heels to make your way over to your homeroom, you could swear that you’d heard a near inaudible, relieved sigh.

~ ♥~

“Fuck.” Steve hissed out, as he rummaged through his room, fumbling under his clothes and other discarded objects for his bottle of suppressants. “Fuck.”

He ran a hand through his hair, a low uncontrollable snarl escaping his lips. His parents had been gone for a while- and they had been the ones to buy him these suppressants- away from this town- from the city. Nobody wanted an omega to sully the family name.

Thankfully though, he saw the glimmer of white under one of his sweaters. He immediately scrambled over to the bottle strewn on the ground. He lifted it to his ear and shook it, grimacing slightly at the rattling of the pills. He didn’t have a lot left. He could last a day? Maybe two, if he took half of what he normally took.

Either way, he was screwed.

Then, his mind flickered to you. The town’s ‘only’ omega. He knew you weren’t the only one. Steve’s inner omega might be suppressed and near non-existent, but his sense of smell was still better than most. He had sensed a couple of softer scents lingering near you. Scents he instinctively knew to be of an omega- or omegas.

And he also knew you bought a shit ton of suppressants each week. Both Carol and Tommy had mocked you for that. Making jokes about how you didn’t need those pills- that people would gladly help you through it-

Steve shoved those memories at the back of his mind. Instead, he ripped a piece of lined paper from one of his notebooks to quickly scribble note onto it. Scent blockers and suppressants- you would have some, right? Hell, nobody could go through all those bottles in a week-

He had to be careful though. He grabbed the stick of scent blocker to lather it onto his neck- right where his scent gland was. The instructions pasted on the stick had warned him to not apply it directly on his gland but- his dad had told him that this way was better. This way, his scent wouldn’t have the chance to touch the air.

Steve crumpled the piece of paper before shoving it unceremoniously into his pocket. He threw the stick of blockers onto his bed before pulling on a sweater.

Hopefully, you’d help him.

~ ♥~

You fiddled around with the piece of paper as you took a bite of your sandwich. Three bottles? Of suppressants? You were lucky that Pam was out of town this week. You could give her share of the meds to this mysterious omega.

You had asked your friends- the ones you took care of- but all had told you that this scent- the metallic tang of it- was something they had all not smelt before. Which meant that there was a possibility that this note was a trap of some sort.

Dean, who had taken a seat next to you during homeroom, had taken a look at the note and had vehemently insisted that you not go. You didn’t know who this was. He didn’t know who this was- what if you got hurt? What if you died trying to help others?

You had waved off his concern, patting his shoulder softly when you sensed his hold on his omegan scent slip. There hadn’t been a death or a disappearance in this town for a long while. You were safe.

Something was placed on the table in front of you. You were snapped out of your thoughts, and your gaze immediately flickered to the carton of juice with a sticky note reading ‘<3’ stuck on it.

And from the cheer uniform and the pony-tail swaying behind her, you knew that this was from Maria- another one of your regulars. She was less open with being seen with you, but she was a nice girl. Appreciative of what you did for her. Smiling and thanking you every time you slipped in what she asked of you into her bag.

You smiled to yourself before taking out the straw and sipping the juice, humming lowly under your breath.

Your good mood was dampened, however, by the sensation of something cold and wet being poured down on the top of your head.

You grimaced as you felt the liquid drip down your face, and onto your shirt. You immediately stood up from your seat, a near feral growl ripping from your lips as you turned around.

Only to come face to face with the asshole trio. Tommy, holding a now empty cup, with a shit-eating grin on his face. Carol, giggling with her arm looped around his. And Steve, who was smirking at your current predicament.

Your inner alpha was a snarling mess- you didn’t deserve this. You could easily rip the three of them a new one- you would win-

You took in a deep breath. No. You could endure this. You were fine. The shirt could be salvaged, and it wasn’t like Tommy poured sticky juice over you. It was just water. It would dry.

You reigned in your inner alpha. You can’t let your secondary gender slip now- you had too much to lose. If you exposed yourself as an alpha now, there would be more questions- about why you were buying heat suppressants. Why you were hoarding them-

“Oops.”

