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dovithedarklord · 2 months

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Stucked - Part 4

You're trapped in a game and a new threat is lurking.

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Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x reader, Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader

Tags: Mentions of death, Mentions of blood and gore, Blood and Violence, Sexual Scenes, Alternate Universe, No use of Y/N, Not Beta Read, AFAB Reader

Trigger Warning: Contains blood and gore, violence, some body horror, and some dubcon (lightly). Please, keep that in mind!

⚠️MDNI⚠️

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Author's Note

The story gets more complicated and violent, so be prepared!

I've been watching way too many horror movies again, and I was sick too, so I gathered some firsthand experience for some of the sensations our poor MC has to face. But now I feel much better, can't say the same about her... Well, there's that :D

Have fun! :D

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

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The sound of soft laughter fills the walls of the house, painted golden yellow from the fire, and the lingering shadows of your companions loom over the carved wood like nightmarish demons. And with each step, you get closer and closer to the deceptive cheerfulness that unfolds below, which flows like a sick play around the laid table. As if an idyllic moment was snatched from a comedy movie meant for children and families, every minute of which is full of perfectly written laughter and undisturbed joy, but every giggle crawls into your ear canals on the slimy legs of a disgusting maggot, to bury itself in your brain and push you closer to madness with each minute.

You sneak closer to the stairs with careful quietness, unable to take your eyes off the scene unfolding in the middle of the spacious living room, because you're afraid that if you draw attention to yourself sooner than necessary, you won't have a chance to escape. Although the treacherous little voice in your head warns you that all your chances of disappearing from this terrible, artificial world were lost when Simon closed his arms around you.

And you reflexively look for the blond man, and as soon as your strained gaze finds his burly figure sitting at the table, terror envelopes your stomach in an icy grip. Every bit of him is deceptively calm, and he rests next to Johnny in his chair with such careless relaxation as if he always belonged there at the birthday dinner. But you see the waiting danger in his eyes, which makes him look like a wolf killing some time before finally tearing his victim to pieces, who doesn't even know that they willingly laid their neck in his open jaws. And it seems cruel how the two girls engage in a light-hearted conversation with the two men amid wild gesticulations and cozy delight, because you know exactly that each carefree sound that leaves their mouths is a precursor to a painful scream in the dead of the night.

Every member of yours is protesting against going down, and your legs tug you back like leaden weights, as you try to drag your body, heavy with fear, forward. As if with each step, the thread that binds you with weak fingers to the fleeting promise of survival is unraveling a little more. You'll have to go down though. Because if you hide, you risk the wrath of the game. You need information to get a new clue, and if you don't join this miserable charade, you'll lose any chance of finding anything. You have to do it even if every cell of yours screams agonizingly with dread.

The polished wood of the stairs creaks as you slowly descend the steps, and the eyes of the two men fixate on you almost on command, like two hungry vultures before which the delicious meal has finally appeared. And you realize bitterly that it's not so far off from reality, because you're probably only a few hours away from someone quenching their thirst with your still-warm blood after they've hunted you down like an animal.

NO! Enough! You can't think that! Even though this wretched place wants to make it difficult for you to win, you must not let it get its way, because then you'll wither away in this quicksand of raw flesh and screams, stuck in endless suffering. You must not let it win. You won't let it win.

Your determination eases the trembling that shakes your knees wildly, and as you reach the bottom of the stairs, you straighten your back out, because these two bloodthirsty monsters must not see that they were able to plant the seeds of hopelessness in your mind. Even if this bitter feeling has taken root, you should not allow them to find morbid joy in it. Because that would be equal to your defeat.

"The birthday girl is finally here!" Pam exclaims enthusiastically as she turns back to you to look at you, and for a moment her kindness breaks your heart as you let her spring up and lead you to the empty chair at the head of the table with tender, friendly love. You don't deserve a minute of her attention, even if there's nothing real behind it. A fictional creature, whose empty shell is filled with life by the game, just so that it can take this temporary existence away as painfully as possible. But still, as she pushes you down to the chair with a warm smile and squeezes your shoulder excitedly, your throat tightens painfully with pity. You gave up trying to save them a long time ago, you forgot the compassion you felt for them, yet now your brain, overloaded because of the impossible events, allows you for a moment to feel sympathy for them. "The best place belongs to the celebrated!" She chirps, and when she's certain that you've made yourself comfortable, he strolls back to her seat, with such an unworried spring in her step that you recall quite cruelly how quickly this lightness turns into desperate fear as she runs for her life. And despite this sugary-sweet show, it'll happen soon enough.

And even to you, it's strange how the whole dinner scene begins with such familiar movements, even though Simon has intruded on the well-known story as an uninvited guest. And this might be because he only occasionally interjects a short comment into the smooth flow of events, otherwise not disrupting the dialogue that you have already heard torturously many times. If he does answer, the game bends the threads of its own story so smoothly that, in spite of the new change, you end up in exactly the same place where you have always been. And this fills your soul with such fiery hope that suddenly every cell of yours ignites with the wild desire to act, because if the presence of the masked man doesn't lead the story in a completely new direction, then there is a chance that the clues will still be there where they were before you discovered them... And that makes the doubts clinging to your gut seem to withdraw, and you feel that you can finally breathe for the first time since discovering the book.

"It's so nice of Johnny to put together this dinner, isn't it?" Rebecca chimes in, lifting another bite into her mouth with her fork, carrying her gaze around on the myriad of appetizing dishes displayed on the table with real delight. And you tear yourself out of the continuing web of your thoughts with a startled wince, in which you've been immersed far away, already browsing through the series of clues you've found so far. You run your confused eyes through the group at lightning speed, and when you meet the girl's puzzled expression, you reluctantly turn your attention back to them.

"Yeah... It's very nice of him." You blurt out your scripted, well-rehearsed dialogue, and although your tongue almost goes numb under the weight of the lie, you’re able to force the faint line of an authentic-looking smile on your mouth.

Although everyone seems to calm down, you see sparks of interest in Simon's eyes. And as you carefully look at him and your gaze intertwines with his, you see the unmistakable lines of a smile appearing around his eyes in the warm light. But there is nothing comforting about this gesture, because an almost condescending kindness emanates from his every cell, and this makes him look like no more than a spectator of an unfolding sad comedy. And if he really knows that you're not from here, then all ot this is really nothing more for him than watching a movie up close, the end of which he's perfectly aware of. But you can still surprise him. Because you won't let him think he's in charge. You just have to find a clue…

And you jerk back, almost startled, as Johnny's face swims into your vision, thus hiding the sight of his friend from you, and the change happens so suddenly that you just stare into his cheerful blue eyes, blinking with bewildered surprise.

"It's nothing! I'd dae anythin' for my wee lil' Bunny!" He utters enthusiastically, and although his words don't sound like lies, fear snakes into you along his deep voice. Because this sentence has never appeared anywhere before, and it's so new to your shocked brain that you're unable to register how one of his tanned hands slowly slides onto your fist gripping the fork, wrapping around it like an anaconda on its prey. And even though his touch is light as a feather, you feel as though he's squeezing you in a way that makes all your bones crack, like a couple of dry tree branches. What's this again? Why does the story diverge if it has followed the main storyline so far?

"You're such a lucky girl! I would sell my soul to be treated so well by someone!" Pam sighs longingly, and as she folds her hands in front of her chest with feigned offense, your confusion deepens. Because suddenly this whole horrible interlude takes a turn that is completely unknown to you. Up until now, it's been Pam who has had any sort of romantic streak, because she's the one who gets killed for living out her lustful passion. Thus far, you've never been the center of attention in this way, not even at any level worth mentioning, and the realization that now this is just another complication and death flag cuts into your brain like a knife. And suddenly you feel that the taste of the food turns to ash in your mouth, the dryness of which drags the waves of nausea up your throat.

"Is there something wrong?" Rebecca's worried question cuts through your shock, and as you realize that every pair of eyes is staring at you, you’re filled with the desire to escape. But you don't even dare to move, because you're afraid that every irresponsible action you make will trigger an avalanche that will have harsh consequences.

"I think my stomach is a little upset. Maybe I caught something." You try to explain yourself weakly, and with every nerve you attempt to force authenticity into your features, slowly releasing your hand from Johnny's grip. You have to wait to see what else changes, and to have the slightest chance to search for hints later. Because if you're not careful enough, you lose all hope of even finding a clue.

"Oh, poor lil' Bunny." Johnny grumbles, and although there is some pity in his voice, a hideous undertone lurks behind the sympathetic words that make goosebumps prickle on your skin in an instant. And maybe an outside observer would think that there are indeed wrinkles of kind concern on his face, but you see the joy in his eyes. Like you've just given him something he's been waiting on pins and needles for. "Let me help ye!"

And you soon understand how he wants to help you. Because, as the chair cries out with an ear-splitting scream, when he pulls it uncomfortably close to you, then it's too late for you to escape. The wolf has already found you, and you can do nothing but watch with stunned helplessness as it starts to devour you.

Not a single sound can escape your mouth, as your protest gets stuck under the lump that jumps into your throat, and you freeze in fear as one of Johnny's big hands slides over your back with easy naturalness. And as his warm fingers begin to draw slow, soothing circles on your back, as if he really wants to drive away your growing sickness with his gentle touch, but you go as still as a statue, completely unmoving. You're unable to turn away from the man, whose gaze is fixed on you with such intense attention, as if someone had hypnotized him. But you already know better than that. You see those ice-blue eyes gliding across your face, and you know that he finds his joy in the frightened curve of your eyebrows, the motionless panic of your eyes, and the quivering line of your lips, like a hungry hyena feeding on terror. And as, during his seemingly innocent adventure, one of his fingers almost imperceptibly slips under the clasp of your bra, crumpling the soft material of your t-shirt, that hungry grin appears on his mouth, with which a beast flashes its teeth at its victim. And the scene in the kitchen takes shape in your brain so quickly that you're unable to hold back the frightened whimper that erupts from you.

"There's no need for that... I'd rather rest." You try to oppose meekly, carefully choosing each of your terrified words, and when you pull back from the man's suffocating proximity, his palm spreading over your back prevents you, holding you back as easily as if it wouldn't be more to him then just a minor inconvenience. And you’re probably right, because even though you can see the cords of the sculpted muscles dancing on his arm from the corner of your eye, his whole body still remains in your personal space with unmovable carelessness.

"Dinnae be silly!" Johnny silences your protest, and from the curve of the smile on his lips, the tentacles of anxiety growing inside you cling to every single cell of yours. Because it suddenly becomes painfully clear that you've fallen into a trap and you don't even have a chance to flee. "I'll help ye... ye'll let me, won't ye?" He inquires, but there is something very certain about his question, as if he asked it just for the sake of fun, because he already knows the answer anyway. And why wouldn't he act like that? He slyly lured you into his arms, and now it's time for him to enjoy the fact that you’re exactly where he wanted you all along.

And although your brain is feverishly working on excuses that you can use to escape, like a frightened little rabbit running from wolves, the man gets to work much sooner. His wandering hand on your back crawls up your spine with the deadly slowness of a snake, and as his fingers dance along each small bump, you instinctively get a chill from the condescending tenderness that mixes with his touch. And you feel how the tiny little hairs stand up in the wake of his fingertips, and fear spreads through all your limbs, as if a paralyzing poison had been injected into you. And if resistance had even crossed your mind, then all your stray thoughts disappear immediately, because as soon as he clamps his hand on the back of your neck to lock around it, you freeze as terrified as if you had turned to stone.

You see the cheerful sparks in his eyes as he recognizes how obedient he has made you become, and you helplessly let his free hand, which has been resting on the table until now, come to play on the feeble stage of your body. And although you’re unable to take your eyes off his face, you catch in your periphery as he touches your knee almost teasingly, and you can't suppress the trembling that moves inside of you as his fingers begin to slither toward your thigh. You can feel the heat emanating from him even through the material of your pants, and you swear that the imprint of his palm almost burns into you as he stops to grip the soft flesh.

And like a wild animal about to feast, he flashes all his teeth with the grin that moves to his face, and as he rests his forehead on the crook of your neck, the treacherous warmth in your stomach rises in addition to fear when, following the hoarse laughter that rises from his throat, as his hot breath fans over the sensitive skin.

You turn your eyes to your surroundings in desperation, but all hope is gone when you see the expression on your companions' faces. Because the mouths of both girls are frozen in languid smiles, and they're watching the obscene moment unfolding in front of them as if it were the most natural thing in the world that someone climbs on you in the middle of a birthday dinner. Like they're watching the finale of a romantic movie, not Johnny slowly eating you alive like a starved dog. But it makes you even more upset when you glance at Simon as a result of a thoughtless reflex, because you immediately regret that you dared to look at him at all. The man continues to rest in his chair with undisturbed calm, and as he carelessly throws his hand on the back of the chair and tilts his head to the side, he follows the wet path of Johnny's mouth as his lips travel to the pulsing veins on your neck with such morbid interest, as if it were nothing more to him then some light fun. And you realize with alarm that you can't hope for help, because the game is more than happy to let this whole horrible situation continue, even if it goes against its own rules...

And when you feel the blunt edge of one of Johnny's canines drawing his mark into your skin with almost mocking fondness, that something that has so far locked your body in a paralyzed shackle snap. Because now you know for sure that nothing will happen the same as before, and your only chance to survive is to disappear from here right now. An unknown strength of determination moves into you, and you tear yourself out of his arms so unexpectedly that even he flinches back in surprise for a moment as you spring up from your chair.

"That will be enough! I better rest." You break the stunned silence, and although it's impossible not to hear the fear hidden in your voice, the decisiveness grows much stronger. And despite the fact that you feel that this small rebellion is already disturbing the apparent calm of the game, you don't care. You have to escape, because if you don't get out of their sight, your hours are numbered. And you can no longer allow yourself to die irresponsibly, no matter what lies ahead.

But just as you would take advantage of Johnny's surprise to free yourself from the prison of his thick arms, someone who has been watching this madness as a silent spectator until now finally joins the events. Simon leans forward in his chair with nerve-wracking slowness to look up at you with his elbows on the table, and that's enough for the sinister spasms of panic to close around your stomach in a violent embrace. Because you see the light that dances in those dark eyes... And they tell you that you made a big mistake, and he'll punish you for it with the greatest pleasure. He warned you, didn't he?

"Sit down." The man motions his head towards your chair, and his statement sounds much more like an instruction than a request. You'd be foolish to think he's only making suggestions when you see how menacingly his hoodie stretches over his broad shoulders as he hunches over the festive table. "The party's about to start." He adds, and you don't like the amusement in his tone at all. Like he’s already amused by something, which you have no idea of yet.

"I don't want to." You squeeze it out of yourself, and although you try to put confidence on your face, it doesn't escape the masked man's attention as you force down the stomach acid pushing up into your dry throat with a frightened little swallow. Because you can see his mouth open under the dark textile covering his face, as he follows this small movement, and from the play of the light of the fire, it looks like he's grinning...

But before you can even decipher what kind of storm might be brewing, you're distracted by something completely different. And as you feel Johnny's hot breath penetrating the thin fabric of the t-shirt covering your belly, you turn back to him in fear, but it's too late. You were too irresponsible, and you lost sight of the monster, in whose claws you have been writhing on the fading edge of safety. And now, as his big hands find the round curve of your hips and his fingers playfully grip it, you already know that the fragile chance of your escape is drifting further and further away from you. You're not deceived by the innocence with which the man settles his chin on your stomach, nor by the way those beautiful sky-blue eyes stare up at you, because you feel the certainty with which he hides the escape route with the coverage of his strong body.

"And then what will happen to them?" Johnny asks, and the worry that enters his voice hits you unprepared, and the confusion instinctively takes over your features, as you take in the way the line of his troubled eyebrows meet. And from this tiny little move, his concern seems quite genuine, and it only pushes your mind even deeper into your ever-increasing shock. What the hell is he talking about?

"With whom?" The cautious question breaks out of you, because your brain, which is buzzing with stress, is unable to understand who he could be aiming at. But you don't have to wait long for him to clarify and dispel the doubts from your mind, because as his head finds a comfortable resting place on your belly, as he turns back to the table, smoothing his face against you, you immediately understand who you have forgotten about until now.

"With your friends." He answers easily, removing all the care from his tone, which he has smuggled into it so masterfully so far. There is something stomach-churningly intimate about the way he nuzzles your navel with his nose, and the way he almost burrows into the warmth of your body, which makes every cell of you instinctively scream for help. And as his arms close around you in a slow but deadly sure embrace, even though you don't fully see the horrible expression he's wearing because he's hiding in your clothes, your eyes find his reflection in one of the elegant glasses. And on the delicate surface of the glass, the corrupted, bloodthirsty smile that spreads across his lips is distorted almost like a nightmare.

"What are you talking about?" You hesitate, scared, and your voice comes out of your mouth like a pitiful whisper that it seems quite distant even to your ears. And you're unable to tear your gaze away from the glass, because you see the man's crooked smile widen further and become a twisted snarl on the glass, which suddenly brings back all the memories of when you were on the other side of that grin. With this exact expression, he plunged a knife into your beating heart and watched as the light of life faded from your eyes. And this makes you realize that, even though you waited for a soothing play, the time for bloodshed has long come.

"Dessert is comin' now." Simon joins in, and this simple little sentence sounds deceptively harmless from his mouth. But as he turns to your companions opposite him, who have been sitting in their seats in a happy stupor until now, you realize that you won't be the target now. However, this doesn't calm you down one bit. "Pam." He almost snaps at the girl, in a tone that sounds like he's asking a trained dog to show off the latest trick it's learned. And you're horrified to learn that the analogy couldn't be more accurate, because Pam shoots up with such enthusiastic joy, as if her owner had really dangled a reward in front of her nose.

"Oh, right away!" She gushes cheerfully, and for a split second, you can't understand why she reaches for the huge knife resting next to the cake so suddenly because of the fear sitting on your brain. You just watch, paralyzed, as she places her left hand on the table, and as the warm light glints on the cold metal of the blade, something quite uncomfortable grips your insides. And when the girl turns to you and her gaze sinks into yours, you see nothing but the bottomless emptiness shining in those bright eyes, as if all the life that the game had so graciously instilled in her had disappeared.

But even though she looks like a lifeless puppet, the sound of the knife piercing through bone is very real, as the next moment she cuts off her index finger with one simple and swift movement. The sick crack almost echoes in your ears, as if someone has just started slicing a deliciously fresh carrot, but as blood gushes out of the wound in rich drops and paints the snowy white of the tablecloth crimson, you know that your eyes are not fooled.

"What…. what the hell..." You stutter, and you feel your brain getting short-circuited by the sight. Because Pam just pulls out the knife buried in the wood of the table with unflinching glee, so as if nothing had happened, she raises it again and strikes the next finger with it. Moved by the force of the attack, the severed digit rolls away, plowing a trail of blood in its wake, drawing a grotesque painting among the multitude of bowls resting on the table. This awakes the pulsing nausea in you again, and you clasp your palm over your mouth to try to hold back the rest of your dinner, which starts gnawing up your throat. However, Pam doesn't even seem to perceive the outside world, the wide smile on her face stretches into a grotesque grin, and her teeth are pressed together with such force that you can almost hear them crack.

"Why dinnae ye sit down, hmm?" Johnny's voice breaks through your shock, and you startledly tear your eyes away from the horrible serenity on Pam's face to turn to the man again, because suddenly even this seems like a better idea. But as he glances up at you from under his dark eyelashes, and something quite predatory flashes in his eyes, you know that the dinner slowly soaking in blood would have been a more soothing sight. "If yer gonnae be the dessert, then she can stop..." He offers, and your stomach turns from the sugary kindness that sits in his words.

And when his arms holding you in check slowly let go of their hold, you'd think you finally can catch your breath for a moment, but much sooner the air gets stuck in your lungs, as his fingers grasp your thighs with almost painful force, and you can feel their marks soak into your skin like fresh purple bruises. His face is pressed against your lap, and his tongue sticks out of his mouth to draw a wet path along the small seam running in the middle of your pants, and you can feel the heat emanating from him even through the rough material of your jeans, then you would try to back away in alarm, but you don't get far. His grip locks you in place much more firmly, and the treacherous tingle that awakens in your frozen body pushes you towards dizziness when he finally finds that tiny sensitive bud through the fabric, which makes you tremble and grip his broad shoulders in terror. And a deep, almost animalistic growl erupts from Johnny's throat when he catches this instinctive little movement.

Another tears you out of the paralysis towards which you drift more and more surely, and as Pam, laughing joyfully, sweeps the stump of her ring finger away in the puddle of blood on the tablecloth, you're already glad that Johnny is so willing to let you cling to him. When you catch Simon out of the corner of your eye, you're unable to stop yourself and almost automatically direct your gaze to him. And you would swear that you have never seen a more beautiful man, because the lustful look with which his dark eyes fixate on you, while one hand caresses his stomach lazily, is not entirely of this world. You follow almost in a daze as his fingers dance leisurely along the bulging hardness of his pants, and only another snap brings you back to the present before you allow yourself to be lured into the trap they want to drag you into in such a vile way.

No matter the two men's angelic faces, no matter the sinful power emanating from them, it penetrates your paralyzed consciousness too strongly, as the sea of blood spreading across the table slowly reaches you and begins to drum in heavy drops on the floorboards. Because only monsters are capable of such horror, and it awakens the desire to escape in you enough that your heart rate, which is accelerating in dread, finally pumps out the adrenaline in your body so you can act.

You reach for your glass resting on the table so unexpectedly that you manage to surprise Johnny when you smash it on his head. And you know that it won't do him any serious damage, but the pain lasts just long enough for him to release you in the middle of a tortured hiss, and you can take advantage of this to get out of his arms so nimbly that by the time he comes to his senses, you're a safe distance away. No matter how much a faint sense of guilt awakens in you, when you turn your back on everything and sprint towards the stairs, for leaving your companions at the mercy of the beasts, the survival instinct raging inside you drives this weakness to the hidden corner of your skull much sooner. Because these bastards were trying to use this, and they wanted to take advantage of this to catch you...

Even through the pounding of your heart in your ears, you can hear the laughter that comes from Johnny when you reach the top floor, and you know exactly what that voice promises you. There's nothing in it but cruel amusement, and that just helps enough to speed up your steps towards your room. And as soon as the small abode finally envelopes you, you slam the door behind you with such force that its loud bang almost shakes the house. But for once, you don't care if you make noise, because the chase has already started, and there's no point in being subtle.

You lock the door with trembling hands, but you know that you won't be able to keep them out for long, because you've experienced Johnny's power enough times. That's why you rush to the closet resting next to the wall with lightning speed, and you push against it clenching your teeth, because it might delay them for a minute longer. The furniture sways with a creak, as it slowly obeys the violent urging, and as you shove it with your shoulder again and again with angry desperation, it finally gives in and falls in front of the door with an loud crash, spilling all its contents to the floor. And although a sharp ache shoots through your arm as you step back to examine your makeshift barricade, all pain fades when you hear heavy footsteps stomping up the stairs in the sudden silence. They're coming after you.

And you immediately search for a new way out, and as soon as your gaze settles on the open window, you already know what you have to do. Because even though you know that there are enough dangers out there, the uncertain darkness seems friendlier than waiting here to see what kind of retribution you'll receive for interrupting the two men's fun.

And when the doorknob turns for the first time, you're already outside on the narrow roof, and you only take one last look at the door, which is slowly beginning to shake wildly, before you disappear in the cold night.

And only one thought screams in your head: You have to survive the night.

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glindaselphie · 10 months

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Trespassing | Deadite Ellie x Fem!Reader smut | 18+

Maggot Mommy has been my hyperfixation and had this kind of effect on me since I first saw the film back in April. So, this piece was born. Please note this is for adults only and this isn’t beta read so any mistakes are my own. Content warning for smut and…well, a Deadite. Deadites do and say some pretty messed up stuff and Ellie here is no different in that regard. Enjoy!

You can also alternatively read it on AO3.

There’d been word about that rundown apartment complex, the top floor in particular, for a while now. It was apparently rare that anyone that went in came back out again. But you didn’t usually believe stories like that and besides, you knew a family that lived on the top floor. Ellie and her kids.

When you stepped out into the hall of the top floor that day though, you couldn’t deny it felt different. It was quiet, and there was a strange smell about it that you couldn’t quite identify. Maybe they’ve all just moved on and it’s been abandoned, you thought. It was meant to be getting demolished soon, wasn’t it?

The door to Ellie’s apartment was open and when you slipped inside, there wasn’t sign of her or her children. That was until you made your way towards the open bathroom and noticed a figure staring at you from the tub. A figure that looked like…

“Ellie?”

She grinned at you in a way that made your blood run cold and before you could even react, she was crawling out of the tub and moving towards you. You tried to move but she was too quick for you and moments later she’d dragged you down and pinned you to the floor. You barely even tried to break free because you were no match for her strength and height.

“Ellie?” But you knew deep down that, whatever this was, it wasn’t Ellie anymore.

“Ellie isn’t here, you stupid cunt.” The voice she was using was demonic, nothing like Ellie’s at all. When she gripped your face tight, you felt sharp claws digging into your skin. “And I should gut you for trespassing.”

“I can go,” you pleaded, swallowing a lump in your throat. But despite your fear, there was a wetness pooling between your legs. “Let me go and I’ll leave.”

Ellie, or whatever it was using her body, sniffed the air and a thought crossed your mind that made your eyes widen. Could she…smell what your body was doing?

“You don’t want to go.” And her next words answered the question in your mind. “I can smell you dripping, you filthy little slut.”

Ellie let your face go and moved down your body, finding the area where you wanted her most and nosing at you through your clothes. It made you writhe a little which clearly amused her because she let out a deep, dark chuckle.

“Dessssperate little thing, aren’t you?” She practically cooed.

Moments later, she’d removed your shorts and underwear and had gripped both your legs like a vice. You looked down and just managed to catch sight of a long black tongue before her mouth was on you. She started by tasting you, moving her tongue around inside you, and then focused on your clitoris. She played with it using her tongue and sucked at you, making lewd noises all the while, and you couldn’t help the whimpers and moans that were escaping you.

Her mouth was the most intense thing you’d ever felt and what she was doing was the most pleasurable. You knew you should probably feel disgusted in yourself because, whatever this was, it wasn’t Ellie anymore. It didn’t even seem human. But you were so lost in her and the feeling she was giving you that you couldn’t find it in yourself to care anymore.

Before very long you could feel your orgasm starting to build and evidently she sensed it too, because she sped up her ministrations, her sucking noises getting louder and the pressure she was putting on your clitoris growing more intense.

Then that wave of pleasure crashed over you and your back arched with it, your eyes slamming shut as you let out a final strangled moan. Ellie moved away from you once the wave was over and back up your body and, before you’d even fully come down from the high of it, she forcefully pressed her mouth to yours and put her tongue inside your mouth, making your taste yourself, your juices.

