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hunnywrites · 2 years

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Chapter Two

Summary: Cheryl Burns: The She Demon of Hawkins High. She's got a heart of brimstone and her eyes set on Eddie Munson. Will she be able to reform her ways, or will the curse of Hawkins, Indiana keep her from getting what she wants?

Pairing: Eddie Munson/OFC

Eddie jerked awake at the sound of knocking on his bedroom door. “Hey, Bud?” Wayne called from the other side. “Gettin’ kinda late. Aren’t you supposed to be at work soon?” Eddie rubbed his eyes, taking in a sleepy, deep breath as he looked over at the alarm clock on his nightstand.

“Shit…yeah! Thanks, Wayne! Be right out!” he called. He groaned, rolling over and frowning at the wet feeling underneath him. “Shit,” he repeated, quickly trying to pick up the bong that had fallen onto its side beside him. That’s right, he remembered, he’d fallen asleep with it in his lap. He groaned a little more pathetically now, setting the bong haphazardly on his nightstand and running a hand through his hair.

He rolled out of bed, grumbling as he sifted through the piles of clothes that littered his floor for something a little more dry to wear. He smacked the power button to his stereo, shutting it off before peeling his shirt off and tossing it across the room. He hopped up and down as he pulled on his jeans, throwing a new and slightly cleaner shirt on before he walked out of his room.

Wayne had made coffee. He was sitting in his recliner, his newspaper folded in one hand as he sipped from his coffee mug. Eddie could hear the news playing on the tv; Chet Baker was droning on about how more local businesses were shutting down thanks to Starcourt. Eddie slipped into the bathroom, running his fingers through his hair while he quickly brushed his teeth. He sprayed on a little too much cologne before he walked out to the kitchen.

“You want something to eat ‘fore you go?” Wayne asked. “Got you some more of those pop tart things you like.” he nodded towards the cabinets.

“Nah, I’ll get something at the mall,” he shook his head. Eddie rolled his eyes when he remembered what would be waiting for him at work. “I’m training someone today.”

Wayne chuckled. “Boy, don’t you sound excited about it.”

Eddie scrunched his nose, tossing his jacket on. “You know it. Mark hired some chick-”

“Now, hold on,” Wayne put his paper down. “Are you over there grumblin’ ‘cause it’s a girl or because this means you’re actually gonna have to do some work?”

Eddie smiled at his uncle. “Gee, Wayne. All that Dynasty turning you into some kind of feminist?” he teased.

Wayne scoffed, grumbling as he went back to his newspaper. “Don’t watch Dynasty…” he mumbled. He did. “All I’m sayin’ is you might end up likin’ her. Wouldn’t kill you to make some girl friends. Sure would smell better than the friends you’ve got now.”

“Uh huh,” Eddie laughed. “I’ll be on my best behavior,” he teased. Wayne chuckled again. “Later, Wayne!” he tossed a wave over his shoulder as he walked outside and headed to his van. The radio came to life with the engine. Eddie’s hand hit against the steering wheel along to the beat of the music as he pulled out of the trailer park.

He tried to come up with the worst case scenario when it came to his new co-worker. Teddi was already working three other jobs, so there was a slim chance that it was her. Maybe it’d be some other girl from his school? Samantha Stone? Or maybe that girl from band? The redhead; Vickie Walsh? He groaned at the thought of it being someone like Chrissy Cunningham. If he had to deal with that asshole Jason Carver popping in every other day he might quit on the spot.

His nerves were starting to get the better of him the closer he got to the mall. As long as she wasn’t some uppity asshole he would be fine, right? Eddie’s van parked in a screeching halt in a spot by Starcourt’s entrance. He hopped out, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he headed inside. Even though the mall had only opened a half an hour before, it was packed.

Eddie wove through the crowds of people, letting out a shaky breath as Sam Goody came into view. Mark was at the register, stacking a few boxes up on the back counter. He waved when he saw Eddie. “Hey! Here’s some new inventory I need unpacked. I have some phone calls I gotta make. The new girl’s here. She’s organizing the vinyls,” he jabbed his thumb towards the back of the store. “Just make sure she doesn’t burn the place down, huh?” he rounded the counter, patting Eddie on the shoulder. “I let her pick the music since she showed up first.” he said with a snicker before heading to the supply room.

Old couple walks by, as ugly as sin, but he’s got her, and she’s got him

Eddie made a face at the song playing through the speakers, taking his jacket off and tossing it onto the counter before he made his way to the back of the store.

I might like you better if we slept together, I might like you better together, I might like you better if we slept together

Her back was to him. Her strawberry blonde hair was half up in a ponytail, her curls swinging as her head bobbed to the music. Her hips, that Eddie would recognize anywhere, swayed back and forth with the beat.

But there’s something in your eyes that says maybe that’s never, never say never

Eddie smirked as he approached her, leaning over her shoulder. She smelled like vanilla, strawberry and aquanet. He was a little surprised he didn’t catch a whiff of any sulfur or brimstone. “Hey, Cheryl.” he greeted lowly.

Cheryl gasped, throwing her elbow back hard into Eddie’s stomach. He groaned, bending over as he tried to catch his breath. Cheryl whirled around, crossing her arms and glaring down at him. “What is wrong with you? Didn’t I tell you this is how you get kicked in the dick?”

“Yeah,” Eddie grunted. “Thank god it wasn’t my dick,” he stood slowly. “You’re a lot stronger than you look, you know that? What if I had been a customer?” he asked with a teasing yet still pained smile.

Cheryl flinched. She pursed her lips, trying to cover the worried expression that flashed across her face. “...You mean you’re not a customer?” she asked carefully.

“Nope.” Eddie smiled, leaning in as he punctuated the p with a pop.

Cheryl rolled her eyes, turning away from Eddie to continue her work. “Then I’m totally quitting.” she said with a scoff.

Eddie crossed his arms and leaned against the shelf, his eyes trained on the way Cheryl flicked through the albums with her long nails. “Come on, Cheryl. I didn’t take you for a quitter.”

“Shows what you know about me,” she snorted, her jaw clenching. “I mean, what a way to make a first day, like, a million times worse. Finding out you have to work with your stalker.”

“I wasn’t-” Eddie shut his eyes tightly before shaking his head. “How ‘bout we start fresh, huh? We can put all history of stalking, real or not, behind us. What do you say?” He put out his hand in an offer to shake hands.

Cheryl ignored the gesture. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, turning to him as she crossed her arms. Eddie didn’t bother trying to hide the way he watched her breasts squeeze together. Cheryl only smirked. “Eyes are up here, Munson,” he flinched, his eyes focusing back on hers. “Look, I need this job. The only way I’m going back to the pool is if I’m letting some other sad bastard serve me cherry coke while I get a tan; not the other way around. So, I’m willing to ignore you, if that’s what you mean.”

Eddie’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he nodded. “Right. Okay, well…I’ll just,” he jabbed his thumb towards the cash register. “Go fuck myself and die, I guess.” he mumbled.

“Have fun!” she said sweetly as he spun around and awkwardly shuffled away from Cheryl.

He rubbed at his forehead. “Stupid,” he huffed. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” how many times was he doing to strike out with Cheryl before he finally gave up? Maybe for once Billy was wrong, and Gareth and Jeff were right; he absolutely didn’t stand a chance with Cheryl Burns.

—

When Teddi and Heather spotted Cheryl, she was sitting alone in the food court. She was staring off at nothing in particular, picking at the french fries she’d gotten from Burger King with a bored expression on her face. She blinked when her friends sat down across from her, almost as if she was a robot that had been activated.

“There you are!” Heather said with a dramatic sigh. “We looked, like, everywhere for you! We even checked at the movies!”

“I think the only place we said was a definite no was the comic shop. Pretty sure if you were working there there’d be a line of nerds waiting to throw their money at you.” Teddi said with a snort.

Heather smiled at her best friend, leaning forward with interest. “Sooo, how’s it going? Where’re you working?” she gasped, her eyes going wide. “Do we get discounts?”

Cheryl leaned back in her seat, her nails tapping against the table as she focused a cold look in Teddi’s direction. “It’s at Sam Goody,” she said simply. Teddi’s eyes widened a little, her lips pressing together in a thin line, trying not to laugh. “You could have told me that Eddie works there, Larsson.” she snapped.

Teddi put her hands up in defense. “Listen, you never told me where you were interviewing at! There’s, like, fifty other stores it could’ve been! Besides, even if I did know and I did tell you, you would’ve gotten all…weird about it.”

“You’re calling me weird?” Cheryl scoffed.

Heather looked between the two girls with a wide smile, oblivious to their bickering. “Wait, you’re working with Eddie? This is totally fate!”

Cheryl rolled her eyes. “This isn’t fate, Heather. This is dark forces at work. He probably did some weird, freak-ass Satan ritual to tie me to him.”

“What’s the difference between that and all of the voodoo, hippie bullshit you guys are into?” Heather asked, frowning.

“Okay, first of all, Eddie’s definitely not doing any actual satanic rituals. Secondly, horoscopes and voodoo are totally not the same thing.” Teddi said, correcting her friends. Both of the girls seemed unimpressed with her arguments.

Heather shook her head, turning back to Cheryl. “Whatever. I don’t care what you want to call it, Cheryl. Fate, dark forces or voodoo. This was totally, like, supposed to happen-”

“It does seem, like, freakishly coincidental.” Teddi agreed.

Cheryl groaned, throwing her head back. She did not want to be having this conversation. “You’re not being a total asshole to him, are you?” Heather asked with worried eyes. Cheryl didn’t answer. She clenched her jaw, focusing on anything but the two girls in front of her. Heather clicked. “Cheryl!”

“What?” Cheryl spat. “What do you want me to do, Heather?” she asked.

Heather threw her hands up. “I don’t know…I’m not asking you to blow him under the cash register, but you could at least try and be nice for a few hours. It won’t, like, kill you or anything.”

Cheryl plucked a fry from the container, chewing thoughtfully. Her eyes flickered between the two girls. “Nice, like, how?” she finally asked.

“...Are you asking us how to be nice to other people?” Teddi asked, another smile threatening her lips.

Cheryl rolled her eyes. “I’m not good at nice, okay? Like that’s a fucking surprise to either of you. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to talk to the guy about? It’s, like, all he does is fidget around and talk to my tits.”

“That’s perfect!” Heather said. “You love talking about your tits!” Cheryl shot her a bored look. Heather smiled back sheepishly. “...Just trying to lighten the mood.”

The two girls went quiet for a moment as they thought of a plan of attack. “Uhhh…oh! You can talk about music, right? You work at a music store. That’s common ground,” Teddi offered. “And pot! You both like to smoke-” Cheryl made a face. “...You don’t like to smoke?” Teddi blinked at her.

Cheryl crossed her arms. “I hate the smell. I tried it once with Billy and the smell was totally in my hair for the rest of the day and-”

“What the hell are you doing buying weed then if you hate it?” Heather nearly spat.

Teddi watched Cheryl with a shocked expression. Cheryl fidgeted in her seat. “Cheryl,” Teddi said with a short laugh. “Are you telling me you buy weed from Eddie so that he’ll talk to you?” Cheryl looked away, her jaw clenching. Heather and Teddi shared an incredulous look. “That doesn’t make any sense!” Teddi urged. “How in the hell can someone so…hot be so completely useless at talking to boys? They’re all idiots.”

Heather held up her hands. “What are you doing with all the pot then?”

“I don’t see why I should tell you,” Cheryl grumbled. “You’re both being, like, total dicks about this,” Heather and Teddi only looked at her expectantly. Cheryl sighed. “...I throw it away in the trash outside when I get home,” she explained. There was a moment of silence before Teddi and Heather broke out into a fit of laughter. Cheryl glared at them. “I’m sorry, are you laughing at me?”

“Yes,” Heather laughed. “Oh my god, Cheryl. You’re totally a freak.”

“That’s it,” Cheryl bit out, standing up. “I’m totally out of here. You two suck-”

Teddi reached out, grabbing Cheryl’s wrist as she tried to control her laughter. “Come on, Cheryl. Wait a second. We’re just…shocked, okay? We’re talking about Eddie here,” like Cheryl needed to be reminded of that. “Look, just try the music thing, okay? Trust me, if you find the right subject he’ll do most of the talking anyway.”

“Alright,” Cheryl spat, yanking her arm out of Teddi’s grasp. “Jesus Christ, you two are, like, totally insufferable.” she reached up, tightening the ponytail that sat on top of her head.

“So are you. That’s why we’re friends.” Heather said sweetly. “Are you going back now? Can we come too? I wanna say hi-”

Cheryl pointed an angry finger at Heather, making her friend freeze as she was standing up. “Not a chance. You’re both totally banned from Sam Goody.” she declared.

Teddi rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, Cheryl…”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and grabbed her purse. “Nope. Banned. Should’ve thought about that before you laughed at me. Later, assholes.” she spun around on her heel, sauntering away from her friends and back to Sam Goody. The Romeo Void album she’d left on when she left for lunch had been replaced by something loud and noisy that she was sure Eddie had chosen.

Eddie was at the register. He was leaning against the counter, smiling at a girl that was speaking animatedly about the albums she was shuffling around in her hands. Cheryl’s jaw clenched. “My friend dragged me to one of their shows a while back and I’ve been totally obsessed with them ever since.” the girl said. Cheryl looked at the album on top of the pile. Metallica’s Ride the Lightning. She remembered seeing it in Billy’s room. Cheryl was glaring daggers in the girl’s back as she walked around her and joined Eddie behind the counter.

“Fucking awesome, right? They’ve got a new album coming out next year. Totally psyched-” Cheryl dropped her purse loudly on the back counter next to Eddie’s jacket, pointedly staring at him. He turned to look at her with a raised eyebrow. “...Everything okay, Cher?” he asked carefully.

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, pointing a long nail at the boxes Mark had stacked there. “Do you need help with these or are you busy?” she looked between the pair.

“Oh,” Eddie seemed surprised by the question. “Uh, yeah,” he turned back to the girl. “Sorry, you’re all set, right?” Cheryl turned away, smiling to herself as she slid one of the boxes off of the stack. “Does this mean you’re done ignoring me?” Eddie asked a few moments later as he joined her.

Cheryl only shrugged, her eyes locking with his while she ripped the tape open with a box cutter. “I decided as long as you don’t try and pull any weird shit with me I’m willing to start fresh,” she said nonchalantly. She shifted a little, watching Eddie’s hands as he opened a box. Cheryl bit the inside of her cheek, her eyes flickering up to his face. He’d clearly caught her watching; there was a smirk teasing at his lips. Cheryl let out an annoyed grunt. “So, do you flirt with every girl that comes in here?”

Eddie smiled, leaning in closer to her. “Why? Jealous?”

Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Just shocked. I figured girls were usually pretty…averse to you,” she said with a shrug. Eddie let out a soft chuckle. That was another thing that drove her crazy about Eddie. He didn’t take the bait quite like Billy had. She’d gotten so much joy out of irritating him. Making a sarcastic remark that made his jaw clench and the tips of his ears get all red. But Eddie was just so...unbothered. “So,” she chirped. “Not a Romeo Void fan?”

Eddie’s nose scrunched up. “Nah. I tried sticking it out after you left, but I lasted all of two minutes…sorry, I can change it back-” he motioned his head to the stereo system that sat beneath the counter.

Cheryl tossed her hair over her shoulder. “You can change it to whatever you want. I so don’t care,” they were silent for a moment. Cheryl listened to the music playing throughout the store, a sour look on her face. “...What is this anyway?” she asked.

“Megadeth.”

Cheryl popped her hip. “Well, it mega sucks.” she grumbled, reaching back into the box in front of her. Eddie groaned, clutching his chest and falling against the counter. Cheryl shot him an annoyed look as he fell to the floor, groaning loudly and gasping for air. “What the hell are you doing, freak?”

“Mega sucks,” he repeated. “It just hurts so fucking bad. I don’t think I’m gonna make it. I might need cpr.”

Cheryl didn’t look at him. “That sucks. Rest in peace.” she hummed. Eddie cracked one eye open, watching her work with a small smile on his face. Her head was subtly bobbing along with the song.

“Man, you’re always on, huh?” he asked with a laugh and rising to his feet. He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. Cheryl rolled her eyes at his smile.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re like a cobra always ready to strike.” he teased, poking her in the side with two of his fingers.

Cheryl slapped his hand away with a glare. “You wish.”

Eddie smirked. “I do love it when you’re rough with me.” he teased. He didn’t miss the smile that twitched on her lips.

“...I’m counting that as weird shit, Munson.”

He let out a soft laugh, standing up straight and nodding. “Duly noted,” he pulled a new, unopened box in front of him, opening it and starting to stack CDs onto the counter. “Sooo…” he said after a moment of silence. “What else are you into? Or do you only listen to that new wave shit?”

Cheryl was quiet for a few beats. “Are you, like, trying to make small talk with me or something?” she asked. So Teddi was right. He was a talker.

Eddie shrugged. “Just figure we should get to know each other a little better if we’re gonna be working together.”

Cheryl was quiet again. Eddie almost wondered if she was hoping if she was quiet long enough he’d just disappear or something. “...I like Lita Ford,” she finally said. “Joan Jett…all of the Runaways, I guess,” there was a small smile on her lips. “I talked my dad into buying me their album when I was, like, eight. He totally almost had a stroke when he heard Cherry Bomb for the first time.”

Eddie laughed in disbelief. Whether it was about the confession itself or the fact that Cheryl Burns had actually shared something about herself with him, he wasn’t sure, “Well, then what about, like, Kiss? You like them?” he asked. Cheryl’s face screwed up, pretending to gag. Eddie’s smile dropped. “Whoa, whoa, what’s the problem with Kiss?”

“Gene Simmons is a total greaseball,” she said matter-of-factly. “I don’t know how the hell he managed to pull Shannon Tweed. She’s, like, the hottest. You know? Totally too good for him.”

Eddie smirked over at her. “Some girls are into that whole weirdo thing, you know.”

“Are you saying you know from experience?” she asked, smiling sweetly at him.

“Let’s not forget what got us into this mess in the first place,” he reminded her. “You want me, remember?” he asked, all signs of the teasing tone in his voice gone as his eyes locked with hers.

Cheryl’s jaw clenched. He noticed she did that sometimes when she was trying not to smile. “Did you ever think that maybe Teddi was, like, lying to you or something? I mean-”

“Was she?” he asked, interrupting her.

She went quiet again, turning back to her inventory. “...Can I ask you something?” she asked, not looking over at him.

“You just did.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes. “God, no wonder you and Teddi are friends,” she scoffed. She turned to face Eddie, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter. Eddie watched her breasts again. “Hypothetically speaking…let’s say I was into you,” she began. “Would you be into me?”

Eddie let out a snort. “Does a bear shit in the woods?” he frowned. “...Or is it the pope?” he shook his head. “Something’s definitely shitting in the woods-”

“Oh my god, stop talking.” Cheryl shook her head.

“Sorry.” Eddie cleared his throat.

Cheryl let out a soft laugh. Eddie smiled, letting out a relieved sigh. “...Why?” she asked, Eddie raised an eyebrow. “I mean, why would you be into me? Hypothetically,” she clarified before pointing at him. “My tits aren’t a reason.”

“Hypothetically,” he repeated. Eddie’s mouth opened and closed a few times as he searched for an answer that kept him from getting kicked in the dick. “Yooou are…” he motioned to Cheryl. “Very…easy on the eyes…?” he winced. “Does that count?”

It didn’t. Cheryl fixed a cold look in his direction. “Is that it? I’m hot?”

“No! No,” he shook his head, wincing a little. “I just figured that that’s what you’d wanna hear…” clearly it was not. “I think you’re funny.” he offered.

There was a glint in Cheryl’s eyes now. She seemed pleased with that response. “...You think I’m funny?”

“Are you kidding?” Eddie grinned. “Remember that time you came with Billy to a deal and he asked if you wanted to go to one of my shows at the Hideout and you said you’d rather use a hacksaw as a tampon?” he let out a snort. “I mean, it was fucking mean, but hilarious. That’s another thing. You’re, like, brutally honest. And you don’t give a shit if it puts people off,” Cheryl was smiling now. Eddie had never seen her smile before. Her teeth were of course perfect and pearly white. He rocked back and forth, laughing a little. “What?” he asked almost shyly.

Cheryl bit her lip, shaking her head. “I just didn’t think you’d say yes. Hypothetically.” she confessed.

Eddie frowned. “You can’t be serious-”

There was a look that flashed across Cheryl’s face that Eddie could have almost mistaken for guilt. She gave a pathetic shrug. “...My friends weren’t the nicest to you. I wouldn’t have been surprised if you, like, totally hated me.”

And she was right. To an extent. The clique she’d been a part of when she’d been in high school had been the main antagonist in Eddie’s life. And while there was a dark spot in his heart for Tommy H and Jason Carver; Cheryl had only granted him the same cold looks and snippy comments she graced everyone else in Hawkins with. When she wasn’t pretending he didn’t exist, anyway.

“Yeah, uh,” he scratched his neck. “I’ve always kinda wanted to know what was the appeal with them…”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s a very long…vapid answer. But, the short answer is that there isn’t any,” Eddie raised his eyebrows. “I’d been friends with Carol since I was, like, four. And, with Carol comes Tommy. Totally not my choice,” she sneered as she thought about him. “He’s a total idiot. And a creep. He’s totally always trying to screw Carol’s little sister behind her back,” she paused for a moment. “...Although, Carol’s, like, totally obsessed with Billy so I guess they’re kind of a match made in heaven.”

Eddie leaned against the counter, his chin resting in the palm of his hand as he listened on with an amused smile. “And, Jason…okay, that’s complicated. He’s, like, actually into all of that Jesus shit. He totally bakes brownies for church bake sales, and then will go to a party at Benny’s and snort mad coke and screw around with whatever girl’s available,” she rolled her eyes dramatically. “And it’s, like, totally fucked up because Chrissy is, like, disgustingly nice,” Eddie could almost guess that the compliment physically hurt Cheryl to give. “And, I mean, like, she’s probably the closest anyone’ll ever come to meeting an angel. Whatever. So, he’s complicated. He’s super nice and all…but, so are cult leaders, you know?”

“So,” Eddie narrowed his eyes, tilting his head in his hand. “You’re saying the basketball team is, like, a cult?”

“From what I’ve seen?” she pursed her lips as she thought. “...Probably the closest Hawkins’ll ever come to seeing one, at least.”

Eddie laughed and shook his head. He stood up straight, bracing his hands against the counter as he smiled over at Cheryl. “Wish I could say I’m surprised to hear that…do you have dirt like this on everyone in town?”

She smirked. “I’m building a rolodex,” she leaned in towards him. “Better be careful what secrets you tell me, Munson.” she warned.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” he shook his head with a chuckle. “I’m scared of you, Cheryl.”

Cheryl flashed another brilliant and genuine smile. She hopped up onto the counter, her feet kicking a little as she nodded towards him. “...You can say something nice about my tits now.” she said, as if she was graciously granting him permission.

Eddie laughed out a groan, falling dramatically against the counter once again. “...I could write sonnets-”

“What the hell is a sonnet?” Cheryl asked.