You were very close to snapping. Your hold on your scent was loosening. From the corner of your eye, you could see Dean look at you worriedly, and his posture half standing up, as if he were ready to run over to you. You subtly shook your head.

You opened your mouth to make a scathing remark, but-

Slightly callused fingers, warm and slightly smooth from the rings covering them, wrapped around your wrist and you could feel yourself being pulled along. You saw your friend give the trio a wide grin before flipping them all off. The earthy, petrichor scent engulfed you as you were briskly led out of the crowded cafeteria and out of the school building.

A familiar denim jacket was thrown into your arms when you shivered slightly as a cool breeze washed over you. You shrugged it on, nestling into the warmth that it provided you.

“Thanks, Eds.”

“Those fucking assholes.” He hissed out, as he slumped onto the metal bench. You followed suit, leaning your head against his shoulder. “You good?”

You wiped some of the remaining liquid from your forehead and nodded. You closed your eyes and sat in a rather comfortable silence.

You couldn’t wait to escape this shitty school- and the town. Just a couple more years.

“You wanna ditch this place?”

You popped your eyes open and grinned widely, to which Eddie responded with a slightly unhinged grin of his own.

“Thought you’d never ask, Munson.”

~ ♥~

“Huh. The freaks ran off together.” Carol said, as she settled on a bench next to Tommy. “How adorable.”

Steve simply nodded along to her words, thinking back to your expression and the subtle change in your scent when you turned to glare at them.

Carol and Tommy hadn’t noticed, but he did. An almost instinctive chill ran up his spine, and for a split second, he felt as if he couldn’t do anything but freeze. Something was up with you.

As he listened to the two talk more, he pushed his thoughts away. He didn’t need to think about this- about you. He just needed the meds- just until his parents came back to get him some more.

Then he’d never speak or interact with you again.

~ ♥~

It was dark. Nearly pitch black. You could just barely see the scraps of metal and junk in this yard. Why this person wanted you to drop off the bottles here of all places, you didn’t know.

Three bottles, as well as six scent blockers. All packed neatly in a plastic bag. You had also slipped in something sweet- a piece of hard candy you considered a guilty pleasure for yourself.

The junkyard was quite big, and truth be told, you didn’t know where to put this. Should you mark it to make sure this person picked it up correctly? You fiddled with one of your rings- a silver one, in the shape of a coiled dragon, one you had picked up from a yard sale- and pulled it off. You messed about with the bag and the ring, eventually being able to push a piece of plastic through it.

Satisfied with your handywork, you stood up from your crouch and nodded to yourself.

Hopefully, the person would see it. And maybe, next time, they would be less demanding.

~ ♥~

Steve emerged from behind a large piece of junk as he watched you walk away and get in a car. One he assumed was Munson’s- judging by the rainy scent lingering nearby.

He made his way over to the plastic bag, pulling off the silver ring from it to push it into his pocket. He checked to see if you had, true to your reputation, given him the right meds. And he let out a relieved sigh when he saw the familiar label of the suppressants.

You had delivered.

He frowned when he saw a neatly folded piece of paper nestled in between the bottles of suppressants. Steve pulled the note out and attempted to read it with the glimmer of light in the distance.

Hello, stranger. I don’t know you, but apparently, you know me. I won’t ask any questions. But I need to know. Are you a student at Hawkins High? Also, do you want me to keep supplying you with all this?

Steve thought momentarily. To be frank, he didn’t really know when his parents would be back. And truth be told, he didn’t know if they would remember to buy him the suppressants- hell, he didn’t even know if his parents would even remember that he was an omega-

He made a decision. One that he hoped he wouldn’t regret later on.

~ ♥~

You opened your locker, yawning. You really needed a coffee this morning. You groaned and knocked your forehead onto the cold metal of your locker. You really didn’t want to come to school today. A chemistry test- Sure, you studied for it. Reading your notes whilst Eddie threw pieces of popcorn at you, blasting Metallica with a shit eating grin on his lips.