She pulled her mouth away from yours after a moment and moved to mouth at and lick your neck, letting out light growls that almost sounded like purring, and you felt yourself starting to melt again. You impulsively threaded a hand into her damp red hair and half expected her to bite your hand off for doing so but she let you stay there as she snapped at your jaw.

“You aren’t leaving.” Her eyes met yours, she gave you a wicked grin and you knew she meant both that you didn’t want to leave and that you couldn’t without her say so anymore. “You make such a nice little pet slut.”

#ellie bixler #maggot mommy #evil dead rise #evil dead #ellie evil dead rise x reader #laur.txt

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b4mpyre-k1zz3s · 4 months

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Hey! Could I request a fic with Bam where the reader is a female skater?

Maggot’s Kiss

Being apart of Tony Hawk’s skate team sounded like a dream to Y/N- that is, until she met Bam, and an innocent thing turns into something darker.

Bam Margera X Fem!Reader

(Fluff, Angst)

2.6k Words

Warnings: Enemies to lovers, jealousy, crude language, very suggestive content, bullying, hate makeouts, nudity, fake dating, flirting, accidental vouyerisim, injury, blood

An: Thank you so much for your request and happy new year!! I decided to combine my love of darker fics and slow burn to create this for your reading pleasure ;) I just love writing banter like what Bam and Y/N have in this fic hehe XD This fic was also inspired by this amazing fic (one of my favorite Jackass fics on this website) by @asskickedbygirl, so please go check her out!! According to one of my beta readers this is one of the steamiest things I have ever written, and that was just based off of the first three paragraphs, so do with that what you will! Anyways, thank you for sending in requests and please keep sending more!! I love to read them and I enjoy writing them even more :)

You hated him. His edgy, crazy, rich boy schtick made you almost embarrassed to be touring with him and the rest of Tony’s team, knowing that no matter what, the spotlight was always on him. It was never Team Adio or Team Element- it was Bam and Company. Every time you saw pre-teens fighting tooth and nail over who got his autograph first or when chicks threw themselves at his feet for a chance to be graced by the presence of his less than average dick (you see a lot being on the same tour bus for two months), you gagged a little. You were seemingly the only person in America that didn’t fall for Bam Margera’s bullshit. Maybe hate was an understatement.

It was the evening before some exhibition you were supposed to do in the parking lot of a mall that you were pondering all of this, seething quietly in the tiny tour bus bunk bed you were trying to get some shut eye in. Trying being the key word, seeing as you weren't very successful at it. Sighing, you wriggled out of your middle row bunk, carefully stepping down and stretching, the claustrophobic sleeping conditions doing nothing for your already not great posture. There was a row of leather seats in the back of the bus you and the guys would usually sit around and play cards in or watch TV when you were on the road that you made your way back to, feeling around in the pitch darkness as a strange chill struck you. The only thing you could see was the glowing, orange tip of a cigarette as you sat down, knowing exactly who it was.

“Close the damn window. S’freezing.” Mumbling, you crossed your legs, tucking your feet into the backs of your knees to warm yourself up. He chuckled, taking another drawl on his cigarette, the embers glowing intensely for a moment before he exhaled, “Might wanna think ‘bout wearin’ a bra ‘round here.” You could practically feel Bam’s eyes on you through the darkness. “I had no idea y’were so fascinated by my tits, Margera.” His last name came out of your mouth like it pained you to say it, acrid on your tongue. Scoffing, you cooed with faux sweetness, sliding closer to him and whispering in his ear, “I-I mean, if you really wanted, y’could give ‘em a feel…” Two can play at that game. Bam found your jab funny, laughing bitterly as he playfully shoved you away, “Oh, no way in hell am I touchin’ you.”

So after a few minutes of small talk, you went back to bed, and so did he, but that exchange didn’t leave your mind. There wasn't an atom in your body that wanted to be felt up by Bam of all people, but you were still pissed that he wrote you off that fast. You saw the girls he took to the bathroom of the tour bus every night and they had nothing on you. Then there was the matter of why he was staring at your tits in the first place. Was he checking you out? Something hot bubbled in your stomach that you were sure was hate at the thought of that. God, it was too late to be thinking like this, you thought, pushing it from your mind and burrowing deeper into your sheets as you tried to get some sleep.

You felt like shit the next day, but the show must go on, three hours of sleep or not. Thankfully, the bus stopped at a Love’s truck stop on the way there- you would be surviving on a gas station coffee and a prayer. Everyone filtered out of the bus, buying snacks and toiletries or whatever they needed. That left you, lingering by the trucker showers with Mike Valley. You split a bag of Hostess Donettes while he waited for his turn, discussing some fight he got into at the bar last night. Smiling, you licked the powdered sugar off of your fingers and joked about it being the breakfast of champions. He laughed, but just as you looked back up from the now empty bag, your eye caught something.

Perfect fucking timing. The door to the men’s swung open at just the right moment for you to see Bam in all his naked glory, thankfully only from behind. It wasn’t rare for you to see him shirtless, especially when you were skating together in the heat of touring season, but you only just now realized how muscular his back was. His tan skin had contours like a bronze sculpture, shitty black fleur de lis tattoos winding down his sides as he toweled away the last glistening remnants of his shower. Before your eyes reached his ass you tore your gaze away, gagging in mock disgust, crumpling up the empty bag and throwing it in the trash.

There was this weird look in Bam’s eye as he handed off the shower key to Tim, taking his place next to you on the beige wall as he pulled his shirt over his head, “You got a little something there.” He gestured to the side of your face and you licked off the remaining powered sugar, cracking a smile as you mumbled, “Oh, fuck off.” Bam held his hands up in mock surrender as you could hear the shower turn on in the other room, the only noise in the otherwise silent hallway, “Hey, no need t’get all defensive! I mean,“ You could feel his long, half-wet hair dangle on your forehead as he leaned in closer, his voice teasing as he reached down to do up his belt, “especially with how you were pervin’ on me in the showers. I’d say you owe me an apology.”

You turned to him, glaring at his stupid grinning face under the fluorescent lights, “First of all, it was an accident. Second of all, I can barely stand the sight of your naked ass without hurling!” He just snickered at your joke that wasn’t even all that untrue as you rolled your eyes to keep them from lingering on the heartagram splayed out on his lower stomach, “And pull your damn pants up. Hope you bust your ass out there today.” Bam shrugged, walking down the skinny hallway, “Sure. Don’t break a nail out there, sweetheart.” That just left you, watching him leave.

The next time you saw pretty boy was under the signing tent, a respite from the blazing sun and asphalt. Your seat just had to be next to Bam, all sweaty and glistening from skating yet somehow not looking as gross as some of the other guys did. MTV star magic, you guessed. You were wondering why the hell you needed to do skate exhibitions in the ass crack of summer when some nerdy looking teen girl handed you a board to sign. Sure, you weren't Tony or Bam, who each had a line of their own nearly twice the size of the rest of the team’s, but you were generally pretty popular. The girl with the glasses was all smiles, leaning in close to you like she was going to ask you something secret, “Hey, I read somewhere that you and Bam, uh- that you had a thing together. Is that really true?”

Bam, who was sitting next to you and well within earshot, scoffed, leaning over with a sneer as you scrawled silver sharpie onto the board, “I’d rather tongue a maggot than Y/N.” You scoffed as you popped the cap back on the pen, “Yeah, the only maggot here’s that thing in your pants.” It was then, as you turned back to the fan who was awkwardly standing there, watching your little lover’s quarrel go down, that you got an idea. A malicious grin spread across your lips as you handed the signed board back to her, “But if you were wondering, I am dating Tim O’Connor. Thanks for being a fan!”

God, if you could see Bam’s face. As much as it pained you to not look over at him, you didn’t, knowing it would be impossible to keep a straight face seeing him all slack jawed. The best part of it was you weren’t dating him- well, not yet, but you didn’t even need to for what you had in mind. Hell, knowing Tim, he’d be game for fucking with Bam any day of the week, even if it mean having to hug and kiss and pretend flirt from time to time. This was the ultimate way to get back at Bam for fucking with you for so long, you thought- your ace in the hole.

You told Tim your plan and he was more than eager to get in on it. You would come up with ideas on the fly whenever you knew Bam was watching, whether it was having you wear one of his shirts on the bus or you giggling when he messed up your hair while you stopped for food on the road, or even the night you shared a bunk- one of your favorites, especially with how pissy Bam looked as he angrily slid the curtain closed on his bed when he saw the two of you. Basically anything you would see in a cheesy romance movie, you did.

But if you thought Bam was a childish asshole before, you had no idea how much worse he could get. No matter where you were, he always seemed to have his eyes on you, glaring under heavy lids across the room. Even though he was still performing well, off the ramps he was this little ball of rage, quietly observing with raised hackles. Gone were the pranks with the team and the playful banter between the two of you. Bam was a tyrant before and even more so now, only a little quieter. He avoided you like the plague, so the only form of communication between the two of you was the sporadic spitting of insults at one another just short of an argument- he’d say something about your appearance, you’d jab at some trick he messed up, and then he’d tell you to fuck off.

His behavior became so uncharacteristic that, at one point, Tony, who was often the only voice of reason, tried to take him to an urgent care because he was obviously sick. Yeah, maybe that’d be a good idea, you thought, a medical professional would probably know how to get that stick out of his ass. No, not in the slightest did you care that you hurt Bammy Boy’s precious little feelings. He was a jerk to everybody, you thought, so he deserved it. It was only after a few weeks of this charade that you started to wonder why the hell he was being such a baby about all this. Bam just seemed to radiate jealousy, especially towards Tim, but there was no way that was the case. It sounded like something straight out of third grade- that boys are mean to girls they like. But, knowing Bam, you couldn’t write that off immediately.

All this tension kept building for a while until it reached a fever pitch. The team had an off day so you all decided to stop by a skate park late in the day to kick back and chill for a few hours before you needed to get back on the road again. The chance to bust out a few tricks without the judging eyes of thousands was a breath of fresh air and everyone was all excited as they filtered out of the bus onto the concrete- that is, everyone except Bam. The little prince of darkness shot you a scowl before he ran off to the bowl with the rest of the guys while you ran off on your own. You were on the mini ramp, enjoying some rare alone time while doing a few simple tricks and thinking about how you could probably run to the Wendy’s across the street to get dinner- one of those baked potatoes would really hit the spot. It was in the midst of that thoughtful silence when you were poised on the coping in a nose stall that the clatter of a board slamming against the ground behind you hit your ears.

You were startled and, turning towards the sound, you felt the ground slip out from under you as you shifted your weight ever so slightly. The world seemed to freeze for a moment as you plummeted to the ground, landing square on the lip with a blunt packing noise, busting your cheek open. The air was knocked out of your lungs as a choked gasp escaped you, reaching up to grasp the raw skin pounded flat against your throbbing cheek bone. Your vision was a blur of orange from the setting sun as you wrenched your eyes open, tilting your head up towards the source of the shadow that looked over you.

“Nice spill.” Struggling to your feet, Bam didn’t even offer to help you, just standing there with his hands in his pockets, watching. Something red hit the concrete when you spit, rubbing off some of the hot liquid from your cheek as your gaze met his, “The fuck’s your problem?” Coughing, your voice was rough, words punctuated by heavy breath as you continued, “You’ve been all pissy for weeks, man. What’s goin’ on?” There was an edge to his voice but he still sounded calm as he reached into his pocket for his pack of Marlboro Lights, still not making eye contact, “Maybe I don’t like seein’ you and Tim eatin’ each others faces- ever thought about that?”

Snatching the cigarette from his fingers, his fingernails painted in that stupid black nail polish he always wore, you growled, “Is that it? Really?” You got all in his angry little face, close enough you could smell the shitty cologne he wore to impress chicks that always made you gag. MTV fuckin pretty boy, always looking his best. Your voice dropped low, murmuring close to his skin, “Maybe you’re just jealous’a him. That he gets to have me and you don’t.” Bam finally met your gaze, staring at you with newfound intensity as the lines between teasing and flirting blurred. He spoke through gritted teeth as he glared down at you bitterly, “Oh yeah? Yeah? You think I can’t fuckin’ have you?” You said nothing, defiant.

Time stood still, but in a second, he was on you. Bam’s hands seized you, tugging you impossibly close to him as his calloused palms traveled up and down your body possessively. It was like something snapped inside of him that was holding him back. You could feel the muscles under his clothes flex as your breath hitched, one of his hands tangling in your hair and pulling you closer. Bam kissed like a starved man, his tongue moving against yours in a lecherous mess of teeth and spit and a little blood on your part. The air swam with a mix of rage and lust as you pulled away from each other after what felt like an hour, catching your breath. Your eyelids fluttered as a weak smile spread across your kiss-sore lips. Whispering under your breath, you leaned your forehead against his, “Holy shit…”

Glancing down at the cigarette still in your hands, you slipped it between your teeth, looking back at him, “Gotta light?”

#jackass #bam margera #jackass fanfiction #jackass fanfic #jackass x reader #fluff #angst #bam margera x reader #I absloutely adore Love’s truck stops <3 #I took a six hour trip by car once and stopping at one of those was straight up magical

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terushimooo · 1 year

Text

BREATHER

A composition on the decomposition of mind, body, and soul

vampire!Jean x human!reader

t/w: lots of blood, open sores, vague allusion to self-harm and domestic abuse, implied tortured and depressed reader, activation of potential trypophobia, one bug eaten, eating/drinking of blood, noncon vampire bite, implied abduction. Please let me know if I missed anything!!!!

a/n: thank you to both @iwaasfairy and @seijorhi for inviting me into your collab! I’m super excited to be back for my yearly contribution! I dedicate this piece to Rhi, my wife, and the eternal victim to my fics. I swear this is one of my most normal drabbles!! Happy supper early birthday my love!!!

And, of course, thank you to @bontenten for being my ride or die beta for life!!

w/c: 1.3k

Check out the events masterlist HERE and the corresponding art piece HERE

Stagnant, lifeless, putrid decomposition.

None are words that should be associated with someone entering their so-called “prime”.

And yet, here you are.

Every morning slowly becomes harder than the last, every day more painful.

Unseen to others, sores wrack your body, oozing and scabbing over in an almost religious fashion.

And yet, unlike religion, or maybe more like it than anyone else would care to admit, no matter how hard you pray, scrubbing and disinfecting the lifeless skin of weakened limbs, your body refuses to heal.

But that’s just the way Jean likes it.

On dark days when the clouds block out the sun, when the cool drizzle of rain thumps heavily onto his sun kissed skin, Jean can’t help but catch a glimpse of an unspoken truth.

You’re just so fragile… so weak… so…

So painfully human…

But, that’s precisely the way Jean likes you.

It’s on days like today, with goosebumps prickling your skin and teeth chattering violently from miles away, that a gnawing voice burrows its way deep into the crevices of Jean’s mind. It’s like he can’t control it, can’t stop the compulsion that has him seeking you out in your only time of freedom, the only time he lets you out of your confinement.

Even a moment without you is too long.

The strong breeze carries the smell of rain, renewal, rejuvenation, but most importantly, reward. It carries the scent of you, his dearest companion… his favourite, most precious pet.

Although your lips never truly part, never except to cry out and whimper in pathetic attempts for mercy, you call to Jean. Like a siren’s song, the soft trickle of blood from wounds beaten open by the rain’s percussion lures him in. One step at a time. One foot in front of the other. Jean pushes his way through chest-high blades of grass, wet stalks brushing up against haphazardly buttoned flannel and his best denim. An odd combination, but you weren’t there to help him dress in the morning. Clearly, Jean thinks with a scoff, a scoff soon replaced with a smirk and throaty chuckle, clearly you wanted a head start in the game he likes to call life. Or rather, your battle for it.

As Jean stares down the traces of limp foliage, grass and branches disturbed by previous passage, he can’t help but wonder just how far you’ve gotten this time. His eyes light up with his first trace of reward, with a gentle puddle of blood cradled perfectly in the cracks and crevices of the abrasive bark of a towering oak.

He knows he shouldn’t, but how can he stop? How can he stop his tongue from darting out, from finding its place upon the crimson stained wood. A soft groan slips past his lips as Jean laps at your taste, as he furiously seeks out every last drop of your blood.

He can’t stand to waste it. Can’t stand for anyone else to have it, not even the earth or the trees that in turn, give you life, give you something crucial—breath and oxygen.

Pure ecstasy flashes behind Jean’s eyes with every drop. It’s almost enough to have him forget about the scrambling bugs and maggots, the beatles and bark shavings he crunches between his teeth in an attempt not to waste your treasure.

If he had a working heart, it would beat only for you. If he had a soul, it would be tied only to you. And if he had any sense of compassion, of a true fondness and love for you and your wellbeing, he would let you die.

But Jean doesn’t have a heart. He doesn’t have a soul. But most importantly, he doesn’t have compassion—not enough to grant you mercy.

His love is selfish. His love is unstable. And his love is everlasting. That much is made clear by the quickly hardening shaft of his cock, stimulated only by the quickly passing taste of your blood.

Jean loves the chase, the little game you two play.

It’s one you’re not even aware of.

Taking off through the woods, bare feet rubbed raw against the rough floors of the forest, nightgown torn to tatters, sores opened and oozing down your trembling body, rain chilling you down to your bones—this is no game. To you, this is real. This is a battle for life, at least, what you have left of it…

But this time, this time you’ve gone too far. This time, there's no coming back.

In his mind, Jean would find you thrashing through the thicket, eyes wide and heart racing, blood leaking steadily from unsealed and revisited wounds.

In his mind, you’d scream. Cry out. Beg on your hands and knees for mercy, for his love.

But never could he imagine the scene in front of him.

When he finds you, when he sees your wounds ripped open, and wrists torn ragged by a branch, he can only imagine you used to try and find freedom.

When he finds you, Jean’s not mad. He thinks nothing but how childish you are. How foolish you are for trying this. How much you’re going to regret this.

It’s clear now that he can’t trust you, that he can’t leave you alone for even a second. Not while you’re like this. Not while you’re still human.

Heavy lidded eyes begging to rest for eternity shoot open as you're made aware of Jean’s presence. He calls to you with soft coddling and reassurance, but all you hear is nails against slate, an agitating and grating sensation and you’re wrought from your slumber.

“P-please,” you beg, voice soft and inaudible to even your own ears. “Don’t.”

But Jean doesn’t negotiate with incoherency. Even if he claims to care, your pleas fall on entire deaf ears. Instead of evoking a sense of pity, they just serve to drive his cause, to stake his claim.

It’s all a flurry of limbs.

Wild, desperate, bleeding hands. Bare feet swinging in abandon. Mouth left open in mid scream. Fists covered in open wounds and split knuckles claw desperately at their captors embrace. Sharpened fangs piece through bleeding gums, only seconds before they find their way into the crook of your neck.

For Jean, it’s euphoria. It’s everything he’s always wanted, maybe even more. But for you, for the poor, weak, and battered body coddled tightly in your captors embrace, for you its torture.

Fire runs through your veins as your eyes roll back into your skull. Gritted teeth are cracked open in an attempt to rob Jean of what little pleasure you can, to rob him the pleasure of seeing your pain.

But inevitably, all your actions were in vain.

As you lay shaking on his chest, gentle convulsions wracking your already worn out limbs, blood continuing to flow freely from the numerous sores and wounds littering your paleing form, Jean can't help but smile in content.

This day, this hour, this moment, this second, on February fourteenth… It’s at times like this where he thanks the gods, the gods who cursed him to an eternal life of indentured sorrow and suffering.

The only sounds coming from your cracked lips are gargled groans of pain and distress. Tears stream readily down your face as Jean sucks from his own wrist to provide to you his one gift—the gift of life. Eternal life.

Forever by his side.

Cold, dead lips press against yours in anything but reverence. It’s hard, aggressive, and mixed with passion. But to Jean, to Jean it’s perfect. In fact, he could almost swear that your pain is really just pleasure. Your lips aren’t moving out of spite, but finally requited love.

As Jean continues to watch the seconds pass, to watch the life slowly drain from your quivering, whimpering lips, Jean thinks to himself that this must be the first time in the hundreds, maybe thousands of years in his pathetic existence that finally, with you turned and bound to him for all of eternity, finally, Jean can take a breather.

#yandere aot #aot x reader #jean x reader #yandere aot x reader #yandere jean #vampire jean #lee writes #tw lees infection

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cero-sleep · 6 months

Text

God's Favorite AU - La Vida x Reader (Angst)

Cw: Body horror, swarms of bugs, gore, major character death

Thanks to @chaoticxrobotic and @eyenaku for beta reading!

Your eyes fluttered open, a smile creeping up on your lips as you stood up with a small jump.

White covered every inch of your surroundings.

Perfect.

"My love?" You called cheerfully, announcing your presence. Not that it was needed.

You felt a hand gently lay on your hair as you leaned into the touch.

"Mi pequeña tórtola, back so soon?"

A chill ran through your body. You loved when he gave you little nicknames.

"I wanted to see you!"

She hummed thoughtfully. "You have been coming here a lot lately. I'm starting to think you like death more than life."

"Wh- What-" You stuttered, turning around to face her. "Of course not!"

Laughter, delicate and cheerful, the kind that made your cheeks turn vermilion.

He was beautiful…

You couldn't help but notice her soft smile, the grace in her movements, the bright orange flowers that decorated his whole being and the pretty jade eye that… was currently staring at you in question.

Had she asked something?

You were so lost in thought that you didn't realize he had probably been talking.

So you just smiled sheepishly at her.

A sigh. "Your tasks?"

"Oh!" You exclaimed.

"This just proves what I was saying, cariño… you have been way too distracted lately. You barely have collected any souls."

"I was just getting ready to do it, I swear! But I… I wanted to see you first…"

You didn't notice how his eye narrowed slightly.

A second of silence passed before…

"I'm actually glad you came."

"You are?" You asked, hopeful.

"Yes." He said thoughtfully. "I think it's time I replaced you."

And then everything crumbled.

"Wh- What…?" You asked confused, hurt.

"You see, darling, it was entertaining having you around for a while, but you have been nothing but a loyal little puppet and that gets boring."

"I… I thought that's what you wanted… Am I not your 'pequeña marioneta'?"

"Not anymore, cariño." She said with finality.

"Wait!" You shouted. "Just... Just tell me how to fix it- fix us. Please just... Just tell me." There had to be a way. You weren't ready to die.

"Us?" The god laughed. "There is no us."

"What…? But I thought-" You said, tears starting to form in your eyes.

"You only thought what I wanted you to think." She explained coldly. "But I don't blame you for that, mi azulejo. You are just a silly human after all."

"Then… The kills?" You started disbelieving. "Was I… Actually doing any good?"

"Of course you were."

You sighed in relief, but she continued.

"It was very entertaining to watch an innocent soul like yourself get down to that level."

And your heart sank.

"Now… It's time for you to be forgotten."

"No, please!" You shouted as she snapped his fingers. Closing your eyes as you expected the worst.

And… Nothing happened?

But then you felt something damp oozing from your nose and mouth.

You wiped at it with your hand but what you saw was a dark liquid unlike blood.

You noticed then that your hands were hurting, eyes widening in realization as you saw how the skin on your fingers started to blacken.

Flies started to swarm you as you could only stare in shock.

"Wait- la Vida, please!" You exclaimed as your legs gave out, forcing you on your knees, but he only watched mercilessly as you pleaded. "I- I can do better, please!"

Your skin started to melt off in parts in what was the worst pain you had ever experienced, you screamed as muscle started to be exposed. Liquid tissue running from where your skin had melted.

You touched your face and felt bone in place of skin in some parts, eyes forced wide open at the lack of eyelids.

Maggots hatched and crawled all over your wounds, you tried to remove them from your body, picking at the tissue in a panic, but they just kept coming.

You felt the sting of tears, but that was nothing compared to the horrific pain you were experiencing right now.

You finally fell to the ground with a sick squelch, melting hands tugging at the god's dress.

He took a step back, taking it out of your grasp. "This has been fun, but it's time for you to meet with la Muerte."

With that, she snapped his fingers again, as you caught in bright green flames that consumed your entire body, leaving only white in your place.

She hummed. "I think it's time to look for a new plaything…"

#god's favorite au #my writing

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dadsbongos · 2 years

Text

like batman!

14.8 K words

warnings - stupid teenage boys trying to ruin your life, not super beta read

summary - You and Robin get Kill Bill teenager-style revenge on Jason Carver and his friends after they spread a nasty rumor about you. Sapphic ways ensue (Do Revenge but a little gay).

Pressed and pleated bubblegum skirt that hangs below a baby pink sweater - you opposite the woman of sunshine and fake freckles, your best friend since the first day of sophomore year, Claire Green. She is doused in spring green hues and smells of fresh daisies. Her plush lips glossed and kiss-inspiring, cookie brown natural coils that make all the girls with perms leprechaun in jealousy. She may not be the queen, per se, of high school, but she seems to effortlessly hold down that number two spot.

People usually stare when you two pass, either lust or hatred or admiration, but now it feels different. You’re getting pointed at and giggled over. You as in you - specifically.

“Hey, Claire,” she hums, half listening and half asleep, “Am I crazy? I think everyone’s laughing… at me.”

She yawns and glares when two of your fellow debate team members jab fingers your way, “You’re totally sane. So far.”

The air feels thin when you and Claire wind up at your locker, like your throat is split seconds from completely muscling shut. Cheerleaders and mathletes alike let their eyes stray and suddenly you feel silly.

“Am I overdressed?” you open your locker door and go to work clearing out what remains of your lip glosses and polaroids and trinkets. You can hear the blood pumping in your ears, face boiling hot and hands brushing over the Barbie plains of your outfit, “‘Cuz I totally don’t have anything else to change into - my gym uniform isn’t even clean right now!”

“We were supposed to take those home last week,” Clair raises a brow at you, boredly twisting a dark curl around her finger.

“I forgot,” you pout, throwing your bag into your locker and slamming the door shut, “Seriously, though, this is not how I need junior year ending.”

“You look fine,” Claire shrugs, eyes scrawling over you quickly, “Really, I doubt anything is actually different. Maybe you’re just sobering up from all that princess worship.”

“I am not worshiped,” you lean against the cold metal and fold your arms across your chest, “Why are they staring at me? I hate this.”

Claire tilts her head and frowns, you hate how you can’t tell if she’s being genuine or not, “Alright. Fine,” she grabs you by the elbow with her cherry red polished nails, “Let’s go find Chrissy and hide in the bathroom. Will that make you feel better?”

“Much,” you truly detest the stares.

Freshmen to seniors, men to women, band geeks to varsity jocks, you feel deathbed ill. Like you’re raw meat on the side of the road and they’re maggots.