“It’s like…” his eyes rolled upward as he thought. “A cross between a song and a poem? Bards write them-” Cheryl blinked at him. “...A bard’s like a storyteller. They usually have a lute,” his hands mimicking playing a guitar as if he were playing charades. “They write sonnets about battles, dragon slaying, great kings and queens…”

“And royal tits.” Cheryl finished for him.

Eddie laughed. “Exactly.” he felt his cheeks warm up at the way Cheryl was watching him. He opened his mouth to say something else, but was cut off by someone calling his name behind him. He turned, resisting the urge to roll his eyes when he saw Mark.

“You’re not teaching Cheryl all of your bad habits on day one, are you?” Mark asked, motioning to all of the new inventory that was sitting out on the counters. “Come on, dude. At least pretend like you’re working,” he waved a hand at Cheryl to follow him. “I need the shirt displays straightened up a little.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes once Mark turned his back. She hopped down from the counter and brushed past Eddie. “You’re off the list.” she said, not looking back at him as she followed after Mark.

Eddie watched her walk away, his eyes trained on the sway of her hips. Once she disappeared, Eddie blinked, smiling slowly. “We’re back in the game, baby,” he said to himself, pumping a hand in triumph. His fist hit a stack of the CDs he’d been unpacking. “Shit.” he winced, scurrying to pick up his mess.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x oc #Eddie munson fic

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omg-imatotalmess · 3 years

Text

Speed Demon

Hey guys! So, our new anon, Peach anon, sent me an absolutely god-tier idea, and I got a little out of control thinking about it. Thank them for this messy little thing. Hope y'all enjoy!

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader

Requested: No but based on an ask

The ask: hi i found ur blog recently and i LOVE your work and wanted to shower u with love and affection <3 <3 <3 and maybe also... a headcanon?? anyways roadtrip with boys are so fun to imagine like i have this hc that draco is such a nervous wreck in cars and it translates into passenger driver ("careful, careful!! that semi is switching lanes!" "draco i am sIX CARS BEhiND IT") nfdjhgjs anyways imagine getting so fed up you just reach over (1/2 peach anon claiming peach right now its MINE :D )

(2/2) and start palming at his cock switching btwn just resting ur hand on him and making him try to fuck up into you fist he'd be grabbing the little handle above the door and finally shut up literally the second after you let him come though it's like four seconds of happy peaceful silence and then its "love, steady, you're speeding a bit" anyways ty for doing all that you do ilysm :)

Warnings: Smut, hand jobs, don't jerk someone off while you drive, mild cum eating, sub!draco, dom!reader, swearing(?)

---

The muted drone of the weatherman on the radio filled the near silence of the car. Draco didn't ever talk much when you drove. For a man that enjoyed taking road trips as much as he claimed to, he certainly didn't like being in the car. You didn't mind much, though. You were just happy to spend the time alone with him. Even if the only time he broke the silence was to yell about your driving, which, to be fair, was often enough.

"Slow down! Why are you so insistent upon getting us killed?" Draco snapped, digging his fingernails into the seat.

"Draco, my love, my sweet, I'm already going under the speed limit. Try to relax a little," you said. The huff from your passenger seat reminded you why everyone had insisted that you and Draco take your own car. No one else could put up with him. Especially not with the kind of amusement you could.

"I'll relax when you stop trying to kill us," he said. But, then again, even you had your limits.

"Do you want some help, love?" you asked.

"Help? What do you mean help?" Without looking at him, you lifted your hand from the wheel, resting it lightly on his thigh. You gave it a firm squeeze. Though he didn't say anything, you found yourself enjoying watching him squirm in your peripheral vision.

"You know, help," you said cheerfully.

"You're driving," he hissed.

"You don't seem to mind much," you teased, laying your hand over his slowly hardening cock.

"Watch the road!" he snapped as a truck switched lanes several cars ahead of you. Despite his command, he bucked his hips up, grinding into your palm with no shame. You smiled. Draco could be so stubborn when he wanted to be. No matter how badly he wanted this, he'd probably just keep complaining about your driving until he couldn't anymore.

"I am," you said.

"What if you-ah-get distracted?" he asked.

"I'm just letting you use my hand. Keep it down and you won't bother me," you laughed.

"But what if--oh," he cut himself off with a groan as you popped the button of his pants and snaked your hand underneath.

"Shhh, just enjoy yourself, baby boy," you soothed, grinding the heel of your hand gently against the head of his cock. The whiny moan that reverberated throughout the car made you strain to keep your eyes on the road. You would have loved to see the face he was making just then, but you told him you wouldn't get distracted. Instead, you settled for rubbing him teasingly just to make him squirm.

"(Y/N)," he groaned.

"Hmm?" you hummed.

"Please."

"Please, what? Tell me what you want," you said, glancing over your shoulder as you switched lanes.

"I want more," he muttered.

"I thought you wanted me to concentrate on the road," you teased. With a groan of frustration, he rolled his hips into your barely moving hand.

"(Y/N), take pity on me. I'm already in this screaming death trap," he whined. You laughed, giving him a rough squeeze through his underwear. A choked groan told you all you needed to know. All he wanted was attention. That was likely why he'd been complaining so much in the first place.

"Alright, alright. Take your cock out for me then, baby," you said.

After a second of shuffling, you felt him push himself into your waiting hand. It never took much to work him up, and you were grateful for it. You loved seeing him hot and leaking for you pretty much as soon as you started playing with him. Swiping your thumb over the slit, you smiled as the wetness there smeared with your touch. He bucked impatiently at the soft attention. It wasn't what he wanted. Pulling your hand away for a second, you spat into it before beginning to jack him at a torturous pace. It wasn't a substitute for lube, but Draco didn't seem to mind any.

A quick glance at your passenger told you that he was just enjoying the sensation. He could have been anywhere for all he seemed to care. It was almost like he'd forgotten about the car entirely. One pale hand gripped the seat under him while the other grabbed the handle over his head to steady him as he thrust into your hand. Like a man unhinged, he drove up into the tight circle of your fist practically unassisted. You doubt he really minded the lack of real lube.

"That's a good boy," you praised, switching back into the other lane. "I bet you feel so much better now that you have something to keep you busy."

"Yes! So much better!" he moaned.

"I know being my good boy always helps you relax," you said. The car in front of you swerved and cut off the guy in the other lane, who blared his horn. You slowed slightly, glaring at them.

"Always! Love being your good boy." Draco's voice was so earnest and sweet, all pitched up like that.

"And you are such a good boy, Draco," you said.

Little punched-out noises rippled through the car, overpowering the drone of the radio station you'd been listening to earlier. Honestly, you preferred them. Any sweet, pathetic little sound Draco made was infinitely more interesting than any news guy on the radio. Hips pounding into your hand, Draco tipped his head back against the headrest with the most desperate wine you'd heard in a while. You shivered, cutting your eyes away from the road to steal a glance at him in all his strung-out, desperate beauty.

And you weren't disappointed. His usually pale skin was flushed a bright pink, eyes lidded and more focused on you than anything else, and his bottom lip caught between his teeth in an unsuccessful attempt to quiet himself. A real thing of beauty. Your sweet, pretty boy Draco. Twisting your hand over the head of his cock, you relished in that fact for a moment.

"If you keep looking at me like that, I'd be half tempted to pull over and fuck you properly in the back seat," you said.

"Please," Draco begged breathily, slamming his hips up erratically.

"Don't tempt me, baby boy. We're on a schedule," you said. Though, it really was a charming idea.

"(Y/N), please. I don't care about being late. Want you to fuck me," he whined.

"You say that now," you laughed.

"Please, I'll be so good," he whined.

"If you can cum from my hand now, Draco, I'll keep you so well fucked on a this trip you won't remember anything but me," you said, an alluring promise coloring your voice.

"Yes, yes! Want that! Wanna cum for you so much," he babbled. Arching his back against the seat, he drove his cock into your hand with renewed desperation.

"Are you close? You wanna a good boy and cum for me?" you purred. The car in front of you stopped short, but Draco didn't even seem to notice that you'd jerked to a stop. He just gripped the handle above him and whined for you.

"Wanna be a good boy. Please, I wanna cum," he cried. Looking over, you noticed the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. You smiled gently at him.

"Oh, Dray, you've been so good," you said. His mouth dropped open into a soft cry as his hips completely lost rhythm. "Go ahead, baby boy. Cum for me."

Draco's hips stuttered, once, twice, and by the third time, he was cumming all over your hand. His eyes screwed shut, and a pitchy cry of your name left his lips as he shook in your grasp. And you just worked him through it. Pumping him gently while he whimpered through the aftershocks. You didn't stop until his thighs shook so hard you could feel the car move. Then, finally, you pulled your hand away and lifted it to his mouth.

"Clean up your mess, baby boy," you said.

"Yes, (Y/N)," he said tiredly, sticking his tongue out. Pressing your fingers against it, you let him lick your hand clean of his own cum until you were satisfied. You two had started moving again by the time he finally came around enough to really talk to you.

"How do you feel, Dray?" you asked. He gave you a sleepy smile.

"Like you need to slow down. You're speeding," he said.

"I'm not speeding," you said. You were, in fact, speeding a little.

"Don't think that just because I just had the best orgasm of my life that I don't remember you drive like a demon," he said. Shaking your head, you laughed in disbelief.

"Only you could complain after having the best orgasm of your life," you sighed.

"I thought you loved that about me," he said. "You're still speeding."

"Maybe I should have pulled over," you said, rolling your eyes. Well, it had been nice while it lasted. And Draco was right. Kinda. You did love him, even if you wouldn't exactly say you loved his complaining.

#draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x reader smut #draco malfoy #sub!draco #dom!reader #draco malfoy x reader imagine #draco malfoy x reader oneshot #draco malfoy smut #draco smut #draco x reader #draco x reader smut #harry potter #harry potter imagine #harry potter smut #hp

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sheepishpink · 4 years

Text

Like A Pie In The Sky (1/2)

Surely you meant more to him, but the month of sudden radio silence from him and his brothers planted a seed of doubt within you. Just why had the boisterous amount of text and calls come to a sudden halt?

Miscommunication and naive decisions caused everyone unnecessary grief. Though it is basically Lucifer's fault and he definitely wants to make amends because he doesn't want his newly found pride and joy to be lost.

Pairing: Lucifer x M/C (GN!/You)

A habitual overcast in the city made its presence known similar to a poorly tuned violin. The droplets pelting the stationary window of the cafe where the loud rhythmic tune of the rain softens; drowned out by the romantic strums of an acoustic guitar on the radio. The song ironically pulling at your heartstrings as your gifted phone sits bitterly still.

It has been a little over a month since you have spoken to Lucifer and his siblings.

The long calls and frequent text dwindling into nothing. This gave you the impression the hype of having a human exchange student has lost its sparkle. Devildom's enlightening experience of your presence faded along with the supposed unbreakable bond you have created with them. The evidence of said 'bond' existing in inky possession under your clothes, the vibrations of longing no longer burning from each brand.

Sitting in the cafe with the bitter aftertaste of your coffee on your tongue, you reminisced about the time spent in the strange underworld. Your mind particularly circling around Lucifer like vultures around a decaying carcass.

This is not what you wanted; a mind preoccupied by a demon. That alluring horned jerk was the reason you ventured out of your home. You wanted to enjoy an earthly leisure, the companionship of humans in attempts to bury the stirring emotions towards the demon. The thirst for some sort of response from Lucifer after month’s left on read seemed to heighten in the emptiness of your own home.

You believed being among others would rid yourself of this edging feeling, but you were wrong. It made you feel just as isolated as when you sat in your home. A lonely feeling prods at you brain as you watched people thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company.

What a mistake.

Here you sat. Still hoping for a reply that was less than likely to happen.

You missed the chaotic time in Devildom. And most of all Lucifer.

Perishing the thought you finished your cold coffee, picking up your phone and glanced at the time. The unbalanced liquid slides down your throat and leaves a milky ring in the dark mug.

A generous tip and a wipe of the lips you are out into the pouring rain. Quickly pulling your hood up, waving kindly at the barista wishing you a good rest of the morning.

With your keys jingling in your hand you lightly jogged to your car, fumbling with your car remote in the heavy rain. Your thumb quickly pressing the button as the distance between you and your car door shortened, the car still refusing to respond to your desperate clicks despite you now standing right next to it.

You should really get the batteries replaced.

Swearing under your breath you wipe the dribble of water from the tip of your nose and resorted to violently shoving your key into the car and twisting the lock until you hear the comforting click.

You smiled gratefully until the muted sky had suddenly gotten darker. A tall inky shadow in the reflection of your car window, accompanied by a chilling aura caused you to clumsily turn around in horror—limbs knocking against the cars metallic frame earning some looks from bystanders.

"What the fuck-!?" Your fingers curled into a fist with the keys defensively slotted between them. "Lucifer…?" Your protective stance began to drop along with your keys which clacked against the parking lot pavement.

You foolishly blinked. Mouth pathetically agape, unsure what to make of his sudden appearance—watching as he handsomely combs his fingers through his wet locks drip as he held an umbrella over you.

Lucifer snorts at your reaction and bends down to pick up your keys. He straightens himself, still holding the umbrella up to shield you from the rain while he continued to take a majority of the heavy rain. An amused smile present on his lips as he held your dingy keys out to you in his gloved hand.

"Good morning, beloved."

Your anger and confusion washed away at his endearing pet name. Your arms desperately squeezing his midsection as you unabashedly rubbed your face against his chest, knocking into him excitedly. Your keys clattering onto the ground once again.

The wet buttons on Lucifer’s uniform dug into your skin as you hugged him harder. His chest rumbling with melodic laughter at your strongly affectionate greeting.

Adjusting the umbrella in one hand and returning your hug with the other he speaks.

“I’ve missed your touch since our last meeting.” Your clothes feel sticky under the wet weather as his hand rubbed your back affectionately, making your skin prickle at his gentle attention.

Pressing your chin against his chest as you looked up at him. Cheeks warming and ears ringing at the sight of him—causing you to momentarily think about his previously stripped title, Morning Star. You could not help but puff your cheeks childishly as your anger trickled back in, admittedly, not as strong as it was before.

"Why have you and your brother's been so distant lately? I thought you were done with me..." Your voice was softer than you anticipated. You pressed your face onto Lucifer’s chest, an ear comfortably listening to his quickening heartbeat.

"Done with you...?" he was clearly perturbed by your choice of words, responding earnestly to your concerns.

"I have no true excuse.” He started slowly. “When you mentioned your busy schedule, I thought it would be best for my siblings and I to let you focus on your responsibilities."

His umbrella rested on his head as he utilized his arms fully to give you a comforting hug.

"I was clearly wrong in my decision based off of your expression—I did not mean to make you feel unwanted."

You felt his cheek press against the top of your head as his umbrella slid off of him, his wet hair tickling the side of your face. Taking advantage of his closeness once again, you gave him an urgent squeeze, delightfully basking in his presence.

Lucifer suddenly pulled back causing you to look up at him once again. Standing in the heavy rain in silence, the sound of pedestrian and moving vehicle pulls you awkwardly back into reality. Your eyes darting between your surroundings and Lucifer, the start of this cliché cinematic scene unfolding between the both of you made you flush.

Clumsily wiping the rain off your face with the back of your hand, you began to pull away. Although, Lucifer had other ideas. Taking your chin between his fingers he begins to close the gap between you. His clear intent to kiss you and his half-lidded stare caused your heart to quicken. The anticipation to have his supple lips touch yours and the current display of PDA caused your eyes to dart anywhere but his face. With a click of his tongue he beckons you to look at him.

“Oi, you know how much a hate being ignored.” He directs your face to point towards him. His voice held no malice but mild amusement and need. This ultimately gave you no choice but to look at him. Your eyes looking between his strawberry lips bow and sultry eyes. “That’s better.”

Lucifer captures your lips which ignites a flame under the surface of your skin. His lips like two soft petals of the rose he gave for you for Christmas—a simple gesture, but profoundly beautiful. He languidly pulls away after swiping his tongue gently across your lip, a smile etched into is usually strict features.

Your brow creases in desperation and embarrassment from the exchange. A smug look slowly arising on his lips due to your lack of words causing your fingers to dig into his uniform—he was clearly pleased by your coy response.

“I missed you.” His smile growing wider and your cheeks blossomed in hot colors. You were so warm you swear if he kissed just a bit longer your clothes would have dried.

Enraptured by the way his dark lashes feathering around his crimson iris as the rain glistened against his skin. He was truly the most beautiful creature you have caught the gaze of.

An eruption of emotion bubbling in your chest as you professed how you felt.

“I missed you too.”

Rushed heavy footsteps against the soaked pavement followed by the sound of pedestrians laughing among themselves caused your sudden wistful realm to fade and you were slapped back into reality.

You pull away from him and you gauchely grabbed the fallen umbrella to shield you both from the gaze of others and the fierce rain. You peer up at him under your lashes, both hands tightening around the umbrellas handle.

Lucifer chuckles at your behavior. The delicate fabric of his gloved fingers slides warmly under your cold chin, allowing you to fully lift your gaze directly at him once again. He leans in as he thumbs your chin gently, your knuckles start to whiten as you hold the umbrella in anticipation of his next move.

His nose touching your as his breath tickles your lips and places an impishly quick lips on your nose.

“Let us get out of the rain. Shall we?”

To be continued...

#lucifer x mc #obey me lucifer #lucifer obey me #fanfiction #lucifer x reader #text #OBEY ME #swd obey me #obey me shall we date #shall we date #re-posted because tumblr not letting me post akjskndkjandna

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jetsetlife138 · 4 years

Note

Idk if you’re still accepting prompts but can you do 79 with Alastor x fem!reader?

#79 - “Fuck me like you hate me.” Pairing: Alastor x fem!ReaderWarning: VERY explicit and rough smut

He’d gone too far this time. Alastor thoroughly enjoyed pushing your buttons, and most days you could handle it, but not today.

“I’m done, Alastor. I’m so over your bullshit. You’re egotistical, selfish, and just… I hate you. I really, truly do. Just stay the hell away from me.”

It’s not that everything you were saying wasn’t true, and if you were being honest, calling attention to his shitty behavior was long overdue for the arrogant demon. So… why did you have an almost overwhelming sense of guilt as soon as the words left your mouth?

The Radio Demon peeled his lips back into a sinister smile, revealing his frighteningly jagged teeth.”My dear girl, are you truly that foolish? It is you who repeatedly seeks me out. It’s you that comes crawling back to me for companionship when you’ve seemed to abandon all hope. I am the company you seek when you lie awake at night, lonely and desperate for affection.”

You refused to budge as he moved closer, his face now only inches away from your own as his hot breath brushed over your face, his scent equally revolting and intoxicating. “There’s no harm in admitting what you already know, dearest. You cannot resist me, and you would love nothing more than to be filled by me over and over again like the hungry cock slut that you are.”

SLAP

The sound of your hand coming into contact with his face echoed throughout the room, leaving behind a haunting silence in its wake. His face had turned away from you due to the impact of your assault, and his mouth hung open in shock. All you could do was gawk at him, utterly speechless and unable to fully comprehend what you had just done.

The both of you remained still for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably no more than a few seconds. Finally, he looked toward you again, a coldness in his eyes that you had never felt before, turning your blood to ice. His lip curled, and it was only when he smiled once more that you had realized the gravity of your mistake.

“So, that’s how this is going to go, hmm?” he purred dangerously, tilting his head far enough to crack the bones in his neck. His demeanor was eerily calm, but you could still feel the intensity beneath the surface, his rage threatening to emerge at any given time. The fact that his reaction was cool and calculated had frightened you more than if he would have exploded with anger instead.

Swallowing thickly, your immediate reaction was to take a step back to create some distance between you and the unpredictable demon. However, with every cautious step you took away from him, he countered by taking an enormous stride forward. Why the fuck did he have to be so tall with such long ass legs?!

Eventually, you had reached the wall, no longer able to distance yourself. “A-Alastor… I didn’t… I--”

Before you could finish the rest of your sentence, he was on top of you, twisting you around to face away from him and pinning you up against the wall. You tried to wriggle free, but his hold on you was far too strong as he kept you in place with his body pressed against your back.

Your froze when you felt him bend slightly to run his claws up your inner thigh towards your core. When his fingers danced over your heat, your breath hitched and you fought the urge to buck into his hand.

His black and red strands of hair swept across your cheek as he leaned forward to whisper huskily into your ear, “Tell me again how much you detest me,” he demanded as his slender digits continued to tease you over your damp heat. It took all you had to resist grinding against his fingers.

“I’m pretty sure the word I used was ‘hate’, but whatever,” you barked, seething with irritation and sexual frustration. “Either way, I really fucking do.”

His hand found his way into your hair as he yanked your head back, pressing his lips hungrily against yours in a deep kiss. Overcome with lust, you reached your arm back to bring him even closer, opening your mouth to welcome his tongue as he wasted no time in kneading it against your own. Absentmindedly, your thighs began to part wider to allow the skilled demon more access to your throbbing cunt, already dripping from his actions. You really hated how easily he brought you to this state.

When he began to press his palm into you to add more pressure to your aching clit, a needy whine escaped your throat, which he swallowed down with his mouth as he continued to kiss you, chuckling at your obvious need for him.

Breaking the kiss, he flipped you back around so that you were facing him once more before he pressed his forehead against yours. His hot breath swept over your face as he panted against you, moving to finally brush the fabric of your panties aside to allow him full access. He wasted no time slipping a finger inside of you, crooking his digit into a ‘come hither’ motion, hitting your g-spot over and over again.

Clutching the front of his suit in your hands, you rolled your hips against him, eager for more. He relished in your response to his touch, smirking arrogantly. “For someone who hates me as much as you supposedly do, you’re awfully wet, my dear.”

“That doesn’t mean a-anything,” you bit back, trying to maintain your composure as he increased his speed, pumping in and out of you with vigor. “Just because you’re an entitled, n-narcissistic, self-absorbed piece of shit--oh god--doesn’t mean that you’re not also a--mnph-- somewhat decent fuck.”

He snarled at you, shoving a second finger without warning and thrusting into you with such force, you thought that he was going to break you. “I must say, it’s unbecoming to so easily succumb to the advances of someone supposedly as entitled and self-absorbed as I am. One might say that it’s actually quite pathetic, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Fuck you, Alastor.”

He laughed darkly, choking on his own breath shortly after when you moved your hands down his slender form and onto the obvious tent in his pants, palming at it eagerly while he rolled his hips against you.

“And you say I’m pathetic?” you mocked, smirking at his reaction to your touch.

He responded by shoving his fingers so forcefully deep inside of you that you could have sworn you had been lifted from the ground. You cried out in both pleasure and pain, knowing full well that you weren’t going to be able to walk right for the next few days.

Using his other hand, he made quick work of his trousers, eagerly pulling out his weeping cock. Unable to stop yourself, you reached forward, sliding up his shaft with your hand and thumbing at his slit, spreading the precum around the head. He moaned at the sensation, his jaw unhinging as he shut his eyes, his body trembling with anticipation.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he promised breathlessly before sliding his fingers out of you, bringing them to his mouth to suck his digits clean. You whined at the sight, earning another wave of arousal to leak out of your cunt. He then reached back down to hook his fingers around your panties before yanking so hard that they ripped right off of your body, causing you to jolt forward into him as he tossed them aside, an arrogant smirk plastered on his face.