You half expected all your books and pieces of paper to spill onto the ground, but you were pleasantly surprised when instead, you were greeted with a single stem of a white flower- a daffodil- stuck on the inside of your locker.

Next to it, was yet another note, tinged with that unknown metallic scent.

Yes. Same time + place next week?

You snorted at the curt words written on the lined paper. Whoever this person was- they were really aloof, weren’t they? Hell, they didn’t even return your ring! You liked that one. You got it for like fifty cents, but if was neat- and you were sure Eddie wanted it-

You plucked the daffodil from its place on your locker to tuck it behind your ear. You huffed slightly. At least this person gave you a flower- you’d forgive them this time.

“Keep your secrets, Harpocrates.” You muttered as you pulled the textbooks and folders that you needed for your classes. “Not that it matters to me. But I liked the ring.” You pulled out a well-thumbed edition of the Odyssey and slipped the note in between the pages. “Hey, as long as you keep giving me flowers, you’ll be forgiven.”

You felt it again. A burning gaze drilling into you. You quickly lifted your head to catch the brown eyes of the one and only ‘King’ Steve Harrington. You couldn’t place a finger on the expression gracing his features.

You held his gaze, raising your eyebrows at him. What? Did he have a problem with you? People thought you were weird either way. So, you were going to be weird whilst simultaneously being pretty.

Before you could say anything to him, an arm slung lazily around your shoulder, and the scent of petrichor hit you.

“You need something, Harrington?”

That expression was gone in an instant, instead replaced with what seemed like… faux swagger?

“No.”

“Then us freaks shalt be off.” Eddie said, giving the other a mock bow. You followed suit, as you tucked the fresh flower more securely. It would be a shame for this pretty flower to fall down onto the ground, only to be trampled under the shoes of the other students walking along this hallway. “Come on. Your dungeon master requires your presence.”

You rolled your eyes and snorted at Eddie’s emphasis on ‘dungeon master’.

“Don’t make it weird, pretty boy,” you said, to which he tilted his head back to laugh at.

And you left your locker, strutting confidently with your friend. The soft scent of daffodils following you as you walked.

Unbeknownst to you, a pair of eyes followed you until you slipped into your homeroom.

~ ♥~

Steve didn’t know what to feel when you tucked the flower- one he had impulsively picked- behind your ear. He didn’t know why he did it. But something had urged him to do it, and before he could fully comprehend what he was doing, the white flower was clenched in his hand.

He really didn’t have a choice, so he decided to just stick it in your locker with the reply to your note.

He had no idea what to do with the ring- it was an extravagant one, with detailed engravings on it- should he return it to you?

But before he could have contemplated further, he had seen Tommy and Carol walk towards him so, he had hurriedly hidden the ring deep down in his pockets.

Steve had wanted to ask- why did you leave your ring behind? Why did you wear the flower? Did you know he was this mysterious person? Is that why you were thinking out loud? For him to hear?

But when your eyes, curious, yet guarded, met with his, he knew that wasn’t the case. Even though he had all these questions in mind, he couldn’t bring himself to ask them. He seemed to freeze- like a deer in headlights-

And just when he gathered his wits to actually talk to you? Munson stepped in, his earthy scent very quickly covering yours- arm draped around your shoulders.

Truth be told, he didn’t know why he was so interested in you. He could have just waited for his parents to get him more meds. He had enough at home right now- but-

Steve rolled the silver ring in between his fingers as he walked over to his own homeroom.

You piqued his interest. You, with your subtle considerations and the somewhat strange atmosphere surrounding you. But- should he approach you? Give up on this ‘popular’ life he had meticulously built up since freshman year?

~ ♥~

“So.” Pam said, as she plopped down onto the cafeteria bench next to you, her tray clattering onto the plastic table. “A new customer, ay?”

“Wait- you’ve met them? Whoever it is?” Dean asked, as he reached towards your lunch tray to place his cup of jell-o onto yours.

You nodded, before brandishing your weathered copy of the Odyssey. You smiled at your friends as you brandished the daffodil, pressed in between two pieces of paper towels.

The two omegas looked at the flower, so carefully placed in between the pages, and they gave you a slightly incredulous look.