Before Claire gets so much as an opportunity to run with you, the honey-haired queen bee herself finds you. She is easily the only girl in school who could get away with denim overalls over a white shirt.

Chrissy’s brows are tightly knit, she bats her caked lashes and asks, “Is it true?”

Your expression morphs to match hers, “Is what true?”

She laughs like you’re stupid, “Did you blow Andy in the Enzo’s bathroom last night?”

Claire rears back, hand dropping, like you’re roadkill. Your head etch-a-sketches its way into blank simplicity - for a second there’s ringing silence. Bile climbs up your throat and nestles there in a lump you can’t swallow down. The shine of Chrissy’s pearl earrings catch your stare and it’s so tempting to stay there.

Pretend you didn’t hear her.

Pretend you don’t know her.

Pretend you didn’t go out with Andy last night.

“No way, why would I do that?” your lip wobbles with telltales of nausea and Claire lays a hand to your back, a tender squeeze to your shoulder, “That bathroom is, like, ruled by feces.”

“Well,” Chrissy throws her hands up, “that’s what Andy’s saying happened.”

Shock subsides long enough for brutal rage to crack your prim shell, “Where is he?”

You and Andy weren’t steadies - you thought that could’ve been in the cards eventually, foolishly - last night was your first date and you assumed he was a nice guy. Because he was your friend and he never gave you a reason to think otherwise.

God, what an idiot you’ve proven to be.

“Andy!” he jumps from the shriek of your voice, smugness overtakes him as Chrissy and Claire rush to catch up with your thunderous steps, “What the fuck?”

“Aw, c’mon,” Jason steps forward as he usually does when one of his friends gets cornered, “Mad he spilled your little secret?”

“Excuse you?”

“We all knew,” Jason nudges your arm, “you don’t exactly keep your legs shut, honey bunny.”

You wrench back and Chrissy moves from your side of the courtyard to Andy’s, “But it’s not fucking true! You should all know that!”

“Hey, that’s not how we should speak,” Andy goes to cup your cheek but you shove him back, “Not very ladylike, baby.”

“Do not call me ‘baby’, just set the record straight,” from the corner of your eye, you see Claire shift from behind you to beside Chrissy, “Nothing happened after dinner last night!”

“Nothing?” Andy leans closer, other students pause and circle. It sickens you more than when you had the actual flu over winter break.

You can’t bear the way people look at you, like you’re wicked. A temptress in Molly Ringwald’s clothing. Slamming a palm into Andy’s chest so hard he stumbles, you feel blood broiling in your face as you shout, “Nothing!”

“Not even dessert?”

You saw the musical Chicago with Claire and Chrissy over summer - then again with your mother, and again with Lucas (who sang its criticism and insisted it would be terrible before he even saw it). From that very first viewing, your favorite character was Velma Kelly, who claimed to not even know her husband and sister were dead until she was washing the blood off her hands.

And, similarly, you honestly don’t remember kicking Andy Johnson in the balls so hard he red-faced, neck-veined bawled on the pavement. You happen to wind up in counselor Kelley’s pink-bricked office by chance.

“That story is not going to pass, young lady,” Kelley folds her hands across the laminate surface of her desk, a pointed stare poisoning you from beneath her bangs.

“Well, what am I supposed to say, Ms. Kelley?” your eyes burn with tears and mascara waterfalls have freshly dried against your cheeks, “Obviously, I kicked his kid cauldrons but he totally deserved it! He spread an awful rumor about me, he doesn’t deserve the other cheek!”

Kelley pushes off her desk and settles deep into her wheeled office chair, one hand clutching either armrest, “I really thought you were it. Honestly. Captain of the debate team, excellent GPA, loved by the entire school,” she presses her apple tinted lips thinly, “I’m very disappointed in you.”

“What else was I supposed to do?”

“Ignore it,” you huff and she drives the knife deeper, “It’s the last day of school, nobody would have remembered it past summer.”

“So what? This is all my fault?”

Kelley shrugs and you want to puke all over her black flats and sea phthalo rug, “I’m sorry, but what do you want me to say?”

Your lips pull impossibly down and a tightness curls in your lungs. Darkness looms, and there’s a terrible sense of evil that drips like tar off the rungs of your ribs. In a broad picture, this is far from the overbearing death sentence you feel brewing, but you can’t look at it from that lens. It’s too fresh, like if someone wedged their thumb into a gunshot wound.

At least Velma got to kill the people that screwed her over.

“You’re being put on a probation period for next year,” she tilts her head, “if you return,” another round of mascara leakage follows her words, “If you return next year, you will not only be stripped of your title as captain of the debate team - you won’t even be on the team. And you’re going to be serving five weeks of Saturday detention,” Kelley stands and moves to stand in front of her desk, both hands supporting her against the surface, “I know you’re a good kid, but I think you should try conducting yourself with a little more… respect.”

Your jaw hangs loose, “Ms. Kelley- “

She puts up a finger and walks around you to the door, shouldering it open and jerking her head towards the hall, “You’ll also be sent home early. Clear out your locker and say goodbye.”

You jelly-leg your way out of Ms. Kelley’s office, desperately clinging to the walls and lockers as you make your way through the winding corridors. Dry heaving, you barely manage to muscle out of the building without puking.

“Hey, Pretty in Pink! You okay?”

It’s no surprise that super senior Munson is still lingering around the grounds, he’s smoking against the hood of his tin can van. Eddie is a perfectly fine person when you’re not intimidated by the Satanic mask and robes he parades himself in. Sure, he reeks of weed and doesn’t brush his hair, but he isn’t a bad person.

“That’s a movie title, not a person, asshole!”

But you’re in no particular mood.

He sits up and off the van hood, meandering over as you hobble past the student parking lot, “You look like you died.”

“Maybe I did, what’s it matter to you?”

He quiets, slowly walking beside you, “You, uh, wouldn’t happen to need a ride home, would you?”

Walking home from Hawkins High would be a stab in the gut while you’re down. And it isn’t like your social standing could possibly fall further on its ass.

That jabs the thumb in your gunshot wound.

You sniffle and feel the tears blot your waterline, Eddie stutters back - his hands fly up in defense as you hiccup a sob. Throat squeezing shut and shoulders scrunching to your chest like the most agonized accordion. You feel childish - highlighted in pink and runny makeup - wailing in front of Eddie Munson.

How could he?

A scream is bubbling beneath the surface and Eddie so kindly guides you to his van, a hand hovering over your shoulder, “Okay, I’ll just assume you’re having a shit day and not full of Munsonphobia.”

A face wash and steaming shower later, you’re sitting in front of the boob tube with America’s darling Jeopardy. Your mother sleeps fitfully upstairs while your father is still bored in his cubicle prison. That terrible something brewing inside you surfaces from your stomach acid when the phone chimes and rattles. You fling a hand out to the side table and raise it, “Hello?”

“Hey!” Claire. You can imagine her twirling the cord around her finger and that brings a sliver of hope. The hope is swallowed by that previous brew, “So.”

“Uh oh,” you curl into the corner of the couch, legs tugging up to your chest and a pillow brought to press your side, “‘So’ isn’t good, what’s ‘so’ mean?”

You hear her suck in a sharp breath, “So, me and Chrissy have been thinking, and we’ve decided that maybe we all, you know, take this summer to maybe process what happened today.”

A bizarre thing for your best friend to say, no?

“What is there to process?” your legs swing down, you lean forward, almost falling nose-first into the carpeted floor, “Claire, you know he’s lying!”

“Yeah, but you assaulted him in the middle of the quad! Girl, you have to know how insane that was,” you’ve been called that a lot.

By the people who know you beneath the sugar and snap peas, at least. But Claire Green is just as bad, if not worse. She once didn’t talk to you for three months because you accidentally spilled beer on her favorite dress - it was miserable.

“You’re kidding!”

She wasn’t.

“Good luck,” you’ve heard her speak sincerely before, and this was not one of those times, “Honestly. I’ll call, okay?”

You squeeze the pillow at your side, so tight that you’re almost worried the stitching will pop between your fingers. Your jaw screws tight, clenching, “Okay.”

The scream crawls up from your throat and splatters against the throw pillow you’re clutching.

Honestly, you’ll take being fired from the Hawkins AMC to save them money if it just meant that you’d stop seeing all the Edvard Munch scream faces of the peers that forsake you. Though, maybe the Starcourt mall isn’t the perfect place to apply if you’re seeking refuge from seeing those peers every day.

“So, uh, what experience do you have?” Robin never once claimed to have the best social skills, but when the fallen princess of your high school stumbles in asking for a job - it just might make you feel a little worse, “Like, with… this?”

You drum your rose pink nails against your knee, “With ice cream parlors specifically? None, but I’ve been doing customer service since I was sixteen.”

Not super long ago, but Robin isn’t going to drill you on when exactly that was.

Robin has always found you charming, since those early days on the playground in Hawkins Elementary to, well, now. With nectarine smiles and cozy aura, you always entranced her whenever you two spoke. Which was never often after elementary school, but still it counts.

“Okay, well,” Robin slides your resume over the backroom table, carefully dodging a mysterious stain that she’s certain is from Steve, “shockingly, we don’t have a ton of people applying so I’ll just,” she gestures wildly, “You’re hired.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she cards her fingers together awkwardly, “It’s also the last weeks of summer, so not a lot of people are looking for work anyway,” she tilts her head suddenly, “Technically I’m not supposed to just tell you you’re hired, so please don’t mention anything to,” she points at the cherry door to the floor room, “him.”

“Of course,” you stand as she does, smoothing out your skirt with a shaky exhale, “I’m honestly just glad you considered me when you saw that it was, well, me that applied.”

“Oh,” Robin blanks, brows raising sharply, “Oh my God, I - you know - never believed that rumor.”

“Sure,” you fold your arms and she feels sick at the thought of making you uncomfortable, “It’s okay, Robin,” she’s shocked you remember her name, “Everybody believed that shit.”

One bonus to come from this entire nightmare is that you now don’t live in fear of swearing when Jason can’t barrage you with what ladylike behavior should be.

“No, really,” Robin gnaws her bottom lip, eyes threading to the clock above your head, “I, too, have a vendetta against those assholes. So, I sort of figured they were lying.”

“What’d they do to you?” you take precious care in not sounding as though whatever they did to her isn’t as bad as what they did to you.

Robin likes that. She’s always liked that about you. Your transparency.

“They bullied me,” she sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, eyes widening, “Like, a lot.”

“Are you serious?” you step forward, arms dropping boneless at your sides, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well I doubt it’s something they went bragging about to their local- “ she stops herself.

“Local what?”

Robin cringes, picking at her nail beds and looking down, “Airhead. Sorry.”

“It’s better than slut,” you lean against the cold marble counter, “Chrissy, too?”

“Technically no, but she never did anything to stop it either,” Robin joins your side, almost brushing arms.

“I wish we could just…” you hold up your hands in a choking motion, fingers flexing tight, “fuck up their lives, you know?”

“Why can’t we?” she turns, but you stare straight ahead.

“What if we get caught?”

Robin moves a little closer, leaning forward and tilting so you two are forced to lock eyes. She grins, “Just don’t be obvious. If we work together, people won’t see it coming. Nobody from school comes here ‘cuz Steve’s shattered ego scares ‘em off, they don’t know we know each other.”

“I dunno…”

Shrugging, Robin stumbles forward and grabs an ‘AHOY’ sailor hat, tossing it your way with all the plastic candor of someone experienced in thankless customer service.

“Then welcome to Scoops Ahoy! you are now a private in our navy,” she grabs a spare uniform and presses it into your chest, “And captain of scrubbing the poop deck. Newbie policy.”

“How long does that last?” you shudder at the thought.

“Two months,” she holds up a finger before you can groan and huff in cheap protest, “Or until Steve forgets - which is usually three weeks.”

“Awesome.”

Robin nods and grabs the silver handle to the door at your side, “Awesome.”

White, rose-patterned dress with lacing at the hems - you walk up to school alone for the first time since ever. Taking the bus to school was a new experience, too - usually, you would ride with Claire, but she failed miserably in her plan of calling over summer. Now, you find yourself searching for her.

There were years wasted that you felt needed repentance for. That or you needed her at your side again, and you refuse to accept that reality.

People’s heads twitch your way as you pass and it sends you right back to that May, what was months ago now feels like minutes prior. Your chest squeezes all over again - how cliche. You will it to stop but then you spot something even worse than a couple of underclassmen leering.

Claire linking hands with Andy, looking at him with bambi eyes as though he’s an angel among the clouds. She wears a blue sundress under a navy sweater. Chrissy stands beside her with Jason, swamped in a candy red dress with her own crimson sweater. You earnestly try not to stare, but coming back to school means business as usual. And business as usual means Jason Carver can't keep his fucking mouth shut.

“Hey!” he sings your name and dread curdles inside the bowl of your gut, “C’mere!”

You tense, both hands strangling one of your bag straps.

“Come on, you,” he waves a hand towards the group, laughing.

Chrissy and Claire glare at him before giving you wide-eyed stares. Patrick shuffles and glances on occasion. Andy doesn’t even look at you.

You don’t know which is the worst.

But Jason won’t shut up, so you make your way into the group that chumbaited you for the sharks, desperately trying not to let your knees buckle.

“Hey there, pretty girl,” Jason tilts his head, “Meant to call.”

“Of course,” you keep your head angled to the side, and for a moment you see Eddie Munson making his third trip into Hawkins High. He sees you, too.

And you’re brought back to that toddler tantrum of junior year’s last day.

“You understand, right?” he loops an arm around Chrissy and Andy matches, even pressing a kiss to the side of Claire’s head, “You’re not mad at my Chris or anything, right?”

Students gather and cling in a tight circle around you and your former friends. You feel hot-faced and watery-eyed all over again, “Jason, please- “

“Well, we just wanna be sure there’s no, you know, bad blood.”

Nobody runs to defend you. God, were these really the people you thought you’d be with forever?

“You did have a whole summer to cool off, after all,” Jason leans forward, smiling as if he’s untouchable. And as far as he and his leeches are concerned, they are untouchable. If you’re caught trying to poke the bear, its guidance counselor mother will rip your head off, “You wouldn’t hold a grudge like that for so long, would you?”

The oozy hellfire of people’s stares schlucks you into a corner. The only corner safe of Jason’s lava dump.

You grit your teeth and puppeteer your lips into something acceptable as a smile, “Of course, not.”

“Of course, not,” he fakes a punch to your shoulder, your breathing heavies and you know that as soon as he finally releases you, you’re going to find a broom closet to scream and cry in. His voice drops into a whisper and Andy’s impish lips curl, “Good girl. Was that so hard?”

How could they?

No.

How dare they?

You’re dabbing black tears away before they can drift or smear, you march straight to the band’s practice room - straight to the sound of wind instruments blaring their off-key tune. Your hand slams against the chipped blue paint of the practice door.

Brass handle crashes through the doorstop and you watch Robin jump five feet from her chair, big ocean eyes blown wide at your frame in the doorway.

“Alright,” you sniffle and Robin stands, careful yet shaky hands coming to your arms. You give up the fight of saving your makeup and wipe away the budding tears, “Let’s do it,” she quirks a brow at you, “Let’s do revenge.”

Robin twists, looking around the still, cautious faces of her bandmates before dragging you into the costume closet they share with the theater department.

“What happened?” her mouth opens and closes, not unlike a fish, as she drums up some idea of how to comfort your tattered ego.

“Fucking Jason,” you choke on the lump that never quite faded since May, “He humiliated me,” you roll your eyes and Robin carefully brushes a thumb under your leaky eyes, “What else is new?”

“Do you wanna hug?” she steps back, arms flinging wide at her sides, “I know we aren’t, like, best friends or anything and we just sort of work together, but- “

“No, no, I need this,” you shake out your hands - deep breath in, deep breath out, “I want to be mad right now,” you grab Robin by the arms and pull her close, practically nose to nose, “We are gonna fuck those Madonna mule-fuckers up, Buckley.”

“Woah,” she laughs, a raspy, deep sound, “Chills.”

“Thank you,” releasing Robin, you nod curtly, “Now, with my intel and your unassuming status, we can really pull this off.”

“Who do we go after first?”

You fold your arms, eyes falling to the brown splotched carpet, “You ever play Kung Fu Master?” she shakes her head, bobbed hair shifting with her movements, “Well, as you fight - the opponents get harder.”

“Oh, like Destroyer?”

“Sure,” you swing your backpack around to hang off your chest, pulling out a notebook and flipping to a blank page. Robin watches you scribble, pressing her back to the wall and eyeing the names you plant, “The easiest to take down is Patrick McKinney. He doesn’t really stand out, and he isn’t the strongest guy in Jason’s circus. Generally smart.”

“Is there a but coming?”

“But,” you jab a finger at the notebook.

McKinney - ailurophobia. only showers when everyone else leaves. trusts Lucas

“I’ve babysat Lucas Sinclair since I was thirteen,” you move onto the next boss in your makeshift, live-action game, “he’s our man on the inside on this one.”

Robin almost gasps at the next name down your list, “Cunningham? As in- “

“Chrissy - yeah. She also isn’t very asshole-ish, or vengeful. Also not super strong, her bones are like a baby bird’s, so she honestly won’t be too hard. But we have to make sure there’s something we can hang over her head or else she’ll say something. If she says something,” you point your eraser’s end in Robin’s face, “it’s game over.”

Cunningham - deathly afraid of spiders, baby bird bones

“Who's next?”

You can’t help but to laugh at the twisted fates that led you here, “Claire Green. My former best friend. The biggest backstabber in school with the ability to hold a grudge longer than a life sentence. Not nearly as influential as Chrissy, but she’s incredibly smart. At that point, we need dirt on both Chrissy and Patrick because no matter how hard we try to cover our asses, she’ll know anything weird in her life is my fault.”

Green - hates going out in the rain, Goddamn does she hate getting dirty

“Then Jason?”

“Nope!” you chirp, looking at Robin with a grin that sparkles, “He’s last. Next, we have Andy. A pure monster. Nothing but a stupid, popular monster.”

“Like Dracula?”

You giggle and Robin leans closer into your side, “Like Dracula.”

Johnson - dad is the pastor, hated by Eddie with the fury of 1,000 suns

“Now Jason?”

“Now Jason,” you finish your hurried jots and press the notebook into Robin’s chest, “No known weaknesses other than the fact he’s an arrogant stain on the state of Indiana.”

“Great, so,” Robin tosses up a hand, “how exactly do we get the dirt on Patrick and Chrissy to keep their mouths shut?”

Your gaze drifts from the rosy freckles of her cheeks to a miniskirt and shoulder-padded overcoat. It reminds you of the women you see on the local Hawkins news channel.

Robin’s head turns, “Is it stained? What’s wrong?”

“Do you have a microcassette recorder?”

“No,” she wets her cherried bottom lip, “but I know someone who does.”

Steve Harrington - a casual enjoyer of all sorts of piracy.

Robin never suspected his consistency in low-level crime would pay off.

You look at her through your lashes and something in her chest stutters, “You wanna get some cats with me after school?”

“Clever way of begging for pussy.”

“Ew,” you put up a finger, “never again, Buckley. Never again.”

Under the promise - a solemn swear - of getting the delightfully purring bundles of fur in your arms a good home, Mrs. Burman allowed you and Robin to take five cats off her hands at the shelter. Mrs. Burman was kind when other adults slammed their doors in your face - she heard the rumors, by now everybody had. That didn’t cloud her judgment, though.

Patrick hates nothing more than showering in front of his fellow men - it feels exposing, like stage spotlights directly in the face kind of exposing. And what he hates next to that, is being wrong.

A locker door clinks shut and he clenches the eggshell towel tighter around his waist.

“Hello?”

Silence stills him.

A moment wades by. Another follows.

Patrick clears his way to the bench and hurries through his dressing routine, at least until he notices that his shirt has vanished.

He feels the thrumming of his skin and places an open palm on the cracked metal door to his locker. Something pushes back. Sharp and quick into his hand. Patrick’s knees hit the varnish bench and he stumbles, sliding down the lockers behind him until his ass hits the cruel linoleum. The metal door is batted open and between the slot peeks a furry, muddy white face. Terrifyingly sparkling blue eyes that linger.

A mew cracks and paws pitter out of his locker, gracefully bouncing onto the bench, and right to the edge of the wood. The kitten pops onto his chest and Patrick tilts his face, neck craning as far from his nemesis as possible.

You and Robin lock eyes behind the wall of metal cages. Two cats huddled under either of your arms. Crouching carefully to the scratched linoleum, you both set one of the kittens loose from your holds. They scamper along the checkered lines before nuzzling into the divots of Patrick’s ribs.

Getting Lucas to sneak you both into the boys' locker room after everyone else had left was easy - ice cream bribes for a week easy - but getting him to squeeze catnip into the body wash Patrick used was harder.

“Why’d you lie, Patrick?” Robin murmurs, he doesn’t recognize her voice because of course, he wouldn’t, “Why do you hurt, Patrick?”

You slough another cat onto the patched shine and grin when the man behind the bench whimpers.

Robin holds one cat between her arms, she eyes you wearily and you nod her along. Creeping around the corner of the lockers, Robin cards her fingers through the ginger hair of the cat in her embrace. You imagine she looks powerful.

Like the sun. Or the ocean.

He doesn’t even recognize her face.

Maybe you underexaggerated how much of an asshole Patrick McKinney could be.

But Robin decides that it takes too long to explain their history, so she pins this chance encounter elsewhere.

“Why would you lie?” she tilts her head and the ginger in her arms claws to be let down.

“I didn’t say anything!” Patrick’s eyes are screwed shut, face blighted away from the purring balls of fur on his chest, “I never said a word!”

Robin, as if she can sense your thoughts in her throat, says exactly what you think, “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” she kneels to his side and digs into the pockets of her sunshine yellow shorts, “You want help, Pat?”

He nods helplessly. Breath thick and brows glistening with sweat.

She laughs, honest to God, and presses the cold end of Steve’s microcassette recorder into his throat.

“Alright, sweetpea,” Robin pulls the recorder back and rubs her thumb into the bowl of the red record button, “I’ll get the cats outta here if you can look me in the eyes and admit that you knew that blow job was all a lie.”

“Why do you even care?” he snaps.

“I just hate to see a promising young woman’s life ruined. Now,” Robin holds the cat closer to his glaring face, clicking the recorder alive as he sucks in a breath.

“Andy Johnson was lying through his fucking teeth about the blow job and I knew it! All our friends knew it! Now, get these fucking cats off me, freak!”

Coming to a stand, Robin lays the ginger ripping at her sleeve onto Patrick’s chest as she ends the recording.

“Thanks for cooperating, McKinney!”

You two share a high-five that echoes in the hallway as you storm off.

Following the hitched success, you and Robin collect and split the kittens between Dustin and Eddie. For the low, low price of free - an unbelievable deal. And it’s from the Forest Hills trailer park that you drive Robin home in a candy red 1985 Audi 5000S. Suddenly, there’s a gasp and Robin’s hand slams into the dashboard - you glare and she mouths a spoonful of apologies.

“Just - oh my God - how’re we gonna get the literal queen of Hawkins High?”

You would roll your eyes if you weren’t focused on navigating towards the pink house with red shutters that homes Robin Buckley, “That is so easy.”

One excuse note and one hall pass - both doctored - later, you and Robin are skipping third period to sit, sweaty and deranged, on the metal skeleton of the stagelight crane. Freshmen quarter club rush in Hawkins takes the form of many club and extracurricular leaders selling themselves to the incoming students. Chrissy is next.

Your legs dangle from the open spots in the cage’s hollow, Robin warily eyes the rusted bucket sat between you both - tied to one of the crane’s rungs by thick rope.

“They’re trying to climb up, I’m not kidding - look,” your eyes stick like paste to where the new debate club president advertises himself to the crowd. Robin huffs and leans, continuing to peer inside your bucket, “I honestly can’t even believe I’m doing this. This is crazy. You’re crazy. I don’t- “

“Shut up, Buckley,” you snap a hand over your mouth as soon as the words leave. She looks like you just stabbed her - Brutus to Caesar cruelty, “I’m so sorry. Oh, Robin,” you lay a hand to her shoulder across the bucket, “I didn’t mean that. I’m just- “

“Agitated and irritated?” Robin suggests, rose petal lips tilting up, “Me too. It’s fine, just try to not do that again.”

“Of course,” you realize you’ve held her for too long and pull your hands into your lap, legs swinging, “You know, I was president of debate before… everything.”

“Yeah,” Robin leans her chin onto the rod that reeks of iron, “I think everyone knew,” she sighs through her nose, head quartering to look at you through her lashes, “You know what you didn’t know about me?”

“Of course, I don’t know if I don’t know.”

“Shush,” she bites her bottom lip just to hold her grin from growing too wide, “I was in theater. Freshman year. And first semester sophomore year.”

“No shit?” you chuckle, quiet and restrained, “Well. Something not a lot of people know is that I was in chess.”

“Are you serious?” her jaw drops, neck hanging over the banister, “No fucking way.”

“Yes fucking way,” you look down, tempted to drop a boot straight onto the new debate president’s head, “I hate him.”

“You two know each other?”

“Not really.”

She giggles, and that makes the wait for Chrissy a little bit better.

Robin’s previous upset returns when Chrissy stands a little more to the left than what was planned. She curses, “dammit”, and digs into her navy shirt’s collar down into her bra. You watch with knitted brows as she pulls out a dime and hangs it above the queen bee’s skull.

Like a pin it dollops right into her scalp. You gasp and she shrugs.

“Ouch!” Chrissy cups the tender spore, stumbling over her shoes into the correct spot.

Before you get to laugh, Higgins begins to search upwards. Hurriedly, you yank your legs through the holes and Robin attempts to duck from his line of sight. Her knee knocks the bucket and nearly sends the tin of eight-legged spindles right onto you. Fumbling hands attempt to catch it, but it only slips. You roll onto your hip, dodging the spiders and latching onto the pail to fling it over the edge of the crane.

Since you’ve known Chrissy Cunningham, she has always made you take care of the little arachnids - big or small, deadly or friendly - they all petrified her to her very bones.

And now that she’s a big bad teenager, she takes initiative to sling a scream and run rather than freezing up.

Robin ducks low as she waddles down the side of the crane, you following after. Higgins studies the metalwork as it rattles and you barely manage to unhook your skirt from a stray spoke before he comes around to the ladder. Your peachy skirt tore near the thigh and Robin hates how she stares, but she can’t bring herself to look away.

Robin takes you by the hand, shaky and sweaty, but you don’t say a word because your palms are just the same. You two slam to a squeaky stop in front of the home ec. room - giggling, you share a look. A look turns into a stare.

“We almost got caught because of your ass!” Robin snickers, fingers trailing to the soft material of your skirt.