“Doubt it,” you retorted offhandedly. “You’re not as good as you think are, Al. Last time you fucked me I nearly fell asleep from boredom. I thought demons were supposed to be strong and fearsome. You’re a goddamned softie. You’re weak - a fucking doormat. ‘All-powerful’? What a fucking joke.”

It was an obvious lie. Not only had you previously seen the barbaric carnage and slaughter of his enemies first-hand, but there had also been plenty of times before where he had fucked you so brutally that your entire body was littered with multiple dark bruises, leaving behind a soreness that lasted for several days. Regardless, you were pissed off and you were doing all that you could to deflate his ego, consequences be damned.

The look in his eyes instantly made you regret your words. Grinning sinisterly from ear to ear, he reached up to grab your throat, completely cutting off your airway as he used his other hand to line himself up against your heat before snapping his hips forward and filling you completely.

Your immediate response was to gasp, but he held onto your throat too tightly, quickly withdrawing and shoving himself back in again and again, setting a brutal pace.

Tears filled your eyes as you silently begged him for some lenience, which he finally granted you, releasing his hold on your throat after a few more thrusts. You sucked in the air greedily as he continued to rail you against the wall, nearly lifting you from the ground with the harshness of his momentum.

“O-oh, shit,” you choked out,

“Is this what you wanted? Or am I boring you yet again?” He emphasized his words with a particularly rough jab right into your core.

You wanted to beg him to stop-- to slow down and not be so malicious, but there was no way in hell that you were going to relent and let him think that he won.

“I h-hardly even feel anything. I-- oh god-- I’ve had better sex with-- huhg-- with myself. You’re n-nothing.”

With all of the moaning and rutting you were doing, you would have been shocked if he had actually believed you. Given the way he was fucking you, it was a surprise that you could even form words at all. Regardless, Alastor enjoyed the challenge, and the both of you knew it.

“Is that so?” He then gripped your leg tightly, lifting it up and curving it around to rest on his hip while he slammed himself even deeper inside of you, his cock hitting your cervix with each shove. Your nails raked his back, running along the smooth fabric of his red suit since he hadn’t even bothered to remove a single article of his own clothing.

“How about now? Can you feel me now, you ungrateful harlot?You were slightly taken aback at how angry he sounded-- as if he was genuinely upset by your teasing. If you were being honest with yourself, it brought you a lot of smug satisfaction.

You opened your mouth to give some witty retort, but with the way he was railing you, it was damn near impossible. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you finally relented, releasing a wail of pleasure as you struggled to breathe, each thrust knocking the breath out of your lungs. The only words that escaped you were, “Yes! Oh, god, yes! Just like that. Fuck me like you hate me.” If he wasn’t already dead, you would kill him. He was an alluring monster-- hauntingly beautiful and wicked all at once. You were drawn to him in ways that you could never comprehend, nor explain. The sad truth is that you were no more to him than a form of entertainment. He was an enigma, tempting you with his mystery and promises of wonder, but underneath it all was a sadistic and malevolent being, whose interest in you was limited and not at all sentimental. He made you feel weak-- helpless to his meaningless advances and you hated him for it. And yet… what angered you most of all was that you found yourself genuinely caring for him… and it would never be reciprocated in return.

Luckily for you, there was a way to escape those nagging thoughts, and it was by being completely fucked out by the demon. The pain of his harsh movements mixed beautifully with the pleasure it brought, and you were overwhelmed by the ecstasy of it all. Crying out with wanton moans, your body shook uncontrollably as his suit rubbed up against your clit, causing an unbelievable friction as his cock brushed against the deepest parts of you. He noticed you rutting against him in a way to earn more clit stimulation, so he reached down and began massaging against you in small circles with the pads of his fingers. The action caused you to practically scream as you bent your head forward and bit harshly into his shoulder to muffle your loud noises, probably bruising his skin even through his jacket.

“A-Alastor. I can’t… oh fuck, I-I’m--,” you couldn’t even finish the words before your body flooded with bliss, your climax hitting you so abruptly that your knees gave out and you nearly blacked out from the intensity.

He continued to fuck you with abandon, chasing after his own release as you soon became over-sensitized, tears rolling down your face from the sensations.

Resting his cheek against yours, you could distinctly hear the little pants and grunts escaping his throat. They were sounds of vulnerability that were reserved only for you in moments like these-- a genuine rarity. Alastor didn’t petition for sex often, and he especially didn’t partake in having multiple partners. You were honestly surprised that he wanted to fuck anyone ever considering he hardly showed interest in the activity, but when he immersed himself in it… fuck if you didn’t reap the benefits. Slapping the palms of his hands against the wall on both sides of you, his body shuddered as he released an especially loud groan, reaching his high. Heavy spurts of his demonic seed lined your cervix as he continued to convulse, his orgasm lasting longer than anyone you had ever been with. He had rested his head in the crook of your neck, seemingly forgetting about your fight for a moment before he pulled out of you, still breathless and smirking as he watched the remnants of his hot cum drip down your legs. “What a pitiful creature you are. I imagine it must make you feel utterly wretched getting off on the hatred you supposedly feel for me. I wonder if there is anyone else who can bring you to the brink of death and back like I can.”

Fuck that goddamned arrogance. You fought so hard to put him in his place, and instead you got completely fucked-- both figuratively and literally. Your entire body had ached and would be sore for the next week. It made you wonder if the intense orgasms you got from him were even worth it.

Your heated glare was met with an unforgiving sneer as he straightened out his jacket, which had been wrinkled during your interaction. “Let me be as clear as I can be,” he spoke candidly, though his eyes were filled with warning. “You belong to me.”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you bent down to pick up the shredded remains of your panties before you stepped around him to leave. As you reached the door frame, you paused to turn and speak over your shoulder as nonchalantly as possible before walking out.

“Keep telling yourself that.”

#alastor #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #anonymous #anon ask #prompt list #smut #the radio demon

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lambourngb · 4 years

Note

The Evil is You

This is my Afrit - Djinn AU where the canon version of Roswell is the reality that the djinn curse has allowed to play out. The first several attempts at happiness lead to death. Alex gets cursed after a mission outside of Mosul lead to the death of a village protected by a pair of jinn and an afrit demon shows up. I put this aside because someone else wrote a really good Caulfield timeloop story- but I still like a lot of it...

You want to believe that we’re safe, that goodness prevails. That’s the coldest reality about war. Sometimes you’re just doing what you’re told and all of a sudden, things are burning, people are screaming and then you look around and you realize that the evil is you.

* * Alex sees the child watching them in the market holding a patched soccer ball in his hands, and at first, he smiles. He shifts his rifle to his other arm, and nudges Parker, “new recruit for our cup game.”

Parker turns his eyes from the distribution of supplies that they were overseeing. With much of the roads between Mosul dam and the Badush dam shifting between ISIL and Kurdish control, the smaller villages were reluctantly dependent on coalition forces to keep the flow of goods moving down the Tigris river.

“Think he plays a better left wing than you, Manes? I’m getting tired of losing dinner prep to Blue team.”

Before Alex could sputter an offended laugh out, the child started toward them. “Guess we’re going to find out.”

It was the last sight he remembered before white then black descended on the market in a shockwave of destruction.

****

“Wake up, Captain. You are not done yet.”

Alex shot up from his bedroll gasping and then reached under for his firearm. The barracks were quiet except for the snores of Parker cutting through. The intermittent soundtrack that peppered most nights.

Touching the watch band, his face briefly illuminated to see it was just past 2 am. His nightmares were getting more creative the longer he was deployed.

“You see, that was no dream but yesterday.”

The face was cloaked in faint auras of red and orange, like the sparks from a camp fire under the stars as Alex turned to level the gun at the intruder. “Your gun does not hurt my kind.”

****

“I thought when I got back from Iraq you’d be long gone.”

“Is that what you want?”

“We’re not kids anymore. What I want, doesn’t matter.”

****

He thought it was over with Caulfield.

“The alarm is not a suggestion, nothing gets out alive.”

“They’re my family Alex!”

“Okay… Okay, let’s get her out.” Alex drew his service weapon, “can you tell her to step back? And stand away from the glass, I don’t want you caught in the ricochet.”

He fired, once at the spanning fracture. The bullet lodged tightly in the window, adding to the spiderweb of force. A second shot close to the spiral widened the fracture “Try again with your TK, maybe it’s enough to break through completely.”

Michael stepped forward and raised his hand, focusing on the window. It felt like a summer storm he’d experienced in Jacksonville, the air tightened and vibrated against his skin.

“Initiating quarantine protocol, you have 1 minute to evacuate the premises.”

The window started to bow, as the fractures spread like a wave. Drops of blood dripped steadily out of Michael’s nose as he concentrated on the force. Absently Alex counted down the seconds. They were past the point of reaching safety. He reached forward to rest his hands on Michael’s shoulders, feeling them shake under the pressure. It would be over soon. At least he didn’t have to live in a world without Michael.

“Warning! 30 seconds.”

****

Darkness, and then an empty laugh.

“We talked about this, Captain. It’s not over until you’ve paid for what you did.”

****

“You sure you want to do this?” He reached out and caught Michael’s shoulder. “I need you to be careful in there. If the government is holding aliens in there, they probably have safeguards to keep them inside. You said Noah could do telekinesis too, it’s probably not out of the realm of possibility others inside that prison can too but something is holding them inside.”

“I get it, Alex, but those screams aren’t letting up and we’re letting Dr Dumbass get a head start.”

Three keystrokes, then the doors opened. All of the doors. N-38 stumbled from his cell with heavy shifting feet. On instinct Alex stepped between him and Kyle, those frail hands grabbed onto Alex’s face. It felt like nothing. It felt like maybe this could be over.

Michael turned from holding his mother not understanding Kyle’s cry.

“Don’t. It’s fine, okay?” Alex choked out, trying to smile bravely instead. “It’s okay. Just get her safe, Michael. I need to trigger the quarantine protocol. The research here needs to be buried.”

Alex pushed Kyle away with a stiff arm and shoved the fear down of what was head of him.

From just behind him, Flint fired his gun. The wet splatter sounded loud to Alex’s ears as he fought to keep his breath even. The skull of N-38 was in ruins. “This place blows in 10 minutes. If they are too confused or weak to move, at least it will be quick.“

****

Darkness.

“Clever, warning him of the containment protocols and then hacking the doors. I thought letting you remember our last dance would keep you from pointless heroics. I hope you enjoyed the week you spent with that brain tumor.”

“Wasn’t all bad. Michael has his mother. Kyle got his answers.”

“Always the martyr, Captain. You stayed in the cabin and never told him what was happening to you.”

“Well this is my curse, isn’t it? There’s no point in both of us suffering.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Captain. That’s the entire point, when he suffers, you suffer. ”

****

“Someone’s coming.”

Michael stayed stubbornly with Alex and Kyle as Flint Manes cleared the doorway, firearm in hand.

“Alex? What are you doing here? Fuck, what have you done!”

“I think the better question is what have you done, Flint.”

Michael pulled the gun from Flint’s hands with his telekinesis into his hand smoothly after Flint kept it level on Alex.

“You brought one of them here. Dad was right, you are pathetic.” Flint held down his radio, “Security breach!”

Soldiers filled the hallway. Michael slowly lowered the gun.

****

Darkness.

“Oh you didn’t like that one? I thought you wanted Michael to be reunited with his mother. It was quite touching of your father to leave you in the cell across from them so you could watch. A new young specimen really ignited the creative process in those scientists. I was rather disappointed that cycle only lasted a month.”

“You underestimated what Max and Isobel would do to find Michael.”

“True. It was delicious irony to see Max trigger the quarantine protocol trying to free him. No one came looking for you, did they Captain? It was the sheriff looking for her beloved son and the alien siblings riding to the rescue.”

“If I could take back that mission, I would. If you have the power to remake reality, why not let me try and fix the past?”

“I have the power to curse you and I got that power after you had my village bombed. Do you understand the paradox now? We’re going to be together for a long time, Captain.”

****

“You told Guerin where we were going, right?”

“He was busy. This thing with Noah means he didn’t want to leave Isobel alone. Besides we might not find anything worth sharing.”

“That sounds a whole lot like you didn’t tell Guerin where we were going.”

A tractor trailer swerved suddenly into their lane.

***

Darkness.

“Now, now, you can’t change the rules, Captain. I guess I have left with you with too much knowledge. Let’s try something different. This is your curse, but maybe I can get an assist.”

****

#I don't really have an ending in mind #but it's a lot of angst #alex suffers here #so does Michael #aewriting

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burning-fcols · 3 years

Text

💉💉 - (*hipchecks Al in for the spood*)

- ✩ { @sinfulredemptions } ✩

✩ { Meme } ✩

{ ☆ } Honestly, he should have seen this coming... He kind of did, in a general sense. As if he wasn’t a big enough target when prancing around wearing a collar with Valentino’s name sprawled on it, now that he’s working arm-in-arm— quite literally —with the Radio Demon, that just makes his non-existent ass an even bigger target for those with a bone to pick with EITHER of them... and enough stupidity to actually give it a try. While lashing out at Alastor might be nothing but a wet-dream for most, it doesn’t take a genius to figure that taking out his newest little ‘recruit’— Valentino’s former lap-dog, prancing around like he’s hot shit because of his ‘scary new owner’ —would be a satisfying substitute.

Doesn’t help that Angel hasn’t been subtle in his quest to rediscover himself... In attempting to embrace his newfound freedom, trying to reconnect with his roots in a way that suits HIM too. In a way that... makes it feel like he’s making the choice to, rather than simply reverting back to the only other thing he knows. So much havoc and posturing in so little time, so much grandeur and destruction and... God, he feels pathetic just thinking about it.

What a fucking joke... No wonder people STILL don’t take him seriously.

To be fair, he had put up quite a scuffle when those assholes put the jump on him; the leader still sporting bandages around his eye from where Angel had practically scratched it out during an earlier ‘job’. Angel had nearly managed to claw out the other one before he was restrained by the others, flailing and clawing when his guns were wretched out of his hands and his arms were wretched behind his back, a shoulder giving a sickening pop before going worriedly numb. He had been so distracted by the grubby hands forcing him down that by the time the syringe jabbed into his neck was half-empty before he realized it was even there...

And when the toxins flooded his bloodstream... there was no missing it then.

He can’t recall if the scream was in his head or if he actually did it... but he does know that after the darkness overwhelmed him, he was DAMN SURE not to do it again. Never fucking again. With each hit, each backhand— would it kill the fucker to take off his damn, chunky-ass rings? —each shot and forced snort, each and every twisted manner they tried to break him with... Angel just glared defiant daggers, spatting out blood onto too-close faces and SINKING teeth into a hand when it decided to ‘caress’ his cheek like a certain patronizing moth used to.

The glowing message in exhausted eyes clear, even as darkened circles lingered beneath his them... Hit him all they want, crack his ribs and make him cough up even more blood, make his jaw feel as unhinged as a snake with every merciless punch, do whatever the FUCK they feel the need to... but touch him with that mocking gentleness, treat him as if he’s some pansy-ass pet that needs to be ‘trained’ rather than broken... and he’ll fucking BITE A FINGER OFF.

Refusing to scream with frustration and shame, fangs sink into his own lips to stifle agonized sounds, shredding his flesh and coating his tongue with the taste of iron. Pink cakes and darkens the area around his mouth, dripping down his maw and staining teeth as Angel shakily swallows another mouthful of it, not wanting to lose anymore blood than he already has... His own taste and that of his captors’ mingling in a nauseating mix, Angel coughs as he feels bile rise up in response. Stomach clenching and chest heaving, he doesn’t know whether to be concerned that there’s NOTHING to come up anymore... or relieved that he doesn’t need to sit through the scent again. He can still feel it covering his front thanks to a harsh jab into his gut after he shakily told someone to ‘get his fuck-ugly mug outta his face’.

... God, he’s disgusting.

Some worthless piece of shit who is in way over his head. What the FUCK was he thinking? Actually believing he could ever be seen as more than someone’s property. Could be more than someone’s attack dog- No. He’s not even THAT. He’s more like Alastor’s stray little puppy... Some mangy mongrel with a dead-ass past owner that he took pity on, strutting around and baring his teeth while dressed up in his shiny new collar. Deluding himself until life decided to smack him in the face with reality, just like it ALWAYS does when he’s stupid enough to think that he might have found something worth- Stop it. Just stop it.

The drugs must be wearing off... His insecurities always scream relentlessly at him when the withdrawal starts setting in. That means it’s almost time for them to return, to rough him up and pump him up full of those damn drugs. Making his blood boil and his heart race so frantically he feels he may have a heart attack... but still, it stops this- numbness from overtaking him. Stalls the heaviness weighing down his chest. Silences his mind, distracts him and surrounds him with a familiar feeling that he used to willingly RUN TO all the time. He had gone so long without it... Trying to find a way to live without it... He had thought he could.

Then why does he want that damn door to open again?! Why does his body yearn for the pain of a different kind... Why does he writhe and strain against his restraints, blood dripping down his wrists and biting into his skin... Where ARE those fuckers anyway?! Making him wait like this. Leaving him alone with his thoughts, with his failure? Growling animalistically as he struggles against his chair, eyes glowing and fangs bared, Angel calls out into the surrounding darkness, voice cracking as words rub against a throat dry and raw from misuse, ❝ HURRY TH’ FUCK UP! JUS’ DO WHAT YER GONNA DO ALREADY, ASSHOLES! ❞

He can’t take this for much longer... The silence... The waiting... Just fucking end it.

Just... No. He can’t- ... He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want that. Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up— The door opens and light begins to stream into the room, shining onto the spider, seeming so small amongst the vast darkness... Dulled and dingy, blinking dumbly as eyes widen at the sight he’s met with. A sight that had crossed his mind MANY times in the— how long has he been here? —moments between pain and paranoia... A face that he had both wanted and dreaded seeing, because even now... he finds himself not knowing what to say. Not knowing what he wants to say... He’s crying. When the fuck had he started crying?

How many times is Alastor going to see him cry? How many times is the deer supposed to help save him, supposed to see him fall apart, see his soul barren and witness just how... broken and ugly he actually is... For once in this entire ordeal, Angel feels as if he might have finally done it, has finally experienced what HELL truly is... About time this place delivered on a punishment worthy of his sins. Swallowing thickly, throat bobs and tears drip down his face, dampening matted fur as Angel breathes out softly...

And plasters a weak smile on his face, that somehow hurting far more than anything else.

❝ Heh... Hey, Dolcezza... I’d get up ta greet ya, buuuuuuut— ❞ { ☆ }

#burning-fcols #This Is The Mantra; This Is My Life || {Angel Dust IC}#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ɪ'ᴅ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ʙᴇ ᴅʀʏ; ʙᴜᴛ ᴀᴛ ʟᴇᴀꜱᴛ ɪ'ᴍ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ ❞ ◌ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ¦ 「 Angel Dust 」#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ᴀ ᴋɪʟʟᴇʀ ꜱᴍɪʟᴇ ❞ ¦ 「 Alastor 」#sinfulredemptions #⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ‘ᴛɪʟ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴅᴏ ᴜꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ; ʙᴜᴛ ᴡᴇ’ʀᴇ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴘʜᴀꜱᴇ ❞ ¦ 「 RP 」#♡ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ’ꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ; ᴛʜᴀᴛ’ꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ❞ ¦ 「 Alastor and Angel Dust 」

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cyberneticfandoms · 4 years

Text

Devoid of Stability

(Credit to Void!Al goes to @rileesrambles !)

(Sequel to my other fic Devoid of Music)