“…What?”

“I swear, most of your uh-” Dean hesitated momentarily “-‘customers’ give you shit like this- hell, I’ve probably given you more baked treats than I can even fucking remember-”

“I know.” You huffed out, as you peeled open the jell-o he had given you. “But nobody’s given me flowers.”

Your fingers gently ghosted over the fragile petals.

Pam snorted, making you snap your eyes towards her. You tilted your head to the side questioningly. Dean’s eyes were on her as well. She simply shook her head.

“Nothing- it’s just.” Pam shuffled to make space for Eddie, who had apparently decided to sit with you instead of the rest of the Hellfire club. “Didn’t take you for the romanticising type.”

Eddie laughed before wheezing out your name a couple of times. You glowered at him and nudged his side with your elbow.

“-is the sappiest person I know-”

“Shut up Munson-”

He simply stuck his tongue out at you, swiping at the unopened cup of jell-o on your tray.

“Always dreaming about what you would do when you eventually got bonded to someone-”

“Oh?” Dean said, a small grin forming on his lips. “I thought you never wanted one. I mean- that’s what you’ve told me, at least.”

“I mean- being bonded to someone as an omega’s probably gonna suck,” Pam said, a small pout on her face. She phrased it so that it would seem to be empathic to you, but all three of you knew the truth. She was expressing her own laments in regards to being one.

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, his own voice soft and dejected. Male omegas were definitely treated worse- just like female alphas. Both had the stigma of being abominations of nature, for some strange reason.

A beat of silence passed between all of you.

“Well, if all goes wrong.” You said, reaching over to pat at the two omegas’ hands. “I can just live with some other omegas.”

You ignored the tang of guilt digging into your heart when you saw them perk up at your words.

You saw the apprehensive look Eddie sent over your way, but you subtly shook your head. Nobody was going to find out you were an alpha.

Nobody.

~ ♥~

That was how it went on for a while. You would drop off the plastic bag filled with suppressants and a note- along with one of your many rings. You had to drag Eddie to get some more, and he helped pick out some new ones.

(“Get the one with the skull.”

“I have like five of those already, Eds.”

“The more the better-”

You bought the ring.)

The weeks dragged on. On the second week, a white tulip. Slipped into your locker, along with a small, scribbled note with a single sentence: ‘I’m sorry- Do you want your rings back?’

On the third, a yellow lily. Placed with more care than the previous two flowers. Yet another note, less crumpled and the writing slightly neater, with a single question: ‘Why do you call me Harpocrates?’

At the month mark, a dahlia as well as a cosmos- both red hued flowers stuck neatly onto your locker door. As well as another note- one that had fluttered to the floor. You quickly picked it up before anyone else could see. You let out a quiet laugh when you read the note, garnering a lot of weird stares-

‘Should I be flattered? You did technically call me a god-’

You tucked the flowers behind both of your ears, grinning widely. Flitting about the halls in a rather eccentric manner, with Eddie laughing along with you whilst Pam and Dean looked on fondly.

That week was a strange one- with Carol and Tommy making their usual jabs at you- about ‘being an omega’ as well as the flowers tucked carefully behind your ears. Eddie had been all ready to get his knuckles bruised when he saw the flicker of self-consciousness on your face. But before he could, it was Steve who snapped at his two friends to stop.

Yeah- that was a weird week. Especially when the suave, confident, ‘King of Hawkins’ didn’t meet your eye.

The fifth week, no note, but a single, blue stem of a hyacinth (Pam had declared, as she slammed an encyclopaedia of flowers on the lunch table, making both you and Eddie scramble back with your trays).

Shit hit the fan however, when the sixth week came.

~ ♥~

That was how it went on for a while. Steve picked up the bag of suppressants and scent blockers every week at the junkyard behind his home. And he would visit the florist before going to school the next day. The florist- a soft, wintery smelling beta- somehow giving him a flower and telling him what each one meant.

The second week, a white tulip in exchange for a silver, skull shaped ring- as well as a note. A white tulip, as an apology- for keeping your ring. The second ring took its place next to the first one on his windowsill.