“You got down fast enough, racer,” you nudge her arm with yours, “Good job, by the way, it’s as impressive as it is concerning that you can hop ladders.”

“And good job on gathering those spiders,” she leans against the pale popcorn wall and tilts her head to meet her shoulder, “How’d you get them anyway?”

“Munson said he owed me a favor for the cats,” you join her side at the wall. Arm to arm. She feels warm.

Footsteps call your name.

Robin pauses. You’ve been frozen since you caught the first glance of who had walked in.

Chrissy Cunningham stands in the middle of the abandoned hallway, fists balled beneath the hanging material of her varsity jacket. Her chest rises and falls like she’s ran the width of Indiana. She ignores Robin entirely.

“Did you have anything to do with it?”

You should’ve known better than to stop here - there was a bathroom at the end of the hall.

Now she looks at Robin. She recognizes her, unlike Patrick.

“Did you?”

You step up, Robin pushed behind you. You set your face stern and hold Chrissy’s attention, “I poured them.”

You’ve never seen Chrissy so mad. Not once.

But now, she’s earnestly pissed, “Why?!”

“You ruined my fucking life, Christine.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Robin watches you two trade blows like you’re the best of tennis players.

Chrissy continues, her fist flying to her chest, “It isn’t my fault that you got fucked over!”

You feel like you’ve been shot straight through the heart, “It’s all your fault, Chris. You could’ve said something! You have more power here than anybody, you should’ve said something - we were friends!” tears cool the heated skin of your face as they drip, “Maybe if you could get out from under your douchenozzle boyfriend’s thumb, you’d see what a colossal bitch you’ve been.”

With a shriek, Chrissy darts forward and wraps her bird-boned arms around your waist. Your back hits the floor with a thud and you’re winded - Robin tries prying the queen off of you but Chrissy flings an elbow back and it crunches Robin’s nose. Your nose copies when she curls a fist and punches you - blood crawls down your throat and leaks onto your tongue.

Non-vengeful may have been the wrong label then.

You wring her neck in your hands and push against the fill of her throat, stiff-arming until she heaves and pulls away. Before she can gather herself, you get on top and push an arm into her chest to hold her down. Robin kneels at your side reflexively and presses the recorder to Chrissy’s lips.

“Admit it!” you crush harder into her chest when she’s silent, “Admit it, Christine!”

“It doesn’t matter,” she spits, kicking her legs under you, “Nothing will change - you’ll still be fucked because nobody cared that much anyway!”

Robin looks to you, face pinched in concern.

You pick Chrissy up by the collar of her jacket and slam her back into the ground. She thuds, echoing through the halls, “Say it!”

Chrissy gives in because, of course, she does. As peculiar as it is to have her fight you, her rage doesn’t last long because it’s still her. When the Jason Carver influence disappears, it’s just her. And she tearfully submits to your prolonged hatred.

“Andy lied about the blowjob and we all knew it.”

You stand with Robin’s help, spitting a glob of mucus and blood onto the floor, “Clean that. And if you say anything about this, just remember who tackled who.”

Robin deletes the message counselor Kelley leaves detailing her absence as you kick off your shoes at the front door. Following that, you end up on her bathroom counter - Robin standing between your spread legs. She holds a pack of frozen carrot slices to your bruising (but thankfully not broken) nose.

“You were kind of terrifying back there,” she admits, pressing the frostbitten plastic closer to your skin.

“Sorry.”

“No,” Robin chuckles, thick and raspy through soft lips, “It was kinda hot.”

Your lips drop flat. Brows raising hairline high.

“What?”

Robin stands back, arm still extended to hold the carrots in place, “No- not like. You know. Not like- “

“Robin, are you? Are you into girls?”

The carrots pop against the ground, splintering apart from the impact. She steps further back, but you grab her wrist before she can yank it to her side. Robin swallows rough.

“It’s okay, Robin- Robin,” you lean in, “I like girls, too.”

Something difficult to come to terms with when you were younger, but watching Grease is admittedly more fun when you don’t have to lie to yourself and say you’re only watching for John Travolta.

Robin finally releases her tense shoulders and grins, both parts skeptical and good-natured, “No fuckin’ way.”

Slowly, you nod, pulling her back between your legs, “Yes fuckin’ way. Now you’ve got a storm to bandage,” you point straight at the bridge of your nose, “Right here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Robin rolls her eyes and picks up the carrots by her foot. Reaching into the medicine cabinet, she pulls loose a cotton pad and medical tape, “What was your life like? Before… everything.”

You assume she asks to keep your mind off the pain to come, but it feels nice to be asked about yourself. Or, at least, how you’ve changed.

“It was kinda weird,” you close your eyes as Robin closes in, her soft breath caresses your cheeks and something like affection blooms there, “Super weird. It always felt like I had to act like this good girl from some fucked up movie.”

“Mmm, you’re still pretty prissy and pristine.”

“Yeah, but now I can say ‘fuck’ without getting lectured about my lack of ladylike behavior.”

She laughs and you grin at the sound.

“What’re you hoping for?” you imagine she sticks her tongue out when she focuses. You’re scared to make eye contact though, scared of what it might insinuate. What it might lead to.

“I don’t even know,” you admit, “I just want them to know they made a mistake crossing me. I want them to feel like if I could, I’d run them down with my car.”

“Would you?”

You remain silent. Three seconds pass before you teasingly shrug. The two of you giggle and it's something from a romcom, only now there is no John Travolta or Judd Nelson. And maybe you two prefer it this way (you definitely do).

“What’d they do to you?”

Robin’s finger shakes and knocks the tender cartilage of your nose, a million little apologies following soon after.

“Just, you know, the basics,” she forces a laugh, hollow and thin, “making fun because I ramble and say things I shouldn’t and can’t pick up on social cues. I also don’t have a lot of friends - I mean they’re all either acquaintances from band or my coworkers… clearly.”

“What was ‘making fun’?”

“Oh, just - gum in my hair, stealing my homework, dead animals in the locker, dog shit on the lawn.”

“Jesus, how did I not hear about that?”

“Don’t know. They were pure evil.”

Robin pats your knee when she’s finished patching you up. Your eyes flutter to life and she holds out a hand to help you off the bathroom counter’s water-and-soap-scummed surface. Electric shocks tingle from her hand to yours.

She thinks over the time. Your peers aren’t even at lunch yet, “You wanna get ice cream?”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

You two don’t hold hands as you get ice cream, but something sugary strings you together. You can feel it. Bubblegum and banana split delights are just the cherry on top.

It’s a nice break before you potentially get your ass kicked again by another former best friend.

The hoods and bonnet and beanies may have been a touch too far, but you’ve always had a taste for the finest flair (and protecting your hair from the bullying of mother nature). And flair kindly distracts you from the way that Claire and Andy are kissing in the frame of her bedroom window. She did always hate going out in the rain.

Robin holds you by the shoulder, stray hairs clinging out from under her beanie to the sides of her face. You find the burn of your eyes there, when you look away from Claire’s familiar bedroom lights. Years spent under those lights - daytime, nighttime, fun, fear, tears, the lights have seen it all. When her parents were home and when they were away, like they are now.

Before Robin can grant you pity and sorrows, you shove the plastic package of toilet paper into her arms, “Let’s fuck this bitch up.”

You rip open seemingly endless flat packets of instant mashed potatoes of varying flavors - cheddar, garlic, garlic cheddar, and Vermont sour cream and chives. With speed and intent, you dump flavored white powders along the paved walkway. Some of it splits into the gassy lawn as Robin throws toilet paper clumps at vacant windows and the surrounding plant life.

Your one-woman mashed potato brigade is stopped on the first lines with one glance into the bedroom window.

Andy is rolling the mint green shirt from Claire's body, exposing a midnight black bra. It takes you back.

How Andy would flirt like you were a delicate princess and he a mere peasant boy. How Claire helped you dress and prep for the date. How Claire picked you up after dinner. How excited Andy seemed when you agreed to go out. How excited you were when your parents finally agreed that you can go out.

How mad he was when you said you didn't want to go any further than hand-holding.

What aches most is Claire's betrayal. You actually, foolishly, thought that maybe the two of you would still be friends after the disaster of May. At least until that call. Her call.

With all the might in your body, the last meaningful hand of instant mash powder is launched right at Claire's bedroom window. Clarity hits you when it splats thickly and they jump.

Hurriedly, you grab Robin by her black long-sleeve and drag her into the rose bushes that separate the Green and Schumer houses. She goes down first, back into mulch - you follow, elbows holding you up. Noses separated by a hair's width.

"Hi," you're quiet. Whispering against her apple lips.

"Hi."

"Shh."

"You- “ you cover her mouth before she can respond.

Claire pops the front door open, holding a silk, plum robe together at the chest. Andy lingers in the background.

You roll off of Robin as she wails at the mess from her doorstep. Robin hates when you move, but she'll accept the lackluster dance party to the tunes of Claire Green's misery. Small wiggles and finger disco, but it makes you both giggle quietly.

As far as either of you can hear, Andy makes no move to step forward and comfort your former best friend.

From within the bushes, Robin claws up mudded dirt and flings it at Claire's expensive robe. You gape and clamp a hand over your mouth to keep from giggling too severely. The both of you crawl away, coming to a stand in the Schumer's vegetable garden backyard.

Lovingly, you swipe mud and dirt from her frayed, peeking hairs and face and she watches you clean your palms on black leggings.

"Sorry we didn't get a confession from her."

"Whatever. I already have two. One straight from the Cunningham herself.”

Robin follows as you begin over the garden fence and back down the sidewalk to your home. Her fingers twist over one another and she feels her mouth run dry.

"Really," she starts, "I'm sorry. About everything."

"It's fine," you slow your pace to be at her side, "I kinda just don't want to think about it."

"You probably should, it isn't healthy to bottle things up."

It isn't healthy to enact revenge either.

"It sucks, what else can I say?"

"Really, I think you should talk about it. It helps, like a lot."

"Why do you care?" you laugh but it's nothing except tense. Accusing.

Robin removes the beanie from her head and wrings it between her lithe hands, "'Cuz I know what it’s like. To get betrayed like that.”

“How would you?”

She pauses and you turn, her brows are furrowed and she looks prepared to yarf up her dinner, "You don’t remember at all?”

You blink once. Twice. Stupidly.

Robin breathes heavy, folding her arms, "We used to be friends, you know? In fifth grade. I told you I liked girls at a sleepover and you just… stopped hanging out with me," her eyes widen in show of her disappointment, "And then got super popular."

"Oh my God," you feel shame and dread tighten at your nerves, "I'm so sorry, Robin, I- I don't know why I did that. And I'm so, so sorry I didn't remember. That's so awful."

"I mean," she's shockingly understanding for someone so wronged, "I forgive you. I forgot what I had for dinner just a few hours ago. But if you're so inclined, you can make it up to me by actually opening up."

"What can I say?" you hug yourself, eyes drifting down, "It's terrible. Every day. People I thought were my best friends just lied and abandoned me for dead."

The tears finally cradle your face and Robin steps forward, taking you carefully in her arms. You latch to her, hands winding tight in her black shirt.

"They all got off free and I lost everything. And I have Saturday detention tomorrow with a teacher that just sleeps the whole time," you sputter a laugh, face warm against Robin’s, "I really, really hate that senior year is looking so shit right now."

"I hope revenge is sweet, at least."

You're silent for a moment. Pondering. You nod, beaming, "It is."

Something rattles in a nearby trash can and Robin pulls from the embrace, though her hand continues to hold yours.

"We should probably go get warm before we catch something. And before whatever is in the garbage bites us- " she's walking, dragging you by the hand, before you even get to reply, "I have a fear of rabies, actually."

"Seriously?"

"Hey, you ever seen Cujo? That shit is real, it takes over your mind."

"Yeah, I'm sure," you squeeze her hand playfully, "Totally not insane."

"It isn't," she stresses, though even that front cracks into sprinkles of laughter, "I'm totally justified, everyone else is just insane."

"Of course."

"For real!"

"Never said I didn't believe you."

The trek home is tedious and rainy, but Robin makes it easier to swallow. Like sugar to cough syrup. Or whatever Mary Poppins said.

Your final Saturday detention and Ms. Click is already head back, open-mouthed, freight train snoring asleep. You almost wish there was a princess, basket case, nerd, criminal, and jock there to save you from such unending boredom. And despite being schlucked into such an unforgivingly plain and exhausting field, you feel better than you did the first time. Maybe it's because this is your last one. Maybe it's because Robin promised to pick you up afterwards.

Either way, you feel better now.

Eased and content, at the very least. Willing to let things go as they are, even if the only two left on your revenge roster are the main villains. It most certainly helps that Robin seems to enjoy being around you as much as you do her.

A knock clouds the glass of Ms. Click’s classroom. Your attention snaps and you see Robin Buckley, the woman of your hour, waving you over excitedly. She points over her shoulder at the bike she’d obviously ridden over. It’s castleton green with purple tassels on either handle - very loved, very mud splattered from years of use. You look at her like she’s insane - as far as you know, she genuinely might be - and she just continues to wave and point to her bike with the basket on it.

You rise from your seat, a glance from Ms. Clink’s stone cold knocked out position to the clock, then take great care in mouthing “theater”.

Robin meets you by the double doors at the side of the school - foolishly left open and unlocked.

“I have to be back at three, you know?”

She hooks a flanneled arm through the crook of your elbow and lugs you forward, toward her bike, “You’ll be safe and in your seat by 2:50, at the latest. And that’s a coveted Buckley Swear,” she puts up three fingers, as though a proudly honored boy scout.

The ride from school to the local replacement diner for Benny’s - Johanna’s (a cheap imitation, though the fries are truly award-worthy) - isn’t more than five minutes. Robin is such a slow biker, taking every handful of seconds to chat at a stop, that it soaks up seven minutes of your brief freedom.

Leather sticks to your skin from the booth, but your company is simply to die for.

“You know, I should’ve known something was off with Andy when all he could say about me was that I was pretty.”

Robin icks, sticking out her tongue at the man’s name, “There’s no way he and his friends are part of the men Dolly Parton’s begging Jolene to spare.”

“I know, I once got told that he cheated on a girl at a party when she was literally in the other room,” rethinking it, your entire time with Andy was a sign that he was everything but a decent guy, not that your rose-colored glasses could see red flags. They always just looked like plain old flags, “But I think I’m better now. I used to be nice, but it wasn’t really me. I changed everything about myself and those assholes were never satisfied.”

Robin grabs your hand, hidden behind the red plastic baskets that your meals were carried out in, “You’re still pretty nice now.”

You don’t know if you believe her, but the way she bats her lashes and simpers from fruity ripe and flower-pink lips just might convince you.

Robin rubs a tender thumb over your knuckles and speaks again, “Wanna know something?” you hum, popping one of Johanna’s to-die-for fries in your mouth, “Beethoven wrote Für Elise for a lady, and he wanted her to be able to play something easy, but impressive,” she snags a bite from her burger, holding up a finger as she chews, “But when he found out she was engaged, he made the other parts so complicated that she’d never be able to play it.”

Taking a sip of cola, you shake your head, “I don’t think that’s true.”

“I don’t either,” she snickers, “but I wanted you to feel better about our revenge agenda.”

“Well, I feel fine, thank you.”

“Here, I’ll tell you three truths about me - as an apology.”

Unnecessary, but you don’t plan on fighting her - not when you like the sound of her thin rasp as she talks.

“I was told to never say food tastes bad, so I would say ‘unlucky’. I once cracked my neck and then my nose started bleeding. Once when I was checking out a couple customers at Family Video, their toddler kept saying ‘fuck’ until they left.”

“Thank you,” you tilt your head, “It sounds like you lead a very interesting life.”

“Hm, yes, I went from outcast dork to protecting the world from a gloop monster and Russians with two of the most popular kids from school and then helping the fallen Hawkins princess get revenge on the new most popular kids in school,” she ponders, stark silent for just a second, “I actually have the most boring life imaginable.”

Nodding, you stand and smooth out your skirt, “Yeah, actually, sounds like it. I’ll be in the bathroom, don’t have too much fun without me.”

“Impossible.”

When you return from the eventful fun of the Johanna’s bathroom run, you spot two towheaded nerds dazzled in varsity jackets. They taint the marron-stained edge of your table, hands in their pockets as they talk down to Robin.

It makes you ill, the way they so easily spit up on the only person at Hawkins High to make you forget about that stupid May of ‘85.

“Why’re you obsessed with her all of the sudden?”

Jason should mind his business, you think.

Robin doesn’t speak. It’d be bizarre if the two were more welcoming.

“We both know what you’re doing,” Jason leans down, hands flat on the table and his gaze piercing through her freckled cheeks, “and I hope you know that the only reason we haven’t done anything is because of Chrissy and Patrick.”

“If you’re trying to scrape the remains of her popularity, you’re pathetic,” Andy tilts his head, she liked it more when you did it, “A reject.”

Robin takes it quiet, eyes straight ahead and hands folded across her lap, because she wants them gone as soon as possible so that you don’t have to deal with either of them. You do see them, though, and you decide to deal with them.

“Get the hell out of here,” you’ve grown since the beginning of the year - something more confrontational, “What do you two think you’re doing? There’s no glory holes here, so you’re both out of luck.”

Andy shucks your shoulder with his as he passes, Jason steps on your shoe, and both glare. Deadly and thin and built with all the spite that one could handle.

You thought you could change your mind, really you did. But you watch the evil wrapped in loose, folding jackets leave through sliding automatic doors, and you feel a wickedness crawl the length of your spine.

They just chose the worst way to get you off their back. Now you’re coming back. Like fucking lice - you’ll come right back with immunity to all their potions and charms.

You grab Robin by the elbow, continuing to glare out the windows. You imagine that they’d be set ablaze if it were possible. Robin shudders under the hatred you radiate.

“We have to come up with something totally fucked up for the ringleaders of Hawkins High,” your faze turns down to Robin, blazing, “We have to ruin their lives.”

She grins lopsided, brows raising, “I’m kinda scared but really interested, is that bad?”

“Not particularly.”

Hawkins Highs opens approximately thirty minutes before seven o'clock, depending on who's working that morning. You and Robin meet at the unlocked double doors five minutes before seven - when the football team arrives for their daily congregation. You're digging into your (dated) bell-bottom pants' pockets while Robin is elbow-deep in her backpack.

She nudges her head towards your hip, "How much did he charge you?”

"Not a cent,” you beam, braggy and bright, “Mr. Munson was more than glad to donate to a worthy cause.”

"Lucky," Robin grumbles, faux glare as she pulls out the neck of a communion wine bottle, "I almost shit myself fifteen times trying to get this stupid wine.”

"Sorry, sorry," you crack open the combination of Andy's locker and slip in the weed and one bottle of communion wine.

Next to that, you plant a bright pink paper slip. A bland secret admirer's note asking him to meet in the AV room as soon as he reads it. He'd be a fool to fall for it, but thankfully - a jester is exactly who you're dealing with.

Robin hands you the second wine bottle, shaky and splashy in her unnerved hands, "Are you sure about this?”

"Nope," you tuck the bottle under your shirt, as if it isn't still entirely obvious, "but it isn’t like I can find another way to ensure this asshole never comes back.”

Robin bites down her protests, fiddling with the edge of her frayed sleeve. And she holds those protests down as Andy finds his way into the AV room at 7:08 AM. She slides the lock shut behind him and hurries down the echoing hall towards the office.

The projector is flickering, but most certainly on. Andy can't sense it nor see it, but you're ducking behind the control panel. A single bottle of red clutched tight between your fingers.

Bumbling, you play the film reel loaded into the projector and hold your breath as your voice comes down from the speakers.

"Are you seriously recording this?"

"It's something to commemorate, baby."

A shaky, grainy image of you and Andy, side by side on one of his father’s pews, lights the projector. The camera flips and Claire’s beaming face comes alive. That night was the night that you three promised to stay together forever, seeing each other every break during college.

“I’ll be too busy being a star football player,” Andy insisted.

Claire joked that you two will have to frame him for steroid possession. You called her intense. She called you a sourpuss.

“Oh,” Andy laughs in real time with his video counterpart, “you’re pathetic.”

You feel it.

“Okay, you know what?” he creeps past the control panel you hide under, a hand thunking to the door handle and he pulls, “I’m going.”

His body leans fully, but the door doesn’t budge - he laughs, twisted and sick.

“Let me out,” when you fail to respond, he bangs on the door and you think the walls reverberate, “Let me out! You can’t keep me in here!”

You lay the bottle of communion wine and roll it down the gentle slope to the doorway. The glass smooths loudly along the floor and Andy sweats at the sound, he jumps shamefully when it bumps his sneaker.

Nervously, you peek up and flounder for the volume knob, turning it higher.

“You’re a bitch, and a fuckin’ coward!”

You crank the volume even higher.

“I could never actually ditch you. Either of you.”

His own words scathe him. Betray his wickedness for the both of you to pick apart like vultures to decay. He inspects the back rows for a body, closer and louder, heavier and thicker.

Before Andy gets the satisfaction of finding you, you pop out from beneath the panel - twisting the volume knob even higher. He turns on his planted feat and you watch his nostrils flare, face red and full of hate, “You fucking bitch!”

He charges forward and you refuse to run. Not when his rage was so accounted for.

Robin, meanwhile, puts on her best acting face from amateur freshman and (half of) sophomore year theater in countering to Ms. Kelley’s promise that if she was lying about the contraband in Andy’s locker - she’d be suspended. She twiddles her fingers and shakes her head, “No, I’m not exactly nervous about that…”

Higgins props open Andy’s locker and Robin mocks a gasp as a bottle of wine and a baggie of Eddie’s cream of the illegal crop are visibly at the forefront.

Kelley side eyes Robin, “Why are you nervous then?”

“Well, he was meeting someone in the AV room. That… girl that kicked him in the balls last year? She wanted to meet him, to apologize I think.”

Higgins and Kelley share a glance. Long enough for the social fear of teenagers and weed to lead their conclusions somewhere dark. Not that Robin exactly thinks Andy needed help with being seen as a dickhead.

You barely manage to dodge the wine bottle he throws, it smashes against the control panel and grape nectar rolls down the plastic lining until it stains the carpet. Glass rains near your feet and while you’re focused on not stepping on any, Andy grabs you by the shoulders.

His grip is tight, you think he might leave a bruise, “Why can’t you let this go, you fucking psycho? You gonna terrorize for the rest of high school? College? That’s pathetic.”

It’s hard to believe you were ever into him, “You people ruined my fucking life! Would you leave it alone if someone did that to you?!”

He tuts and grabs you by the collar, lifting you just slightly, “Guess I don’t have to find out, do I, whore?”

You were called that a lot. Men. Women. Young. Old. Familiar. Stranger. All because of a lie. All because of him.

Distant footsteps hang from the hallway and the door’s lock slicks back just as your video ends. Then more steps echo from behind the door, hot in their approach and Robin’s faint voice pipes up.

You tilt your head in faux innocence, “Don’t you?”

“What?”

You scream, something horrified and wretched, and the door swings open with a fury. Your throat burns when you’re done.

Kelley and Higgins smell the wine first. Then see the sparkling remains of a bottle splattered across the floor. Then the way his fingers are coiled into the collar of your shirt.

“Mr. Johnson,” Kelly snaps and he drops you, you fall helplessly, cutting your palm on the glass, “My office. Now!”

Higgins rushes to you, his smooth hands assisting you up as Robin carefully steps up from the background.

“I can take her to nurse, principal Higgins,” you find yourself more comfortable leaning on her tall frame, “While you deal with, you know- “ she eyes the doorway, where Andy is screaming about a setup and lies.

You two begin towards the nurse’s office and Robin doesn’t mention that you got blood on the side of her white shirt. She also doesn’t mention that you don’t technically have to be using her as support to walk, but that’s also for her own self-interest.

“That was equal parts psycho and stupid,” Robin looks at you, a brow raised, “You know that, right?”

“Of course,” you grin back, “It was worth it though. He’s gone and his dad is in hot water, at least for a bit.”

“You’re so dumb sometimes,” you two pause in the hall.

An electricity runs there. Right between you. It makes you screw your arms under hers, and she squeezes you just as tight. And it's as you hug Robin in that barren hallway, you remember, “Oh, shit, I left the video in there.”

“What’re you gonna do with it?” she pulls back, arms loose and limply thrown over your shoulders.

Her lips are tantalizing. That same apple - that same tree - that same snake.

“I dunno…” you shrug, hands roaming down to settle on her hips, “Wanna burn it with me?”

She ponders and you like how she likes your hands on her body, “Yeah. Actually. I’ve never burned film before.”

“It’s nothing big.”

“Sounds exciting, though.”

“Someone could really get hurt,” Jason gestures down to your bandaged hand and you cup it defensively to your chest.

You glare and you feel like hell itself clutches you by the cheeks as he talks, “Jason, you turned me into a social pariah just because you could, if I let you go before actually beating the shit out of you - consider it lucky.”

“You’re a psycho,” he looks around the band practice room that he dragged you into, “And this place smells like cat piss.”

“‘84 accident,” you deadpan, pushing him back by the chest when he attempts to strike past you to the door, “Wait.”

And now you’re pacing nervously across the fuzzy pink rug in front of Robin’s twin-sized mattress, freshly finished with your retelling of such a tale.

“I know what I want done, but I don’t know how we do it,” you pause before her.

“Well, what do you want done?” Robin moves to the edge of her bed, she looks at you like you’ve hung the moon - like you’re worthy of something, “I’ll do it. Trust me.”

“My hero,” you sit on her bed, the way you land making you straddle one of her thighs. You wrap your arms around her neck, “What would I ever do without you?”

“Be without your totally awesome revenge, probably.”

“Definitely,” you giggle and she returns the gesture in kind, “I want to record Jason admitting to everything. He’s meeting me at the Hawkins Elementary playground at 10 PM.”

“Let’s start simple,” Robin’s hands fall to your hips now, and maybe if you were brave you’d admit to yourselves what that meant, “We need a camera.”

You get a camera from Jonathan Byers.

“My mom’s old boyfriend left that, so…” he waves a hand about, looking more exhausted than pleased at the conversation, “Why do you guys need it anyway?”

You and Robin share a pointed look, her frosty blue fingertips tip-tap along the side of the camera patiently. You take a deep breath and fold your arms, “We need it to film Jason Carver admitting that he knew Andy was lying about the whole Enzo’s bathroom blowjob thing and that he turned my old friends against me. Then we’re gonna play it at homecoming tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan nods sluggishly, hands burrowing into his pockets, “Just, uh, don’t break it.”

And the filming location is scoped by the both of you later - a very bizarre and peculiar experience, being two teenagers perusing the local elementary school playground for a good filming angle.