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Characters: Alastor

TW: panic attacks, self-harm, slight gore

~~~

Alastor may have… miscalculated. Yes, he thought as staggering pain tore through his stomach- he had made a slight oversight.

Alastor had faced starvation before. He was sure he would've been able to deal with it again, but he was wrong, and this was so much worse than before. With no way to tell how much time had already passed – a sinking feeling told him the answer was a lot - and a whole eternity ahead of him the ache-turned-agony quickly became overwhelming.

That was how he found himself curled up on the ground, hugging his chest, trailing his claws over every rib that poked through his dress shirt – his hands must've been shaking incredibly hard because he kept clawing himself – and squeezing his eyes shut tighter in hopes of sleeping his way through this new hell. He didn't care if he woke up screaming with his heart pounding out of his chest like every other time he'd tried to rest, he just needed any reprieve from the hollow, jagged feeling that had taken up residence in his gut.

Of course, when he'd wish to be unconscious his body would refuse!

“Ha… i-if Husker were here…” His teeth grit together at the thought of his grumpy companion. The one-sided conversations that would turn into late-night discussions when neither felt much like sleeping. The begrudging way Husk had finally gotten used to Alastor's constantly fluctuating touchy moments. “I could certainly use one of his strongest drinks…!” The deer demon’s smile went shaky, his eyes snapping open and flitting about, while he swallowed the bile that threatened to rise out of his dry throat.

With the nausea periodically threatening to make him purge his body of what little energy it had left and his head threatening to crack open with the building pressure of a headache he’d gotten hours – days, weeks, months? – ago, it was a wonder he didn’t go completely insane. He wasn’t crazy. He may be hopeless, hurting, admittedly terrified, but he was not broken. And if he talked to himself, well, it was only to fill the silence.

“My… Shadow would even make interesting company at this point,” he quipped, tired of his own thoughts chasing themselves round and round pointlessly. “It would likely… cackle at my misfortune but who could blame it?” He let out a sharp laugh. “My inky companion’s company could possibly account for entertainment if I were bored enough…” By Lucifer he was bored enough. There was nothing to do but think until his incapacitated body finished working its way from the constant pain, to a blissful numbness. It was certainly taking its time but Alastor just laughed harder at that because he had all of it in the world to wait! Now he just had to keep his thoughts safely away from his friend- coworkers and acquaintances…

…Curse it all.

A groan escaped at the familiar lonesome feeling that gripped his chest in a vice, and his jaw snapped shut in frustration at his own traitorous train of thought. Alastor forced his teeth to unclench, his red eyes trailing blearily down to look away from the black on black on black- and down to the pathetic quivering mess he’d become. Thinking of them was always a bad idea and, try as he might, he found that he couldn’t stop himself from shaking or his eyes from burning or the little hitches in his breath from becoming more apparent the longer he tried to control them. These little… “episodes” would only get more frequent as he thought of his- his friends, not just coworkers, not just acquaintances- and they just kept getting worse.

What was he supposed to do when the dread crept up because of his messed up internal clock and the thoughts of his friends that forced their way to the forefront of his mind? Because surely it couldn’t have been weeks or months that had passed- they wouldn’t have forgotten about him… right?

A whimper wrenched itself from Alastor’s throat, and his mouth snapped shut so fast he tasted iron. Charlie would be concerned, he realized as he removed his teeth from his healing tongue. With eyes nearly turning to radio dials and his claws sharpening at the tangy blood pooling in his mouth, the deer demon hurriedly swallowed, unable to disregard the coppery smell invading the otherwise senseless air and making his heart pound harder. His claws clutched at his already disheveled shirt while he struggled to get his breathing under control.

There wasn’t food. It was his own blood. He was being ridiculous. He absolutely would not turn here, not now, not ever. Think of something else. He was in control; he would not let the Wendigo roam free here and waste even more energy.

…He was sure Angel would have some sexual remark for this situation.

Alastor let out a choked laugh at the absurdity of the evasive thought, even as twin tracks of tears rolled down his face. He didn’t bother with wiping them away. This was something different to think about, and yet, it was just barely better. He couldn’t believe he’d ever grown fond of the porn star considering what he did for a living. The thought still made his face burn and his wavering smile twist into a grimace. Despite the discomfort, Alastor had grown to appreciate their companionship, and Angel had proven himself to be tough and loyal colleague more than once.

The little moth demon however… Vaggie would take pleasure in his suffering, Alastor was sure. It didn’t matter that the last expression Alastor had seen on her face had been horror as he fell, the gunshot still ringing loudly in his head. Ears flicking lower, he decided not to pursue that train of thought.

Dear Husker certainly wouldn’t care! Alastor could and would ignore the memory of absolute fury in the chimera’s eyes as a boot pressed into Alastor’s chest – right on the bullet hole! – setting fire to his lungs and sending blood bubbling up his throat. It didn’t mean a thing!

Now, Niffty… Alastor’s smile wavered, shrinking as small as its been in a while. He knew the little darling cared. He couldn’t even pretend otherwise; Especially not after she’d been screaming and crying the loudest. He remembered through blurry vision and smoky, blood clogged air that tears had been streaming down her face, all the while she screeched and clawed to get away from Husk who’d held her back. She would only have gotten herself hurt, and so Alastor felt grateful to the cat for stopping her.

Charlie… she was crying as well, but she also had fire in her eyes and horns bursting from her skull. She and Angel Dust – Alastor had never seen the porn star look so serious – had immediately moved to help him, hellfire wreathed around the princess like a halo and Angel brandishing six more guns than he’d held a second ago.

Of course, it hadn’t made a difference in the end. Alastor had still looked up, directly into the grinning screen of Vox, and saw nothing but triumph in his rival’s expression. The overlord had probably said something snarky, but Alastor couldn’t hear over the roaring in his ears. Instead he offered his widest grin and spit a glob of red at the other’s shoe.

A grimace graced the TV demon’s face, and the pressure doubled on Alastor’s chest, forcing out a pained gurgle as liquid filled his lungs – his lungs, his chest, parts of him that weren’t healing, they were burning, because of course Vox would have a holy weapon, and Alastor was an idiot for getting distracted and actually caring about the hotel and the people in it-

One hand clung to Vox’s leg while the other clawed at the ground for his microphone – where was it – or for any dregs of magic to finish this fight the way it was supposed to end, but there. was. nothing.

He tilted his head back and the others appeared upside down in his vision for a brief moment. He widened his grin in what he hoped was a reassuring manner – though from the few terrified expressions that remained, he didn’t think it worked very well.

Angel Dust unleashed clip after clip of bullets into the surrounding demons, struggling to get to the TV overlord and put a bullet through his screen, to do something, anything, but Alastor didn’t get to dwell on the lack of progress for long.

Cold steel brushed his hair aside, pressing against the red x on his forehead, and the deer demon’s eyes jerked forward again to stare down the barrel of the holy gun. If his heart was pounding faster at the idea of dying in a way similar to his human self, he was glad Vox was too busy gloating to notice. If he listened hard enough, Alastor worried he might even hear dogs baying in the distance.

“Well,” Vox sneered, voice resonating louder than the ringing in Alastor’s skull, “it’s really no surprise that things turned out this way. I think we both knew I’d win in the end. You’re obsolete; old news.” His sneer curled up into a wider grin as he pulled the hammer back with a click. Alastor heard screams of protest. “You always did manage to get on my nerves, even before you decided you were too good for me.” Liar. “Anyways… hope you enjoy your time in the Void, Al!” Alastor watched his finger tighten on the trigger, unable to move, until his world exploded in deafening noise, blinding white light, and unimaginable pain. Then everything stopped.

Darkness.

Silence.

Pain where it wasn’t supposed to be.

His chest, he knew, would feel like it was on fire, but he didn’t think his arms were supposed to burn or his stomach feel like it was caving in or his heart feel like it was exploding out of his ribcage. Why did he have to die in the most violent ways? He was dying, wasn’t he? That’s what this had to be- he was dying all over again- because his lungs weren’t filled with liquid, but he couldn’t breathe, his head wasn’t bleeding from a bullet wound and yet his skull was filled with cotton, and his face was wet with something that was salty, that wasn’t sticky like blood.

Alastor’s eyes were wide open, but he couldn’t see anything, why couldn’t he see, what was wrong with him- his feverish gaze dragged itself down and hardly registered the crimson on crimson, the crimson on black, the blood dotting the ground around him, staining the void with brief flashes of color. His nose crinkled at the intense smell of iron pervading the air. His ears flattened against his head in an attempt to rid himself of the sound of nothing, then of ragged gasps that it took too long to realize were coming from him.

A sharp twinge in his arm directed his disjointed attention back down, where he paled at the sight of his claws buried deep in the limbs. Punctures and gashes littered the entirety of his arms, likely the source of the crimson pooling beneath his trembling frame, and his skin was utterly ravaged at the unintended self-abuse. He yanked his claws out, – he didn’t whimper – and fixed them around his stomach. He still couldn’t breathe.

He tried to take a deeper breath, but his lungs weren’t taking in air right.

Force the air out. He couldn’t die again, could he?

Take it in. He was already dead; he couldn’t die again.

O-out. He wouldn’t die, but his chest hurt so much.

I-In- in. He needed to calm down.

O-Out. He would be fine, he just needed to calm down.

In. All he had to do was release the vice-like grip he had on himself.

Out. Slowly, bit by bit, his muscles untensed.

In. His spine uncurled; his arms relaxed.

Like a wire snapping the tension fled Alastor’s body, letting him go limp. He could’ve cried at the deep breath that forced sweet sweet air into his lungs. He lay there for an undetermined amount of time, just breathing until the ache in his chest subsided to a tolerable level, praying he didn’t suddenly forget how to breathe again. He hated feeling like a prisoner to his own body whenever this happened, and he still had no Lucifer-forsaken idea what ‘this’ even was.

The deer demon didn’t get to dwell on his racing thoughts long as exhaustion slammed back into him, pressing him further into the ground and turning his limbs to iron. He blinked half-lidded eyes, struggling to keep them open. Finally loosening the death grip on his arms, his claws fell limp to the ground while he curled up tighter.

Okay. Perhaps lying wasn’t the best thing to do to himself, considering his… less than ample mental state. Despite the fact that there was no one to be confident for, he didn’t let his smile falter, keeping it determinedly in place if not as small as it could be.

Maybe he was ready to concede that the others at the hotel had cared about him entirely. Had really cared, unlike his father who he hope would have a worse existence in Hell than him, or Vox who had happily put a knife in his back more than once. Letting his eyes finally slide shut, ignoring the tears streaming down his face, Alastor ran his tongue over his lips to taste the salt and winced even at that. Not being able to eat was really beginning to affect his tolerance for anything that had the slightest taste. He was from Louisiana, where everything had flavor and spice and now, he wouldn’t ever be able to enjoy that again.

Alastor found himself crying more and more frequently, and he hated it, but there wasn’t anything he could do about these ridiculous, unwanted emotions. He couldn’t stop his heart from aching when thoughts of Charlie’s beaming acceptance forced their way into his mind. Thoughts of Vaggie’s fiery protectiveness, Husk’s begrudging companionship, Niffty’s utter adoration, Angel’s fierce loyalty. What was the point of this? Was he supposed to feel bad for the things he’d done? Was he supposed to repent for his sins here?

It isn’t fair, he thought, even as another sob burst unbidden from between his clenched teeth. Even if Alastor was sorry, he couldn’t do a thing about it. His hands shifted to grab at his ears and pulled until the ache travelled into his skull. He was just so tired. So hungry. So weak.

How pathetic was he, falling apart at the slightest hint of loneliness? At the ravenous feeling tearing him apart? At one point would’ve argued that he was better than this, but the last few moments made it clear that he wasn’t. His skin was too tight, pulled taut over his ribs, over his protruding spine. Every bone poked out and he could feel it. Even his shirt was beginning to hang over his already lanky frame. It was nothing compared to the cavern in his stomach or the throbbing in his heart, but he wouldn’t be enjoying the rest of his eternity alone.

The only relief to be had was that Alastor might be drained enough to sleep instead of thinking until his head hurt more than it already did. With a quieter huff he scrubbed away the offending tears and brought his hands back down to curl against his chest. His coat would have made him more comfortable, but he’d lost it… quite a while ago.

It didn’t matter, he hummed, forcing his breaths to even out and pushing the pain to the back of his mind. Sleep wouldn’t be better, exactly – he always woke up looking like a deer in the headlights – but he might at least have a clearer head.

The static within him finally settled to a softer, soothing white noise. Alastor let a sigh of relief escape as his thoughts quieted with it, and he was unconscious in a matter of seconds.

When Alastor awoke, it wasn’t sudden or with a humiliating cry threatening to break free. His mind was sluggish, and his limbs were slow to respond so he could assume his sleep had been interrupted, but that was ridiculous considering there was nothing here to interrupt it! He shifted to sit up, a twinge from his arms jolting him into a more wakeful state. Letting out a soft groan at the more insistent ache from his chest, he sat upright, still feeling exceptionally confused.

“What in the nine circles,” he grumbled, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Alastor had been sure he was exhausted enough to sleep without disruptions for once in his time in the Void, so what could possibly have woken him up?

He knew he was more sensitive and aware of his surroundings, but why would something different be happening now? Claws shifted to grip at his arms as his ears perked and swiveled, though he wasn’t expecting to hear anything besides the familiar silence that staled the air-

“Alastor?!”

His whole body jerked, ears flattening against his head as he scrambled to turn around. Alastor’s breathing stuttered. It felt like a punch knocked the air from his lungs when he turned around and locked eyes with the last demon he’d expected to see.

“…what happened to you…?”

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carrotcouple · 4 years

Link

@candy-crackpot, I was your gifter for the Laven Gift Exchange organized by @lavenlovers!! I am so honored to have been able to work on this for you! I hope you like it!

It’s freezing when Allen wakes up. He can barely feel his toes and he realizes they’re sticking out of the blanket. Whining under his breath, Allen pulls his feet back under the blanket, trying to find that deliciously warm position he had been in a couple of minutes ago. He can’t find it. And it’s because his boyfriend is not there for him to press his freezing toes against. Allen grumbles. He doesn’t want to open his eyes. If he opens them he won’t be able to go back to sleep.

Hoping to coax his boyfriend back to his side, Allen whines loudly. But after making extremely discontent noises for five minutes and absolutely no sign of Lavi, Allen mutters pathetically into his pillow and then sits up, his hair sticking out awkwardly.

The room is empty, but he sees a shadow out on the veranda. Allen sighs, grabs his socks and gloves and his exorcist uniform before shuffling out of the room and onto the veranda. Lavi is sitting there, his eyes distant as he stares at the immense expanse of snow stretched out in front of them. Allen thinks he remembers Lavi saying something about how it was snowing last night. Lavi is holding a notebook close to himself, scribbled lines in almost illegible handwriting there. His cheeks are red, kissed by the cold. He looks like he’s a part of the scenery, something Allen shouldn’t touch.

Lavi blinks and then turns to look at Allen.

“Allen,” Lavi murmurs and then he breaks out into a smile, shattering the detached feeling. “Good morning, did you sleep well?”

“What are you doing out here? It’s cold,” Allen says, frowning. To be fair, it’s hardly cold in his exorcist uniform. Allen has no idea what Komui does, but it works brilliantly.

“It just looks pretty,” Lavi says, jumping to his feet and shutting his notebook. Tim shoots out of the room and knocks straight into Allen’s head. Allen lets out a noise of surprise, slipping and then he pitches into the snow sideways.

“Tim!” Allen cries out indignantly, sitting up and covered in a layer of fresh snow. He’s officially ruined the untouchable feeling of the snow. And Lavi is laughing. At him. Allen narrows his eyes, takes a handful of snow, packing it into a crudely and hurriedly made snowball and smacks Lavi in the face, successfully shutting him up. Tim shoots down into the snow, creating a tiny path for himself.

Lavi sputters, wiping snow off his face.

“OK, you started it,” Lavi says. That’s all the warning Allen gets before Lavi jumps off the veranda and onto Allen, practically shoving Allen into the knee deep snow. Allen squawks and then pushes Lavi off of himself and rolls to the side, kicking himself up to his feet to attack with handfuls of snow. Lavi shrieks and starts shoveling snow at Allen with his arms.

It’s like they’re playing in water instead of snow.

Allen is glad that the small inn they stayed in for the night was clearly not awake yet.

Lavi’s golem is still inside the room, so Allen doesn’t need to pretend to be the responsible one and tell Lavi they need to head back to headquarters soon since they’ve finished their mission.

A foot slams into Allen’s chest and he goes back down into the snow, Lavi on top of him, screaming in mad delight. He’s saying something about how Allen let his guard down, but Allen can barely hear anything through all the crunching and wet noises of the snow Lavi is pushing down onto him.

Allen clicks his tongue, his left arm twitching and then Crowned Clown is all around him, pushing Lavi away and effortlessly helping him get rid of any snow on him.

“Cheating!” Lavi shouts. “Using your innocence is cheating!”

Allen grins cheekily.

“Oh? But you already knew I was a cheater,” Allen says, with an amused glint in his eyes.

“Crowned Clown is too much of an advantage!” Lavi snaps.

“How about you focus less on complaining and more on-” Allen uses Crowned Clown to help him gather snow, “-defending yourself!” Allen yells. Crowned Clown is indeed too much of an advantage. It helps him create a relentless barrage of snow balls. Lavi is shouting indiscernible things at him as he dodges, hurriedly attempting to build a wall of snow to protect himself.

“You wanna fight?” Lavi shouts from behind his flimsy snow wall.

“Oh?” Allen cackles. “Can you do that?”

The next moment an insane amount of snow is flung in Allen’s direction.

“Wha-” Allen uses Crowned Clown to move, but still manages to get smacked in the shoulder. He turns to look at Lavi who has his lips pressed together, a fierce look in his eyes. He’s using his hammer as a glorified giant shovel and catapult.

“Aren’t you trying too hard?” Allen asks.

“Aren’t you just getting scared?” Lavi quips back.

Allen decides not to dignify that with an answer and instead starts throwing more snow in Lavi’s direction. Lavi is more nimble with his hammer in his hands, using it both as a shield, a sword and a means of dodging.

“Stay still!” Allen says.

“How about no?” And then Lavi is hurtling in Allen’s direction. Allen startles, taken aback by the sudden change in attack and hesitates to use Crowned Clown for just a moment. That moment is all Lavi needs. His body crashes into Allen’s and they’re both falling into the snow. Lavi is laughing happily before Allen can think to attack with more snow.

Lavi seems content to just lie there with Allen in his arms so Allen stays still, his chest rumbling with a pleased chuckle.

“Are you cold?” Lavi asks Allen.

Not really.

“A little,” Allen says.

Lavi’s arms tighten around Allen and he dips his head down to kiss him. Allen hums and kisses Lavi back. Lavi buries his hands into the hair near his neck, deepening the kiss and stroking Allen’s nape with cold fingers. Allen’s skin breaks into goosebumps at his touch. He raises his arms to wrap them around Lavi, Crowned Clown deactivated.

It’s nice.

Just the two of them in the middle of some tiny nearly forgotten town in a hardly mentioned European country, surrounded by nothing but snow, sleeping trees and the rustle of a barely there breeze.

It’s easy to forget everything.

Allen puts their responsibilities and roles on the backshelf of his mind and indulges himself in Lavi - something they regularly can’t do.

Allen’s feels stupidly warm now, and that makes Lavi’s hands feel colder. But he ignores it in favor of kissing Lavi harder, shifting in the snow and digging his fingers into Lavi’s neck. Lavi gets colder far more easily than Allen does, but he has the habit of ignoring that feeling. Allen breaks away from the kiss for a moment to press kisses against Lavi’s jaw.

Then Tim rises up from the snow, clearly having been forgotten and spits out snow on their heads.

“Gah! Tim!” Lavi shrieks as snow goes down his collar. Allen sits up, pushing Lavi up with him. Lavi is cursing under his breath as he tries to scoop the snow up from his back.

“That’s Tim saying we should get a move on,” Allen laughs.

“Ugh, fine,” Lavi mutters. Lavi stands up and then helps Allen up. They try to dust snow off of themselves and fail to do so, so they simply track snow back into their room. Lavi’s golem is waiting there for them and they finally hear sounds of people in the inn waking up. Allen towels his hair and searches for a new pair of socks he could wear.

“Lavi, you’ve left something here,” Allen notices a small pouch that definitely wasn’t his by his bag on the floor.

“Hm?” Lavi leans over to look and his eyes widen. “Ah!” Lavi quickly snatches it up from the floor. “I hope it hasn’t gotten damaged,” he opens the pouch to peer in.

“What is it?” Allen asks.

“Do you want to see it?” Lavi asks with a knowing grin.

“No, absolutely not,” Allen says immediately.

“Aw, no need to be so reserved,” Lavi leans against Allen, arm on his shoulder.

“I’m not being reserved. I am genuinely uninterested,” Allen deadpans.

“This just so happens to be,” Lavi continues, ignoring Allen, “for you!”

“Huh?” Allen blinks. “Me?” he asks skeptically.

“Yes, for you!” Lavi opens the pouch fully so that Allen can see it. There’s a small earring there. It’s a dangly chain of sorts with a sphere at the bottom engraved with words from a language that Allen doesn’t recognize.

“An...earring,” Allen says as Lavi pushes it into his hands.

“Yes! I noticed even though your ears are pierced, you don’t wear anything. I wondered if there was a deep reason for that, but then you wore the radio device from the Asia Branch just fine,” Lavi says.

“I just...never thought of picking out jewelry for myself,” Allen picks the earring out of the pouch and notices how pretty it is. “I wore earrings for a job just before I joined the order and for some reason I’ve maintained the holes…”

“Well, know you can wear this!” Lavi nods, looking satisfied.

“Why?” Allen asks.

“Why wear the earring?” Lavi looks confused. “Why wouldn’t you wear the earring?”

“No...why would you buy something for me?” Allen asks. They’re not the gift giving kind of couple. They buy food for each other every now and then, but that was it.

“Hm,” Lavi scratches at his chin with his finger, something Allen knows him to do when he’s flustered. “Well, today so happens to be one year since the day we met,”

Allen remembers that day well. It was snowing outside, his left eye was barely healing, he had faced the demons with a new resolve thanks to Lavi.

“That’s something,” Allen murmurs, suddenly the gift seems to have much more meaning. It makes him feel...happy that Lavi would remember something as trivial as they day they first met. It wasn’t a monumental moment in their relationship. They had just simply, somehow managed to click together so easily on that first day, it felt like Allen had known Lavi all along. “I don’t remember the date at all.”

“Well, it’s a Bookman’s job to remember these things,” Lavi reminds him.

“Guess I’m the one that’s going to forget all our anniversaries,” Allen chuckles.

(Neither of them comment on the fact that they may not live long enough or last long enough to see those anniversaries together.)

“No worries, I’ll just remind you!” Lavi grins. “Anyways, we need to pack up and be on our way or Komui’ll nag at us!”

“We don’t want that,” Allen rolls his eyes. He leans up to kiss Lavi on the mouth lightly before going back to searching for dry socks.

------o------

#sunny writes #lavengiftexchange2020 #lavi bookman #lavi #allen walker #dgm #d gray man #d.gray man #let's pretend link is staying in a completely different room for this fic #a far away room

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luckyspike · 5 years

Text

An Absolute Menace - A Good Omens fanfiction

behold and lo for i have heard your cries for a sequel to the whole Crowley is a twitch streamer story

and i have written this monstrosity (4k words)

have fun enjoy

(credit to BrownMan and LetsPlay, without whose playthroughs I never would have been able to accomplish this level of detail since i do not own the game or requisite gaming system)

2000 hours GMT: Stream time.

There is only one problem tonight, and that problem is that Crowley, retired demon and part-time Twitch streamer, has lost his voice. Oh, certainly, he could miracle his vocal cords back to health, soothe the inflammation brought on by an entire afternoon screaming at Manchester the day prior, no problem. But that would remove his excuse to look forlorn while Aziraphale brewed yet another pot of honey-infused tea, and more importantly, would negate his entire strategy for the stream tonight.