On the third, a yellow lily. More carefully placed into your locker. Steve took care in writing more neatly this time- a response to the note (‘Nope- Keep them, Harpocrates. A gift for a gift, yeah?) he received the week before. The florist, with black hair and green eyes- someone he didn’t know lived here- telling him that the particular flower meant gratitude. He had clenched the flower in one of his hands whilst the other played with the slightly spiked ring he had hidden deep into his pocket.

At the month mark, the florist had given him two flowers- a dahlia and a cosmos. The former meaning kindness, and the latter meaning harmony. He placed both flowers, as well as the response to your note (The god of secrets and silence- you’re not telling me anything about yourself, Harpocrates.) in your locker.

And he watched, as he nodded along to whatever Carol was saying, smiling to himself when he heard the peal of laughter escaping your lips. The smile growing slightly bigger when he saw you tuck the flowers behind your ears.

Normally, he would have tolerated his friends’ jabs at you- because he didn’t know you, and he needed this position as the popular kid in the school- but-

He had smelt how the petrichor scent of the beta standing beside you soured when your expression faltered, and your shoulders curl up on yourself.

Steve had demanded Carol and Tommy stop, his fingers slipping into his jean pocket to fiddle with the latest ring you had left behind- a simple silvery-black band. And the two stopped, simply shrugging at him.

He could feel your gaze on him, but- for some reason, he couldn’t meet your eyes. Maybe he was afraid of seeing the contempt in them- the judgement? maybe? So, he had simply left for his homeroom, without another glance at you.

The fifth week, he didn’t wait for the florist to give him a flower. Steve had immediately asked for a flower- for an apology. His friends- his friends were being assholes. And he hated to see you look so… dejected. He couldn’t find the time to respond to your note from before (‘I am loving the flowers, Harpocrates- I hope you could see me wear them at school.’) but he did choke on air when he read it.

Shit hit the fan, however, when week six came.

~ ♥~

“What do you mean, you’re out?” you hissed out, your hackles raised and voice rough.

The clerk raised his hands in surrender.

“I don’t know- the latest stock of heat suppressants didn’t come.”

You growled lowly- nearly inaudibly- as you stuffed your hands into your hoodie’s pockets in a rather annoyed manner.

“Just wait another couple of weeks- your heat’s probably not going to hit soon, right?”

You simply glowered at the beta before turning to stomp out of the general store.

It was fine. You had some suppressants as well as some scent blockers stored away in the back of your closet. It wasn’t a lot, and it sure as hell wasn’t enough to satisfy everyone’s needs but-

It would have to do.

And if the meds weren’t stocked soon, you would make your way to the nearest town which had them.

~ ♥~

Steve furrowed his eyebrows when he saw the distinct lack of bottles in the bag you had left for him.

Did he do something wrong? Did you not give him what he needed because he didn’t respond to your latest note? He picked up the note, crumpled and stained with ink blots and read it.

I’m sorry, Harpocrates- there weren’t any suppressants in the store this week I’ll get around to buying some more in the next town over. Have some from my own stash instead.

A single bottle and three sticks of scent blockers. As well as a ring as usual. Gleaming silver, shaped in the form of a coiled snake, with what seemed like gemstones embedded in the place of where its eyes were.

It wasn’t enough, but Steve couldn’t bring himself to blame you. You had given some of yours to him, even if you were as impacted by this lack of stocks yourself.

In a sense, his lack of suppressants was his fault- he hadn’t spoken to his dad about needing more. And his dad hadn’t offered to get him more. His mom? She was more preoccupied with keeping an eye on his dad. It was fine though. He had to become less dependent on his parents for his necessities.

Steve rolled the bottle in his hands absentmindedly, his eyes flickering to the row of rings settled on his windowsill. The silver rings gleaming under the artificial light of his bedroom. He tilted his head back with a sigh as he bumped it onto the wall he was leaning on. His bed was soft under him- even without the use of the boxes of nesting materials shoved into the corner of his room.

Despite his parents buying these for him- most of them felt off. Some too soft- some too smooth. None of them truly meeting his standards.