Robin finishes her rig from behind the tire swing tree beside the real swing set, peering through the viewfinder to ensure that she has a full scene of you and, theoretically, where Jason would be.

“What now?” she steps out from behind the tree, all limb and lank and affection.

“Now,” you grab the camera and delicately hold it, “we buy Hawkins home pride for homecoming tomorrow.”

“Ugh, gross.”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes good-naturedly and grab her by the hand, entwining your fingers, “think of it as a costume change before the big villain exposition.”

Undershirts hung over either arm, you wade through the skirts’ section with Robin. Two Hawkins High jerseys with Jason Carver’s number over the chest in bold white that you’d forgotten to toss out.

Robin ‘ooh’s and plucks a hanger from the section excitedly, shoving it right before your face. It’s pleated, green with white lining at the bottom - she then holds it beside the shorts she’d picked up for herself, split down the middle, half orange and half green.

“I think this is the final piece,” she nods assuredly, “This is perfect.”

“We still need to try everything on,” you grin as she groans and tucks the skirt into your grasp, “But yes, this is perfect.”

You step out of your respective dressing rooms in tandem, you clutch the strawberry fabrics between both hands and Robin feels her heart jump to her throat. You’ve got a green scrunchie around your wrist and cheesy orange sunglasses on your head - mirroring her own green headband.

Robin looks both ways down the hall and steps into the gray carpet wonderland that separates your rooms. She sighs ragged, pulling the straps of her white tank top closer to her neck, “I feel silly.”

“Me too,” you nod and drop the curtains as you come toe-to-toe with Robin, “but it’s dramatic as hell,” you reach up and remove the emerald headband, shaking it free from clinging, sun-bleached hairs. Pulling out her bangs, you settle the band behind her hanging strands, “You also look hot, so bonus.”

“Yeah, bonus,” she watches your lips, mostly.

It feels safe with you. Not in the way it usually feels safe with people she knows, but it feels like if she were to jump off a cliff then you would put a mega marshmallow bed for her to land on. Maybe it’s because she knows you like girls, too. Maybe it’s because you two are friends now, like officially. Maybe you’ve bewitched her.

“You look hot, too,” she swallows, dry and uneasy.

“Yeah?” you tease, stepping back and pulling loosely on the scrunchie snug around your wrist.

“God,” she plays off any desperation as a laugh, “yes.”

Dear God, yes. And it seems to be all she can think about when you’re driving her home in your candied Audi. Robin has had crushes before - Tammy Thompson and Vickie McNulty, to name a few tangible ones (Brooke Shields, Daryl Hannah, and Lisa Bonet, to name a few intangible ones). But they’ve never consumed her so thoroughly before.

She’s never smelt their perfume on her clothes after school and almost screamed (lovingly). She’s also never had cheesy inner monologues about how beautiful and fun they were.

But you’re just that incredible, she supposes.

She understands, now, your thought process in fifth grade. Or at least, she can get an idea. You must’ve been scared - for God’s sake it was only 1978 and David Bowie hadn’t exactly turned tides against bigotry. And now you’ve apologized. She feels better.

She circles back.

She’s had crushes that didn’t swallow her how you do. Does she…?

Honestly, it would be the least surprising thing to happen in her life so far.

Though, that realization makes her startle at the way you glance over, “What’re you staring at, huh, Buckley?”

“Nothing,” her head snaps forward, tossing back into the passenger side rest.

“Anything you wanna tell me? You look sick.”

“No,” she drags the vowels and you don’t believe her for a second.

But as soon as you’ve dropped her off at her house, you realize you can’t wait to see her again. In the way you used to impatiently wait to meet with Andy, but Robin would never do what he did. Robin is kind and trustworthy and you might just like her.

You most definitely do. And that’s a pill you have to swallow dry so that you can hurry home to prepare for ten o’clock that night.

At ten o’clock that night, you rock gently on the Hawkins Elementary swingset in the pink and white pinstriped dress you wore to Enzo’s on that spring date with the man to ruin your high school reputation.

“Could you be any more dramatic?” Jason has his hands buried in the pockets of his varsity jacket. A powerplay of his own, not that he’d ever admit it.

Looking up in an act of thinking, you hum before sneering, “This is way more fun.”

He rolls his eyes at you, “Anybody follow you here?”

“Not a soul.”

“You’re losing your mind with all this crazy revenge shit you’ve been doing,” he moves closer and you have to stand from the swingset to maintain a semblance of power balance.

“This isn’t even half of it,” you wring your fingers tighter around the iron-scented chains, “You people wanted an outcast, but I don’t think you realized what little an outcast has to lose. Unless, you know, you can go ahead and admit it now.”

“Fine,” he swings his hands out at his sides, “Everyone in the group knew Andy was lying through his teeth. Are you happy?”

“No,” you release the swingset chains and step closer to him, your shoes scuffing his white soles, “How did you convince my friends to turn against me?”

“I didn’t do anything,” he shrugs, “You kicked Andy in the balls and I made them matter,” he laughs and you want nothing more than to throttle him where he stands, “When you’ve got the entire pigsty, parasite, Podunk population of Hawkins High eating out of your palm - people don’t tend to turn their backs on you,” he reaches up and ghosts his fingertips along your cheek, “Unlike the whore that publicly assaulted Hawkins’ golden boy’s best friend.”

You feel the back of your throat burn.

Jason bends down and you want to jump away as his jacket brushes your legs, he picks up the bag at your feet.

“If I play these, and they’re fakes, you’re dead,” he points down the barrel of your face. You feel sick, like he’s stabbing you straight through the throat, “If you tell anybody about this, you’re dead,” he laughs and finally steps back, “Or, hey, maybe I’ll just tell everyone you tried humping my leg like a dog in heat.”

Jason looks into the bag and grins when he spots two cassette tapes. You roll your eyes at his jovial behavior.

He snaps, “Don’t roll your eyes at me, whore.”

Hawkins’ golden boy finally retreats back to his 1984 Jeep Cherokee and you wait until the thing is off property before beaming and turning to the tree with the tire swing.

“Did you get it?”

Robin pops out from behind and gives you a thumbs-up as she wrangles the camera down from its spot in the branches.

Honestly, it’s like the meathead never heard of making tape copies.

The next day, you stroll into Hawkins High for the pep rally with your film reel and confession tapes - decked in the tacky costumes you bought and tried on together. You feel pride and excitement bloom as Robin brushes through the tiled hallways with you at her side. You part at the AV room, with Robin going to jingle the projector to the gym while you sneak into the front office.

“Hey,” she catches you by the wrist, her lips gently tipping up at the sight of you.

“Hey,” you slide your hand up to entwine your fingers with hers, “Everything okay?”

Robin takes a deep breath, “I just…” she looks down and you tilt her head up by the chin, “Even if none of this goes well, I want you to know that I’ve had a lot of fun,” she thinks your lips would taste like the fruity lip balm you’re always wearing, “And I still wanna… be friends, when this is all over.”

Something about the way she hesitates in the title of friends elates you. But then again, being limited to that title burns. And you’ve turned into someone who isn’t satisfied keeping her thoughts to herself.

“Friends?”

Robin shrugs, “Yeah.”

“No more?” you realize the question as Robin gasps, you slap a hand over your mouth, “Sorry!”

“No, more,” she grabs the hand over your mouth and holds that one, too, “Yeah. More,” that nervous little raspy giggle you love peeks through and another wave of excitement gleans below your ribs, “More is good.”

You two share school girlish giggle and squeeze hands and you check both ends of the hallway for any sign of life. When you find none, you lean forward and give her a taste of the fruity lip balm she can always smell from the passenger seat of your car.

The apple is sweet and slightly chapped, and you think you love it.

There’s a twisted hesitance as you pull apart, you grin at her heavy blush and brush her hair back behind her gem-studded ear.

Kissing her cheek, you pull away slowly and it aches to leave her behind.

“Good luck, Buck,” she cringes, nose wrinkling and openly gagging, and you only laugh at her disgust, “Don’t get caught!”

You kneel at the announcement office door, your decade-old library card slithering between the crack in the door. It pops open and you sneak inside, hooking your cassette into the player for the PA system just as the walkie-talkie stuffing into the waistband of your skirt buzzes.

Muffled whispers attempt to blurt through your jersey.

You slip the walkie-talkie up to your ear, catching the tail end of Lucas’ whispering.

A click of the button and you’re speaking into the walkie, “Hey, sweet Sinclair, I’m gonna need you to repeat that.”

This time you catch the end of a thick sigh before he whispers, “Everyone’s in the auditorium and Jason is about to make his speech - so whatever you’ve got planned, you better hurry up.”

“Got it, captain, hang tight,” you flip to the channel you and Robin settled upon before school, “Did you get the scoop from Lucas?”

“Sure did. Projector’s all set up, too, and I’m under the bleachers.”

“Great,” you slip the walkie-talkie back into your skirt waistband and giggly press down on the siren engine red play button on the PA system.

And Patrick McKinney’s voice echoes through the hallways.

Robin pokes her face into the bleachers’ gap, she sees Patrick shy from the attention. Shrugging off his varsity jacket and bringing it up and over his head as he ducks down. Higgins runs off the stage and Kelley attempts calling to the masses through a microphone - it fails. And fails harder when the voice of Chrissy Cunningham autoplays next.

Chrissy leans down, whispering - hissing, rather - for her friends to hide her.

Meanwhile, at the office, you can hear heavy footsteps from the hall and manage to creep under the desk just as Higgins kicks in the door. He swiftly cuts around the desk and you squeeze under the desk’s high gap as the tape cuts off on its own. He rips out the cassette and turns it for a label or name while you crawl away and out the door.

Robin clicks on the film projector from between the bleacher slats and she watches Jason look back from beside Kelley when his own voice rings in the auditorium.

He sees himself, and you, by the Hawkins Elementary swingset.

“What the fuck?”

Kelley jaw drops at his language and smacks him on the arm.

There’s a collective shock as Jason bites himself in the ass.

“When you’ve got the entire pigsty, parasite, Podunk population of Hawkins High eating out of your palm - people don’t tend to turn their backs on you. Unlike the whore that publicly assaulted Hawkins’ golden boy’s best friend.”

Kelley stumbles away, her brown heels clicking on the stage as she tries to distance herself from the king being beheaded.

You shove the double doors to the auditorium open and heads swivel to where you stand as Jason Carver from the projection gets close to your face, clutching a bag in hand, and spits a, “Don’t roll your eyes at me, whore,” after threatening your life.

Eyes turn back to Jason. Judgment. Curiosity. Confliction. It can’t be real, but they’ve seen it before their eyes. Like rubbernecking a car accident. Your downfall, meticulously crafted and carried out and now you finally get to witness it being repaid in full. Chrissy and Patrick huddle into their own covers as people slowly turn against them. Claire shrinks into herself and ignores the sweat that begins along the back of her neck as cheerleaders and peers stare.

Jason is frozen, eyes piercing where his own damnation featured for the entire present population of Hawkins High. Including counselor Kelley.

She grabs him by the arm with the vice grip of an anaconda, dragging him back and behind the velvet curtains - all the way down the stage stairs that you and Robin sprawled down after pouring spiders on his girlfriend. You go to climb the bleachers, stunned when a hand grabs you by the arm.

A girl you don’t quite recognize with chili red glasses grins and holds you up as you climb the middle stairs. A boy with braces helps on your other side.

Freshmen to seniors, men to women, band geeks to varsity jocks, you are assisted up the bleachers until you’re finally plopped onto the cold, smooth, cornstarch-scented seat beside Lucas Sinclair. He claps you on the back, beaming with all the relief of a boy who’s watched G.I Joe escape yet another perilous situation.

“Congratulations on a good show.”

You shrug off the praise, “Oh, you know me. A natural.”

Higgins wanders in, then, and beckons you down. Cheerleaders and mathletes assist you down and ensure you don’t stumble between the bleacher gaps. You feel a flick to your ankle and glance back in time to see Robin peeking there, she smiles lopsidedly and waves. You wave back as Higgins’ turns away to lead you to his office.

Higgins sits stern across from you, hands folded as Kelley’s were on that last day of junior year.

“There’s no evidence I violated school policy because why would I?” you laugh humorlessly, “I mean, why would I go out of my way to surround myself with the people that tried ruining my life?”

He looks away from you. You both know you’re lying through your teeth. Why the hell would you be in that video if you had nothing to do with the scheme? And where would you have been during the pep rally? And who else would be so invested in your Luciferian style fall from grace to act entirely on their own?

But can he bring himself to truly do anything now? When you’ve proven the space between the horse’s teeth is full of lies?

Higgins’ chocolate drop eyes abandon you in favor of the records file at his side.

“Alright,” he sighs, tightens his tie, and leans back until his office chair creaks, “you’re free to go, but we’re going to keep a close eye on you, young lady.”

You bright and clasp both hands in your lap, spine shooting straight, “I’d expect nothing less from Hawkins’ finest, Mr. Higgins.”

Once again, both of you know that you’re lying through your teeth.

But so is he.

“Off the record,” he leans forward and the chair groans again, “did you do it?”

Higgins believes himself to be the kindly, understanding principal, but you feel jaded. Wiser and older, even if you’ve only matured by a fraction.

“Nope!”

“So, who did?” whether this interaction is truly as off the books as he claims, he’s definitely trying to goad you into an answer.

“Who knows?” you sigh, histrionic, as your back hits the chair’s cushion, “Maybe some… super vigilante that thought some justice was needed.”

“What? Like Batman?”

You think for a moment. You aren’t quite as comically rich, nor are you so brooding, and perhaps you’re stroking your own ego now - but there is a sense of just performance. Like you’ve done something right.

“Yeah. Like Batman.”

Robin waits outside for you. She’s leaned against the wall and it brightens the dim space. You don’t even notice the others until she nudges her head to the side and says, “You got a couple visitors.”

Chrissy, Claire, and Patrick are standing ashamed and knobby-kneed.

Claire steps forward, one hand nervously twirling a dark curl around her finger, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Onyx eyes that jade like honey pots in sunshine water and wilt, her cheeks wet with tears and Patrick nods, laying a hand on her shoulder. He wets his lips and sighs like he was somehow hurt.

Truly hurt.

“We just got caught up in Jason and his need for us to play specific parts. You… you know how it is.”

You most assuredly do.

You wish Robin wasn’t shying away from you. You hate that it's their fault.

Chrissy clinks her fingernails together, “You should come back. We miss you.”

“We all miss you,” and you know Claire isn’t lying as she says that.

You know none of them are, but you look at Robin as she nervously gnaws her bottom lip. They wronged her deeply as they did you - even if you could forgive them for yourself, you can’t find it within you to ignore how they hurt her. And again, you can’t actually feel yourself ready - or prepared - to forgive and forget for your own sake.

“Nah,” you smile as you grab Robin by the hand and turn towards the side doors of the school.

Chrissy and Claire go to protest. You can hear Patrick’s sneakers squeak against the dirt-smeared corridor floor. And you pay them no mind as you commit to skipping the rest of the school day with (you hope) your new girlfriend.

“Higgins inadvertently called us Batman,” you unlock your car and open the door for Robin as she ducks in.

She hums, nodding, as you climb into the driver’s seat, “If you’re Batman can I be Catwoman?”

“Don’t they fight each other?”

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna be that Robin. He’s like twelve.”

“Then let’s just both be Batman,” you wait until you’ve both clipped in your seatbelts before pulling out of the student parking lot.

Robin settles her head back against the passenger seat rest, rolling until her ear hits the cushion and she stares as you steer - utterly helpless and enamored, “Do you think we’ll ever have to do this again?”

“Hm,” you make it out of the Hawkins High gate and roll down the street, entirely calmer than when you had to get driven home by Eddie Munson, “maybe a first date is in order first. Then maybe we can do more revenge. Be women of the people and all that shit.”

“I’d love to,” Robin laces her hands together and you notice, holding a hand out over the center console for her to hold, “I’m not happy you got outcasted and lied about, but I am glad that we met.”

“Me too, Rob,” you pause completely at a stop sign and lean across the gap between you two to lay another precious kiss to her lips - she eagerly returns the affection, “Now, I don’t believe we ever got to properly finish our meal at Johanna’s. And I’m simply starving.”

Her nose crinkles as she laughs and you don’t know if you could ever get enough of the sight or sound or feeling of her. She nods and pecks your lips again, “I could eat.”

#robin buckley x reader #robin buckley x you #robin buckley oneshot #robin buckley #robin x reader #robin stranger things #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #stranger things fic #robin buckley fluff #robin buckley fic #robin.🍍

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sswwmmpptthhnngg · 9 months

Text

Bat Out of Hell | Chapter One

→ Pairings: Eddie x HendersonSister!Reader

→ Warnings: angst, anxiety, mental health, hurt/comfort, vignette style flashbacks, eventual smut, slow burn, drug/alcohol mention/use, 18+ minors dni

→ WC: 13k+

→ A/N: Y'all. This is feeling mightily like a magnum opus sorts. I can't tell you how many times I've written and rewritten, hemmed and hawed. I finally just had to hit post. Here there probably be typos, not beta-ed in the slightest. I figured I'll go back and edit, just needed to get the story out.

In penance, I made y'all a playlist, featuring some of the tracks mentioned in this chapter and some funk tracks that I really just like and would 1000% be playing at the record shop if I worked at one.

Here we go.

→ Playlist: Maggot Brain

Chicago, March 13, 1991

Silence. Blissful, impenetrable, being-less silence. The quiet of your apartment enveloped you from the brisk March bustle of the city at your back. Windy City indeed. You thought you were prepared for Chicago’s so called spring growing up in the Midwest all your life, but the proximity to the lake changed all that. Icy torrents ripping at warp speeds at slush sludged in between the laces of your Docs. Or at least it used to until you wised up and purchased a pair of Sportos. Not the pinnacle of fashion, but damn were they functional against Chicago’s street funk.

Kicking off said boots, your toes uncurled on the warm wood floor, welcoming the relief of being able to spread out. The day had droned on, picking up that double was an instant regret. Noon to midnight. What the hell had you been thinking? Especially when you had to cram your feet into the dress code mandated pointy toe pumps, which you tossed in the direction of your closet, not caring where they landed. Whoever decided bartenders had to wear heels during their shift deserved an extra hot seat in hell. Maybe a few extra pokers for good measure.

Tight, pinching spasms wracked your muscles as you unfurled your scarf from your neck and shlepped your heavy coat from your shoulders. Dense fabric pooled at your feet as you rubbed at your shoulder, willing away the already forming kink. Damn your overly altruistic nature of wanting to help a fellow coworker out of a tight spot. Thankfully, Wednesday nights at The Signature were fairly quiet, at least as quiet as an upscale bar on The Mile could be. Bankers, business men, and bourgeoisie. Typical clientele for the elite establishment. Top shelf liquor at a high sticker price, steak, chrome, velvet, pretty waitstaff, a cliche of 90’s decadence atop one of Chicago’s tallest buildings giving the patrons ample opportunity to look down at the city as well as down their noses. Sure, it wasn’t the most you placed you’ve ever worked. But it was a living and the tips were generous. Always an incentive for the trouble. That and the two shots your last patron of the night insisted that he didn’t do alone. Another perk.

Tequila was already at work, doing its job dulling your senses, lulling you out into the sea of unconscious dissociation. Lights were off in your apartment, just the glow of the streetlights filtering though the window into the darkness of the small studio. Typically your neighborhood was awash with lights, music, and the scene; the punk bustle of Halsted your initial draw. Tonight, dampened by the sleeting snow, all was quiet. Just like you needed it to be.

Only Wednesday and it had already been a week. Between tonight’s double, a full 10 days on shift in a row, and the weather, exhaustion permeated your bones. It was March, no holidays in sight, yet the bar buzzed with loaded tables, even on what were supposed to be the slow nights. People were insane for traversing the blustering streets when the gales amassed snow piles as deep as your knees. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays the alcoholics from the swift completion of their rounds. The sheer number of appletinis you had to mix threatened your sanity and the massive orders for mojitos left your palms raw from their encounter with the muddler. Tips. That’s why you were doing all of this. To afford your modest studio apartment. And to live. Though you really weren’t doing too much of that lately.

Flicking the light switch on the wall next to you, your apartment lit with a soft orange glow from the small lamp nestled in the corner of the space. One of the few things not encased in cardboard. Yet. What little time you had between shifts was unfortunately spent packing. Exactly on what you had wanted to spend your precious free time. Heaving a sigh, you surveyed your once cozy apartment. A narrow path cut through the maze of boxes in your apartment from the front door to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the couch, the couch to your bed. How there were so many boxes temporarily housing your meager cache of belongings, you’ll never know. It seemed as though each box you packed, another three were needed. Seeing everything you had to your name entombed in cardboard felt hollowed. Displaced.

Truly, aside from the last week, you hadn’t spent a lot time in your own apartment, or really even on your own. This time of year and the memories attached to it— you didn’t want to dredge them up if you could avoid it. And avoid you did. Working 10 days on, catching up with friends for dinner, crashing with a friend. You had once loved your little studio, but times had changed. You had changed. What once was a haven felt like a lifeless shrine to a life you used to live. A relic of a life that wouldn’t come to be, full of memories you wished to bury.

Life altered vastly since the first time you came to Chicago to now. The one constant, this small haven had been the place you lay your head for the better part of the last seven years. Seven years. How had it been that long? Keeping busy in a city like Chicago was all too easy you supposed, having learned this firsthand when you had first moved to The Windy City all those years ago as a bright-eyed freshman stepping foot on Northwestern’s campus. Initially, you had moved into the tiny on campus dorms. The vivacious energy of other eager freshman only enlivened you for your first real no responsibilities experience, other than your school responsibilities of course. Being the elder Henderson sibling put a heavy mantle on your shoulders and college was the first time you got to lay the burden down.

At first it was odd, adjusting to not having to take care of the house or pick your little brother up from school and run him all over Hawkins to his activities. You were truly living for yourself. Classwork and your part time job at the campus library were your only two obligations. The world truly felt like your oyster in those days. Free. Expansive. Yours for the taking.

Campus life exhilarated, with the many new people and experiences. Your head was on a constant swivel that first semester. Clubs to join, parties to attend, people to meet. Your calendar burst at the seams with the new, wanting to experience everything and anything you could get your hands on. Too many years in a small town will do that you. You wanted a life so far removed from your life in Hawkins and it was in your grasp.

Classes scintillated, broadening your horizons at every lecture. Friends joined your ranks, falling in with another merry band of misfits much like your chosen few friends in Hawkins. The only downside being your rather finicky first semester roommate who didn’t seem to grasp the concept that the room was shared, not just hers. Lauren, not be pronounced like normal, but “Lore-Ren” as in Ralph Lauren she would constantly correct. Her spiteful “toleration” of your “devil music” and distastefully drab wardrobe lead her Lacoste to leech onto your side of the room, inch by inch. There were only so much poppy plaid, debutante delicacies, and Chad Lowe posters you could stomach. Enter your search for a space of your own.

Weeks of perusing periodicals for spaces for rent in your price range returned a fruitless search. Seems like every twenty-something was jonesing for their own slice of the city to sink their teeth into. You didn’t just want any old apartment in any old neighborhood. If you were going to strike out on your own, there was only one place to be.

Halsted was your chosen borough, the scene rife with lovable riffraff, your kind of folks. Every spare moment you had was spent in the neighborhood; it wasn’t all about the jocks and cheerleaders— freaks ruled the roost in Halsted. Leather jackets, punk t-shirts, sky-high mowhawks, Halsted attracted those outside of the mainstream. Naturally, it was hard to find a feasible place to live in freak central due to the draw.

You had discovered Halstead on complete accident. A rare Saturday you had to yourself with no tests to study or homework littering your desk, left you jonesing for a trip into the city. Needing to get out of your head with finals just around the corner, a trip to the city was just what the doctor ordered. With a loaded whole day plan, centering around a visit to the Institute of Art and lunch at the famed hole-in-the-wall diner Jim’s Grill, the promise of reprieve from studying seeped into your overwork brain as you nestled into a window seat on the Red Line. The ambling lull of the train proved too much for your lack of sleep as you settled into a casual doze. You should have gotten off the train in Buena Park near Wrigley Field to catch the 80 to Irving Park, but your doze was a full blown sleep and you missed your stop by several. Waking up as the Red Line pulled into Belmont Station, the rest is history. You fell in love with blossoming counterculture the moment your Chuck Taylors hit the pavement in Halsted.

Berlin’s cavernous nightlife club with a diverse, no-attitude, all-orientations crowd on the dance floor, Susie’s 24 hour diner on Montrose, The Alley’s punk duds. Every corner housed a haven for the freaks. You had never seen anything like it. When night fell, Halsted really sprung to life. A glitter gulch filled with people pouring in and out of clubs, cars circling for non-existent parking spaces on cruise congested streets. Part-time tourists suburbanites and street freaks mingled together in club queues. Places like Punkin’ Doughnuts became a mainstay staple in your social calendar. A booming 24 hour street scene, a beacon for the offbeat. Straight up sugar fiends filled the parking lot of the Belmont and Clark Dunkin Doughnuts, loitering in the lot while music blasted through ghetto blasters or a scuffle of a live band. It was electric and eclectic, a place where you could go and find like-minded folks; a rarity in the midwest. It wasn’t just the punks, but other folks outside of the mainstream: house music fanatics, antifascist skinheads, skaters, trans folks, drag queens, goths, runaways. It was a corner hub awash with a tapestry of folks that could just hang out together. With the constellation of music venues and bars, there was always something going on in Halsted.

Perhaps your favorite of all the establishments was The Wax Trax! The bread and butter of the neighborhood, Wax Trax! was the anchor for the disenfranchised. A punk/new wave/industrial haven. Many hours were spent flipping through LPs and adding treasures to your already expansive collection. It was more than just a record store. Amid the death grip of AIDS, the arrival of Ronald Regan’s trickle-down economics, and the specter of Cold War nuclear Armaggedon, Wax Trax! was the neon-lit musical club house or a hidden community. A community that liked fringe music and transgressive humor, a community that identified as gay, trans, punk, misfit or “other,” a community that found solace in glam, dirty disco, girl groups with magnificent beehives, rockabilly of the most impolite sort, or the gritty grinding of industrial music. To be a regular at Wax Trax!, meant you didn’t fit in anywhere else. Who new there were so many of your kind? Especially in there. Not only were the vinyls cool, it became your regular haunt. Where you worked after classes and on the weekends. Where you found home.

Literally. Perusing the records a few weeks after finals while finishing up your May Term class, you spotted it. A for rent sign in the fourth story window right across the street from The Trax. Your fingers flew to dial the number during your shift and the landlord answered on the second ring. The appointment was set to the view the apartment that evening.

