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cevans-is-classic · 2 years

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Between The Stitches

Ted Lasson x Enby Reader

18+ only, please. Warnings: sexual content, language, and me trying to my hardest to explain football

Other works can be found at My Masterlist

Head over to JD/TL to get more!

(One month ago)

"American football makes no sense to me." You comment without thought, twirling the carrot between your fingers around.

Beard glances at you, "Aren't you from the United States?"

You paid him back with a shrug. "I left when I was barely out of nappies. It doesn't count." Ted was unusually quiet on his side of the office, face open and expressive enough that you could tell the wheels were turning.

"Yet soccer makes sense to you?" Beard nodded, "Wise."

With a smile, you leaned back, "Thank you."

The room fell silent once more than everyone tucked into their food. Ted kept looking up at you and down again until something seemed to snap into focus his eyes, "As I once said to Tammy Patchett in the seventh grade when she said she couldn't kiss me because I have her Dad's name — I respect your opinion, but I'm confused as a bumblebee. How in the world does soccer make more sense than Football, Sugar?"

(Far too late into the evening for this conversation)

“Ted, Darling.” He’d wheeled the whiteboard into your living room, positioning it until he could reach the laptop as well as write across the face, “Honey, what is this?” You were hoping the answer was not what you assumed it was.

His mustache twitched, “Lessons.”

“Uh, huh?” He was wearing his trainers, the blue Nike ones he wore to practice and his AFC Richmond puffer coat, unzipped to show his Coaches jacket underneath, his hair was still slicked back and primed as if he’d gotten dressed and ready for training.

“Do you remember the other day when you made the comment of not understanding American Football?” He didn’t look up from the laptop as he prepared — what you can now see — is a presentation.

You stepped into the living room proper, arms crossed as your partner shuffled back and forth between his bag and the whiteboard. “Yes?”

“You said soccer rules made more sense than American Football,” He finally looked up, eyes wide, a well-pleased smile painting his face as he motioned to the tools behind him, “You spent a short — undetermined amount of time — explaining the rules to me-”

“Two hours-”

“- I thought I'd return the favor. Give you everything and the kitchen sink of American Football, yeah? Really go all in.” His cheeks flushed with glee. The excitement in his eyes drove you wild in a worrying way.

“Ted, it’s eight o’clock at night? You have training in the morning, Dear and I have to be in the office.” That didn’t seem to deter him. It made his smile grow even wider. He moved towards you, one hand coming up to touch your jaw and tilt your chin until you could look him in the eye.

“I’ll be quick, Sugar. You can call me Flash. I'll be so quick.” He pulled you in for a kiss, drawing your air from your lungs with a breathtaking swoop of his tongue, then promptly backed off and stepped back to the board.

All you could do was sit down, watching the man stand before you, arms wide, hands moving as he spoke, going into his pocket every few moments as he lifted on his toes and gleefully allowed the presentation videos to show you examples of his stories.

Ted came very prepared, ready to teach you something, and that very thought made your stomach squeeze and tighten. When your partner spun around, you allowed yourself to watch the line of his body from shoulders to legs thinking of him 'teaching you a lesson'

Well, that's a kink I didn't know I had. You thought, startling yourself at the image of Ted in his khakis with glasses perched on his nose, calling you a good little student who deserves a reward for paying attention so well-

Something on the television screen caught your attention, snapping you back into reality.

He was pulling up a picture of a professional football team with black and white colors. “Wait-” He stopped, pausing the video to look back at you with raised eyebrows.

You missed a step as you fantasized. “You were talking about football practices. Why are you showing me a football play?” His mouth opened, closed, eyebrows doing a rather intense dance as he thought over your question.

“I wanted to show you the greatest play in NFL history to give you a whopper of an example.” He clicked the laptop again, turning his back to you as the words ‘IMMACULATE RECEPTION’ flashed across the television. He talked in between the explanation and clips of the play, accent getting thicker and thicker, the more excited he got. When he explained how he used a ‘Fool’s gold’ version of the play his first year of coaching Collegiate Football, his entire demeanor changed.