He threw up the bottle and caught it in his hand. He had to ration his suppressants- taking two after every meal instead of four.

Steve ran his hand through his hair, sighing before placing the half empty bottle of pills onto the windowsill.

Nothing could go wrong. He just had to hold onto his scent harder.

Everything’ll be fine.

~ ♥~

You felt bad- guilty. You had allowed the omegas in this school to rely on you for their suppressants. And- you had failed to get them what they needed.

All of them were understanding- Pam and Dean patting your back as you muttered apologies as you collapsed onto their laps. Maria whispering to you as you passed her by the hall- reassuring you that it definitely wasn’t your fault. Hell, even Earl- one of the more standoffish individuals- pulled you to the side to tell you that it was ‘Hawkins being a shitty town’. He then left with a rough pat on your shoulder.

You huffed as you sat on your normal lunch table, next to Pam and Dean. Eddie was currently sitting with his club- and you would have joined him, but you didn’t want to make any of them uncomfortable.

“It’s fine, babe-” Pam said, as she leaned to bump her forehead to your shoulder.

“I promise I’ll go over to the town over- I can -fucking- hitchhike or something.”

“No,” both your friends said in unison.

“Just ask Eddie to give you a ride,” Dean said, as he bit into his PB & J sandwich.

You shook your head.

“Can’t- he has band practice today-”

You froze in the middle of your sentence when you caught it. The very subtle, nearly unnoticeable metallic tang brushing past you. A scent that most people wouldn’t notice or take care to.

But you had smelt this before. On the notes. On the flowers.

You quickly looked up and-

It was Steve Harrington.

It was fucking Steve Harrington.

You choked on air, making Dean pat your back worriedly. But you couldn’t bring yourself to pay any attention to him. Not when Steve’s brown eyes met yours-

And he seemed to notice the revelation you just had from the way his jaw twitched, and the way the metallic scent became fainter and non-existent.

A call of your name. You tore your eyes away from him and to your two omegan friends, who were looking at you in confusion and worry.

“-are you alright?”

Steve Harrington- the ‘King’ of Hawkins- the renowned alpha- the only alpha in the school- bought heat suppressants off of you. He took your rings and gave you flowers. He wrote the notes to you-

You nodded dumbly, your eyes fleeting over to the brown-haired boy, who was watching you carefully. Almost fearfully, as if he thought you were going to spill this secret of his.

“Yeah.” You said, finally getting a hold of your voice. You cleared your throat several times, taking a sip of your water. “I’m all good.”

Steve Harrington, the most popular boy in school- the strong, cocky alpha-

Was an omega.

Holy shit.

Dependence Pt. 5 (Roy!Sibling x Roy Family)

Alternatively Titled: We Ain't Angry At You Love, You're The Greatest Thing We Lost I am getting this lyric tattooed on my body I'm dead serious

Characters: Kendall, Roman, Shiv, Connor, Logan

Word Count: 1,879

Inspired By: We'll All Be Here Forever by Noah Kahan

Tag List: @locke-writes

A/N: All I have is the snippet to listen to and it makes me sob every time. I'm thinking of moving 1k miles away from my family, from my home, from everything, and every bone in my body wishes they felt the way this song feels. Every nerve in my body wants them to feel this way. I hope they'll miss me that much. Anyways, it reminded me of Baby Roy and the Succession finale. Yes I did cry while writing, what about it lol!! Feedback is always appreciated!!! 💜💜💜