It was love at first sight. You had found it. Home. Your oasis among the grit of the punk scene of Halsted. The small studio nestled on the top floor of the building facing Halsted, giving you the perfect birds-eye view of the street happenings below. Warm wood floors, crisp freshly painted while walls, tall cathedral ceilings, skylights peppering the ceiling emitting an otherworldly glow. You couldn’t have custom cherry picked a better apartment if you tried. It enveloped you from the first moment you opened the door. You had to have it.

The place was a steal, so much so that there had to be something wrong with it beyond what the naked eye could see. Your potential future landlord had mumbled something about goddamn punks creating a ruckus and driving away renters, but thought better of finishing the statement when taking in your appearance. You may look like a punk, but your credentials were anything but riffraff. Your full ride scholarship to Northwestern, solid employment history at Wax Trax!, he didn’t even hesitate to have you sign a lease. And sign you did. It was perfect. You were home.

That was 1984. Back when the world made sense. Back before monsters, evil Russians, the Upside Down, back before you lost— Yeah, not tonight. A shake of the head dispelled the mounting thoughts. Getting out of your uncomfortable pencil skirt and Oxford was what you needed right now. Basic needs. That’s at least what your newly acquired therapist had recommended last session. Keep it simple, especially in this period of transition.

Weaving through your box maze to where your bed nestled underneath one of the skylights, you slumped down on the mattress, unclipping your suspenders as you sat. Working at a place you didn’t enjoy really took it out of you. The stuffy clientele, bitchy backbiting coworkers primed to see you fall flat on your face. The only saving grace was your surprisingly affable bar manger and boss Jerry. He had been absolutely gutted when you put in your two weeks notice. Losing my best and brightest, he had all but cried when you handed in your resignation.

Tending bar wasn’t the plan, it really wasn’t even in the realm of what you wanted to do with your life. It was merely a means to an end. ’Til you found your footing again. A temporary stepping stone on your way to bigger and better things, to quote your therapist. Yeah, a five year stepping stone. Aggravatedly, you stood, pulling open your dresser drawer keen to find something comfortable to lounge in for the sixteen hours you had yourself only to be met with emptiness. Shit. SHIT. Your gaze turned to the stack of boxes next to the dresser labeled “BEDROOM” in bold black block lettering. Focused packing had clearly hit your dressers, and if you had to guess your closet too, in preparation for your impending move. Like everything else in your apartment. Shoulder slumping at even the thought of having to dig through boxes to find something, anything at this point. Had it been summer, you could strip to your under layers and just laze on the couch as you pleased. But no, it was the tail end of winter, always the most biting time in Chicago. Heaters were already working overtime against the squall, radiators simmering as the steam heat fought to keep the chill at bay.

Fighting the heavy sigh threatening to spill from your lungs, you righted your shoulders. Better to get this over with quickly so you could finally be horizontal. Just a minor inconvenience, that’s all. You’ve had more than your share of those this week. The snow, a grabby patron, everything you own in a box, and now not even being able to find a t-shirt. Fuck this week. Actually, fuck the whole month. March was the worst anyways.

Not even bothering to find a blade or keys to make opening the boxes infinitesimally easier, you pick at the heavy packing tape. Cardboard ripping filling the silence of your apartment as you tore into the first box destined for your future bedroom. Socks. You rummaged around deeper in the box only to find more socks and stockings. Who packs an entire box of just socks? Apparently you do. Could you have at least specified that the box contained socks? No, of course not. That would have made things all too easy, too convenient for present you.

Packing in a sleep addled state clearly was a mistake as the next box contained heavy wool sweaters and layers meant to stave off the elements, and the following only contained bottoms. Strike three. You calves quaked as you heaved the offending, wholly unhelpful boxes to the side so you could get to the next stack. Relabelling and re-taping the boxes was a future you problem.

Another box, another disappointment. This one straining to contain a portion of your LPs, dust jackets laden with dust from disuse. When was the last time you had even played one of these? Physical Graffiti, Led Zeppelin. Queens of Noise, The Runaways. Space Oddity, David Bowie. Creatures of the Night, Kiss. The Number of The Beast, Iron Maiden. So many greats made up the backbone of a comprehensive collection once your pride and joy. Warn paper spines felt familiar under your fingertips, a warm musk kicking up as you traced the them. So much of your youth was spent in a constant rotation of these albums on your turntable, lost in the euphony each album created. How long had it been since you pulled one of these out? If the layer of thick dust accumulating upon your turntable was any indication, it had been an eon.

Subsequent boxes contained more records hidden away, stale with desertion. Perhaps the dust added to the heft as you sloughed the boxes into a disorganized pile on your quest for something comfortable, desperation and tiredness mounting upon each disappointing box. The last box at the bottom of the stack was unsurprisingly unlabeled. It had better not be more records. Three full boxes packed to the gills with LPs was enough. Even the thought of having to transport those ratcheted up the tiredness. You peeled back the tape and popped open the flaps and your hands froze. Box flaps fell from your shocked hands as you peered down at the box’s contents.

Soft baby blue satin glinted in the low light of your apartment. You couldn’t hold back the soft smile that quirked your lips in recognition as your fingers traced the lettering on the cool fabric. Sound Hound looped across the satin expanse in white script formed by patch and chainstitch. Almost reverently, you lifted the jacket from the box. How it was still in near mint condtion, you couldn’t fathom as you brought the fabric to your nose. The Oakmoss, anise, and bergamot notes of Brut met your inhale; it still smelled like him. Your dad. Don “The Sound Hound” Henderson.

One thousand percent responsible for your record collection and former deep love of music, Don was WINN 104.9’s premiere drive time radio spot Not My First Radio. Perhaps your dad was also one thousand percent responsible for your sense of humor. All leather jackets, KISS t-shirts, and cigarette smoke, he was a true rock’n’roller and he immersed you in that world from your conception. Playing you Pink Floyd in utero, playing you acoustic cover lullabies of Led Zeppelin, giving you the finer points of imitating Barry Gibb for your grade school talent show, sneaking you out of middle school to see Cheap Trick in Chicago and subsequently finding Meat Loaf thus beginning your life long obsession, and all the late night concerts as you began high school. Bowie, KISS, Journey, Nazareth, AC/DC, Bee Gees, Billy Squire, Black Sabbath, Bruce Springsteen. If it was a major musical act playing anywhere near the Indianapolis area, you could bet DJ Don “The Sound Hound” Henderson was in attendance. And by proxy, you if he could steal you away as his assistant in “research”.

It wasn’t just rock and roll, it was soul. Your dad may have been a rock virtuoso, but he was also a funk junkie. Kool and The Gang, Funkadelic, Cymande, Earth, Wind, & Fire. Anything with a groove sent you and your dad whirling around the living room to the beat, laughing until your sides ached as much as your cheeks from smiling. Often roping your mother and your brother in on your hijinks. Music wove the very fabric of your life from before you were born. It was a tether, entwining especially you and your dad together, as thick at thieves. You idolized him. He was your best friend.

At least he was until cancer took him when you were 14. Watching your idol succumb to that nasty, eating disease broke you. He wasted away in a matter of months post diagnosis. It was then you resolved you wanted to be just like him, setting your sights on Northwestern’s broadcasting program. You were going to carry on the Henderson name, at least in the radio world. Desperate to keep the music thread continuing in your life.

A telltale lump began to form in the back of your throat, tightening in that all too familiar way. Guard already low due to energy dangling dangerously close to burnout, you set the bomber jacket aside to assuage the brewing feelings, but were startled with a clatter. Curious, you pressed a hand to the jacket, feeling a rectangular lump beneath the fabric. Slipping your hand in the pocket, you produced a clear case housing a cassette. A yellowed label read “Sound Hound: September 1, 1979 Broadcast”, your dad’s familiar scrawl clearly scripted. Feet moving of their own volition, you hardly realized you had crossed the room until you were popping open the tape deck on your alarm clock and pressing play.

The tape began to spool, clicking and clacking reverberating from the player. Not even fading in, the tinny recording began abruptly.

Since you been gone

I'm out of my head can't take it

Since you been gone

I'm out of my head can't take it

Graham Bonnet’s iron lung of a voice faded as a voice you hadn’t heard in a long while began to talk over the outro.

“And if you are just tuning in to WINN, you’re listening to The Sound Hound!” Your dad’s voice enthused followed by a very cheesy Halloween werewolf howling sound effect. “That is a new drop from across the pond. After the rain there’s always a Rainbow. And off their new album Down to Earth that was Since You’ve Been Gone. Hoping your ride home has been rockin’ and rolling smoothly. Keep an eye on the traffic headed southbound on 65, there’s heavy traffic in all lanes. Speaking of traffic, here’s one last jam to take you home. And this one is for a little creature who should be just getting off school. See y’all tomorrow on the next Not My First Radio Show!”

A Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Barbara Ann

Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Barbara Ann

Barbara Ann

Take my hand

Another bitter smile formed on your lips. As hard rock as your dad could be, he had a secret soft spot. One only known to you. The Beach Boys. No one would expect a love of The Beach Boys. But he did, he loved them un-ironically. It became your thing. Taking his prized powder blue Fairlane, affectionally known as Babs, out for a cruise down the 31. Top down, summer sun warming your skin and wind tousling your hair. Barbara Ann pouring through the speakers at the highest volume possible. You singing along at the top of your lungs. Your dad singing off-key in his best Boris Karloff impersonation, coaxing a peel of giggles from you in your younger years.

Oh Barbara Ann, take my hand

Barbara Ann

You got me rockin' and a-rollin'

Rockin' and a-reelin'

Barbara Ann ba ba

Ba Barbara Ann

Those were the kind of hazy days of summer that you wished would last forever. Some of your fondest childhood memories lived in the cream leather interior, the soft blue dashboard, the treads of the tires. Barbara Ann became your code. Anytime it played on air, it was his way of say hi or he was thinking about you. Now, when you happened to hear it, it was your dad’s way of saying he was with you even beyond the grave and Babs… Well, she was a last corporeal piece of him.

Honestly, it was bittersweet. Babs was a little bit of your dad to keep with you wherever you went. In later years, she became a scared space of shared secrets, long drives to Lover's Lake with Led Zeppelin on the radio, a stolen away solace at the back of the drive-in lot. But for the last five, she sat in your apartment’s parking structure. Under some sheet like a ghost of your past life.

Nostalgia. What was with it today? Threatening to swallow you whole like the squall outside. As if this month wasn’t already charged enough. Now all this nostalgia to contend with? No thank you. While a trip down memory lane was nice and all, what you needed desperately was a little sleep. And to do that, you needed to be comfortable. Endeavoring to not let anything else sidetrack your mission, you return to the box you had opened, Beach Boys still bopping along in the background. Jackpot. Finally, past you did something that made sense. A box with a jacket AND other garments. It only took eight boxes, but you had found something to wear. Finally, a soft cotton tee was in your hands. You could almost cry in tired elation. The heathered forest green tee was Nirvana in your grasp. Shaking it out, eager to slip into comfort, you used the last ounce of your waining will straighten out the garment and— ugh, you had got to be kidding.

Out of all the tees you owned, it would be this one. It was your lot. A huge cosmic joke where you were the punchline. Your shoulders sagged in weary acceptance. Clearly the universe was out to get you. As if you hadn’t been served enough sentimentality, the sole tee you could find would be for Shepherd’s Records. Shepherd’s had been your first job. Manning the counter and keep track of inventory for your dad’s best friend, Irwin Shepherd. Lord help you if you called him by his first name. He was Shep, and only Shep. God, you had loved that job, working nights after school and weekends, even coming home in the summer to man the shop. There was no place better for a music fanatic to work. Playing records all day and getting paid to chat with folks about music? Nothing better.

You snorted ruefully as you lay the tee on your bed and began to disrobe. Seemingly everything today saw fit to remind you of things that were no longer part of your life. Dad. Shepherd’s. Music. So much loss in a short nearly three decades. But that was something better saved for your therapist office, not standing half naked staring at a t-shirt listening to Barbara Ann in the middle of your apartment at 1:30 in the morning. You just needed sleep. Sweet sleep. And maybe a Bartles & James to take the edge off. Yeah, that sounded good. Slipping on the comically large shirt, it hung down to mid-thigh, ample coverage for a night’s sleep. You rucked off your tights and snagged a pair of tall, thick socks from your box of socks before shuffling to the kitchen for your intended beverage.

The cool of the refrigerator breezed across your bare legs as you tugged open the door and plucked the peach flavored wine cooler from the scant contents of your fridge. Plunking the door closed, your hurried to the couch, pulled on your socks, and nestled under the bulky knit blanket, sinking into the warm reprieve from the chilled air of your apartment. One of the few things you hadn’t packed was a bottle opener. You grinned at your own genius as you reached for the tool on your coffee table and popped the top off your beverage. The sweet peach of the fizzy drink titillated your tastebuds as you took a deep swig, relaxing into the plush of your couch.

Silence once again. The tape player had clicked off as you dressed and you were once again left in the quiet of your apartment. Gentle rattling of the radiator only added to the soundtrack of your mounting thoughts. This time of year always dredged up encroaching feelings. Giant, monstrous, beast like feelings unfurling their tentacles, probing through the mirk for some soft flesh to sink into. Testing the virility of the armor you’ve built over the years, craving to find some chink in your defenses. Most days you could stave off the onslaught with tools from your therapist wielded like weapons hewn in hard work of facing down your demons. Other days, much like today, when tiredness seeped from every pore and the calendar slowly progressing towards the day you dreaded most, your defenses offered little resistance to the strike.

In the turbulent grey of March, you couldn’t help but think on it. Of him. The irony wasn’t lost on you that you lazed on your couch wearing the shirt bearing the name of the first place you truly saw him. The first time that unruly mop of brown hair waltzed into your life, setting you on a collision course of inevitable destruction.

Hawkins June 20, 1981

Summer. Might as well be called hell season as far as you were concerned. Asphalt hot enough to cook an egg or melt the rubber off your sneakers. Mercury bursting to the top of thermometers, 100 degrees and counting. Heat haze blurring the corn fields along the sides of the road as you drove into town. The mid-afternoon Midwest sun was as unforgiving as you could get, so much so that despite your car’s air-conditioning being on the fritz, having the top down wasn’t even in the realm of possibility lest you scorched your hide clean off. Dewey beads of sweat caused your baby hairs to stick to your brow and your legs to the leather of the seats. It was a scorcher, but you couldn’t find it in you to care.

School was officially done for the year. No schedules, no assignments. Just you and your favorite place on earth, thankfully with air conditioning. Pulling into your designated spot, you cut the engine, twirling the keys around your finger as you walked up the back door of Shepherd’s Records. Locking the door behind you, pressing your back to the door, you relished in the cool air, an oasis from the broiling heat outside.

The quiet cool of the shop was peaceful as you made your way through the stacks of records. A familiar scent of plastic wrap, laminated cardboard, and heavily treaded carpet. Inviting, a place of comfort. Being the only record institution in Hawkins, the store was always a little less than clean, clear that many people have trampled through the shop. Stained carpeting, a little rubbish stuck in a corner somewhere no matter how thoroughly you scoured the shop, and the ever-present hint of fast food, plastic, and hairspray lived in the soft lines.

Posters hung from the rafters debut the newest albums and in store promotions. The community bulletin board was littered with flyers for local shows and stacks of independent zines by filled the table by the door. Oasis was certainly the right word for Shepherd’s progressive palace in the midwestern malum. The devil-may-care attitude the outsider rock and roll nature of Shepherd’s offered appealed to some, but the real draw was of course the music. Rows and rows of illustrations and photos, containing everything from heavy metal to new wave to Motown to Shostakovich.

Folks occasionally bought an album or single after hearing it played over the store’s sound system, or something of your recommendation. Husband’s utterly lost trying to find a gift for their wife. Some girl humming something she heard over the radio that she was desperate to have a copy of her own. Local DJ’s jonesing to find an international import of an obscure funk album. The true diehards never wanted assistance, nor did they really need it. “Don’t buy that album, there’s only one good song” or “This might be there best ever”, you didn’t dare even breathe it in their direction; they’d find your opinions more than annoying wanting to draw their own conclusions. Elitists aside, you gleaned a lot of joy in connecting folks to the music that excited them. After all, vinyl was how you fell in the love with music.

While other kids were listening on Fisher 100 watt hi-fi systems, you were spinning records on a Technic SP-10. Direct drive, the pinnacle of hi-fi. Much more crisp than a sad sounding mono speaker and better yet, loud, much to the dismay of your family and neighbors. It made music a much more visceral listening experience for you. It wasn’t just the superior audio quality, it was also the album itself. Nothing tops the feeling of cracking open the record sleeve, peeling back the plastic wrap not knowing what was inside. Were there lyrics? Tour photos? Pure unadulterated excitement. When there was a lack of stuff inside, it was always disappointing.

Nothing topped browsing the aisles of Shepherd’s, looking for an exotic gem or a familiar favorite. And you got to do it everyday. And get paid. Summer, heat side, was your second favorite time of the year. Five days a week you basked in the haven Shepherd’s provided. Briefly you wondered if this is how your dad felt, being at the station surrounded by albums as far as the eye could see. Ample avenues and journeys to take, music to be carried way by… if only he was here. Your love of music stemmed from wholly your dad. While you mom fancied Barry Manilow and The Beatles, not terrible choices if you're honest, she was a causal listener, not one who was consumed by what she heard. You and your dad had that in common, cut from the same sensitive cloth.

“Come here, Creature,” he’d beckon you from the floor of his office, kneeling next to his record player adjusting the gain. “Listen to this.” He set the needle on the record and sound would pour out as he lay on the floor, limbs stretched and eyes closed. Completely succumbing to the music.

You’d nestle into his side in kind. Your nights typically consisted of this. Waiting for your dad to return home from the station with a new release to show you. You’d both lay on the floor and close your eyes and be taken away. As the music would build, gooseflesh broke out upon your arms, sending zinging chills throughout your whole being. Utterly and completely alive. The first time you recall feeling this sensation was the first time you listened to Ramble On by Led Zeppelin in this exact manner. Barely 6, your father could hardly wait to share one of his favorite albums with you.

“Whadya think?” he’d turn to you and ask, eyes alight. You’d tell him exactly what you thought, how it made you feel. Swapping sensations and your deep, newly acquired love of Robert Plant.

What you wouldn’t give for him to be tucked behind the counter right now, discussing that the Creature Feature would be for the day. Creature, your dad’s nickname for you, raised many eyebrows. Part due to your penchant for staying up into the early hours of the morning, part due to your love of Creature From The Black Lagoon. You had made him watch that film on repeat so frequently that the tape began to run thin, needing replaced. Twice. What could you say? There was just something about a creature just wanting love. The outcast, the oddity, the one never to belong thirsting deeply for companionship. Or that’s at least what your interpretation of the plot was, not a bloodthirsty Gil-Man out to ensure a beautiful woman.

Your Creature Feature turntable choice of the day: Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain. Was there any better way than to start you day with funk? Maybe a little mind-melting for the beginning of your shift, but it was one of your favorite albums of all time. Rife with protest-soul, brimming with rage over Vietnam and raised fists in support of Martin Luther King Jr., Maggot Brain spoke through brooding delusions, screaming from the shadows in a time bereft with injustice. You drop the needle on the record and just marinated a minute.

Mother Earth is pregnant for the third time

For y'all have knocked her up.

I have tasted the maggots in the mind of the universe

I was not offended

For I knew I had to rise above it all

Or drown in my own shit.

Bandleader George Clinton’s spoken word begins fading into one of the most powerful and passionate guitar solos ever etched in wax. Fuzz and wah ala Hendrix, combined with the delay and echoplexed improvisation, Eddie Hazel’s solo brayed through the shop, eerie and mournful, an emotional apocalypse of sound. The one-take-wonder and titular track was your favorite, not just for sound, but also for lore. Clinton told Hazel to play as if he just found out his mother passed. The heartbreak and subsequent spiral of loss was palpable as the music pumped through the overhead speakers, vibrating in your chest as you set about turning on the lights readying for open.

This is why you loved working here. Learning all the interconnectedness of the music tapestry. How artists and styles inspired and wove together. If you paid close enough attention, funk was the epicenter of a lot of musical genres. Funkadelic for example influenced Miles Davis’ Agharta with their Wars of Armageddon which could really only be described as a paranoid freak out jam. Decadent, dizzying, and heady. There were even tunes Black Sabbath would have been proud of like Super Stupid. Funk to jazz, funk to metal. It was all connected; that such pain could transmute into something so poignant it echoed for decades after.

Far to heady thoughts for barely noon. Proceeding with your opening duties, you flicked on the open sign, the connected neon lights flickering to life as you unlocked the front door, officially ready for the day. As per the nature of the biz, your first hour was slow, not a customer in sight. Which was fine, you had plenty to keep you occupied. Between cleaning, much needed dusting, straightening up the store, and bringing stock up from the back, you hardly noticed the bell above the door jingle with your first customers of the day.

“I’ll be right up!” You called, making your voice heard over Wars of Armeggedon. A feat considering you were in the back room contesting with protest audio, crowd ambiance, odd mouth noises, and otherwise cacophonous and riotous noise driven funk.

No response was given as you trotted up to the front. “How can I help—” your customer service smile dropped in an instant when you saw who was standing in the center of the store. “You,” your voice deadpanned in summation.

“For starters, you could play something a little more, oh I don’t know, sane?”

A hulking frame draped in a lettermen’s jacket despite the heat were blocked your path to the front of the store. Flanked by two of cronies, clearly amused with the cat and mouse game that had just instigated, they caged you in. Terrific. What had started out as a laissez faire day now had been severely sidetracked. Summer was supposed mean less encounters from the masses at school. Something you had greatly looked forward to: no jocks for a glorious three months. It had only been two days. Of all the record stores in all of Indiana, he had to walk into yours.

“Last I checked, I was the employee here, not you Carver,” you spat with clenched teeth, standing your ground not being at all intimidated by the goons.

Chet Carver, the eldest Carver sibling. Most notably known for captaining the Hawkins High football team as quarterback. And also being a grade A douche canoe. Blonde. Brawny. Entitled. You would think for a pastor’s son he’d be a bit more humble. But it couldn’t be further from the truth. The aggressive meathead saw fit to target anyone who was slightly off center from the norm. Mathletes, drama geeks, no one was safe from his ire. His sway over those who looked up to him was strong, seeing as his little brother was following along in his exact footsteps.

You knew his type, all too well unfortunately. Just a year or so ago, you were going steady. Holding hands, kissing in his car at the drive-in, the whole lot. Dumping the King of Hawkins High made you persona non grata, top mark in his crosshairs. He leered down at you, sussing out your stance for any weakness, thirsty to rend you to your knees as you had done to him. That smarmy captious grin made your blood boil and your palm itch to smack the look off his face.

“What do you want?” You over-annunciated each syllable, hopefully the direct manner would somehow seep into his peabrain.

“Oh you know,” he casually began, finally putting distance between the two of you. He began walking his fingers over the albums as he spoke, “we were out for a drive before heading to Benny’s for a burger and I thought to myself, you know what I could use? A new record.” He paused to flip through one of the bins he was standing in front of, taking time to muss the alphabetical order.

Your lips pressed into a thin line, jaw aching in restraint as you bit back a smarting remark. As much as you would love to engage him in witty repartee, the sooner he left the shop, the better. You watch unmoving, your eyes trailed Chet and his cronies as the perused. Watching only, not interfering. Sure, they were making your job difficult by bringing chaos to your inventory, but if it was the worst they did, so be it. A few disorganized records? They could do much worse.

“Ah, this is the one,” Chet had stopped his perusal, pulling a record out of the country bin and holding it out to you. Ronnie Milsap. There’s No Gettin’ Over Me. Fitting.

With a short snort, you took the record from him and made for the cash wrap. Of course he would pick the worst song of the year with the most blatant messaging.

Well you can walk out on me tonight

If you think that it ain’t feeling right

But darling

There’s ain’t no getting over me

Well you can say that you need to be free

But there ain’t no place that I won’e be

As one would assume, such a cocksure clydesdale didn’t take being dumped too kindly. If his constant harassment was enough of an indicator, this cheap shot was as clear as a foghorn. There ain’t no getting over me. Please. You had heard the song all but once over the radio at Melvald’s and it was enough. Utter trash. A narcissist’s anthem if you’ve ever heard one. You had been over him the day you dumped him. He had changed after your dad passed. All your friends had. Treating you different for grieving; you weren’t the peppy upstart you used to be. Not cool enough to hang with the in crowd. And honestly it suited you fine. The exhaustion that came a long with keeping up The Joneses was too much anyway.

Your frustration leeched out onto the register keys, punching the pricing into the cash register as you thought back on it. You may have been over Chet, but the feelings of your world turning upside down were a little too fresh. “$9.98.” You foisted your palm in his direction, not bothering to make eye contact as you rummaged beneath the counter with your freehand for a bag

From the corner of your eye, you saw him smirk, reaching into his jacket for his wallet. “I’ll let you keep the change if you give me a smile,” he taunted, laying a crisp ten dollar bill in your awaiting palm, as he leaned over the counter, encroaching inch by inch on your personal space.

Change was made quickly and dropped into the bag. “Have a nice day,” you spoke flatly, slapping the bagged record into his chest. The paper bag crinkled against his jacket, the force and surprise propelling him back a few steps, bemused expression on his face at your reaction.

HIs cronies chortled again, the interaction pulling them out of the mussing miscreancy. “Seems like we’re not wanted here, Carver,” one of them mused, flanking Chet.

“I supposed not,” Chet clapped him on the back. “Let’s get outta here.”

Finally, FINALLY, the three skulked their way to the exit. Only being in the store for all of ten minutes, they had sufficiently made a large enough mess of your racks that it would take you nearly half the day to restore the order. Scooping up the nearest stack, you took the armful of albums back over the the counter.

“Hey Henderson,” he called to your retreating back, pausing you mid step.

Your abrupt turn and the heft of the records in your arms put you off kilter are you stared him down in the doorway.

“I always thought you were prettiest when you smiled,” he winked, disquieting you to the very core as he exited.

Had your hands been free, you would have flipped him the bird, double time. That fucker. Thinking he could come in here, invade your sanctuary, and leer like that? Who did he think he was? Right, god’s gift to womankind. The albums met the counter with more force than you intended, the pile spilling onto the floor with the force. A breath didn’t know you were holding released, your shoulders slumping in resignation. This was going to be a long shift.

Several hours and almost the entirety of Iron Maiden’s Killers later, all was righted in the store. All of the jazz section had to be completely reorganized from Armstrong to Zawinul. Pain in the ass was the understatement of the year. Wistfully, you wished you had given Chet a piece of your mind, read him for all the filth he was, but being in his presence any longer than necessary would have been a drain on your day. Engaging him in the slightest would have bated him to linger. Just the short encounter had been enough.