If asked directly, he would deny that he had intentionally screamed exceptionally loudly the day prior. That would be an outright lie but, well, demon.

“Come on, angel,” he wheedles hoarsely, over the rim of a steaming mug of tea. “Please?”

“I don’t know the first thing about video games, dear boy.” Aziraphale maneuvers the mug away from Crowley for a second, long enough to deposit a dollop of honey into the mug and stir it in. “I don’t understand why you don’t just fix it for yourself. Really, frivolous miracles aren’t exactly something we should be worried about anymore -”

A memory swims to the forefront of Crowley’s brain, and he slumps. Tries to look pathetic. Aziraphale is better at it, always, but Crowley is fairly competent when he needs to be. “It’s not the same,” he manages. He sounds absolutely pathetic, and his voice cracks pitifully at the end. “It doesn’t work the same.” He sips the tea - too much honey for him, it mingles unpleasantly with the ever-present taste of ash, but it does feel good going down. “Come on, angel, I’ll pick a really easy game. Just tonight. Please?”

Aziraphale watches him for a moment. Frowns thoughtfully. Sips his own tea. “You planned this.”

“I did not.” He sets the mug down, sprawls across the counter, and looks up at Aziraphale, eyes wide and pleading. “Please, Aziraphale. It’ll be on the Switch, nice and easy, I’ll sit right next to you the whole time in case you need help. I can’t do a three-hour talking thing tonight.”

“Hm.” He purses his lips. Takes another sip of tea. “You’ll owe me.”

“Absolutely. Anything you want. Baked goods, rare books … I’ll even go to the opera, if you want. One whole night, not a word out of me, just respectful and quiet.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” It is an agreement, and the angel sets his own mug down, the better to straighten his bow tie. “You swear it’ll be an easy game, yes?”

“Cross my heart,” says Crowley, solemn. “It’s about animals. You like animals.”

“I do, rather.”

Aziraphale sits, awkwardly, in Crowley’s usual chair in front of the bank of monitors in the den while Crowley fiddles with a few things on the computer. He hands Aziraphale the controller, briefs him on the buttons (“Right, move with that thing, yeah just push it around, you’ll figure it out, and your right hand has all the little letter buttons”), and then, after affirming that they’re both ready for whatever Crowley has in store, starts the stream.

He starts, as he always does, with the introduction: “Hey guys, welcome to the stream, I’m your host AJ, variety streamer and quite possibly the oldest streamer on Twitch*. And this is … uh, Ari Fell, he’s been in a few videos, why don’t you introduce yourself?”

[* He definitely is. By a long shot.]

Aziraphale had been in a few videos by this point, most significantly the infamous Nuzlocke run of Pokemon X, which was thrilling and captivating and ended up with both of them crying over the untimely demise of Blanche Devereux, the plucky little Diggersby that perished in the final conflict with the Elite Four. He’d been in a few others, too, and by now they have a routine down. Crowley has the same standard introduction every time, but when Aziraphale makes an appearance, he likes to mix it up.

“Yes, I’m Mr. Fell. AJ’s best friend, his eternal nemesis and your … ah, local tartan enthusiast.”

Crowley snorted. “Accurate. Anyway, as you all -” all 500 people, and counting, although Aziraphale tries immediately to banish that thought and forget that section of the monitors ever existed “- can probably tell, got a bit of a voice problem right now, not really up to a full stream, so I’ve pulled in the backup to try out a little game that’s gotten a lot of press in the past but I never got around to it. You’ll like it, s’got animals in it.” He taps a few buttons on the computer, and the game screen changes. Soothing piano music begins, and they are both bathed in the blue light of the monitor. “So this is Untitled Goose Game by House House. Now, angel -” Aziraphale ignores the deluge of heart icons that fills the chat “- you have never played this game before, correct?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“Great. So the whole point is to be a goose and complete the items on your checklist. Hit ‘begin’.” He coughs, and takes a swig of tea as the screen loads in an image of a little clearing. “Right, says ‘press Y to honk’ so press the Y button and honk.”

Honk. Aziraphale frowns. “Is this the whole game?” Honk. Honk. Honkhonkhonkhonkhonk.

“Nah, says press B to run.” Aziraphale, a little tentatively, begins to maneuver his goose avatar around the screen. He gets increasingly confident, following the tutorial as it directs him.

“Oh, wings, of course, my wings. Can I fly?”

“Nah. Grounded like the rest of us poor saps.” He grins in the face of Aziraphale’s scowl, and takes a diversionary sip of tea. Honk. “Right, through the gate, there you go, tutorial done.”

“Seems simple enough.” Aziraphale is studying the screen, thoughtful, as his goose paddles across the lake. “Now, you said a to-do list - oh! Oh, where’s the dash button? Ah, there. Yes. Excellent, alright. So first it looks like we need to get into the garden.” Crowley nods, and Aziraphale reads on. “Get the groundskeeper wet? What has the groundskeeper ever done to me?”

“Nothing. When has a goose ever needed justification for its actions?”

“Hm, yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right. ‘Steal the groundskeeper’s keys’.” He sighs. “Crowley you picked this game on purpose. You wanted to tempt me into making mayhem.”

Crowley is laughing. “I did,” he confirms. “Oh, definitely, definitely did.”

“Right, well, I suppose it’s just a video game.” He straightens up a little. “And I am a goose. They’re practically agents of chaos in their own right anyhow, so nothing lost.” Crowley is laughing and coughing in the background, curled up in his chair with his free arm around his knees. “Very well. ‘Make the groundskeeper wear his sun hat.’ That one’s not so bad. ‘Rake in a lake’ … well rakes are waterproof so - oh! Have a picnic! How nice.” Crowley does not agree, mostly because he is too busy laughing.

“I suppose I’ll start with the nicer ones.” He leaves the to-do list, and starts wandering around in the game. “Is there a way into the garden? Perhaps if I get on top of these bags. Is that a radio?” Crowley giggles, although it comes out more of a whimper. “I’ll just move that. I say! Bagpipes!”

“I think I need this for the picnic, anyway, don’t I? Where do I go to find the blanket?” He runs around for a minute, radio playing some kind of bagpipe rendition. Honk. “Argh!” The groundskeeper appears from stage right, and begins to pursue the goose. “No, I need this! No, it’s mine now!” The goose swims into the lake. “Hah! Mine. No!” The groundskeeper pursues him, and the goose drops the radio. “No, I took that!” Honk. Honk honk. The goose pursues the groundskeeper now, and snatches the radio back out of his hand, turning and escaping hurriedly into the pond. “Haha! Catch me now!” The goose paddles across the pond, escaping under the bridge. When he crosses under the bridge, the groundskeeper turns back, defeated. “Crow - AJ, look! I got the radio!”

“Yeah.” Crowley is wheezing, curled up in the chair, the tea safely stashed on the nearest plant stand. “Good job, buddy, you got it.”

“Did you see him chase me into the pond? The cheek. I did mark off the ‘get the groundskeeper wet’ item though.” On-screen, the goose is wandering around, tinny music blasting from the radio. “Now if I could only find the blanket …” He looks happily surprised. “Aha, but he opened the garden gate!” The goose waddles toward the gate, when suddenly the groundskeeper appears from the garden, summoned by the siren song of his radio. “No! No, not again!” Honkhonkhonkhonk. The goose, once again, flees into the pond and under the bridge. “Give up already, you stupid man!”

“I’m dying,” Crowley gasps hoarsely in the background. “I’m actually dying.”

“Where’s the blanket?” Aziraphale is coming as close as he ever does to snarling. “I have never in all my years had to work this hard to have a picnic!”

Crowley is clutching his sides. “That makes one of us,” he manages, before lounging back in the chair and coughing, face aching from laughing. “Oh I’m gonna die.”

“When have you had to put in this much effort for a picnic?” Aziraphale grouses, before he brightens when he spots the plaid picnic blanket. “Ha! Got it!”

“Oh, I dunno, basically from ‘You go too fast for me’ until about three years ago.” Honk. The goose freezes because Aziraphale has whipped around in his chair, the better to glare at Crowley.

“Dear boy.”

“You asked,” he says, before he dissolves into giggles again. “Go on, you have to finish the picnic.”

Honk. “We’ll discuss this later.”

“I imagine we will.” Crowley lunges forward, taps a button on the keyboard, and leans in close to Aziraphale, smarmy grin plastered on his face. “Love you, you’re pretty.”

“There’s a microphone -”

“Muted it.”

“... You’re an absolute nightmare.”

“And you’ve got 600 people watching you pretend to be a goose.” He jerks his head toward the computer. “Game on, angel.” The button is tapped again, the microphone live again. “Sorry, technical difficulties, nothing to see here. How’s the picnic going?”

Gradually, the items for the picnic are assembled. Aziraphale, as the groundskeeper goes on chasing him, becomes more antagonistic. “I’m going to steal this crate just because I can.” He gasps. “A goose hole!”

“A goose hole!” Crowley wheezes behind him. “Yes, a goose hole! Get his keys and throw them in the pond!”

By the time the to-do list updates with ‘make the groundskeeper hit his thumb with a hammer’, Aziraphale has fully embraced his bastard side and is more than eager to honk with prejudice. The second phase of the game is worse: the shopkeeper that continuously chases him away with a broom becomes the fully-realized subject of his ire, and Aziraphale pursues her with all the determination of a spiteful avenging angel. When the challenge comes to lock her in the garage, he complies with gusto, even confining her beyond the required instance.

“You stay in there you hateful creature,” he grumbles, as the door once again comes down and entraps her. “Forever.”

“You bastard,” Crowley snickers in the background. “You’re brilliant.”

When he proceeds to the third portion of the game, he waddles straight into the meticulously-kept garden of the older gentleman reading his newspaper. Honk! “This is the next twenty minutes of your life, sir, dreadfully sorry, but I’m sure you’ll do something in the next fifteen seconds to absolve me of guilt.”

The man does not, truthfully, do anything to make Aziraphale feel less guilty about stealing his slippers, his hat, and the rest of his possessions, although the woman next door with the painting is annoying enough with her constant fence repairs that the angel is able to alleviate some of his guilt by mis-directing his frustration with her to the man. After he accomplishes the ‘do the washing’ task, the two of them watch in amused fascination as the man tries to throw the woman’s bra back over the fence and misses, repeatedly.

“I spent eight pounds on this game,” Crowley observes. His voice is barely-audible at this point, between the laughing and the occasional instructions to the angel. “What a spectacular physics engine.”

“Is that a lot for a game?”

“It is a criminally low amount to charge for this game.” The man again fails at throwing the bra at the fence. “Can you imagine if we walked outside one day and saw our neighbors doing this?” His eyes widen. “What if you could possess a goose and instigate all this in real life?”

“Can demons possess geese?” Aziraphale has moved on, and is dragging the woman’s duck statue away so that he can impersonate it and get dressed up with a ribbon.

“Nah. Geese are already demonic - too much evil for one soul, probably explode. Or become a Mega-Goose and destroy the world.” He looks thoughtful. “I hope demons can’t possess geese.”

“Mm.” The woman fastens the bow on his neck, and Aziraphale beams. Honk! The woman falls down. “Look how dapper he looks with the ribbon!” He flees, through the hole in the fence, and into the next zone. Crowley groans, nearly silently. He checks his watch.

“Angel, you’ve been going for three hours. You want to save this for later?” If Aziraphale hears him, he doesn’t acknowledge it, instead studying the to-do list.

“‘Make the old man fall on his bum’ … Mhmm. Let’s do that one first.”

“Oy.” Crowley slouches forward, his hands folded and resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You’ve been going three hours. You can call it and finish the game next stream, if you want.”

Aziraphale turns to him, brow furrowed, entirely incredulous. “Dear boy, you can’t possibly be serious. This town is absolutely discriminating against fine, upstanding geese -” Crowley lets his forehead fall onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, his own skinny shoulders once again shaking with laughter, “and I will not rest until I’ve put them all into their place.” Honk. “Now go get yourself some more tea, you sound dreadful.”

“Don’t break the computer.”

“I won’t.”

When the demon returns with a fresh mug, the typical honking of the goose has been replaced by a frantic off-key harmonica. “Serves you right for playing such an appalling instrument! Stop chasing me!” Crowley adds a slug of honey to the tea out of the plastic bear-shaped container, and relaxes back into his chair.

“What’re you doing now?”

“I’m going to make this man fall on his bum,” Aziraphale announces. “Hang on, wait for it …” The old man in the game starts to sit on the little stool, and Aziraphale directs the goose to snatch the seat out from under him. “Take that!” The character drops his harmonica too, and the goose snatches it up, waddling away and tooting through the infernal instrument relentlessly. “Mr. Fell strikes again!”

Crowley puts his face in his hand, although he is grinning from ear-to-ear. “You’re a madman. You’ve gone mad with power.”

“Goose power,” Aziraphale agrees. “Nearly god-like.”

Crowley winces. “Careful,” he rasps. “Not that I don’t love the hubris but … you know.”

“Tell me it’s not.” He drops a bucket onto another man’s head, and then cackles as the man falls into a full box of tomatoes. The back of his trousers are splattered with tomato. “He’ll never get that stain out. It’d take a miracle.” Crowley snorts.

The most thrilling part, by far, is probably supposed to be the end of the game. The stealthy lift of the beautiful golden bell, and the sneaking back to the goose’s den where the bell is to be deposited to join its fellows. Crowley imagines that if he were to be the one playing it, he would be sneaking through, crouching all the while, waiting around corners for people to be distracted before slinking by with the bell, careful not to make a sound.

But Crowley is not playing, and never before, he thinks, has the difference between a celestial soldier and an infernal demon of temptation and subtlety been so stark. Aziraphale seizes the bell, honks triumphantly, actually out loud with his mouth yells the word ‘Honk’, and takes off through the town. “The goose is loose, catch me if you can, suckers!” Crowley has just enough time to put his tea down on the plant stand before he is overcome with laughter once again, doubling over and spilling onto the floor. “It’s my bell now!”

He makes it all the way through the pub and into the garden of the poor neighbors before the first bell-theft occurs. The painter catches up to him as he drops the bell to destroy the desk, and Aziraphale squeaks in indignation. “No! No, I worked hard for that!” He tugs the bell back away from the painter, and makes a bid for the desk. She catches up to him.

“No! No, you won’t - just drop it, I’m taking it, you can’t stop me!” She snatches the bell again, and begins to walk away. “You’ll be the first to fall under my vengeance!” The goose waddles to the larger bell in the garden, and a resounding bong distracts the painter from her task. The goose, once again, grabs the bell from her hand and hurries over the desk, across the fence. “Hah! Thwarted!”

“You showed her,” Crowley wheezes from his place on the floor, where he has resolved himself to watching the finale upside-down. “Go, angel, go!”

“You’ll never take me alive!” His eyes widen. “Oh, no the shopkeeper. We’re going to have to get past the shopkeeper. She’s atrocious.”

“Just run?”

“She’s fast. She’s wily.” He frowns. “Oh, this part would be perfect for you, dear boy - I’m sure you’d slip past her without any trouble.”

“Oh, indubitably, but you’re the one playing. Just try sneaking.”

He tries to sneak. Probably. It’s a terrible attempt, and the shopkeeper is alerted to the goose with the golden bell soon enough, giving chase. Aziraphale flees, straight into a dead-end. “No! No, you abominable woman that’s mine, that’s -” Honkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonk. The woman knocks the bell from the goose’s beak. “Assault! Thief! Stop!” Honkhonkhonkhonk. He nips the bell from her hands and runs. “Later loser!”

The groundskeeper, for all the consternation he caused early in the game, does not present much of a problem. Aziraphale darts past him, bell jangling, honking madly, and swims briskly across the pond to his base in the little glade. Proudly, honkhonkhonk, he proceeds to the gulley where a good five-plus bells are already deposited. He drops the bell. Crowley claps.

“Angel! You beat a video game!”

Aziraphale throws his hands up in victory. “I’m the greatest goose in the world!” He turns to Crowley, who also has thrown his hands in the air in celebration, and slaps him with a high-five hard enough to nearly dislocate the demon’s elbow. “The town surely has been taught the error of their ways.”

“Yep, you showed them. You’re a bloody menace.” The game tinkles out another piano riff, and they glance at the screen. “Oh, there’s more.”

“Is there?” But the angel is already studying the task list. “‘Make the boy fall into a puddle’ - oh, I’m certainly doing these.” Crowley has since slithered back up into his chair, and is sipping at his tea, the better to soothe his voice which, after the laughter Aziraphale induced with his bell escape, is essentially completely gone. Aziraphale pats him on the knee. “I’ll play off-stream, though, Cr - AJ. I wouldn’t want to steal your time.”

Crowley shakes his head, and points to the chat stream. Aziraphale looks, and then smiles. ‘No, on stream!’ seems to be the overwhelming sentiment, accompanied by various pictographs and variations on ‘Nooooo more Fell!! More Fell!’ “Oh, you’re all much too kind.” Hearts explode in the chat. “Oh, my.” He turns to Crowley the better to disguise the flush in his cheeks. “I suppose I did alright, then?”

Crowley nods, encouragingly, and then gestures to the computer. “Sign off and end the stream,” he whispers, with a heavy element of hissing. Aziraphale considers that if they hadn’t known each other for so long, he might not have understood him. Crowley waves a hand again, as if shooing Aziraphale toward the computer screen, and he turns back around, suddenly unsure of what to say in the face of the camera.

“Ah. Very well. I suppose that’s all for tonight. I … I’m afraid I don’t remember what you usually say at the end, dear.” He looks to Crowley, who shrugs. “I suppose I could make up my own. Ah …” He thinks about it, and then smiles, peaceful and content. “Thank you for staying, I hope you had a nice time. Be kind to one another.” He turns, nods to Crowley, and the demon nods back, leans forward, and taps the stream off.

“Did I do alright?” Aziraphale asks, as soon as the screen showing the viewers’ perspective goes dark. Behind him, Crowley tosses his sunglasses onto the plant stand next to his mug.

“You were perfect. Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No, it was … fun.” He looks toward the computer. “What nights do you usually do this?”

Crowley swallows, the better to make his voice at least somewhat audible. “Well, tomorrow’s one, typically. And I doubt I’ll be up to a full stream even in 24 hours …”

“Perfect. Back to Goose Town, then.”

“Back to Goose Town.” He grabs his mug off the plant stand, takes a slow, meditative drink, and watches Aziraphale for a minute, yellow eyes fixed on blue. “You can really be a bastard sometimes, you know it?”

“Yes, but as a goose I am absolved of my actions by virtue of being a goose. It’s just goose-driven mischief.”

“True.” Crowley sighs, and leans into the angel, eyes closing, at peace. “I still like it.”

“You would.” Aziraphale idly runs his fingers through the demon’s hair, and sighs as well, equally content. “So I’ll play again tomorrow. And then …?”

“Well, if you don’t finish, you can take another day, too.” He shrugs. “You want to do another one?”

Aziraphale considers it. “Are there … games for two people?”

“Oh? Oh, yeah. Loads.” He coughs. “Bunch of ‘em.”

“Without a lot of murder?”

“Yep.” He is quiet for a long time, and Aziraphale thinks he must have fallen asleep like that, slouched up against Aziraphale’s shoulder, mug of tea nestled loosely between his knees. Aziraphale is considering how he will take him to bed; last time he tried to carry him in a bridal carry, and he tripped over the rug in the hall and dropped the demon, who promptly turned into a snake and hid under the couch for twelve hours. He figures he will start with the tea, and inches his hand toward the mug, before it spills. Unexpectedly, Crowley stirs, and takes another gulp of tea. “You think you might like a game about farming?”

“Farming?” He hums thoughtfully. “Maybe. I’m sure if it’s with you, I’ll enjoy it.”

“Maybe we can do that one next, then.” He blinks his eyes open and yawns. “Long as you let me organize the greenhouse. You can have the galaxy sword.”

Aziraphale smiles softly. “Might not be a good idea. I don’t have a great track record with swords.”

“Hm. True.” He shrugs. “Figure it out when we get there, I suppose.”

#good omens #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #in which crowley is a twitch streamer and aziraphale is a good sport #goose omens #mbmbam references #crowley #aziraphale #i wish i didn't enjoy fanfiction so much #untitled goose game

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talesfromtheindigoghost · 5 years

Text

Good Intentions: Entry 4

The noise ringing through my mind was like trying to tell someone you were on the phone with about a movie, only to get tired of explaining and just held the phone up to the TV.

Screams of the thing in front of me’s regret rang through my skull, a hateful symphony of slammed doors and shattered lives pounding to the melody of a poorly tuned violin accompanying a macabre dance. Every demon I had imagined when I started shampooing my hair had made itself known to me with desperate hunger and empty hatred.

Before I could even begin to think of an appropriate way to react the thing closes the short distance from the door to the tub and sends me slamming against the freezing cold porcelain with an unintended shoulder tackle.

You ever get that moment of panic when you’re in the shower? That sudden sense of dread that convinces you that you’re about to slip and break your neck at any given moment? It’s usually inspired by dropping something or not feeling as completely sure footed as you expected to in that half a moment that feels exactly like leaning too far back in your chair and realizing you’re teetering over the edge.

My inspiration let out a horrifying and meaty screech as flecks of toxic bile and tar flew out of its dish water oatmeal mouth. An uncomfortably thick and hot mound of quivering mush violently ripped open, only to clamp down just as suddenly onto my shoulder. The dull pressure shocked me far more than any tooth or claw ever could, the thing’s obsessive jaw, or what’s passing for it, suddenly becoming a gross tourniquet as it kept me pinned against the wall.

I have no idea who I’m so furious with, whose very existence drags me to the depths of hell and its boiling lakes of rage. I can feel every bit of the thing that used to be someone’s grudge, every idle thought of dark violence or worse tightens its inhuman vice grip as I let out my own howling screaming. I hear the bone in my arm splinter before I start to feel it a solid moment later.

The radio static in my skull hisses louder, an ear piercing electronic squeal resonates through my mind until the picture comes into the view. I can hear the person this thing used to be sobbing into a glass of water after their final meal. I can taste all of the chemicals and poisons the water washes down. I can feel myself swallowing my own hatred, seething from the very depths of my soul that my death poisons someone else with regret.

The crushing creaking of my arm snaps me back to reality with a sickening pop. I hear something heavy and wet slap against the edge of the tub.

I’ve been through a lot of physical traumas in my life. Fifty times back and forth, after all, I would say it’s downright reasonable to assume I have. They were always relatively quick and painless. Slow and quiet. The kinds of things your mind doesn’t like to let itself dwell on for too long or else it’ll just ruin your day. My point is that I’ve experienced pain and shock before.

I’ve never experienced losing an arm.

I don’t care for that shit one bit, now that I think about it.

We scream together, the noises blurring together with the crashing red river pouring out of where my arm used to be. I found myself lost in that indescribable haze of death I had gotten so familiar with over the years. Blindly feeling my way through the darkness and confusion of being confronted by the monsters of our mistakes, like a starving beast that stumbled into the open back door of a butcher’s shop during payday.

Whoever the person this thing used to be had died alone. I know his life story the moment I sink my teeth into its neck in sheer desperation. His poisonous entitlement flood my mouth with tar and the deep, hateful taste of his woeful sexual frustration. I chew through waterlogged grey flesh covering my prize, the demon’s intruding desires to flay and gnash the skin of the women that denied him.

I feel everything within me become violent disgust. I live through every excruciating moment of the person this thing used to be’s life and turn around to see reality coming to splash ice water down my exposed spine. I experience the sensation of being a monster. I feel the warm blood pour over me as I end lives after I’ve violated them. I feast on their fear as they beg me for mercy. I grow drunk on the power of denying it. I crave more, I demand more. I deserve more. They should be grateful that I they had the opportunity to make me feel good.

I feel my pride and power melt away as I read the letter from someone who knows what I am.

I realize that even in death this monster can’t help but violate people.

My stomach growls and I remember my hunger.

I bite through the thin, pathetically weak vine of black licorice and feel its entire body go limp and slide away from me. The haze of death lifts like rain clouds after a storm and lets the shining sun and rainbows of euphoria fill me with an inner sense of peace and balance as I understand that this accursed demon will no longer torment the innocent.

It felt great, right up until I noticed that I was being pulled down by the dissolving blackened carcass that no longer pinned me up against the tiles. It took me half a moment to understand that I no longer had an arm to catch myself before I fall and break my neck on the side of the bath tub.