Dependence Pt. 1 / Dependence Pt. 2 / Dependence Pt. 3 / Dependence Pt. 4

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include: Pt. 1

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include: Pt. 2

You’re gonna go far, he says into you, his arms tight around you. You try to stop yourself from crying. Again. Sniffling into him, into his shoulder. Everything about this moment makes you want to turn around. To call the whole thing off. But then, how can you call off an entire lifetime? Your bags linger at your feet, everything you could fit into two suitcases. You didn’t start out like this, the day didn’t start out like this, but as it progressed, as things fell into place, you realized there was no place for you. In their lives, of course. Connor promised you your old room again, if you ever wanted to visit. But this place, this apartment, this city, it wasn’t yours anymore. It wasn’t home. You’re not sure it ever was to begin with. You remember to call me when you land, okay? An,whenever you need someone to talk to, I’m always here. He has this shake in his voice, the kind that tells you he’s doing his very best to keep himself together. Composed. You can’t say anything, the words getting caught in your throat. Instead you just nod, sobbing into his sweater. He holds you tighter, rubbing your back. When he stops, he cups your face, meeting your teary eyes, wiping your cheeks. Pops would be so proud of you. He wouldn’t. He never was. But at some point you have to stop chasing something that never existed, something you can never have. You smile for Connor’s sake. Maybe he really believes it. Maybe he’s just saying it. Either way, you’re glad you went to him. You’re glad you told him. You’re gonna so far, you have no idea. He sighs, as if the words have been sitting on his chest for a long time. As if this is the first time in your life he’s felt real, genuine relief. You want to be held a little longer. You want to be loved the only way a father, a father by choice rather than blood, could ever love their child. Without conditions, without restraints, without a ceiling or a floor. Infinite. Beautiful. You’ll have to let go eventually, part ways, but for now he holds you like he did when you were an infant. Never could he have imagined the life you’d live. It was a fantastic surprise. You were a fantastic surprise. 

You continue to awe him every single day. 

You catch him at the bar, nursing a martini. Your hands begin to shake, but you settle them at your side, sitting beside him. You can do this. He wasn’t expecting you, sliding his drink away from you. You’re okay, you’ll be okay. You can be around it, you have to in order to say goodbye. He notices the luggage before you have the chance to say anything. Going somewhere? You bite your inner cheek. Yes, actually. He turns to you. His stitches have opened, the wound bright and red. Angry. You try to read his expression. There’s a hint of fear. He saw you in that bed, screaming, crying, begging not to be alive anymore. You knew he meant it out of love, but you couldn’t face it anymore. You couldn’t be looked at like that anymore. If you wanted a fresh start, a real one, you had to get away. You had to find somewhere with people who saw you for you, not your mistakes, not your darkest moments. Somewhere inside him, he understood that. Somewhere inside him, he wanted the same thing. Leaving for him wasn’t an option, though. Is that so? What does Mummy think about that? He sips his drink. You don’t want to roll your eyes at him. You don’t want to be annoyed with him. You’re not sure how long it’ll be before you’ll see him again. I, I didn’t tell her. I’m not telling her. He lets your answer settle for a moment. You’re not sure what he’s thinking. You never have been sure. Roman could be so unreadable, so unpredictable. You keep talking, trying to fill the silence, a lump developing in your throat. You’re speaking so fast, almost hysterical. You have to explain yourself. You have to explain yourself or you’ll die. I have to get away. I’m not sure for how long, I just, I can’t be here anymore. I have to stay sober and I can’t do that here. It’s not because of you, because of any of you, I want you to know that. I’m, I’m sorry if that upsets you or makes you ang- But he interrupts you, leaning over, hugging you. Not as tight as Connor. It’s as if he’s afraid to touch you still, afraid to hurt you. Gentle. You feel his muscles tense then relax. Whatever you gotta do, you do. Just don’t scare me like that again. You promise him it will never happen again. 

It won’t. It doesn’t. The hurt from home doesn’t follow you, wherever you go. 