Gloriously, you hadn’t had another customer all afternoon, nothing too atypical for a Friday. The lull in activity gave you ample time to right Carver’s wrongs. Something about organizing provided the proper channel for your aggravation. A before B, B before C. A rhyme and a reason, no chaos in an easily understood system. The balm you desperately needed, smoothing the wrinkles out in your day.

“Hey Henderson!”

Your head snapped up, the voice catching you off guard. The sound system must have obscured the door bell as you had not heard the group of boys enter, too lost in your world of alphabetized jazz. Anxiety left your body in a rush, spine slackening in relief as you looked upon a familiar face. “Hi Grant.”

The sophomore flustered under your recognition, looking down at his shoes as a blush tinted his round cheeks pink. Among your job at the record shop and a babysitting gig here and there, you also tutored students as a part of the Hawkins Library Aide program. Looked good on college applications and provided some extra scratch.

“Got that new Demon album in. Set aside a copy for you,” you continued, wiping your hands off on your jean shorts, ridding the dust from your sticky palms.

“Hey,” one of Grant’s friends good naturedly ribbed, “getting in in tight with the record store girl. Sucking at English has it perks.”

“Shut up, Gareth,” Grant admonished his blonde friend.

Gentle giant Grant. You would never understand why the school thought him such a freak. Grant aired more on the quiet side, odd considering his large frame. Had he been popular, he more than likely would have been a starting lineman or something like that. Instead, he favored music, art, softer pursuits. He reminded you a lot of your brother’s friend Will in temperament at least. Grant’s whole friend ground reminded you of your brother’s Party come to think of it.

“Speaking of which,” you dashed back behind the cash warp to retrieve his hold, easily finding under GOODMAN, “how’d you do on your final?” Your hands moved on muscle memory as you prepared the sale, stamping the brown paper bag with the satisfying ka-chunk with the store’s branded stamp.

“He aced it,” Jeff beamed at his friend as they neared the counter.

“Way to go!” You beamed proudly at your pupil as he handed you the payment for his tape. Prepping for the exam tested Grant’s resolve. Really, the only reason he needed a tutor was due to O’Donnell’s impatience. Had she taken the necessary time and not written him off as a “problem”, like she did with any student who wasn’t a grade A ass kisser, he would have been just fine. All he needed was a little time and reassurance.

“Right?” Gareth added, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Now your parents can’t say shit when we practice in your garage all summer.”

“We owe our future success to you,” Jeff grinned. “We would be down a guitarist if it wasn't for your help.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the exchange, this friend group not unlike your brother’s in the slightest. Through tutoring, you came to know Grant well, and by proxy, you had become casually acquainted with his friends. Gareth: loud, boisterous, ostentatious. Jeff: quiet, contemplative, congenial. And—

“Hey sorry, I’m late! The copier kept jamming at the print shop,” the boy who was more mass of hair than human skidded into the shop. Eddie. Eddie Munson. Out of all of the group, you had interacted with it’s defacto leader the least. No words had been exchanged, solely a head nod or a wave. He flapped around like a bat out of hell. Hyperactive. Mercurial. Rough around the edges. The crowned town freak. Though you suspected that wasn’t truly the case. Was he unruly? Absolutely. Did he draw attention to himself in spectacle? Everyday. But was he a freak? Doubtful. More than likely merely misunderstood. Not unlike your own brother. Same hyperactive, overly chatty, nerd tendencies.

You watched the group flurry about as Eddie tacked up a boisterous flyer. CORRODED COFFIN @ THE HIDEOUT AUGUST 4th 7pm it read in what you assume to be Eddie’s scratchy scrawl, complete with the stereotypical rock paraphernalia sketched on the neon paper.

“Dude, how did you manage that?” Gareth jerked a thumb at the poster. “The Hideout is bar.”

“Power of persuasion my friend, power of persuasion,” Eddie lips drew back in a wide grin full of pomp, his ego on full display. Unruly curls jostled in time with his animated movements as he regaled his friends with the full tale. From your station behind the counter, the mischievous twinkle in his eye was easily seen, overly proud of his cleverness in securing their gig.

His chains glinted in the neon light lights of the shop, causing them to glow more pink and blue against the cut off black denim shorts and shirt he wore. Iron Maiden and Eddie the Head barely stood out on the fabric, faded with much wear. Rough around the edges indeed. He certainly contrasted the punchy hunter green and burnt orange of Hawkins High School’s logo. Of the town’s sun-faded siding of the houses along Main Street. The pastels and polos of the in crowd. How had you not noticed before?

“And a Tuesday? There’s gonna be no one there,” you overheard Gareth complain as you tuned back into the conversation.

“Gentlemen, come on,” he threw his arms around Gareth and Jeff’s shoulders. He spoke in a manner of a commander quelling his troops before a charge. His persuasive aura huddling the group “Sure it’s not Market Square Arena, but it’s a start.”

The group looked unsure between themselves.

“One person doth an audience make. Right?” He was all smiles. Affable and relaxed having swayed his friends over to his point of view. Curious. You regarded him as they continued to converse, perusing the shop leisurely. In the way one should. Try as you could to look at anything else, your eyes followed Eddie’s movements. Pouring through the records, admiring the album with their due reverence. His love of music read from across the store. If it wasn’t his sheer enthusiasm for his gig, it was the way he handled each vinyl with care. Like each was a priceless antiquity meant for the Smithsonian, not a dusty old Indiana record shop.

He cuts through your perusal, his deep boisterous laugh filling the space. Head thrown back, fully body shaking. Lopsided grin toying at the edges of his lips. Free, you thought idly. He was utterly free. A foreign chink sounded somewhere deep in the pit of your stomach at the thought. When was the last time you had laughed like that? Let your hair down and allowed yourself to be free? Hell, just even be.

Jesus Christ, what planets were in transit today that made every thought that wafted through your head wax the poetic? Turning to busy yourself with something other than staring at Eddie Munson, receipts from the week begging to be filed demanded your attention.

The slips of paper consumed your attention, filing expenses for the week, returns from the one lady who insisted Stevie Nicks was the devil incarnate and insisted on a refund, and preparing the order for next week’s shipment for Shep. Lost in your own clerical world you had missed the small scuffle and sound of light cajoling behind you. That was until a voice was cleared, loudly and comically. Clearly intended to garner your attention.

“H-hi there,” you were greeted as you looked over your shoulder. Eddie was standing at the counter across from you.

“What can I do for you, Cousin It?” You could hardly withhold the jibe that left your lips. Cousin It? You mentally reprimanded yourself for your lack of filter. It had been a long day. The perfect defense, but your excuse died in your throat.

A wry smile quirked the corner of his lips as his friends chortled behind him, trying and failing to pretend like they weren’t eavesdropping. “You wound me!” His hands flew over his heart as he staggered a few steps back as if he had been stabbed. “Is this what customer service has come to nowadays?” He faux fainted into the support of the record bins behind him with the grace of a 1800’s courtesan.

His friends burst into full guffaws, unable to ignore the hijinks. You huffed, folding your arms across your chest. Clearly, this clown wasn’t too unlike the other who came in to chat you up and goad a smile out of you.

He caught you mid eye-roll, those deep brown eyes. A flash of amusement in the neon lights of the shop. “Listen,” he said lowly, demeanor changing to something resembling a semi-respectable member of society. “I bet those numb skulls over there,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at his friends as he sidled up the counter again, “my DM seat, my—”

“Dungeon Master seat, yeah I’m tracking with you,” you interrupted, all too familiar with the term. Dustin’s inane rambling about Dungeons & Dragons had permeated your brain. He only talked about it 24/7.

His eyes widened, surprise clear as he looked at you. “Well then,” the laugh lines appeared on either side of his mouth, clearly pleased at this turn of events, “a lady informed.” He propped an elbow on the counter and rested his chin in hand as he leaned closer to you. “Then you know the severity of this bet,” he all but whispered into the space between you.

You stared at him for a beat, sussing out his intent. Narrowing your eyes at him slightly and still his grinned persisted, not fading a mite.

“Right, so I bet them my DM sea aha I could get a lovely lady as yourself’s phone number by the end of the day. They don’t believe in the Munson charm.”

Eyes flicking to the clock, it was 5:47pm. Nearly the end of the day. Per his early statement, most of his day sounded like it was spent wrestling a copier prior to killing time in your shop. His options were limited. A wry smile cracked your features. “Let me guess,” you leaned onto the counter mimicking his position, “I’m your only hope?” He returned your grin. “You’d be correct, Obi Wan.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“My undying gratitude,” he answered quickly, hand flourishing over his heart.

“You’re going to have to sweeten the pot.”

At that, his palm flew up to cover his mouth, the thought process propelled him to pace, unable to stay still to ponder. The need to make a show of it all too great. He paused, as if a great idea dawned on him.

"I, milady, will owe you one favor of your choosing. A favor from your humble, grateful servant," he bowed low, arms out wide in submission.

Flabbergasted, you regarded him in his docile pose. "I don't even know you, dude.” You really didn’t. This being the first time you’ve ever directly spoken to the boy, how on Earth could he provide you a favor? Would you even want a favor from a complete stranger?

He stood, quickly returning to his towering height. “Touché,” his grin faltered, not expecting this conversation to go left.

Perhaps the Munson charm really was a figment of his imagination. Then again maybe it wasn’t. Disarming, you could feel your hackles from your earlier encounter with Chet smooth back flat to your neck as Eddie searched for something further to say, a pink tint dusting his cheeks as he floundered. There was something endearing about the way he toed at the carpet with his beat up Reebok’s. All the bravado seem to slip for an instant, allowing you a brief peek behind the curtain. There was more to him than the rumors around town suggested.

"I, milady, will owe you one favor of your choosing. A favor from your humble, grateful servant," he bowed low, arms out wide in submission.

Flabbergasted, you regarded him in his docile pose. "I don't even know you, dude."

He stood, quickly returning to his towering height. “Touché,” his grin faltered, not expecting this conversation to go left.

You never really believed what the rumors whispered. Cultist. Satanist. Evil. If he was any of those things, he certainly would be blushing in front of you trying to come up with something to offer.

His gaze returned to yours. “You’re nice,” he arrived at with what you were sure was less subtly and finesse than he wanted, “at least that what Grant says. He raves about you. So I know you’ve got some small soft spot for us freaks.”

Your brow lifted in response. “Is that so?” you challenged.

“Me thinks so,” he mirrored you, leaning back in, closing the distance. “You know,” he offered casually, “we aren’t totally strangers. We’re just meeting now. I’m Eddie by the way.”

“Oh I know.”

“I do declare,” he gasped in a rather surprisingly accurate mimicry of a southern belle. “Henderson the Great knows my name?”

A snort was your only response as his chocolate eyes did their best to woo you into helping him. You rested your chin on your fist, staring him down in equal kind. A Mexican standoff over the counter. He trying desperately to sway you. You trying to determine his motives. Narrowing your eyes slightly, you weighed your options. What did you really have to lose in this situation? Your phone number was permanently etched in the men’s bathroom at Hawkins High thanks to Chet and his minions. Crank calls weren’t something with which you were unfamiliar. But what you had to gain, that was a mystery. What could Eddie Munson do for you that you couldn’t do for yourself? Something about Eddie made you want to say yes, seal yourself in this devil’s bargain where you had the power and he owed you.

“A favor I can call in for anything at anytime. No questions asked?”

“I draw the line at animal sacrifice,” he grinned, “but yeah. Anything, anytime.” He drew a little x over his heart, sealing the deal.

“Charming.” You proffered your hand.

He stares at you, startled that it worked? His lips the perfect “o” in shock.

“Give me your arm,” you laughed lightly, fishing a pen from a drawer behind the counter.

Eddie all but threw his arm into your await grasp, eagerness rolling off of him in waves. His skin vibrated under your palm as your phone number took shape on his arm.

“I really appreciate this.” The timbre of his voice had changed, warm. Rife with what felt like true meaning. You didn’t doubt his appreciation and if you had looked up, you would have caught the shy blush that blossomed on his cheeks at your gentle touch. Deeper and redder than before.

“Just doing my civic duty. Can’t let Princess Leia lose her seat.”

With that he laughed. Full on belly laugh like before. But this time at your prompting, you had earned a bit of his free savoir faire. Pleasure at the fact bloomed small in your chest, causing you to nearly drop the pen in your grasp.

“Munson, are you accosting my tutor?” Grant keyed in on the moment, just realizing what was happening. “Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry.” His large hands landed on Eddie’s shoulders pulling him away from the counter, severing your connection. “I’ll get him out of your hair,” Grant said as he shooed his friend to the exit.

“See ya around, Creech,” called over his shoulder as Grant manhandled him to the door. “What did you just call me?” the world hitting you like a slur.

“Creech, like Creature?” He grinned, pointing at your t-shirt. “Like Creature from The Black Lagoon? Rad shirt by the way,” he complimented as Grant finally herded him out the door and onto the sidewalk.

Creature. That world fell upon you like cold bucket of water. No one had called you that in years. The only person to ever use the nickname, your father. In disbelief you looked down at your tee. The familiar movie poster was there, same black ink on the love-worn shirt. Creature. Out of all the things he could have called you…

“You did not just get her number!” You heard Gareth’s shout from outside the shop in total shock of his friend’s success. A laugh you needed worked it’s way up and out of you. At both the outburst and the absurdity of the last five minutes of your life. Creature. You couldn’t wait until he found out that you had given him the shop phone number.

If someone from the future had beamed down in that instant and told you that the two of you— that you and him— he and you— You would have never believed it. In what timeline were the two of you destined to be together? You threw an arm over your eyes as you surfaced from the memory you'd always carry with you, no matter how hard you've tried to erase it. Carry? His memory, a boulder and you, Sisyphus. Forever rolling his echo up the mountainside and just as you are about to crest, to be free from the niggling guilt and ever-present ache, it plummets back down, right back into the pit you from which you crawled. Fingers bloody and war torn, muscles aching only second to the affliction of your heart. Would you ever not feel the boulder in your chest? The throb of the rock lurching about, staggering your thoughts, keeping you off-kilter. In a session, your therapist had suggested that you never shrink your grief, you eventually outgrow it. But how long? Ten years? Fifteen years? Fifty years? The past five constricted, your skin pulled taut over the sorrow stone. Tightness hindering your ability to draw breath, to think clearly, to move on.

Or was it more like maggots? Worming away in the decay of your heart, carving out tracts for all the guilt and shame to fester. Wriggling, putrid, filth. Yeah, no. Beginning to the lose the battle with the constriction in your throat, you stood lest you be swallowed by the mounting wave of grief. Before the wave crested, you stooped back to the kitchen, grabbed the dwindling content of the six pack you started days priors, and schlepped back to the couch. If you were to face the sleepless undertow pulling at your ankles, you wouldn’t do so without liquid courage. Sleep evaded you most nights, but this time of year it was damn near impossible to find rest in the choppy waves that thundered your shore. And even if sleep did take you, this was going to be a long night.

Shrill ringing woke you from your post-shift slumber. Groaning, you swore, feeling as if you had just closed your eyes only to have your sleep so rudely interrupted.

The ringing didn’t quit, the blasted thing rattling from your side table just above your lounging head. Blindly from your prostrate position on your couch, your hand roved until it met the glossy plastic of your telephone. With a groan, your fingers curled around the receiver, hoisting into the air and foisting it to your ear with a grumbled, “hello?”

“Come home.”

A demand, a cracked intonation you hadn’t heard in your younger brother’s voice in a long while. The mere sound doused you like a frigid bucket of water. You froze, heart thrumming loudly in your ear overriding your functions to knee-jerk. Shocked, you propelled yourself sitting, dread pooling in your gut. Shit, shit, shitting shit.

Tantalizingly, the thought of just simply hanging up waltzed to the front of your brain. Oops, the phone happened to fall out of hand and right onto the cradle, your muscles too tired from mixing drinks to hold the receiver. Believable? Yes. Easy to execute? Yes. Your palm itched at the idea. A faked bad connection had gotten you off the phone a time or two, but this called for more drastic tactics. Surely this would work. Your brother would understand, wouldn’t he?

Frustration was evident in his tone as he yammered on, his words falling upon deaf ears. You couldn’t blame him; he had every right to be frustrated with you. Five years is a long time to stay away, no matter how good your reasoning.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen Dustin in five years. He had come to visit during breaks after he got his license, your family drove up to celebrate your birthday one or twice, meeting for a quick catch up in Indianapolis on a Saturday. You had seen your family. Perhaps not as often as they would like.

Just a few months ago you were all together. Now that was a magical Christmas. Soft white fluffy snow, the kind you see on those “Wish You Were Here” postcards, blanketed the roads as you took the bus from Cambridge into New York City Dustin’s first year at MIT. The world always has a little more glow that time of year, but something about being in New York made it even more so. Skating in Times Square, hot chocolate in Central Park freezing your butts off, forcing your mom to eat street hot dogs with you and her bellyaching about all the hazards of imbibing, getting lost in the natural history museum for hours. Complete bliss. It was almost enough to make you forget. Almost.

It wasn’t like you were radio silent either. Save for the last few months, regular phone were a Wednesday night staple. There were cards exchanged for the birthdays and holidays you dodged coming home to celebrate. So you had missed a few birthdays, Christmas, high school graduations, college acceptances— ok so you had missed some major milestones. An even more appealing reason to add to the list of why you needed off this call. A big ol’ pit of guilt.

Who were you kidding, though? Really. This is Dustin Henderson. That dogged determination would have him ringing you again and again until you rip the phone from the jack, and burying it under your floorboards a la Edgar Alan Poe’s Telltale Heart. Even then, the phantom ringing would drive you mad. The alternative: The National Guard would show up on your doorstep and drag you kicking and screaming all the way back to Hawkins. As much as you dreaded this exact scenario, he was your little brother and you loved that little punk more than anything. Though the fantasy of a final desperate dodge appealed, you couldn’t do that to him. You wouldn’t do that to him. Resigned, your shoulders slumped. You had to take this call. There were no more ways around it. You were trapped. Great, just great.

As if your anxiety wasn’t high enough, the thought of being trapped only served to make the walls of your studio apartment feel smaller than they already were. With each nervous breath, they closed in a little more, creeping closer and closer. Your beloved little hole in the wall was now a refrigerator box of rigid tension. What was it that your therapist had reminded you of last session? Chewing on your cuticle and maintaining your breath evenly, you tried to recall her words. A breath would help. Slowly, you unfurled yourself from your tense seat, placing your feet flat on the floor and inhaling and holding. In. Out. In and out. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat as many times as it takes to gain your bearings. As many time as it takes to not want to claw your way out of your own skin. Breathe. Just fucking breathe.

Finally releasing the stranglehold on your eardrums, the ringing subsided, bringing your brother’s frantic calling of your name into focus.

“Dust—”

“Jesus Christ, I thought you had a coronary.” The relief in his voice was palpable, even cutting through his obvious frustration.

“Sorry.” Hopefully he’d pickup on the sheepish tone to your voice. You hadn’t meant to startle him. Hell, that was the last thing you’d want to do. Things had been hard enough for Dustin Henderson. A basket case sister is not what he needed right now. With a deep swallow and additional breath for good measure, you consoled, “I spaced is all.”

While the ringing had stopped, uneasiness licked up your spine. Pressing your palm to your abdomen did little to quell the steady rise of heat, but it was a minor comfort. A minor comfort you’d continue to give yourself until this wave of anxiety releases you from its undertow.

“Don’t do that!” His admonishments continued, ratcheting your guilt at every word. It wasn’t supposed to go on this long. Yes, initially you were avoidant, then it just became your modus operandi. Avoidance was easier than the inevitable bursting of the bubble. And god did you want that bubble to last forever. Really it had superseded a want; it was now a need. That sweet bubble of blissful feigned ignorance. Yep, you could hide in that no problem.

Dodging this call for the past several weeks had been a Herculean effort on your part. Picking up extra shifts at The Signature Lounge to keep you out of your apartment until the wee hours of the morning, conveniently forgetting to change the tape in your answering machine, staying out all hours of the night dancing and drinking until your stomach was more sore than your feet, even going as far as leaving your phone off the hook to avoid this dreaded call.

Three months. Three blissful months of not acknowledging the impending anniversary. Ides of March took on a whole new meaning since 1986. At the thought, you swallowed harshly, your throat drying at the memory. A nearly empty Bartles & James offered you salvation from your coffee table and you sought it, finishing the bottle before adding it to the pile of its discarded twins. Beware indeed. Even with all the time past, stomaching this call was not on the list of things you wanted to do today. Honestly, probably ever.

You sighed in the receiver, the nervous sweats already starting to coat your palms, the receiver slackening in your grasp. An excuse already forming on your tongue as you pinched the bridge of your nose.

“Don’t even start,” he interrupted what was sure to be your anxiety ridden ramble.

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You said you were coming. You’re already three days late. Everyone’s counting on you being here.”

Grounding. That was what your therapist recommended. Grounding. Sitting on the ground felt more appropriate to ground yourself, already feeling what little energy your brief nap gleaned left your body. Okay, so maybe lying on the floor would be better. Already feeling gelatinous, you poured yourself onto the floor. Flat as a board, staring up at the ceiling.

Five. Five things you can see.

The image of yourself reflected convex back to you in the screen of the small television sitting on the floor. Hair askew, dark circles forming under your eyes darkened by the remnant mascara smudged from your couch cushion. Oversized tee hanging off your frame, you looked as gaunt as you felt. No, you wouldn’t dwell on your haggardness. What else? Cobwebs in the corners that really needed your attention. Really, how long had those been there and how hadn’t you noticed an arachnid roommate taking over the corners of your space? Equally egregious dust tufts under your couch. The mountain of boxes awaiting Friday’s movers. Last one. Your eyes roved over your apartment, your body unwilling to move. What else could you see from supine spot? Your window. Diluted light of the city glinting through your sheers. A favorite of yours, especially this late at night. The kind of light that makes you feel like you're the only one in the world awake. A familiar friend for your sleepless nights.

Four. Four things you can touch.

The firm plastic of the phone if your hand, transferring the heat of your palms. Threadbare cotton of your favorite tee. Warmth seeping through the floor, bonus of being the top floor apartment. The heat always rose.Soft pile of your barf green shag rug that you adored and everyone hated, including your mom and that is how it came into your possession. Love for the stupid thing brought brief smile to your face as your hands wandered through the strands.

Three. Three things you can hear.

The city, the white noise churn of traffic passing by your window. The soundtrack to your day to day, thankfully minus the honking. Some kind of jazz in a time signature that should be outlawed played by your most adjacent neighbor. Your brother’s voice, rattling off plans for your visit at a speed beyond your current comprehension.

Two. Two things you you can smell.

One of your neighbors cooking something with garlic down the hall. Your stomach thundered at the smell. Maybe as a reward for making it through this call, a late night slice was in order. Leftover remnants of the perfume you spritz at your pulse point before your shifts today.

And one. One thing you can taste.

The acrid aftertaste of the Battles & James churned with bile slowly climbing up your throat. Delectable. Your phone cord could reach to the bathroom, maybe a quick brush would suffice. If you could be bothered to get up from the floor.

To your amazement, your therapist had been correct. Or maybe it was more to your chagrin. You did feel a little more centered and your anxiety had eased from a chokehold to a tight grip on the back your neck. But progress was progress, and you’d take it.

“Did you hear anything I said?”

Right, you were still on the phone. Dustin’s voice lasered through the haze, bringing you back into the moment. Truthfully, you hadn’t heard a single word he said, too preoccupied with keeping your heart from beating through your ribs like a Chestburster from Alien. Guilty you had’t paid attention, you settled on the response, “Mhmm.”

“Oh yeah? Repeat it back to me?”

Nevermind he was now a college sophmore, Dustin Henderson was still a butthead. “What happened to respecting you elders?”

“Oh I don’t know, how about you start acting like the elder sibling for once?”

The ringing in your ears returned, tinning out all background noise. A stab straight to the gut. You really had shirked your duties as eldest sibling. Retreating into yourself for the better part of the last three years, only to emerge a disjointed caterpillar figuring out how to wiggle yourself into a chrysalis to heal for the last two. Therapy was new, and it was helping, but clearly to everyone else progress wasn’t being made.

“Dustin—” the shock not kept from your voice at your brother’s sharp barb. You knew he was angry, despite him not outrightly saying so. He had been pulling the weight as the defacto elder sibling, you could admit that. Really, the guilt of sticking Dustin to carry on and grieve alone may have contributed to your negligence in reaching out. Heat burned in your cheeks. You deserved all the ire coming your way. Simple as that.

“Sorry, too harsh,” he joked, his usual tone settling in place. “When you didn’t show up on Sunday, we thought—”

“I know,” you interrupted, knowing exactly what he thought. Pre-therapy, he had a right to be concerned; those days were dicey at best. But now— what about now? You weren’t ready to check out, this you knew. But the aimless distractions you sought, what was even the point? You had no heading.

“I worry about you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“If I had visual proof of your existence every once in awhile that would help. Ma too.”

“I’m coming home now aren’t I?”

“You were supposed to be here Sunday.”

Heavily you sighed, the bridge of you nose pinched between the fingers of your free hand. “You’re an ignoramus, you know that right?”

“Yeah, I know. I just miss you, alright?”

“Miss you too, kid.” You really did. Your relationship with your brother wasn’t the typical cat and dog. Even six years your junior, he was you best friend. With all the shit you went through together, you were all each other really had. The support, the understanding, the trauma. It bonded you together deeper than the average siblings. You couldn’t disappoint him again. You wouldn’t disappoint him again. “I’ll be there Friday.”

“Why not tomorrow?”

“I picked up another shift. If I’m going to be gone for two weeks, gotta have a little more savings in the can.”

He sighed heavily into the receiver, frustration begging to flow again. It wasn’t your usual excuse, he seemed to buy it. “Okay,” he said slowly, disbelief coloring his words. “If you’re not here by Friday—”

“You’ll reign down holy hellfire on me and drag me kicking and screaming back to Hawkins. I know. How many times have you threatened me with that?”

“This time I have back up.”

It wasn’t an empty threat. You knew he did. If you dared to not show, not only Dustin would be at your door, certainly all of Hellfire would be. With that many people to let down, you knew you would be going regardless of how much you dreaded it.

“What, you think the guilt trip isn’t enough to sway me?”

“You’re an idiot,” he laughed, jovial nature returning. “Friday?”

“Friday,” you confirmed. “Love you, Dust.”

“Love you too.”

The call disconnected on his end, the dial tone tolling from the receiver still clenched in your grasp. You were going home. You were going to Eddie’s Memorial. You had agreed to come home to attend Eddie’s Memorial. That was that. Finally the receiver had made it’s way back to the cradle as you collapsed back into the couch, dragging your hands over your face. What did you just do?

#eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #bat out of hell #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst

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crocchompers · 2 months

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This is all I got

(Maggot it my little baby <3 the centipede makes him much more cute)

#I aint got nothing else to say lol #but ya #I love Maggot Beta #just a baby boy <3 #I wanna give him a bunch of smooches #Beta Wally au #I might draw him more often because Draft Beta and Og #they are not important rn for the next 2-3 hours #Maggot Beta #welcome home #beta wally #art #centipede #idk if there should be any tw #bug warning?

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naughtylenamoonsblog · 4 days

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reblog if you suck real good, then send a message. i’m online😈💦

#faggot sissy #faggot humiliation #lgbtq #gay #submisive faggot #transgender #chastized #beta faggot #exposed faggot #cross dressing #maggots

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vivid-badsquad · 3 months

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What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch? I'll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Navy Seals, and I've been involved in numerous secret raids on Al-Quaeda, and I have over 300 confirmed kills. I am trained in gorilla warfare and I'm the top sniper in the entire US armed forces. You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over the Internet? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across the USA and your IP is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You're fucking dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that's just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the United States Marine Corps and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little "clever" comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn't, you didn't, and now you're paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You're fucking dead, kiddo.

K-kitten?.. why aren’t you answering my texts?!.. are you texting other alphas? I growl THEY AREN’T ALPHAS! THEY’RE BETAS! I cover my mouth i-… I’m sorry…. I didn’t mean to yell… i-i-is that a f-full moon??.. kitten! run! I howl as I fully transform, I snarl angirly where are you kitten?! I stalk around looking for you found you! I pause, realizing what I’m doing i-im sorry kitten… come back… please. I start running towards the full mood AWWOOOOOOOO🐺🐺

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chaos-has-theories · 7 months

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Heaptober Day 16: Mistaken Identity

Look, I guess I... write now? Don't even ask, all of this setup was definitely necessary. Jup.

Not beta read, barely proofread, we die like Alther Mella.

Alda Fry had always dreamed about visiting the Castle. Magyk! Adventure! Houses in all colors!

By the time she was fourteen years old she had decided that she would have to become a wizard. And if there's one thing you should know about Alda Fry, it was this: once she decided on something, she did it, no matter what.

It was late in the year 12024 that Alda stepped off the merchant's ship she'd paid for transport, and set her path towards the Wizard Tower.

It was only just starting to get dark, and not cold at all. Even so, there was barely anyone on the street, and those who were hurried past her, wrapped in coats and scarves all the way to the tips of their noses.

Odd, Alda thought, and continued on her way.

It took shockingly long for someone to open the door of the Wizard Tower for her.

When they finally did, it was a ridiculously lanky girl with short dark hair sticking up in every direction. The girl had green eyes and green clothes, and was staring at her rather rudely.

Behind her, there seemed to be some kind of argument going on; or maybe seven of them.

Alda cleared her throat pointedly.

Finally, the girl spoke. "You realize there's a password, right?"

Alda sniffed. "Well, I wouldn't know the password. I've only just got here."

The girl snorted. "You sure did, didn't ya. Come on, just tell me what you want, we can't get anything done in here with you banging away at the door."

Alda rather thought that the cacophanous arguments might be more to blame, but very well. She pulled her shoulders back and squared her jaw.

"I would like to become a wizard," she informed the other girl. "Please."

This time, the green-eyed beanstalk actually left her mouth open to stare at her.

Then she shuddered visibly, cursed under her breath, and stepped back.

"Alright, fine. Come in here, I'm about to freeze my toes off."

Well.

That had been easier than expected.

The girl frogmarched Alda across a shimmering, sandlike floor, and pushed her into a chair at the fireplace.

"Right," she said. "Really, I should be sticking you in the Stranger Chamber, but I'm afraid it's occupied. Nissa Bott, by the way. Who in the entire depth of the Abyss are you?"

"Alda Fry, at your service," Alda said daintily. She suspected that Miss Bott had just sworn rather colorfully at her, but she elected to ignore that.

"And you want to become a wizard."

"Indeed."

"How exactly did you..."

She was cut off by the arguments above them swelling, some clattering, and then a young in equally green robes - with some purple ribbons on the sleeve - dashing past them, only to skid to a halt when he saw them.

"Nissa, you maggot," he complained. "Get back up there and help us clean up this mess."

"So sorry, Newt," Miss Bott said innocently. "I have to interview this Hopeful."

"This what?"

'Newt' seemed, if possible, even more taken aback by this notion than his colleague had. Really, Alda was growing rather tired of this.

So was Newt, apparently, who pulled Nissa up by her collar and dragged her into one corner of her room, where they proceeded to have a - rather more quiet - argument.

Alda took the opportunity to look around a bit. It really was an impressive building. Most impressive of all, the floor seemed to know her name.

Good Evening, Alda Fry, it spelled in an elaborate script, swirling in prismatic colors around her feet. And a wonderful Longest Night to you.

Huh, Alda thought. Nights were apparently rather short around here.

Either the arguments upstairs had eased up a bit, or Alda had simply gotten used to them. Either way, the one beside her suddenly rose in volume. "Then get her to do it," the older boy hissed, gesturing rather unsubtly towards Alda.

Alda decided she was done with this. "Get me to do what?"

As if synchronized, the two turned towards her, looking her up and down with a... somewhat worrying glint to their eyes.

"Well," Nissa began, only to be interrupted by Newt.

"Fetch the ExtraOrdinary. You can consider it your entrance interview, yeah?"

Alda froze, eyes going wide. "As in, the ExtraOrdinary Wizard?"

The boy scoffed. "No, the ExtraOrdinary Message Rat."

Nissa shoved Newt away, sighing deeply. "Look, everything's a bit topsy-turvy today, yeah? EOW's off for some party and took Tod along, and the deputy, and Dandra. And obviously the other Heaps are there too, and we've got the whole StrangerChamber thing to take care of, and Marley dropped some elixir on the floor and we're still trying to figure out what it even was, and Norman and Eliza are arguing about their bunks again, and Master Limm and Madam North still can't agree whether magyk is inherent or extrinsic, and..."

She took a deep breath. Alda was sure her eyes must have glazed over at least halfway through that speech.

Lissa grinned, sharp as glass and just as brittle. "So long story short, we could really need the EOW right about now, but if me or Newt go, Marley might manage to blow up the whole tower. Got it?"

"Not really," Alda admitted.

"Great!"

Just as she'd been led inside, she was marched outside again, and unceremoniously deposited on the stone steps.

"Just down that road, largest building at the end, they should be in the dining room," Newt told her in the tones of someone brushing dust off their hands.

He tried to close the door on her, and in a moment of true desperation, Alda stuck her foot in.

"I don't even know what the ExtraOrdinary Wizard looks like," she protested.

Newt squinted at her as if that was the stupidest question he'd ever heard. "Looks like a Heap," he said, begrudgingly adding, "youngest of the bunch. Good luck!"

And with that, the huge double doors swung shut behind her.

So the thing was, alright?

The thing was, Jenna and Septimus liked to argue. It had started as "an exercise", according to Jenna: to teach Sep that even if he was loud and opinionated and maybe even a little bit mean, nobody was going to be angry at him. At least, not for longer than a day.

(If pressed, Jenna might admit that she also enjoyed having a sparring partner who didn't win automatically just by dint of being Older. But Septimus didn't need to know that.)

Four years later, seven years later, fourteen years later, they just happened to be... the only people who could really argue with each other. Being family was one thing, and six older brothers would always manage to be annoying, but Jenna was the Queen. Septimus was the ExtraOrdinary Wizard. People did not simply argue with the Heads of State.

So the Heads of Statue argued with each other. Mostly just where noone could hear them: their rooms, their letters, among family and friends.

They would argue about who had the more difficult job ("I have to run the entire castle, Sep, all you have to do is one measly tower" "Have you heard the arguments Thaddeus Limm and Margie North get into?") whose outfit was better ("You looked better in green" "Jen, you mix red and purple") or whose turn it was to check in with the Tribe of Three and the dragonets. ("You're Spit Fyre's Navigator, Jen, you're essentially their grandma" "Absolutely not. No. You can be their grandma, I'm the weird uncle at best.")

In short, they argued about anything and everything, as long as it wasn't actually important.

Which meant, of course, that to the mixed amusement and annoyance of their party guests, Jenna and Septimus spent most of their twenty-fourth birthday on their favorite subject:

Who of them had been born first.

"Of course it was me," Jenna said, affronted. "My mother had time to get ready for the Welcome Ceremony, and then Marcia had time to even come up with hiding me in the Forest for Dad to find me."

"Come off it, Jen. The Messenger ran to get Alther right when you were born, and that was noon. I was born in the morning, just ask Mum."

"I could be three days older than you, and you wouldn't even know."

"Forget it." Septimus grinned. "You are and always will be the youngest Heap."

It was just then that the doors to the dining room swung open, violently enough that one of them smacked Edd lightly on the nose.

Standing there was a girl with pale hair, pale skin, and pale grey robes, unusually flimsy for this time of year. She was breathing heavily, and looking around with a suspicious squint.

Even so, she didn't seem to notice that half the people in the room had reached for their protective charms, keeping them just out of sight.

The girl's gaze snagged on Snorri, passed right over Marcia and Milo, and finally settled on Oskar, looking a bit dubious.

"I'm looking for a... Heap," she announced. Her accent was the lilting tones of a Northener, tasting the word "Heap" as if she wasn't entirely sure that it was a name.

Twelve straw-blonde heads and two darker ones heads swiveled towards her. The atmosphere in the room could be described as 'incredulous'.

Marcia caught herself first. "How did you get in here? Where are the guards?"

The girl just frowned at her. Behind her, Hildegarde ran up, out of breath and clearly embarrassed.

"Terribly sorry. She just seemed to know exactly where she was going, I thought..."

"I am looking for a Heap," the girl repeated patiently. "I am sent by one Newt and one Maggot. There has been a spillage."

Septimus groaned, his hair falling over his eyes as he flopped forwards. "Of course. Nissa and Newt. I should have known."

"So. Which one of you is Heap?"

Twelve pairs of blonde eyebrows lifted. So did a great many other pairs.

Milo was the first to take pity on the girl. "Which one do you need?"

The girl frowned, mouthing the question back to herself. Then, sounding uncertain for the first time, she said, "...the youngest one?"

All the way at the Head of the table, Jenna met Sep's eyes. Purple to green, green to purple: Jenna began to grin.

Sep sighed. "So much for birthday dinner, I guess."

He moved to stand, but Jenna was quicker. "Here I am," she said brightly. "The youngest Heap, always and forever. Isn't that right, Sep?"

Septimus glared at her. Jenna grinned even wider.

"Yes," Septimus said, through his teeth. "You'd better go and stop Thaddeus and Margie from strangling each other! I'll just stay here, enjoying the party."

"Oh, please do," Jenna said sweetly. "And don't forget your meetings tomorrow morning. Or the Open Audience in the afternoon. All those reports won't read themselves!"

Green to purple, purple to green.

A second passed.

"Deal," Septimus said.

"Deal."

#chaos writes #septimus heap #heaptober 2023 #heaptober #???#once more. I might put this up on ao3 once I've looked at with an editor's eyes #(or if someone asks me to)#lots of setup for that joke! Idk I just want Sep and Jen to be mistaken for each other they're TWINS ok

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ghoulishjester · 1 year

Text

"Frankenstein's Monster"

Song Fic - POINT OF NO RETURN - Lana Lubany Pairing: Platonic! Peony Vectrum (OC) x Thadeus Becile Summary: Peony, Thadeus' close friend, died due to unforeseen circumstances. He couldn't stand that a woman he cared for had been murdered at a young age, and a mother no less, so he uses Peony as the beta experiment to bring back another woman he cared for, Delilah. Genre: Angst Word Count: 3,240 Warnings: Resurrection, talks of death, arguments, descriptions of corpses, sad mother stuff, crying, and iggy being slightly traumatized along with peony, bug mentions

Goosebumps had decorated the middle-aged man's skin like a popcorn ceiling. He was staring at his own creation before him. It looked like an abstract masterpiece with all of the machinery he had crafted with his bare hands. "Finally, it is finally finished..." He sounded exhausted, physically and emotionally within his own vessel. He looked over to the darker part of the room, eyeing the silhouette that lay still on the floor like a mournful statue. It was Peony's cadaver.

She had her hands crossed over her form. The very same form that was dressed in a vibrant yellow dress of her time. A crinolette type of dress that was mixed with a bustle. Her hair was symmetrical, her deep brown hair with the bangs long and twisted and tucked behind the ears, and the rest of her hair is parted and ordained with swirls and braids. Her once lively peach-colored skin had been dulled to that of a dusted bone. Her makeup is now almost gone and stained on her epidermis. A silent sob wanted to rack his body, but he pushed that feeling down. He had to focus, he had to do this! For her, for Delilah. He knew he was being selfish but, wouldn't his friend want to aid him in bringing someone he loved back to life?? Wouldn't Peony understand how dire this situation was??? Isn't that what friends were for?? He walked over to her, thankful that her eyes were closed at this time. He couldn't have bared to do this if she was staring at him with those dark eyes of hers, once they were filled with the joys of life, now possibly filled with maggots, eating their way around her skull. He lifted her up gingerly, wincing at how stiff she was, feeling as if he was carrying clay to an altar as if they were acting in parts. She was Galatea and he was Pygmalian. Except there was no love here, just the sense of greed and remorse hanging in the air and swirling in a sickly tornado of emotions. A metal thud rang in the air, as her body hit the metal table, making him cringe with worry. It didn't sound good, but it had been nothing. He went behind the placeholder and flipped some switches, causing a high-pitched humming to commence. Next was the most dangerous part of the process, dealing with the green matter. This sweet rock candy-like mineral glowed within its container. This would be the key to her revival. He placed on thick leather gloves and grasped the rock, his hands forming a prayer stance as he shut his eyes, quietly slipping silent prayers from his mind to his mouth, praying that this would work. He placed it in a cylinder metal container, the stone thumping gently against the floor of the tube before being closed off from the outside. His feet retraced back to the switches. His finger was idle around the final switch that would start this process. Wincing and his body movements placed him back away from the lever, before finally pulling it down. An orchestra of blaring noises erupted within this space, and the giant metal chandelier from above the table struck down lightning against the young woman's carcass. The bolts of electricity danced along the nerves that laid dormant in her body. Something was happening. Her once stiff hands soon became soft and even slid down to her sides. Her plain brows now adorning a worried expression. "I-It's working!" He exclaimed, watching as her body was seeming to fill with some sort of life! His hope-filled orbs were soon replaced with a look of confusion and fear. The more the lightning bore down on her, the more she changed. Her skin slowly turning into a shamrock green, a dark ink like substance oozed out from under her eyelids, and creaky groans left her mouth. No no no! This is not how it was supposed to go! Thadeus tried pulling up the lever again, but it wouldn't budge! He tried and tried again but halted, even jumped slightly when screams erupted from the area where she lay. He glanced back over and his brows stitched together as he saw her eyes fly open. The sclera of her eyes now bore an onyx color, and the iris of her eye

was now a bright neon green that seemed to glow from how vibrant they were against the darker color palette she now bore.

With one final push, he was able to finally throw up the lever, stopping this entire process. The only audible noises that were now heard were the power off of the machine, slight sizzling from possible fried hair, and the moans she let out. Her moans were filled to the brim with exhaustion, and topped with pain.

Soon, this failure of a phoenix tried sitting up, failing, and opting to just lay there. "Where..." She tried to ask something but trailed off as her eyes struggled to adjust to the room. Thadeus walked over to her, grasping her hand in his, his thumb gently grazing over the unnatural color of her knuckles. "You're in my lab, Peony, you're safe-"

"Thadeus...? Mm, I thought you were in Africa...?" He paused, the cogs in his brain spinning around this question. Was that the last memory she had? Was the last memory not her being murdered by a mystery man? He brushed aside his inner thoughts and focused on her.

"No, I-I came back- How do you feel??" He couldn't string his words together correctly, just stumbling over his own speech due to the abundance of tangled-up nerves that now took vacancy within himself. "I'm hurtin'....my body hurts....why am I here...?" Her southern drawl came to light as she got more conscious on the hardened state of her hopefully not-permanent bed.

"You-" He pursed his lips together, trying to think of an excuse to say to his friend. "You had an accident...I came over right away-" He wrapped her arm around his shoulder, earning himself a whine from the funeral participant. "Let's get you to bed, huh? How does that sound?" He walked with her out of the room, flicking off the light with his slightly free hand. She gave a lazy nod, her head lolling to the side like a broken bobblehead. "Sleep sounds nice....I wanna shower...." She added, Thadeus gave her another nod. "Yes, I will draw you a bath- later though... you need to sleep right now, ok? You've dealt with so much while I've been gone..." He cooed, gaining another nod from her. "M'okay..." Once they arrived at the guest room, he gently placed her down, her muscles relaxing as she practically melted within the nest of blankets and cushions. "Anything else?" He asked, rubbing her arm. "No...tea... can I have some sweet tea...I want something... warm..." With the last words of her sentence, she struggled, but successfully wrapped herself up within the puffy ivory coverings. "'nd pajamas..." "Pajamas? Alright, you would have to wear mine, they might be quite bigger than you but, they have adjustable string- Well the pants do but-" She shushed him and nodded. "S'fine...I don't want to be in this dress..." He gave a curt nod and quickly exited the room. He would be making the tea himself and gathering the new set of clothing himself since he decided at that moment he knew what was best for her. He soon found himself in his kitchen, placing the kettle on the stove. He grabbed his mix of Assam tea. While making himself preoccupied with preparing her beverage, he found himself muttering to himself. "What if she rots the next day...no no, that's not how it works...but- she's green- I need to make changes...I need to-" "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

He dropped her flower-decorated fine china, the glass splayed out across the floor in a chaotic pattern of hazards. What he had just heard vibrating against his eardrums was Peony's screech. "PEONY?!" He shouted out, immediately rushing his body towards the stairs, practically launching himself upwards towards her resting area. Once he passed the threshold, he noticed she was no longer resting on the guest bed. Light, now shining out of the lavatory within the room, caught his attention. He walked in and saw the objects scattered and thrown around the place in a fit of panic from her. She was staring at herself in the mirror, looking as if she is face to face with a resident of the underworld. She might as well have been with the way her appearance radically changed. There's something in my mirror ~ And it lacks a soul ~

She kept touching her face, as if she was made from clay and that she can alter herself, her skin felt as stiff as clay anyhow, and yet, soft and cold like water washed over her. "What...what happened to me..." She paid no mind to the British man behind her. It whispers in my ear ~ "You're all alone" ~ "Peony- you're alright, okay?" He took some hesitant steps towards her, his hands reaching out. "Everything will be okay-" He flinched when she whipped around to stare at him, her undead eyes boring into him, making a shiver worm up his spine with her uncanny valley outward form. Ana maek, ana maek (I'm with you, I'm with you) ~ "Why aren't you freaking out about this?!" She shouted at him, her brows forming together to make an angry scowl. Stammering was the only way he could respond to her frustrated question. She began to sob, the black substance roaming down her cheeks and droplets fell from her chin and onto the surfaces of the sink. There's someone in my mirror, and they're not at home ~ "Well- I- the experiment does have some side effects I suppose that I didn't expect to come up-" "Experiment?" She interrupted him, her voice was as cold as ice, yet as monotone as a machine. Her eyes continued to stare into the mirror but were now locked onto him, like an eagle. Raising the stakes To fill a void ~ "Yes- well um- you see-" "Spit. It. Out." He slightly winced at the cold tone she continued to use. "You passed away while Peter and I had our ... 'disagreements'." Her once angry guise melted into that one of horror and confusion, her eyes landing down at her hands. Outstretched and in front of her, flexing her fingers before they began to tremble. Ran out of space And out of choice ~ "I'm ... dead ...?" She asked, her palms now placed down on the cool sink island. Her face pointed down, so he couldn't read her expression. "You were dead! I-I revived you! I brought you back-" "You desecrated my corpse by turning me into a monster!" She turned around and threw the bar of soap at him, it hitting his chest and forcing a grunt to come out. Now my memory’s gone So I traveled far to the point of no return ~ "I-I had to Peony- I just had to-" She walked up to him, her pointer finger repeatedly jabbing into his pudgy chest with each word she vocalized. "You had to?? You HAD to?? What made you huh?? Don't you know what REST in PEACE means?!" She yelled in his face, her inkblot tears now flying onto his clothing. I tried, I tried but nothing's caught on I believed the faces by me ~ "I- I-" She got angrier by the second. "You- You- You what huh?? Spi it out! Why did you have to bring me back?! I-" "I had to bring you back for Delilah!" He finally redirected the shouting at her, soon regretting it as he saw her evident shock. "Delilah...? I... You used me as a guinea pig...?" Her bottom lip trembled. 'Til I saw them bathing in blood In the point of no return ~ He held her close, while her body shook around with tears against him. "No- no- I ... Peony I cared about you so much I had to bring you back ... " He mumbled into her hair, swaying side to side with her. "If you cared about me ... you would have let me rest ..." She mumbled into him, her hands gripping at his vest. Aswat hilwe bidanek (Pretty voices in your ear) Min awal yom (From day 1) ~ "I... I don't know what to tell you Peony ... I really don't-" "I cannot show my face to anyone, I am a monster, I-" This time, she let out a hard cry, her grip getting tighter. "I cannot show my face to my son- my Lulu... you should have let me rest, so he can keep the image of his mother as pretty as a flower... instead of as rotten as some dangum weed!" She gently began to hit him now, but he didn't budge. Baatiki illi biddek (I'll give you what you want) Bs arbi hon (Just come close) ~

"Callum and his father moved away after your funeral- I... " He refused to call him her husband, not after the way he treated her. He sucked in a breath before continuing his thought. "He said he didn't want Callum to grow up around death-" With this news, she cried harder than earlier, slipping out of her grasp and onto the tiles below, sniffling hard. Thadeus knelt and continued to hold her sorrowful form.

I don't want it, I don't want it ~

"I've lost everything..." She mumbled, her sentence laced with years worth of aches. He let out another trembling sigh, rubbing her back in a circular motion. "Well, Peony-" "Daddy?" The man froze, that was not her voice. That young voice came from behind him. He slowly turned his head and locked eyes with his only child, Ignatius.

Min alb il mayye shuftek (I saw you through the water) And now I'm yours ~

"Ignatius- w-what are you doing up, son?" The young child just rubbed at his eyeball, his other hand grasping his elephant plush. "I heard noises, and Auntie Peony ... did she come back from heaven ...?" He yawned after speaking his turn, Thadeus frowned. "She did but- shes tired- and so are you- why don't you sleep?" Ignatius shook his head quickly. "No, I wanna see Auntie... "

Raising the stakes To fill a void ~

"Auntie isn't in the mood-" Before he could finish his sentence, Iggy ran around him to look at Peony, but her face was hidden, veiled away in shame of her appearance. "Auntie! It's me! It's Iggy! Why won't you look at me?" Thadeus huffed in his child's way. "Ignatius, listen to me-" Peony peeped an eye at him, she did want to see her nephew, she really did. They were in no way related by blood, but her and Thadeus were so close as friends that Ignatius saw her as if she was blood.

Ran out of space And out of choice ~

Ignatius dropped his beloved stuffed animal, it hitting the ground as he let out a yelp and ran out of the room. This hurt Peony badly. Tears kept pouring and pouring out like a broken dam. "I told you I am a monster!" Thadeus looked between the two rapidly before letting her go gingerly to go after his son. "Ignatius! Ignatius come back!" He went to his room and found his son hiding under his blanket, the child was clearly scared.

Now my memory’s gone So I traveled far to the point of no return ~

"That wasn't Auntie...." "Ignatius, it was Peony- she's just... sick.... in a way you will not be able to understand until you are older, okay?" He tried to plead with his child, but he wouldn't budge. He rubbed his face and sat on the bed, Iggy peeking his head out a little to look at his father. "Listen, remember how those medical books I used to have said people can look different when they're sick, like pale, or even spotted?" Ignatius nodded his head at the question. "Well, Peony is severely sick and, she is here to stay with us."

I tried, I tried but nothing's caught on I believed the faces by me ~

"She's going to live with us? But-" "She can't go back to Callum, I know she is his mother but, she is afraid of scaring him, but she knows that you're a big brave boy, and you can act fine around her. She loves you, Ignatius." Iggy took time to process this answer his parent has given him. "Do you think you can be brave? Your Auntie needs comfort and, I think you can comfort her." Ignatius gave a slow nod this time, worried.

'Til I saw them bathing in blood In the point of no return ~

Thadeus called her in, and she came quickly but was hesitant to enter. In her grasp was the stuffed animal that he dropped in the guest room bathroom. Ignatius slowly came out, but even at his young age, noticed she was more scared than he was. "T-Thank you for bringing Stumpy... " He shyly said to her, earning a sob mixed with a chuckle in a quiet tone. "Daddy told me you were sick and... I wanna help!" He walked over to her and hugged her legs, making her balance wobble a bit. "It seems you're already helping me feel better, doctor Ignatius." She joked and kneeled down, hugging him and wiping away her 'tears', not wanting to stain his light forest green pajamas. He parted from the hug and flexed his nonexistent muscles. "I'm strong! So is my healing!" Peony felt herself smile for the first time tonight before just laughing. "Yes, you are." It was an hour later, and Ignatius is now asleep in his bed after being read another story to wind down his energy, the toy in his grasp. Peony was in the resting room, the fireplace in front of her and Thadeus. They both sipped from tea, but Peony did not so much. "So, what now?" She asked him, and in return, he placed down the cup of tea he prepared earlier. "Well, I am hoping you will stay here, with us, so I can monitor you and... make sure you-" "I'm glad that you are not going to compost me." She tried to joke but it caused a sour look on his face. "I would never. I brought you back because I genuinely care about you... also even if I did compost you, Ignatius would be mad at me." "Yes, he would. I'm glad to be saying, I'll miss my Lulu but... your boy needs a mother figure." Thadeus nodded, staring up above the mantle at his late wife in the portrait of his entire family together. Ignatius was standing, and so was he. His wife was sitting down in a chair. His hands were on both of them and a stoic look on his face along with his wife, that contrasted with the goofy smile his son had plastered on. "He does indeed." He took one final sip before continuing a mindless conversation with his freshly resuscitated friend.

a/n YEAHHHH ANGST, Peony Vectrum is an oc of mine that i've had for a while who is a master of yellow matter before her untimely death. I wrote so much for her, and ever since this song came out, I just had to write for her!

#spg #steam powered giraffe #spg oc #steam powered giraffe oc #spg thadeus becile #spg ignatius becile #thadeus becile #ignatius becile #angst fic #angst fanfic #spg fanfic #spg fic #spg angst fanfic

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