Ted seemed to shift from Coach Lasso with witty quips and banter to Professor Lasso whose eyebrows bunched together, his puffer coat being shed, Coach’s jackets set down on top of it and the sleeves of his shirt as he pushed up his forearms. He became more confident about how he explained the inner workings of the game; shuffling around the room on the pads of his feet giving full bodied shows of players passing the ball, players positioning on the field, plays being drawn on the board (Which looked similar to how his plays looked during training, only the players stayed in a more controlled order than with Football here)

He was beautiful.

You couldn’t look anywhere but at him, watching his fingers grip the ball he’d pulled from his bag, watching them tap at the keys or grip the marker as he scrawled across the board. It was mesmerizing seeing him fall deep into what he loved, explaining it with exquisite detail — detail that was also painfully long and drawn out in a way that had your eyes drooping despite wanting to watching him run those fingers through his hair again, messing the style up allowing strands of it to fall across his forehead.

He was breathtaking, but bollocks it was damn near midnight, and you had to work in the morning.

You could see him gearing up for another speech about team dynamics on the field. Taking the opportunity, you stood and moved towards him.

“Theodore-” You touched his arm, drawing his hand away from the board. He turned with you, eyes going soft as he looked your way, “It's getting late, Darling.”

Ted nodded, “I’m almost done-” He turned back around, and with a desperate move, you reached for the football and held it up.

"Would you show me how to hold this?” His eyebrows bounced, “I don’t believe I’ve ever touched one before.”

“That's sacrilegious, Sugar.” Ted placed his hands over yours, warm and calloused in the right way, his fingers moving yours until you held the ball with one hand, your own fingers draped over the laces of it, “Keep your fingers tight.”

He moved behind you, lifting your hand up, pulling your arm back until it rested in the stance you’d seen the players on the screen use, “Don’t slip between the stitches, Sweetheart.” His voice had dropped, speaking low into your ear.

Blood rushed through your body at the feel of his facial hair brushing your ear, Ted’s own fingers still placed over yours, keeping you steady. You’d meant to distract him enough to pause the ‘lesson’ but the way his body pressed into you, his hips slotting into your backside to help move your leg back and straighten out your arm had your body thrumming with need.

“There you go, a regular Drew Brees, I say.” Ted’s hold on your hip was loosening, making you whine. You hadn’t realized you were pushing back into him until he was putting space between you to keep your body straight — he paused when the sound left your lips, his fingers tightening.

"You okay?” He pressed back against you; worry laced his words until you tipped your head to look at him.

Brown eyes looked down with concern, melting into understanding when you pressed your hips back into his, wanting to feel him grip you tight again.

“Sugar,” He moved the football out of your hand, “Thought it was getting late.”

It wasn’t a question. His mouth was twitching under his mustache again, only this time with a glint of mischief. A gnawing pit in your stomach wanted to have his hands moving around your waist once more. It made your knees shake, remembering how deep his concentration had gone into his lesson the way he’d single mindedly focused on giving you an accurate account of the sport.

His focus was intoxicating.

No matter whom he spoke to, whom he interacted with, Ted gave 100% to them, and each time he pointed that attention towards you, it made you throw caution to the wind.

“I think I need one more lesson, Coach.” His eyes followed your lips.

You moved to face him, reaching for the hand, holding the football, removing the object, and tossing it towards the couch, allowing you to bring his fingers to your lips.

“Yeah?” He breathed, “What kind of lesson do you need?” His fingers twitched, pads dragging over your bottom lip, letting you nip at them.

“You said not to slip between the stitches, Coach Lasso.” His pointer and middle fingers push into your mouth, your tongue laving at the digits with vigor, looking up at him as you hum in anticipation. Ted’s cheeks were burning red, eyes wide as he watched you and you felt him curl his fingers against your tongue, letting you suck on them until he dragged them, his own mouth opening in a breath.

“That's right.” His chest pressed into yours; you felt his heart pounding even through the layers of clothes, “Could cause you to fumble the throw.”