I close my eyes as the second half of the moment is spent accepting what was about to happen.

I never remember how I get here. Not at first, at least.

It’s always the same, yet it feels like it’s the first time this has ever happened.

At least, I thought so at first. I’m not alone this time. The person that thing used to be had taken its place on the ground beside me, both of us climbing to our feet in front of that gaudy gated community and its obnoxiously overstated security gate.

I look up from the jarring sight of my whole, intact arm and notice that Peter is already on his walkie talkie with a look that shows he’s just as surprised to see me as I am to be here. My gut tenses, the lead weight of anger yanks my guts into my knees and spills the contents of my heart from my mouth in a bloody and furious geyser of righteous ire.

“What in the fuck are you doing here?”

I roar at the pathetic monster whose sins had just torn my arm off and broke my neck. I don’t even feel myself hesitate from marching up to Peter’s desk and slamming my fist down on top of the golden “Ring For Service” bell situated right in front of the nervous man awaiting a response on his radio.

“What in the fuck is he doing here?”

Peter stammered and fumbled over his words, his eyes darting back and forth between the monster and I in apparent confusion, weakly shirking the responsibility of an answer through halfhearted shrugs and another plead into his walkie talkie for someone to come to the gate.

I’m so insulted at the notion that this monster, this vile and unforgivable creature, is even allowed to approach what appears to be heaven. I’m so angry that I don’t even care that we’re both still completely nude and, even further unnoticed, whole and human once more.

Not even the soothing hymns floating serenely through the golden breeze, lighting up the clouds softly with its love and profound purpose could distract me from the overwhelming indignation of knowing the monster responsible for every single one of its horrific life experiences that I had been made to relive was being entertained the opportunity to plead for entry into what I can only assume is a peaceful eternity.

Peter and I were so caught up in this sudden, unexpected confrontation that neither of us had noticed the sorry excuse for what may be considered human trying to jump the shimmering gold fence. It wasn’t until I saw it wobbling and threatening to bend forward under the murderer’s weight that I understood just how flimsy and decorative the fence itself was.

Whatever either of us were about to say or do was violently interrupted by the sound of three rapid gunshots as the monster’s chest exploded outward into a spray of meaty confetti across the clouds and its head simply ceased to be.

In the blink of an eye he, and any evidence of the scene that had just unfolded vanished. Out of sight, and just as suddenly, out of mind.

I turn just in time to see a cowboy proudly slipping a golden six-shooter back into an ornate fast draw holster around his waist. He shoots me a wink and tips his ten gallon hat with a knowing grin, the ringing in my ears easing and fading into an easily dismissed memory of annoyance. It’s easy to see that Peter is just as stunned as I am at how abruptly this situation has been forcefully diffused

I find myself holding my hands up in uncertainty, an unease I don’t think I’ve ever felt in the times I’ve been here. I take a bit of comfort in seeing that I’m not the only one here that’s uncomfortable as the tall, intimidating law man steps forward with both hands resting confidently around a huge, audacious belt buckle in the shape of a shining star emblazoned with a flaming sword.

“Well howdy there, fellas.”

Peter stands up straight and adjusts his suspenders and name tag, coughing lightly in an attempt to find his bearings with a stern, yet frazzled face.

“It took you long enough. I specifically asked you to try and be here before either of them got here.”

It wasn’t hard to see how little this towering cowboy cared about punctuality with the casual, yet shockingly firm way he clapped a hand onto my shoulder in near perfect time with the gate swinging open to welcome us both.

“You and I need to have a talk about the mess you’ve got yourself into, son.” His words hit me like a series of left hooks and dazzling footwork, sending me into a stumbling stupor and making it all the easier for the strange figure with all the charisma and commanding presence of the toughest sheriff in all of the wild wild west.

I manage to break the trance for a moment as we approach another office just beyond an unrecognizable wall of clouds that the obnoxiously golden gate were built into. I can’t seem to get the words out but thankfully stopping in your tracks with an expression of confusion is fairly universal, even here.

“Right, I’m gettin’ ahead of myself. Introductions.”

Before I know it, his strong and powerful hand is gripping me in a handshake that overwhelms me with its command for respect. The kind of strength that makes a man tremble in awe and question every single one of his life choices.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, I’m a fan of your work. You can call me Michael.”

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/indigoghost ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/indigoghost twitter: https://twitter.com/theindigoghost

#Good Intentions #Horror #Fiction #horror story #writing #cw: suicide mention #cw: abuse

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mitchsmarners · 6 years

Text

say it right

summary: Working side by side with somebody for nine hours a day was bound to end in some sort of friendship. Eddie will continue to tell himself and anybody who asked this until he’s blue in the face. Because that’s all it is, and all it will ever be.

[or: Eddie and Richie work together in book cafe, and Richie is determined to turn Eddie into a coffee drinker by making him the perfect drink. And if Eddie happens to fall in love with him in the process, well then that’s just an added bonus.]

chapter count: 5/7

[1] [2] [3] [4] [Read Full Story on AO3]

Radio silence. That was the only way that Eddie could describe his current status with Richie.

It had been almost quarter to eight before Eddie had responded to the texts from Richie, the feeling of guilt in his gut and something much more painful in his chest completely overwhelming him.

To Richie Tozier @ 7:43: Richie I am so so sorry

To Richie Tozier @ 8:03: If you want we could go grab coffee or something and talk about this please

To Richie Tozier @ 8:09: I know I deserve to be ignored but please let me know that you’re okay Richie

Eddie had the next two days after his skipped date with Richie and he nearly wore a path in his living room flooring, and ignoring at least four phone calls and texts from Bill demanding to know how his date with Richie had gone. It made Eddie want to throw up, just the idea of talking to Bill and telling him what he’d done, how he’d hurt Richie. It broke Eddie down, wanting to walk down to the Brewstore and see Richie, corner him and try to talk to him or even just make sure he was okay but he everytime he got close to leaving his apartment, the burning anxiety of fear towards a fight with Richie had him running back to the safety of hiding under the blankets in bed.

Eddie almost called into work on Tuesday morning but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to afford that kind of behaviour. It seemed, of course, that he didn’t need to be afraid of anything when he caught sight of Ben opening the store. “Did I get the schedule messed up, are you supposed to open today?”

“No.” Ben said shortly, a simple, detached tone that was so different from the usual warmth in Ben Hanscom’s voice. Eddie’s stomach churned and he fidgeted with the tips of his fingers. “I’m opening for Richie.”

Eddie swallowed harshly. “Is Richie… Where’s Richie?”

Ben shot Eddie a look over his shoulder that for most people would be expressionless, but in two months of working with Ben Hanscom… Eddie knew it was a dirty look. “He went home to visit his parents. His dad picked him up two days ago.”

“He’s… gone?” Eddie asked, his own voice barely coming out. An uncomfortable expression came over Ben’s face, almost as though he was contemplating something. He looked Eddie over once, twice, three times before sighing.

“He’s not gone gone. He’ll be back.” Ben said, tone not exactly friendly but quite a bit warmer than before. “He put in emergency vacation for the week. He still has school stuff anyway.”

Eddie nodded, and followed Ben into the building. He watched Ben move towards the coffee counter but reached out to grab him on a reflex. “Ben I… I know you know what I did. I just wanted to say…”

“I like you, Eddie,” Ben interrupted, shaking his head so slightly that he might not have even been aware that he was doing it. “I think you’re a good guy, I really do, but Richie is my best friend. We have been through so much shit together, for years. And you hurt him, Eddie. You hurt him so bad he went home to his parents. He hasn’t done that since…” A dark look came over Ben but Eddie could simply tell that it wasn’t directed at him. Ben cleared his throat. “I don’t think you meant to hurt him so badly and I don’t doubt that you had your reasons. But I don’t care about those reasons- I can’t care about those reasons. The only thing I have time to care about right now is Richie and making sure that Richie is okay.”

Eddie swallowed hard and forced back the tears. “You’re a really great guy, Ben.”

Ben smiled softly. “You are, too, Eddie. And Richie will give you another chance, probably three or four of them if needed, when he’s ready. See to it that you only need one, or I won’t try to stop Bev from hurting you.” Eddie laughed, a sad and wet sound, and Ben’s smile dipped down in slight concern. “Stop looking like a kicked puppy when I’m trying to convince myself that you’re the bad guy. Please.”

“I can’t help it that I’m pathetic.” Eddie whined tearfully, wiping at his face frantically as the tears started to fall. “I’m just so pissed at myself for hurting Richie, I just… I just didn’t want anybody to get hurt so I thought it would be easier if we didn’t start dating at all but then I didn’t go and he got hurt and knowing I hurt him just hurts so fucking bad, you know? Because like Richie… he’s the like the first guy that I’ve really and I… and you said you didn’t want to know my reasons and here I am spilling them out to you anyway like a fucking idiot I’m so sorry I…” Eddie got caught off by Ben coming forward and wrapping Eddie up into his arms. Ben held him there for a long moment, slightly rocking them. Eddie let out a shaky laugh. “Has anybody ever told you that you give great hugs, Ben Hanscom?”

Ben laughed, too. “Richie, at least once a day. Bev, too, actually.” Eddie tucked his head deeper into Ben’s neck and he felt more than heard Ben sighing. “Alright, Eddie… I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt for like one second and you’re going to pretend that I didn’t.”

Eddie pulled away slightly, frowning at Ben. Ben glanced around, almost though making sure that there was nobody around despite the knowledge that it would be only Ben and Eddie working for at least the next three hours. “Richie will definitely be back by Saturday night because that’s when his group has to put on their play. Richie may not seem like somebody who takes this seriously-”

“I’ve never thought that,” Eddie interrupted on a reflex, and an odd expression came over Ben’s face.

“I just…” Ben ran fingers through his hair. “Richie takes his theatre stuff really really seriously. He’d never miss a show, and he’s really intense about this one. I thought Mike was going to beat him by the end of it, but I know it’s going to be amazing.”

“What are they doing?” Eddie asked, fighting off the urge to crack his knuckles.

“They have to adapt some sort of novel and make it a musical,” Ben said, a small smile coming over his face. “Bev put up a big fit about doing some Stephen King book, even though Mike told her a hundred times how hard it’ll be to re-create telekinesis on a stage. But anyway…” Ben shook his head, getting off track and knowing it. “We all have tickets and backstage access because all our friends are in the play and wrote it. And… because I’m giving you the stupid benefit of the doubt… you’re coming, too.”

Eddie’s eyes blew wide. “Wait, no, Ben, I really shouldn’t. Richie is definitely mad at me and I’ve never read or seen Carrie and..”

“This may come as a surprise to you, Eddie,” Ben chuckled. “But the play will definitely tell you enough about the storyline from beginning to end that you won’t need to read the book. Actually, you know, it tells you everything. It re-creates the story.”

Eddie flushed. “Yes, okay, I know that but Richie…”

“If I know anything about Richie Tozier, he’s not mad at you.” Ben shook his head. “To be honest, Richie would just usually shrug something like that off completely but on top of all the other stuff this year, I think it was just too much. Not to let you off the hook for standing him up, because that was still crappy, Eddie-“ Ben shot him a small glare and Eddie felt himself flush again. “But the rest of that stuff isn’t your fault and Richie wouldn’t blame it on you, either. So come to the show and talk to him.”

Eddie nodded, giving Ben a soft smile. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. And if it goes bad, I’m not the one who invited you.”

Eddie spent the rest of the week missing Richie and trying to read Carrie. It was surprisingly hard, Eddie finding himself getting stuck at the same point near the beginning over and over.

To Billy <3 @ 7:55am: Carrie is a terrible book

From Billy <3 @ 9:21am: Most Stephen King books are. Don’t know how anybody can read that crap.

To Billy <3 @ 9:22am: They can’t all be that bad.

From Billy <3 @ 9:22am: They are. Have you ever read the demon clown/acid trip turtle book?

To Billy <3 @ 9:30am: Uh

Saturday night came rolling around and anxiety was deep in Eddie’s chest, reaching out and threatening to suffocate him. He called Bill three hours before he needed to head out and reached a very unimpressed best friend on the other end of the line.

“No, Eddie.” Bill said in replacement of a hello. “You’re going to the fuh-fucking show and you’re going to uh-auh-apologize to that loud boy from your work. Then muh-maybe make out with his fuh-face.”

Bill hung up and Eddie stared at his phone in betrayal.

Eddie showed up outside the school’s large theatre and found Ben and Stanley both standing outside waiting for him. He was wearing the same sweater and jeans he’d worn when meeting Richie and the others at the bar that night that had felt like years earlier.

Ben smiled warmly as he approached, and Stan reached out to pat him on the shoulder. “Richie got back into town like an hour ago and looked like death ran him over twice,” Stanley said in that straight forward fashion of his. Eddie frowned deeply and Ben closed his eyes. “Don’t worry, Eddie, I’m sure it’s not because you left him standing at the side of the road for an hour. It’s probably because he hates his parents and just spent a week with them. Because you left him standing at the side of the road for an hour.”

“Are you done?” Ben asked, raising a brow. Stan smiled almost sarcastically and gestured towards the door. Not for the first time, Eddie wondered if he underestimated the friendship between Richie and Stan. They moved into the front row and took their seats, Eddie on one side of Ben and Stanley on the other. The lights came on the very scene that Eddie had deeply struggled getting back while reading the book began. Admittedly, it was a little hard to recreate a shower scene when you couldn’t have running water on a stage but Eddie almost didn’t notice.

The play moved on swiftly and Eddie found himself getting into it when Beverly came out and stood center stage. He’d noticed her several times, playing on the biggest leads in the play, but he was suddenly floored looking at her in her 70s style clothes and deep red hair. She shot the crowd a half smirk and opened her mouth to sing.

“Guess what, ever since the world began. Same plot. Everyone’s been dumping on their fellow man.”

Eddie’s eyes widened and looked over to Ben and Stan, whom were both staring up at their friend with similar looks of dazed adoration. “I’m straight now,” he whispered to them both. “Richie who?”

“Right?” Ben said, waggling his brow while Stan shook his head slightly. “He’s dating the girl playing Sue.” Eddie crinkled his brow, remembering the statements Richie had made about Mike and Stan, and the things he’d seen himself. Ben nodded, and patted Eddie on the wrist. “Life is complicated.”

Richie was playing the male antagonists, Beverly’s boyfriend, and he looked so good in his badboy attire that Eddie’s breath hitched in his throat every time Richie came on the stage. He watched the scene where Richie and Bev were beginning to plan their methods of harassing Carrie White and Eddie had to clasp a hand over his mouth as Richie began to belt out his lyrics with an air of douchebaggery that Eddie wouldn’t have thought possible in the huge nerd he was falling so hard for.

“You always amaze me with the way that you think… If I were your daddy, I would buy you a shrink.”

Eddie watched the rest of the show with his tongue heavy in his mouth and he stood along with Ben and Stan to applaud once it was over. As Ben rushed to the back of the stage to greet his friends, Eddie began to step back slowly. Stan reached out and clasped his wrist.

“Where are you going?” Stan asked, narrowing his eyes at him. “You’re coming with us, Eddie. We sat in the front row, there’s no way Richie didn’t see you. If you just leave right after, you might as well kiss every chance you have of making up with him goodbye.”

Eddie let out a shaky sigh and nodded. He followed Stan back to where the cast and their friends were all throwing their arms around each other. At the sight of them, Richie let out an excited noise and Eddie’s stomach dropped out his ass at how good he looked. The distance between the stage and Eddie’s seat hadn’t done him justice, Eddie now staring at the closeness of Richie’s dark eye makeup and sweaty, shiny face. A million thoughts, most dirty, ran through Eddie’s face until he truly thought he was going to forget how to breathe altogether.

Richie tossed his arms around Stan and pulled him in, the pair of them slapping each other on the back as they hugged. Richie stepped away from, grinning widely and his eyes fell to Eddie. The grin faltered just slightly, something deep in Richie’s eyes bringing that horrible feeling of guilt back to Eddie’s stomach. “Heya, Eds. Like the show?”

“You were amazing,” Eddie said earnstely, nodding. His eyes met Mike and Beverly, and he smiled wider. “You all were. Really.” Beverly blew him a kiss and Eddie was pretty sure if he was even the slightest bit heterosexual he would have melted right into the floor and died in that moment.

“You guys are coming back to Mike and Richie’s for the party, right?” The pretty girl who’d played Sue said from her spot pressed in Stanley’s side. Eddie’s heart leapt in his chest and he felt Richie’s eyes burning into the side of the his face.

“Yeah,” Ben said from where he was- for whatever unnecessary reason- feeling Mike’s biceps and blushing. “We’re all coming. Right, Eddie?”

Eddie looked up, eyes meeting Richie. Richie gave him a soft smile. “Yeah. Yeah. We’re all coming.”

Eddie had been sitting awkwardly on Richie Tozier’s couch for two hours, pressed between Mike and Stanley for the panic that had been twisting his gut all night really started to get the better of him. Richie hadn’t looked or spoken to him once since they’d left the show and Eddie didn’t know how much longer he could deal with this.

Excusing himself quickly, Eddie jumped gave a poor excuse of getting another drink from the kitchen and fled. He gripped onto the counter, brain running wild as he squeezed his tearing up eyes shut. He could see Richie that first morning at the BrewStore, tired and sitting on the counter. Promising to find a coffee drink that Eddie would love, implying that Eddie would fall in love with Richie himself. Richie in his beanie outside the bar. Richie with his busted lip but bright smile. The feeling of Richie’s hand in his when Richie asked with a shaking, nervous voice if he wanted to go out.

Eddie let out a single sob, and slapped a hand over his mouth.

“Hey, Eddie, if you don’t like the-” Richie’s voice carried over to him as he came into the kitchen before stopping. His voice went through at least three emotions as Eddie wiped quickly at his damp cheeks. “Why are you crying? What happened?”

“I…” Eddie inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry, Richie. I shouldn’t be huh-here. I already messed every-everything up. I’ll just…” Eddie moved to walk past him but Richie’s hand came out and curled around his wrist.

“Come on the balcony with me, okay? I think… I think we have somethings we need to say to each other.”

#reddie #reddie fic #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #ben hanscom is the best friend in the whole world jot that down #mike/richie/bev is an iconic trio also jot that down too #my writing #say it right #im actually sad this story is almost over :(#.

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apathetic-revenant · 7 years

Text

by the skin of your teeth: part eight

I warned you guys.

(trigger warning on this one for psychological tormenting and finger trauma. if anyone needs additional tags I’m happy to oblige.)

By the time he found the third journal, Stan was extremely tired of snow.

Everything was white, white, white, from the ground to the sky, with the black and gray sketch-marks of trees the only points of distinction in the emptiness. The woods were weighted with silence, as heavy and cold as the snow, into which his own little noises fell and disappeared like pebbles sinking into a deep lake. He felt as if he was walking across an alien landscape, somewhere that time moved differently; within a few minutes of the house disappearing from view he had already lost track of time and distance and begun to feel as though he had been walking for years.

What did not feel distant and unearthly was how extremely cold and wet he was.

Loathe though he would be to ever admit it, he was grateful for Ford's extra clothes, but the coat and sweaters didn't do anything to stop the snow soaking into his pants, or falling into his boots and freezing his feet. He had wrapped his scarf up around his nose and mouth and he could feel his breath in it, hot and wet, the only warmth to be found anywhere in this frozen limbo. The cold sunk in everywhere else, bit by bit, sliding under his clothes, chafing and scraping at him as he walked.

He remembered hearing, somewhere, about people dying of cold, how it felt a lot like falling asleep, how the temptation would start to tug and whisper at you to lie down, close your eyes, just for a minute, just rest a little while, and never wake up again.

Don't sleep, can't sleep. Like Ford, staring at him red-eyed, saying: I cannot rest, not yet, not yet. Like Stan, moving, never stopping, for ten years, because he couldn't, not yet, not yet. Miles to go. Miles to go...

He hated the silence for letting him think. Thinking never got him anywhere good. That was Ford's job.

Last I checked…

He couldn’t take it anymore. He started humming aimlessly, a long and rambling tune that meandered through every song he could think of, trying to focus on the imagined lyrics instead of...anything else. It didn't help a great deal.

He did, at least, have to concentrate a fair amount of attention on not getting lost. Ford had scribbled out something that was half map and half directions, with comments like “follow the path until you get to the big rock that looks like this” and “once you hit the creek turn left and keep following it”. It probably would’ve been more helpful if the snow hadn’t blotted out most of the landmarks, making the woods an identical, featureless expanse. At least Ford had also thrown a compass into the bag. Stan rapidly began to suspect that it might turn out to be the only thing keeping from never finding his way back to the house at all.

Somehow, mostly by aiming in what seemed to be the right general direction and hoping for the best, he eventually managed to find a patch of woods that looked more or less like Ford’s disjointed description. There were instructions on how to find the correct tree, but after a minute of staring at them, Stan gave up, broke off a nearby branch, and just started banging it against every tree he saw.

Whack-Whack-Whack-Whack-Whack-his arm was starting to get tired-Whack-Whack-had he hit that one already? They all looked the same-Whack-Whack-Whack-Whack-CLANG--

Stan stopped and squinted. It looked like all the other trees, but when he tapped the branch against it again, it definitely made a metallic sound. Huh. Well, he had to give Ford this much: he sure could make a surprisingly convincing fake tree.

He brushed the snow and moisture off the tree with the back of his sleeve until he could make out the faint outline of a panel. Getting it open presented some difficulties; the metal had frozen shut, and with his gloves on he couldn’t get a purchase on the thin crack. Exposing his bare hands to the icy metal did not feel like a particularly appealing idea.

Well, Stan, what kind of criminal are you, if you can't even get into a basic unlocked compartment? C'mon. You can do better than this.

He fished out his pocketknife and used the flat of the screwdriver attachment to pry the panel open just enough to get his fingers under it. The panel resisted, but after a few moments of struggling, it finally sprang open, very nearly smacking him in the face in the process. Behind it was a hollow compartment with a strange device sitting in it, something like a radio with a lot of dials and buttons that he couldn’t make heads or tails of.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to. He pulled out the paper again and followed the instructions Ford had written. Turn this dial this way, and toggle that switch back and forth three times, and…

He heard a muffled sliding noise, and a soft whumphf, and turned to see an indentation in the snow that had definitely not been there before. Oh. Because of course Ford had hidden his journal in an actual hole in the ground. Which a bunch of snow had now fallen into. Great.

Groaning out loud to the empty air, he trudged over to the indentation and began clearing the snow away, first with his branch and then, as he got closer to the bottom, scooping it out with his hands, until he saw a sudden flash of gold. He gently brushed the snow away, uncovering red leather embossed with a gold-foil six-fingered hand like the one on the first journal.

“What the hell, Ford,” Stan muttered into his scarf. “You could at least have put it in a box or a bag or something. Now it's all wet.”

He lifted the journal clear of the snow and shook it off. His gloves were soaking wet by now, so he yanked them off and shoved them in a pocket, wincing as the cold bit into his fingers, before doing his best to dry off the book against his sweater. It was still a bit damp, but fortunately it looked pretty sturdy.

Curious, he flipped the book open. He'd never actually looked inside the journal Ford had given him, what with all the...distractions. Probably he wouldn't understand most of it, maybe any of it, but still, he kind of wanted to see what all the fuss was about. It wasn't like Ford had told him not to look at it. As such.