You can’t reach the other two. You try calling, the deja vu twisting your stomach. The last time you tried to reach them, the last time. . . No. Stop it. This isn’t that. You’re better now. Shiv picks up, waiting for you to talk. You don’t care what happened. You don’t care what went down in that boardroom. You don’t care that he’s CEO now, that you lost. She’s your sister. The same sister that comforted you after nightmares, who iced your bruises, who wanted the best for you from day one. Whatever happened couldn’t change that. She gave you so many chances, time after time, and you let her down. You let everyone down. She still cares, she always would. You would, too. The words come up, out, before you can stop them. How much you love her, how much you’re going to miss her, how badly you need this, how much you wish you could be with her right now. You hear her take a sharp inhale in, a shudder in her voice. I’ll come and visit, yeah? Wherever you end up, I’ll be there, okay? You nod. Yeah, yeah of course. You can feel your eyes well up again. She was your big sister, the only maternal figure you’d ever known. It wasn’t your mother who shushed you to sleep at night, holding you close. It wasn’t your mother who gasped at the bruises you gave yourself in a fit of rage. It wasn’t your mother who climbed into that hospital bed with you when you were sick and scared and didn’t want to fall asleep alone. It was Shiv. You're Shivy. Your sister. Do you have everything packed? Always fretting, always worrying. Yes, Mom. You laugh. You know she’ll be a good mother. Maybe she doesn’t think so, maybe Tom doesn’t, but you do. She took care of you your whole life. She’s still trying to. You um, you have your chargers? Extra socks? Do you need me to- I’ll be okay, you interrupt. You’re both quiet for a moment, taking one another in. You can feel her wanting. Wanting to reach through the phone and kiss your cheek, to hold you so close your hearts beat at the same time. Wanting to keep you there forever, not wanting to let go.

She always knew this day would come, though. You’d always had big plans. You could never be confined like the rest of them. 

You couldn’t reach Kendall. It went straight to voicemail. So you sat in the lobby of Waystar, trying to figure out exactly how to put it. Every thought in your mind, every thank you and I’m sorry and forgive me and I forgive you. Everything that’s ever sat between you two into a compact, meaningful message. You didn’t want to worry him, that was the last time you wanted, for any of them. You sat and watched everyone pass by. They were celebrating the new owner, one of the biggest deals they’d ever made. Some on their way to get drunk, others drunk already. Too much champagne. Finally, after a long time, you called again, listening to his voice play the message. Kendall, it’s me, you start. What next? You’re sorry. You’re sorry for putting them through all that you’ve put them through. The alcohol, the drugs, all those scary nights where they didn’t know where you were, if you were okay. All those nights where you weren’t sure where you were, if you’d make it out. You were sorry for calling him that night, for putting the blame on him if anything happened. You were sorry for blaming him. For not being the baby sibling he deserved. He deserved better, he expected better. I’m uh, I’ll be out of town for a while. You forgave him. You forgave him for all those outbursts, all those times he hurt you and Shiv and Con and especially Rome. You forgave him for turning into your father, the man you despised, the man you feared, the man you loved. I’ll be okay. I won’t, I’m not, I’m clean. I’ll stay that way. You loved him. You loved him despite the fear, despite the outbursts, despite the narrow path he chose to take. You loved him, and love him, because he’s your brother. He begged for you to stay awake, stay conscious. He wanted you to live even when you didn’t. That night, he looked like a ghost. I’m gonna miss you. A lot. Thank you for taking care of me, for loving me, for being there, you want to say. Thank you for being the best brother you could given the circumstances. Thank you for protecting me from him, from everyone. Call me when you can. I love you. Bye. 

This isn’t some magic answer to your sobriety. This isn’t a cure. Hell, it might be you running away again. Who knows? But you can feel it, finally. The anger, the rage, the wrath. That burden starts to feel less heavy day by day. It won’t disappear completely. You’re a Roy, it’s in your blood, in your genes. But it gets easier to carry, to hold, to take with you everywhere. You don’t want to cave in, not as much. Sure, a strong drink would help, but you made promises. You made promises you’d like to keep. Promises to yourself and to your family. You’d call Connor when you landed, wherever that is. You’ll tell Shivy, too, so she can come and visit. You’ll check in with Rome and give Kendall another call. Hopefully this time he picks up. Hopefully this time you can have a real conversation, you can talk to him, really thank him for all that he’s done. But you know your place is not here. Your people are, they always will. That mausoleum will be waiting for you like it waits for them. Eternity you’ll get to spend by their sides. Now though, now you have the choice. The choice to get better. The choice to get away. The choice to be free. You’ll see them again, you always will. They’re your brothers, your sister, the people who raised you. You’ll see them again despite the distance.

They can’t get rid of you that easily.

Type "I am" in the tags and whatever follows is your gender today...