He expected something alien, more of the equations and technical gibberish that littered Ford's house, but in fact what greeted him was achingly familiar. It looked like the journals Ford used to keep when they were kids, full of doodles and notes on things he had read about, or things he and Stan had found on the beach or the boardwalks; piles of notebooks crammed tight with monsters and cryptography and dreams. The handwriting was a lot neater, the drawings more lifelike, all contained within a heavy and professional-looking tome instead of a cheap dime-store composition book, but the heart of it was the same.

Some things about his brother hadn't changed at all.

He stood there in the snow, almost forgetting about the cold, flipping through accounts of folklore and secrets. Dangerous creatures, lumberjack legends, ghosts and zombies...some of the pages had been ripped out or scribbled over angrily. Some had splatters of red on them.

The journal ended abruptly halfway through, on a dramatic note about how Ford was being watched and had to hide this journal immediately.

“Great job on that,” Stan muttered. “You hid your doodad in a tree. In lumber country.”

The pages immediately before that were a mess of paranoia, ravings about seeing things, not being able to sleep, bleeding from one eye, the whole deranged plan to travel into the caves, and then...

Ironically, the only other person left that I can trust is the least trustworthy person I know. He is a thief and a charlatan-but a well-traveled one. I have no doubt that he is familiar with mob hangouts and back alleys the wide world over. He will find somewhere to hide Journal 1. I have sent word to him and now must await his arrival.

Perhaps he can yet prove his worth to me.

Stan stood there, forgetting the snow almost up to his knees, forgetting his shivers and sodden clothes, forgetting the feel of his hands against the damp leather, forgetting everything but those words and the way they burned cold and bright inside his chest.

It was true after all, then.

And he wanted to be angry, he wanted it desperately, for the anger to rise up and burn away the cold that was settling inside him like snow, like frostbite, turning everything numb numb numb until he was frozen all through and he knew he would shatter at the faintest touch, but it didn't. It wouldn't. Anger should have been the one thing he count on but the cold just kept coming and he couldn't stop it.

He'd been kidding himself. He'd forgotten. He'd let himself forget. He'd said: it was all the demon, it was Bill, it was Bill holding the knife, it was Bill saying those things, and he had stopped remembering that Ford had said things too. That Ford had turned his back on Stan. Had left him out in the cold for ten years and only called him when he wanted something.

It was pathetic, really. He'd been so relieved that his brother didn't literally want to kill him that he'd forgotten that Ford still hated him.

Or no. Didn't hate him. Hate might have been...better, worse, he didn't know, but that wasn't what was written here. This wasn't hate. If Ford had raged and spat across the page, he might have understood that, might have been able to rise to it with hatred of his own, but the words were flat and uncaring. Ford didn't hate him because Ford didn't even think he was worth hating. Ford didn't think he was worth anything at all.

And he knew this was no demon's doing, because he knew the demon and he knew Ford, and there was none of that gleeful spite here. The words weren't calculated to sting. They were only stating a fact.

That was the worst of it. It was a fact. It was true. He couldn't argue for his worth because he knew he didn't have any. What, in ten years, had he done to prove his worth to Ford, to anyone? Sold a bunch of dodgy products, got in trouble with the wrong people, wound up broke and getting more broke all the time. He'd been falling so long he knew he didn't have a hope of ever climbing out of the pit he kept on digging for himself, let alone recovering the millions he'd carelessly lost.

He snapped the book shut, dropped it in the satchel, and fished for the radio.

“Ford?”

A faint crackle, and then: “Stanley?”

“I found your journal.”

“Oh. Good.” There was a staticky pause. “Any problems?”

He'd hoped that hearing Ford's voice would spark some anger, something to drive him on, push him righteously forward.

“No,” he said. “No, there's...nothing. Just wanted to let you know.”

“Oh. I see. Thank you. Well, uh...carry on, then.”

Stan dropped the radio back in the bag and pulled his sodden gloves back on.

Maybe. Maybe there was finally a chance here. To do something. He couldn't make himself worthwhile, but maybe something he could do would be worthwhile.

He was going to get that damn hair and no overdecorated fairy horse was going to stop him.

Stan took a deep breath and pushed forward.

Ford put the radio down with a frown. Stanley had sounded...odd, but he couldn't pinpoint why. But then, there was nothing new there.

“Sounds like he's doing alright so far,” Fiddleford said from across the room.

They were in Ford's workshop, which, like the rest of the house, was an unholy mess. Ford had mostly just shoved everything off to the sides in a disordered pile. He'd sort it out later. If later ever happened.

“Yes,” Ford said absently. “So far.”

He picked up the wire he had been shaping and resumed working on it. Fiddleford was constructing the main device they were going to attach to the gun, while Ford was working on the spell components. It was delicate work, but this was what he was good at. Science. Studying. Equations and precision. Here, at least, was one thing he could understand.

He really wished his hands would stop shaking.

They'd moved the space heater in there with them, but it was still damn cold. Fiddleford had put a blanket on him-again-but it wasn't helping all that much. It felt like the cold was coming from inside him, somewhere deep in his core that no outside warmth would reach.

They worked in silence for a while, with only the sounds of their tools and Fiddleford's occasional quiet swearing to disturb the dusty air. Eventually Fiddleford laid down his pliers, cracked his knuckles, and slumped back in his chair with a sigh.

“This is a damn odd project we're doing here,” he said. “I don't understand the half of it.”

“I'd be happy to go over the advanced theory with you sometime when it doesn't hurt to talk,” Ford said.

He didn't turn around, but he could feel Fiddleford's eyeroll from across the room.

“You stick to your advanced theory,” the engineer muttered. “I don't want to know any more about this than I need to.”

“That's not a very scientific outlook-”

“Well it hasn't done you a lot of good, has it?”

The words hung for a moment in the cold air.

“...'m sorry,” Fiddleford said eventually. “That wasn't called for.”

“Maybe not,” Ford said heavily. “But it wasn't wrong either.”

By the time he found the magical glade or whatever it was, Stan was so exhausted he could barely stand. The walk from the house to the standing stones would have been long enough already without also having to push through the snow, not to mention getting lost and having to radio Ford for help three times. He'd seen the silhouettes of things he couldn't quite identify darting between the trees, and once caught a flash of red that looked an awful lot like a pointy red cap, but by and large everything looked the same, just endless blank whiteness that was starting to make his eyes hurt.

But there was no mistaking the place now that he'd found it. He'd started to pass strange carved stones poking up through the snow, and now he could see a circle of them up ahead, like some kind of knockoff Stonehenge. According to the first journal, he had to stand in front of them and perform an 'ancient druidic chant' to open the gateway. There was even an illustration of a druid on the page, as if this might in some way help.

Well, there was nothing else for it now. Stan stood in front of the stone ring, coughed a few times, and then, feeling like a total idiot, began chanting.

Just as he was starting to think that absolutely nothing had happened, he felt the rumble.

Slowly, ponderously, the stones pushed up from the snow, extending taller and taller, bringing the snow and dirt up with them in a thick wall that seemed to age and solidify into as it rose until it resembled some forgotten settlement from the Bronze Age. As Stan watched, slack jawed, vines and flowers pushed out from the dirt, winding around and around over the sheets of shaggy moss that were spreading over the stones, while the snow and mud rapidly melted away to reveal a huge set of golden doors inlaid with fist-sized pink jewels.

Stan he reached out a hand, touched the burnished metal of the doors, tugged gently at a flowering vine, tapped the side of the gemstones, just to make sure this was a real thing that had actually happened and not some hallucination born of cold and sleep deprivation. It felt real. One of those jewels alone could set him up for life...but they looked very well attached, and anyway, thief and charlatan and knucklehead he might be, but he wasn't stupid enough to think stealing right off the front door of a magical garden that had appeared out of nowhere was a good idea. That sounded like a great way to get cursed.

Besides, he had other business.

He took a deep breath and pushed open the doors.

Before him was was a beautiful, sunlit forest clearing, unmarked by any sign of winter. The grass was lush and deep, a rich green dotted here and there with brilliantly colored flowers attended by gently buzzing insects. A clear, bubbling stream ran through it, fed by a rushing waterfall that danced with rainbows. The air was warm and soft and smelled faintly of wildflowers and honeysuckle and something else he couldn't identify. Everything about it felt more...just more, a little more intense, the colors brighter, the scents clearer.

And there in the middle of the grove were two unicorns.

For a moment Stan just stood there, staring at them dumbly. Up until this exact moment he hadn't actually, really believed he was going to see any damn unicorns. He'd expected...he wasn't sure what, maybe some weird mutant creature that Ford had just called a unicorn for convenience, or a misshapen goat Ford had seen from a distance, or maybe he would just find that Ford had hallucinated the whole thing. Because sure, by this point Stan had more or less accepted that there was something not normal going on, something weird, something he didn't really understand, but there was a pretty big difference between that and actual real fucking magical unicorns. But here they were, right in front of him, undeniably real and undeniably unicorns.

Inasmuch as he'd been expecting anything, he'd had a vague idea of a horse with a pointy bit on one end, which had made him a bit nervous to think about, not that he would ever admit that to anyone. He'd encountered horses a few times-sleeping in barns, picking some fruit for an old guy for an afternoon's salary and a bag of apples, legging it through a field without any pants after a con attempt gone especially wrong-and he'd found that horses were, well. A lot bigger than they had looked on TV back in Glass Shard Beach. And people said horses were all timid and frightful and maybe they were, relatively speaking, but all Stan knew was that they had feet like chunks of iron and they could kick harder than any punch he'd ever throw, and there had been nothing timid and frightful off about the huge black mare he'd intruded on during his escape. Suffice to say it had been a lot harder to make it out of that field after that encounter.

The unicorns did look a bit like horses, but they looked more like deer, all slender and pointy and delicate, with dainty hooves and long tufted tails like lions. One of them, which was perched majestically on a rock and catching the light, was a blue so pale it was nearly white with a mane that was a swirl of rainbow colors. The other was a rosy gold dappled with star-like spots of white and a gold-flecked blue mane, and was somewhat more prosaically chewing the grass in a corner of the glade.

Stan felt betrayed by reality.

The blue unicorn lifted its head and tossed its mane dramatically before turning to look at him. Its eyes were pink and glittering and really quite uncomfortably large for its face.

“Welcome, visitor,” it said-or at least, its horn glowed pink and it seemed to produce a voice, somehow, though its mouth didn't move. It was a high, flouncy sort of voice, and...probably female? It was a little hard to tell, honestly. “The world outside is harsh. Come inside and rest a moment.”

“Uh,” Stan said. “Thanks.”

“But do take your shoes off first,” the unicorn added quickly as Stan stepped forward.

Stan did a double take. “What?”

“Your shoes. I have a thing about shoes.”

Stan glanced down at the lush, deep grass, shrugged, and pulled his boots off. At least it would warm his feet. He'd lost feeling in them some time ago.

As he stepped forward gingerly in his wet socks, the unicorn rose to its hooves and paused for a moment to pose in the spray from the waterfall. “Greetings, weary traveler. I am Celestabellabethabelle, last of my kind.”

Stan's eyes automatically flicked to the other unicorn still calmly eating grass in the corner.

It was hard to tell with the horse face and all, but Stan could swear the first unicorn looked annoyed. “By which I mean, I am the last female of my kind. Skystardancechaserton is the last unicorn stallion.”

“Call me Chase,” the gold unicorn said languidly. “Please.”

“What happened to the rest of the unicorns?” Stan asked.

There was a very long pause.

“That's a very sensitive subject and I'll thank you not to bring it up,” Celestabellabethabelle said. “Now, if we're done with the rude questions-”

“Sorry.”

“-what is your name, o traveler?”

“Oh, uh. Stan. My name's Stan.”

It felt...weird. Aside from meeting Fiddleford, he hadn't introduced himself by his real name in...well, longer than he could really remember at this point. Years, at least. It wasn't even really a matter of hiding any more; there was just no point. It wasn't a name attached to anything anyone cared about.

But the unicorns could probably detect lies or some shit like that, and anyway he doubted they were going to do a full background check and call him out for selling dodgy dishtowels in New Jersey ten years ago. Although, at the rate things were going, he didn't think he'd be all that surprised if they did.

“Welcome, Stan.” Celestabellabethabelle cleared the stream in a graceful leap and paced towards him. Stan backed away instinctively. Alright, so the unicorns weren't quite as hefty as horses, but they were still big enough to be getting on with, and that horn looked sharp.

“Pray tell, what is the purpose of your quest, Stan?” Celestabellabethabelle fluted at him.

“What?” Stan said, distracted by the presence of a very pointy object on level with his face. He was suddenly acutely aware of the bandage over his face, and the tingle of the cut underneath it.

Celestabellabethabelle s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why are you here?”

Oh. Oh, right. Stan straightened up a bit and tried to put on his most charming expression. “Ah, yes, about that. I, uh, I came to ask for a bit of your hair. You see, there's this-”

“Very well!” Celestabellabethabelle tossed her head again and struck a pose. Stan got the feeling he had finally managed to wander back on script. “Step forward, and let us see if you are truly of pure, perfect heart.”

“Oh, uh, well, about that-whoa!”

The horn was very suddenly extremely close to his chest and oh man, it was sharp. Stan instinctively stumbled back, temporarily forgetting about anything other than getting some distance between that thing and his precious vital organs.

He'd barely had time to chastise himself for this-great, he'd probably screwed up even before the test had begun-when the unicorn reared up with a wild bray. The sudden movement tripped frantic alarm bells in Stan's head-horn, hooves, limbs moving blow incoming, get down, cover face, cover chest-and he was flinging himself onto the frozen ground and rolling away without even thinking about it. “NOT PUUUUURE OF HEEEEEAAAAART!” the unicorn bellowed.

Stan flinched and curled in on himself, waiting for the attack.

It didn't come.

“Are you even listening?” Celestabellabethabelle demanded. “And why are you on the ground?”

Stan slowly raised his head. The unicorn's tail was twitching, and it definitely looked annoyed, but it didn't look like it was about to smite him.

“Sorry,” Stan mumbled, clambering to his feet.

“I said you are not pure of heart,” the unicorn repeated huffily. “You have done bad things!”

Stan's people-reading skills didn't work quite so well on unicorns as they did, well, people, but he got the distinct impression that Celestabellabethabelle wasn't angry at him for being impure so much as she was angry at him for not reacting properly to this revelation.

“I mean...I coulda told you that without all the theatrics,” he said, brushing grass out of his hair.

Celestabellabethabelle gasped dramatically. “You knew you were not pure of heart? And yet you dare to come here and ask a boon of a unicorn?”

“Well...it's for a very important reason,” Stan said. “My brother-”

“I will hear no more! Leave!” The unicorn reared up again and Stan flinched, but this time she only turned her back on him and strode back toward the stream. “We grant our hair only to those who are pure and perfect. You do not qualify!”

“I know I don't qualify, but-”

“No arguments! Take your shoes and go!”

“No,” Stan said.

Celestabellabethabelle jerked her head around in surprise. “No? What do you mean, no?”

“I mean, no. It ain't that easy to get rid of me, lady.” Stan folded his arms and looked steadily back at her. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the other unicorn had stopped eating and was watching the scene with interest.

“You dare-”

“Let me ask you something,” Stan said. “When was the last time you actually met a person that was perfect and pure of heart?”

He watched for the hesitation. He wasn't disappointed.

“It's...been a very long time,” Celestabellabethabelle said. “Such hearts are very rare-”

“If they're so rare it shouldn't be hard to remember the last time you encountered one.”

Unicorns, it turned out, had very bad poker faces.

“Why do you ask these impertinent questions?” Celestabellabethabelle said eventually, after too long a pause. “It is no concern of yours-”

“Yeah, yeah, cut the crap,” Stan said. “I know a con when I see one. Let me guess: you've never encountered someone that was pure of heart. Probably because they don't exist. Everyone's got some bad in them. Maybe...maybe some of us more than others, but-”

“And I suppose you know everything, do you?” the unicorn snapped. “Who are you to argue with a unicorn on matters of the heart? We can see within you, we know-”

“Yeah?” Stan said. “So if you know so much, tell me, just what bad things have I done? If you know all about them it shouldn't be hard to name a thing or two.”

“It...it doesn't work like that,” Celestabellabethabelle muttered. “It's more of a vague-”

“It doesn't work at all, does it? You didn't even get near me with that thing before you were brayin' about impurity. I told you, I know a con when I see one, and I gotta tell you, this one is pretty weak. You just think no one will argue with you 'cause you're pretty.”

The other unicorn broke out laughing.

“Chase!” Celestabellabethabelle hissed angrily, shooting the gold unicorn an evil look. “Don't you have somewhere else to be-”

“I do not,” Chase replied. “It's not your glade, C-beth, and I'm tired of you hogging it just so you can play your stupid games. Anyway, why would I leave now? This is the funniest thing I've seen in years.”

“Chaaaaaase,” Celestabellabethabelle whined.

“You got in one, dude,” Chase said, tossing his head at Stan amiably. “She's been pulling this stupid trick over on people for ages. We can't see into anyone's heart. Our horns don't do jack 'cept glow and play disco music.”

He raised his head and, sure enough, his horn glowed and emitted a snippet of obnoxious music.

“Urgh,” Stan said.

“I know, right? It changes from time to time. Not sure why.” He twitched his tail in what might have been the unicorn equivalent of a shrug.

“I am protecting our glade,” Celestabellabethabelle insisted. “If word spread among the outside world of the properties of our hair, why, we were would be hunted to extinction, our land destroyed-”

“Yeah, no,” Stan said. “I think you just like screwing with people.”

“Alright, maybe I do!” Celestabellabethabelle snapped. “They're so...so...whiny and stupid! 'Oh, please, beautiful unicorn, may I have a lock of your mane to protect my family'-blah, blah, blah! It gets tiring, you know! And they're so gullible, they fall for anything! I say they deserve it! After all, how would you like it if I came into your house and demanded you give me some of your stupid hair?”

Stan was done with this.

“Boo fucking hoo,” he snarled at the pouting unicorn. “You want to know how I'd like it if I got to sit around in a magic glade doin' nothing all day and the worst thing I had to put up with was having people come by to flatter me? I think I'd like that a whole hell of a lot! It'd beat the shit out of being homeless, broke and on the run for ten years! You know when the last time I got to have a shower was? Wash my clothes? Eat a decent meal? Sleep in a damn bed? Listen, you overrated carousel reject, you want some hair? Is that your problem? Because you can fucking have it!”

He grabbed at his pocketknife, yanked the blade open, and, in a fit of towering spite that had escalated well past any rational thought, hacked off his tied-back hair and flung it in the unicorn's face.

Celestabellabethabelle stood there, blinking, nostrils twitching, looking considerably less elegant and otherworldly with chunks of brown mullet all over her, and made a small horsey sound of distress.

“Now,” Stan said, breathing hard and drunk on the feeling of pure unthinking anger, “I did not wade through two feet of snow for hours to get here just to turn around and go back empty-handed. You want to talk about being hunted to extinction? Fucking try me.”

The unicorn stared at him for a moment longer before bursting into tears-somehow-and running away.

Chase bellowed with laughter.

“Dude, that was amazing!” he gasped, doing a kind of gleeful tap-dance with his front hooves. “The look on her face! She's never gonna live that down! Listen, buddy, you really need that hair, you can have some of mine. You deserve it after that performance.”

“Oh,” Stan said, slowly lowering the knife. “Uh, thanks.”

He pulled his boots back on, wincing at the feeling of his wet socks squelching around inside, and picked his way across the grass over to the gold unicorn.

“Actually, if you could take it off the front, that'd be great- yeah, like that.” Chase cocked his head to the side and let Stan cut a few locks off the front of his mane. “Yeah, that's the ticket. It's been getting in my eyes, and lemme tell you, man, it is hard to get a haircut when you don't know anyone with opposable thumbs. Oh, wait'll I tell everyone about this...”

“So you're not really the last ones,” Stan said.

“Oh, Epona, no,” Chase said. “That's just part of her stupid game. Honestly, she's taken so many people in with that, I cannot tell you how great it was to watch someone call her out on it for once. Usually they just run away crying. Although I heard one guy challenged her to an arm wrestling match.”

Stan carefully tipped the glittering blue hair into the little plastic baggie Ford had put in the satchel and tucked it away. “Well...uh...thanks. For this, I mean. It really is important.”

“Sure, dude. Least I could do, I'm gonna be riding that story for months.” Chase swished his tail and went back to chewing on the grass.“And hey, good luck on your quest!”

“Thanks,” Stan muttered, turning back toward the gateway. After the brief reprieve of the warm glade, the cold waiting outside felt even worse. “I think we're gonna need it.”

“Ford?”

Ford jerked upright at the touch of a hand on his shoulder and realized with a sick jolt that he'd been drifting off over his work. He couldn't afford that. If Bill got loose, here, now, alone with Fiddleford...he didn't want to think about that.

The engineer in question was standing over him, holding a steaming mug and looking concerned. “I, uh. I made some more tea. That coughing sounds like it's getting pretty rough.”

He held the mug out tentatively.

Ford took it. It was his favorite, he realized, the one with the NASA logo on it. A graduation present. It had gotten chipped at some point.

“Thanks,” he muttered, setting the mug on the tabletop and wiping at his eyes. Just a little longer. He just had to make it a little longer, and then he could rest.

“Stanford,” Fiddleford said quietly. “I...I need to ask you something.”

His tone sounded ominous, but Ford was far too drowsy to properly process it, so he settled for making a questioning noise.

Fiddleford perched on the edge of the desk and kicked his legs back and forth across the floor. “This...this demon...is there, ahm...anything it's done that I should know about?”

Ford squinted at him. “I thought you didn't want to know things.”

Fiddleford blew out a tired, irritated sigh. “Look, I just...I...Stanley said it'd been, uh, it'd been...hurting you. And-”

“Stanley told you that?” Ford broke in, feeling a faint sting of betrayal. He'd rather hoped Stan would get the hint that it wasn't something Ford exactly wanted to be talked about.

“The issue was rather pressed when I started seein' all the blood around your house,” Fiddleford said, a faint touch of his old dryness creeping into his voice.

“It's not important,” Ford muttered, staring into his mug.

“We could debate that,” Fiddleford said. “But...well, it's just-I had a moment, y'know, seeing that...it made me wonder, well, what you'd been doing. I mean, if there were...other people...”

“If I'd been hacking people up in Satanic rituals?” Ford said. “Corpses hidden in my basement? That sort of thing?”

Fiddleford looked very tired. “Stanford...you told me you made a pact with a demon that wants to end the world. There are...weird sigils and idols and things all over your house. And an awful lot of blood. I hate to break it to you, but you've kinda lost the benefit of the doubt on this one. So yeah. I guess that is what I'm asking.”

“Technically he's an extradimensional being-”

“Yeah, yeah, it's as close to a demon as makes no difference, from where I'm standing.”

Ford stirred his spoon around in his mug aimlessly.

“As far as I know I'm...the only one he's hurt so far,” he said eventually. “Well. And Stanley. Last night.”

Fiddleford nodded jerkily. “Right. And this pact-”

“It was just...an agreement. To work together. I didn't sign over my first born or anything, if that's what you're thinking.” Ford shrugged listlessly. “I thought he was a friend. He said he could help me, he could...keep working when I couldn't...I didn't see any reason not to let him. It was...easier, for him, if he could move in and out of my mind. And then later I...it turned out I couldn't take it back.”

“Why?” Fiddleford said.

“Well...the mechanism by which Bill is allowed access-”

“No, I mean...why was it so important for you to be working so damn hard?”

“Oh.” Ford took a sip of the tea. His throat felt raw, worn and chafed as an old rope. “I suppose Bill was very motivated to complete the portal as fast as possible.”

“Probably,” Fiddleford said. “But that'd be its reason. What was yours?”

“What?”

Fiddleford took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes.

“You work yourself to the bone, Stanford, and I've never understood it,” he said. “Even before...all this. You get as much done as any three people could and you still push yourself to go harder. For as long as I've known you it's been like you're...you're racing towards something, but I don't know what. I'm not sure you do either.”

Ford looked away.

“You wouldn't understand,” he said. No one ever did.

“Yeah, sure,” Fiddleford said wearily. “Handy excuse to not bother tryin' to explain it.”

Ford bristled. “You know, I could be asking you the same question.”

“What? I'm not racing towards nothing. I take my own time-”

“No. Your first question. Is there anything I should know about?”

Fiddleford began to jog his leg nervously. “What would you be needing to know about?”

“Did you erase anything else?”

“I don't know if it's really any of your damn business what all I chose to forget-”

“I wasn't talking about what you forgot,” Ford said. “I'm talking about what I forgot. What did you erase from me?”

“Ah. That.” Fiddleford looked down at the floor. “Well...I...when I first made the gun, I used it on myself, to try and forget the, uh...something bad we encountered...”

“The Gre-”

“I don't want to know.” Fiddleford rubbed at his temples. His Southern drawl was coming on strong now, always a sure sign of stress with him.“You're not really getting the point of the whole 'erasing traumatic memories' thing, are you?”

“I get it, I just don't-”

“Anyway. After...after that happened, and we had that argument...” He closed his eyes and rubbed at the back of his neck. “I said I wasn't going to use it anymore, and, and I meant it, but I had...I had some things to take care of first...and you caught me...you were going to break it. To stop me using it. And I...I couldn't...so I used it on you. I didn't mean to. I mean, I never meant to use it on anyone who...who didn't need it. But I guess I panicked. And after, it was like...like rewinding time. Like I'd just gone back and we had the whole argument over again, except this time I knew what to do right. And it was just...easier to leave it like that.”

“Easier,” Ford said flatly.

Fiddleford shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah. Easier. Then later, when I brought the men round to help excavate...you...you got real upset. You were yelling about how we couldn't trust anyone, couldn't bring anyone else in, how things had to be secret...you-you were scaring me, Stanford. I'd never seen you so angry...”

“I...” Ford swallowed hard. “What happened to not using it on people who didn't need it? Not exactly the most beneficial usage of your wonderful device, is it, cheating honest men out of free labor?”

“It wasn't free labor!” Fiddleford said, scandalized. “I paid them! I just let them think it was for something else! Anyway, I reckon it was pretty dang beneficial to them, considering it was a choice between them forgetting what they'd worked on and you comin' after them for knowing your precious secrets!”

“What?” Ford's voice caught and he began to cough violently. It went on for some time. Fiddleford reached out a hand, hesitantly, but he didn't seem to know what to do with it, and eventually he took it away.

When Ford finally caught his breath enough to speak again, it was in a harsh whisper. “I wouldn't...I wouldn't hurt anyone...”

There was open concern on Fiddleford's face now, but he shook his head. “I heard you talking to yourself. You, um...I heard that a lot, actually. I don't think you realized...but that night, I thought you'd fallen asleep at your desk, and I went to get coffee, and when I came back you were talking about having to clean up...”

Ford's red-rimmed eyes went wide in horror.

“Bill,” he said. It was barely audible. “He...he must have...must have been planning...It wasn't me, Fidds, it wasn't...I wouldn't...”

“I didn't know that,” Fiddleford said.

Ford wrapped his arms tight around himself and said nothing.

“That was all, though,” Fiddleford said after a little while. “That was all I did. I've...been keeping an eye on you. When you came into town, and... I came around to the house a few times, to see how you were doing. I kept meaning to talk to you, to say something...but I always lost the nerve. But that's all. You, you worry me, Stanford...what you're doing worries me...but I haven't used the device on you again. I swear.”

“I thought I saw you,” Ford mumbled. “Watching me, but I wasn't sure...I thought it was a dream. Or maybe not.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, fingers pausing over his swollen eye. “I've been losing time, Fidds. Losing...bits of myself. I wake up in places that I didn't fall asleep in, I find...cuts and bruises that I didn't inflict, I...everything blurs together. Dreams, and visions, and I don't know what's real anymore, things just...come and go...”

Fiddleford frowned and rubbed his hands on his knees. “Stanford...”

“Listen to me, Fiddleford.” There was a sudden urgency in Ford's voice that made Fiddleford jerk his head up in surprise. “This is why, this is why what you're doing is dangerous, do you understand? This is what happens when you start...when things get erased. You lose yourself, more and more, and, and eventually you're...you're more negative space than positive. There's more of you gone than there is left. You don't want this, Fidds. Please. Don't do this to yourself. Don't make my mistakes.”

Fiddleford swallowed, bobbing his head nervously. “That's, uh...that's different, though...”

“How?” Ford said sharply. “How is it different?”

“Because I'm choosing what I want to forget!” Fiddleford snapped back at him. “Because I'm in control! I'm not just...at the mercy of...”

He caught himself and looked away.

“I only use it when I need to,” he said. “It's all worked out fine, so far...”

“So far.”

“I've been studying it, there's no side effects-”

“Don't you see, Fidds? You're...you're erasing symptoms, but you're not handling the problem. You say you take away the memory of what frightens you and you're fine...until something else frightens you, so you have to use it again...it's not solving anything! Unless you do something to deal with your fear, you're just going to keep erasing memories until there's nothing left-”

“That's damn easy for you to say, isn't it!” Fiddleford burst out. “Deal with my fear-like you have any idea what that's like! What do you know about fear? When we went up against those things...I never saw you blink! You, you laughed like you thought it was all fun! A game! And then you give me this spiel about finding 'creative solutions' and those damn meditation techniques of yours that didn't do anything...who are you to tell me how to handle my fear, Stanford? You never worry about anything, you just charge ahead!”

He trailed off, gasping, into a ringing silence. Ford was looking at him very strangely.

“Fidds...” he said quietly. “Why do you think I knew those meditation techniques in the first place?”

“I...I don't know. I thought you...went and looked them up. Got them from a book or something.”

“No...well, I did, but...not for you. Not then, I mean, I...I've been using them for a long time. For myself.” He shook his head slowly. “Just because I'm not scared of monsters doesn't mean I'm not scared of anything.”

“But you...” Fiddleford frowned at the reflection in front of him. “What are you afraid of-”

There was a pounding on the door.

Ford jerked his mug, narrowly avoiding spilling tea all over his schematics, while Fiddleford squawked and very nearly somersaulted off the table.

“That's...that's probably your brother, right?” Fiddleford said nervously, when they'd both recovered a bit.

“We can't be sure,” Ford said darkly. “Could be anything-”

“Ford, open the damn door before my fingers fall off!”

“We can be fairly sure,” Fiddleford said.

Ford took the crossbow with him the door all the same.

“Is this going to be a thing with you now?” Stan said when Ford opened the door with the crossbow ready. “Because it's getting old already-”

“Prove you're my brother,” Ford said.

“Uh, what.”

“Your hair is shorter. Did you think I wouldn't notice?” Ford brandished the crossbow threateningly. “I know how shapeshifters work. They always get one thing wrong-”

“Oh for fuck's sake.” Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, things...happened, alright? Long story. But I swear it's me.”

“Prove it. Say something only Stan would say.”

Stan stared at him for a moment. “You know what? Screw this.” He took the satchel off, shoved it at Ford, and stomped inside while Ford was struggling to balance both the satchel and the crossbow. “I got your journal, I got your unicorn hair, I think I might have hypothermia now, shoot me if you want, I don't even care anymore. Go do your nerd stuff. I'm gonna steal some of your dry clothes before I shiver myself to death.”

Ford stared at Stan's retreating back, nonplussed.

“Did you get a haircut?” Fiddleford said as Stan passed him on his way upstairs. “How even-”

“Don't ask,” Stan growled. “Go do something with Ford before he tries to shoot his own reflection.”

Fiddleford blinked after him and turned back to the door to find Ford, crossbow forgotten on the floor, staring at a plastic bag filled with sparkling blue hair.

“He got it,” Ford muttered. “He actually got it. How?”

“Does it matter?” Fiddleford said. “At least we have it. That's good, right?”

“Of course it matters,” Ford said, and Fiddleford noted with alarm that he was beginning to shake again. “It means...it means...all this time...Stan's a better person than I ever gave him credit for. He's better than me-”

“Or maybe he just mugged 'em and took it,” Fiddleford said, gently taking Ford by the arm. “Let's worry about it later, yeah? You don't look so good, why don't you take a break-”

“No.” Ford shook himself free and staggered off back towards the workshop. “We can't stop now. We're so close. Just...just a little longer.”

Fiddleford chewed unhappily on his lip, but he followed Ford back to work without another word.

Stan's duffel had one spare pair of jeans that were mostly hole, and one spare t-shirt that was mostly stain, but they weren't wet and cold-not colder than anything else in Ford's house, at any rate-so at the moment they were preferable. He threw his wet outer layers into the bathtub for Ford to deal with and rubbed off with a rather manky-looking towel before changing. The dry clothes definitely helped, but he was still so cold he felt like he was turning blue, so dug around in the heap of clothes spilling out of Ford's closet and found another sweater (how many sweaters could one man own, anyway?), an old green thing which was tight but manageable on Stan.

When they were kids he and Ford had shared a lot of their clothes, swapping back and forth; they were the same size, after all, and money was tight, and Sherman only had so many hand-me-downs.

“It won't kill 'em to share a pair of pants,” he remembered hearing his father say to his mother. “What am I, made of money? They're basically the same kid anyway.”

There was less of that as they'd gotten older and farther apart in size and style, but they would still occasionally steal shirts or socks from each other. When he'd gotten kicked out, Stan had found one of Ford's shirts buried in the duffel bag his father had packed. He wondered if Filbrick had simply not noticed what he was grabbing in his hurry, or if he just didn't think it mattered what belonged to who. It had to be the first, he decided, because everyone knew the difference between him and Ford by that point. Everyone knew Ford was the better one, the one who was going to excel. Their father certainly did.

He wondered what their father would think of them now.

At first glance the bedroom looked mostly like the rest of the house, an indistinguishable mess of paper and clutter and paranoia, but, standing there looking around and feeling at a loss, Stan picked out a few buried traces of Ford as Stan had known him, as he must have been before all this had started. A poster on the wall of a mustached man in an old-fashioned suit, and another of a man in a turtleneck sweater smiling in front of a background of planets and stars. A mug on the desk with a broken handle and a cartoon alien face on it, full of chewed-up pens and pencils. Dog-eared Popular Science and National Geographic magazines scattered about. A set of Lego astronauts posed on the edge of a shelf along with a little stuffed platypus and a Spock action figure. In one corner there was a small, dusty bookcased, filled not with the heavy technical tomes that took up the rest of the house, but with fiction. Stan picked his way over to it and ran a finger along the spines of the books. Some of them were familiar to him: beloved old pulp paperbacks worn soft and cracked, the Tolkien boxset Ford had cherished like it was his firstborn child, the matched set of classic early sci-fi titles he had rescued one shining afternoon from a book sale at the local library, H.G. Wells and Jules Verne and Mary Shelley. Others were just as battered, but unfamiliar to Stan; he could imagine Ford in college, scouring libraries and yard sales and dinky little used bookstores with that particular gleam in his eye, like a prospector panning through mud for a glint of gold.

Stan sighed and looked away from the bookstore, towards the desk that stood beside it. It was buried under a sea of paper like most other surfaces in the house, but something caught his eye, a tiny triangle of color poking out from the mess.

He probably shouldn't pry-ah, who was he kidding? He was definitely going to pry.

He moved aside the papers and pulled out...

...a photograph.

Him and Ford, tiny and shirtless and sunburned, posing triumphantly in the Stan o'War on a long lost summer's day.

Stan stood there in the cold, dark room, holding the photograph like it was made of ash, like it might crumble and dissolve if he moved his fingers.

He didn't understand.

Ford had moved on. Ford didn't care anymore, not about Stan, not about their boat, not about the dreams they had been basking in on that sun-bathed afternoon a million years ago. He had said it himself: those things had no worth to Ford, not anymore.

But here was this photograph.

It didn't make sense.

Stan set it down, gently, and stirred his fingers through the mess of paper, looking for some clue, some context. His own name jumped out at him, and he realized with a jolt that it was written several times across the sheets.

Dear Stan-

Dear Stan, I know it's been a very long time, but-

Dear Stan, I am in trouble and I need your help-

Dear Stan, I've made some terrible mistakes and I don't know who else to turn to-

Dear Stan, I'm sorry for everything.

The letters all ended abruptly, or trailed off into hopeless, angry scribbles. Some had been balled up, or torn to shreds. Mixed in with the papers were bits of a postcard like the one that had been sent to him; this one looked like it had a lot more writing on it, but it was too thoroughly destroyed to know what it had said.

He wondered how many times Ford had started writing to him before giving up and simply putting down only two words. There seemed to be an endless amount of the half-formed letters, spilling over the desk, overflowing the nearby trashcan with paper wads, torn up postcards, and...

A book?

That was odd. Ford didn't throw out books.

Stan fished it out carefully, curious. It was a thin paperback, extremely battered, cracked and dog-eared with a huge tear down the cover, which was hanging on by a thread. He recognized it, another one of Ford's treasured old classics. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

That rung a bell. Ford had been talking about this just last night, hadn't he? Stan frowned and flipped through the pages gingerly. The inside of the book was more of a mess than the outside, dog-eared and marked up, passages circled or underlined or marked out altogether. One page in particular was covered with yellow highlighter, outlining a long passage that was strangely familiar. It took Stan a moment to realize where he had heard it before: from Ford himself, last night, as he had been falling asleep. If this were much prolonged...

As he flipped through the book, a sick feeling growing in his gut, a page fell out onto the desk. Its edges were torn, like it had been violently ripped out, and the passage at the top of it was underlined so heavily Stan could barely read it.

Under the strain of this continually impending doom and by the sleeplessness to which I now condemned myself, ay, even beyond what I had thought possible to man, I became, in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever, languidly weak both in body and mind, and solely occupied by one thought: the horror of my other self.

Underneath that the rest of the page was obscured by a scrawl of large, red-spotted childish letters that made Stan think of a too-wide grin and staring yellow eyes.

NO ONE TO BLAME BUT YOURSELF, SIXER.

Ford had gone quiet.

They were close, very close to finishing. Ford had done whatever it was he needed to do with the unicorn hair, and now they were down to the last few small but vital details. Fiddleford, concentrating on a bit of delicate soldering, didn't initially realize that the sound of Ford's ragged breathing and clinking of tools had died away until he finally put the iron down.

He frowned and glanced over at his colleague, sitting beside him. Ford was slumped on the desk, his head on one arm, chest rising and falling very slightly. For a moment, Fiddleford was tempted to simply leave him; God knew the man needed the rest. Then he remembered exactly why he couldn't do that.

He swallowed hard, trying to wet a mouth that had suddenly gone too dry to speak. “Ford.”

There was no response.

“Stanford.”

Nothing.

Hesitantly, fearfully, Fiddleford reached over to shake Ford by the shoulder. “Stanford, you need to wake up-”

Ford's hand came up far too fast and grabbed Fiddleford by the wrist.

“Hello, four-eyes!” Bill crowed cheerfully. “Long time no see, eh? Probably not long enough for you, though!”

Fiddleford stared, terrified and enraptured, at the venomously yellow eyes. “No. No, no, no-”

“Yes!” Bill grinned, achingly wide, and yanked Fiddleford closer. Ford's hand was burning hot and shaking in its grip. “I was wondering if I'd ever see you again! Couldn't take the heat, huh? See a little bit too much for your fragile little mind?”

“You-you-”

“You know, humans really are funny things!” Bill leaned close, too close, and Fiddleford could feel breath hot against his face, see the veins popping in Ford's eyes. “You know how hard I have to work to get into your heads? To really get the power to just wreck the place? It's not easy! But you, look at you! You did it all to yourself! You actually put this thing to your head and blew holes in your own mind! I didn't even have to suggest it!” The grin twitched, faintly, from side to side, teeth grinding against teeth. “And the really beautiful thing is, you have no idea what it really does! You don't know what you're in for, four-eyes! Oh, it's going to be a fun time for you-but I won't spoil it. Why don't you just tell me what you're doing with it now?”

“N...no...”

“Aw, c'mon, four-eyes, you won't share your secrets? I shared mine with you!” Bill cocked Ford's head to one side, slightly, like a carrion bird considering a potential meal. “I could share a few more, if you like! Wouldn't that be funny? If I just erased all that hard work you put into melting your own brain? How's about I remind you what you saw-”

“No!”

Fiddleford yanked his hand out of Bill's grip and stumbled back across the room, tripping and hitting the floor hard. His throat worked desperately, struggling to cry out, but no sound emerged.

“You and Sixer were testing my portal,” Bill said gleefully. “You had a dummy tied to a rope, but the rope came loose and then was another dummy tied to it! You! That's funny, see-”

Fiddleford dug his fingers into his scalp, his breath coming in rapid, panicked gasps. “No. No, no, no, not again, not again-”

“And it pulled you along and you went flying right on in and if Sixer hadn't caught you, you would've been lost forever-”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up-”

“And do you remember what you saw, on the other side?”

Fiddleford moaned and clamped his hands around his ears. There were tears streaming from his eyes.

“Tell me. Tell me what you're doing and I'll let it stay forgotten.”

“I...I can't...” Fiddleford whispered. “Please...”

“You saw me.”

Bill watched dispassionately as the engineer quivered and sobbed into the floor.

“Huh,” he said. “I really thought that would work. Oh well!” He picked up a hammer from the table and rose out of the chair. “More than one way to skin a southerner!”

He took one step towards Fiddleford and promptly collapsed to the floor in a sprawl of limbs.

“Aw, what the fuck?” Bill raised Ford's head slightly, groaned theatrically, and let it drop back down with a crack. Ford was shaking all over now, all the color long since fled from his face. “What's the point in me hijacking this stupid meatsack if it's not even going to work properly?”

“Y-you...c-c-can't...” Fiddleford hiccuped in-between sobbing breaths. “You c-can't...”

Bill narrowed Ford's weeping eyes. “Don't get too cocky over there, four-eyes. I have a few more tricks up my sleeve.” The grin reappeared, sudden as a striking snake. “Maybe I can't make it over there, but I've still got one human to work with. How about a little demonstration?”

Fiddleford's eyes widened in horrible realization. “What-no-no, don't-”

Bill held up one hand thoughtfully. “He doesn't like these extra fingers much, does he? Always whinin' and bellyachin' about being different and being a freak. It gets real tiring to have to listen to, four-eyes, you know that? Why don't we take care of that for him?”

“No, no, no, no, please-”

Bill raised the hammer.

Fiddleford clenched his eyes shut.

CRACK.

“Wooohoohoohoohoo!” Bill cackled. “Man, that is some good quality pain there! You wanna tell me yet, four-eyes?”

“Stop it,” Fiddleford whispered.

“Why stop now when I'm having so much fun?” Bill shrugged, pulling back and forth on the broken finger like it was an interesting toy. “Of course, you could come over here and stop me, but, hah! We all know you're too scared to do that! You always were a fair weather friend, four-eyes. Things get a bit too hot and you bail out! But I'll make it extra easy for you this time. Just tell me what I want to know! What could be simpler? No skin off your nose, just leave your friend to hang like you did before! Don't have to look, don't have to see anything you don't want to-”

Fiddleford opened his mouth, but nothing came out but a faint, strangled whimper.

“Need more time to think? Well, I've still got eleven fingers left! Course, it'll probably get trickier to aim as we go along, but that just makes it more interesting. Ready? Here we go!”

He raised the hammer again.

“NO!”

The hammer went skidding across the floor as Fiddleford lunged, crashing into Bill and pinning him to the ground.

“What the-”

“SHUT UP!” Fiddleford got a knee onto Ford's chest and pushed his arms down flat to the floor. He was shaking hard and tears were still streaming down his cheeks, but his eyes were wild and angry. “I've had enough of you, you fucking snake-eyed son of a bitch! You've caused enough pain, goddamit, no more! No more!”

“Oh yeah?” Bill said cheerfully. “What are you gonna- mmphf!”

Fiddleford grabbed up the corner of Ford's coat and shoved it in his mouth. “STANLEY!” he screamed as Bill made muffled angry sounds around a mouthful of grimy fabric. “Stanley, get your ass in here!”

Bill glared at him and struggled as Stan's footsteps thundered nearer, but to no avail; there was no strength left in Ford's over-abused body.

“What? What's going-holy shit!” Stan drew up short in the doorway, boggling at the scene before him. “What-”

“Bill,” Fiddleford spat. “Now you wanna help me here or what?”

“Right, right. Shit.” Stan moved to help pull Ford up off the floor, yanking his arms behind his back while Bill twisted and kicked. “Oh, shit-oh, his finger-”

“I know,” Fiddleford said. “Help me tie him up and we can do somethin' about it.”

Bill managed to spit out the corner of Ford's coat as they shuffled him towards the chair. “Wow, you two just aren't gonna play ball, are you? Listen, I'm a generous guy, I'll give you one last chance to tell me before I really get going on Sixer here-”

“Shut up,” Stan snarled.

“You can't hurt him anymore,” Fiddleford snapped, pushing Bill down into the seat. “If we have to tie every finger down we will-”

“You really think that's the only way I can hurt him?” Bill said. “Wow, you two are dumb!”

Stan and Fiddleford stared at each other.

“What-” Stan said.

“I'm in his brain, knucklehead! You can tie me up, but you can't keep me out of your brother's mind! And, hooo boy, you have no idea how much I can hurt him there.” Bill grinned happily at them. “I'll find what I want to know. Eventually. Might destroy a few things along the way, but hey, don't say I didn't give you a chance!”

“You-”

The yellow drained from Ford's eyes and he slumped against Stan, suddenly as limp as a puppet without an puppeteer.

“Oh, God,” Fiddleford whispered. “Oh, God, oh God oh God-”

“How close is that gun to being finished?” Stan snapped.

“It's...it's...almost, it's nearly, but, but I-it'll still take time! There's things-I know the theory, but-”

“Well you'd better get to work on it now, then!”

Fiddleford yelped and scrambled towards the desk.

Stan gently settled his brother into the chair. Blood was trickling slowly from Ford's eye. “Time. We need more time.”

“Maybe...maybe Ford can hold him off for a while...” Fiddleford said desperately.

Stan shook his head. “Ford can't bluff worth anything. He's no good at that sort of thing. That's...that's always been...”

That's always been my job.

Stan lunged across the desk, startling Fiddleford into very nearly embedding a screwdriver into the opposite wall.

“What are you doing-”

“The journal. It said...something about...” He yanked the red book out of the clutter of parts and tools and began flipping through it hastily. “I saw. Earlier. Something-there!”

He stopped and stabbed a finger that the page open in front of him. Fiddleford glanced at it and flinched away. On the opposite page was an ominous black drawing of a triangle with one staring eye.

“It is possible to follow the demon into a person's mind and prevent his chaos,” Stan read frantically, ignoring the way Fiddleford was staring at the illustration. He flipped to the next page impatiently. “One must simply recite this incantation...”

Fiddleford looked back and forth from the page, to Stan, to Ford. “You're...you're gonna go into Ford's mind?”

“Do you have any better ideas? We have to stall Bill until you can get that gun finished. We need a distraction. And I make a damn good distraction.”

“But-won't that put you in danger too-”

“I don't care.”

And he didn't.

He didn't care if Ford hated him, didn't care if Ford thought he was worthwhile, didn't care about the scar on his face or the hands shoving him to the floor, didn't care about ten years alone on the streets, didn't care about the anger and bitterness and betrayal, didn't care about anything right now except getting between his brother and that thing.

Fiddleford nodded slowly and pushed the remaining chair towards Stan.

“Give it hell,” he said.

Stanley sat across from his brother, grabbed Ford's unbroken hand in his, and began to read.

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfic #fanfic #by the skin of your teeth #scribulations #unicorns #gratuitous quoting of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde #oh no what will become of our heroes

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