“Oh,” you looked at his fingers, spreading them wide until you could press your palm against his, tugging it towards you, “Have you ever fumbled before Coach Lasso?” Your shirt was thin, an old tee that should pair with a tank of some sort — now you were happy you’d foregone the undergarment as you moved Ted’s hand over your chest, his fingers catching on your nipple through the thin material, “You always seem to know where to place your fingers.” He pinched your nipple, rolling the bud, pinching it again, making you shiver as a spike of pleasure shoots down your spine.

“I’ve fumbled a few times.” His other hand moves towards your hip, looking at you waiting for a confirming nod before slipping his hand under your shirt, across the bare skin of your hip until he could pull at the ties of your shorts, loosening them enough to dip his hand inside, touching your thigh, then back, back, back gripping your ass in his palm and pushing you forward until you feel his erection against your stomach.

“Maybe you need more — training.” Ted kisses you, soft, all-consuming, making you light-headed with a dip of his tongue, his hands, those fingers, pressing into your skin dragging you closer and closer until you both stumble onto the couch. Ted moved you with care, helping you sit on his lap comfortably without pulling his lips from yours.

You tug at his shirt, pulling it from his pants and shifting until Ted pulls back and lets you slip the shirt off.

“Coach,” You bite your lip, sliding your hand through his chest hair, “I have another question.” His breath hitches when you slide your fingers over his nipple, down his stomach to undo the buckle of his belt.

Ted swallows, hands spasming against your hips, “How may I help you?” Fuck, his voice is low, that drawl digging into parts of you that burned hot and pulsed between your legs.

“Are you as good with your mouth,” You undo his pants, tugging the zipper down and reaching inside to wrap your hand around his cock, "as you are with your hands?”

There's a moment, a pause, as you stroke him where Ted doesn’t make a single sound, his breath seeming to be held in his chest and it sets panic inside you — then you're lifted into the air, Ted’s hands beneath your thighs making you squeal, release him and wrap your arms and legs around his body in shock.

In a matter of moments you were tossed onto your bed, Ted climbing over you in a flurry of movement, his lips and tongue attacking your throat in between bursts of apologies for startling you and his own fumbling to get your shirt and shorts off.

It was fucking intoxicating, seeing the rushed passion in the man that had been prominent during his lesson. Ted was single-mindedly taking you apart, and he hadn’t even done anything besides strip you bare and kiss you breathless.

“Te-Ted.” You stutter when his fingers spread you open, diving in and out, making you squirm into his palm, aching for more but not wanting him to stop.

“It's all about precision.” He murmurs into your neck, teeth biting in your pulse making you gasp, moaning out his name when he curls his fingers inside of you and fucks them deeper, the heel of his hand rubbing against your clit, “Knowing where to put your fingers, how tight to press them-” He hit that spot that makes your toes curl, his kisses dragging from your neck, over your stomach until he licks at your clit making you jump and drag the sensitive bud over his facial hair and you lose it. Legs tightening around his head, pussy pulsing around those fingers as Ted lick at you, fucking his digits in and out and in again until you trembled beneath him, “-and knowing when to let go.”

You groan, eyes rolling as you reach for him, “I think I get it now.” You tug him towards you, allowing him to reach for your night stand and search for a condom as your own hands grip him again, moving until your left leg wrapped around his waist and the head of his cock pressed into your hole.

Ted groaned, his hips jerking, but your fingers stopped him from going any deeper. “It's all about control.” Ted’s hand shakes when he gets the condom on. You let him move back long enough to spread you open again, his cock pushing into your inch by agonizingly delicious inch until he bottomed out; his forehead flush against yours.

“The end goal.” He breathes moving, moving, moving until you fall into a rhythm that drags your mind from your body. Ted could read you like a damn book, knew when to grab you, when to push you, how to go faster and harder, and he did it all with a smile on his face. He’d whisper words of praise into your ear as he fucks into you, murmurs sweet nothings against your skin, leaves his mark inside and out until all you knew was Ted and Ted alone.

When you felt the brink growing closer, you could feel him grab your right leg and pull it up against his hip to push deeper until you reached back, grabbing his ass and grinding yourself against him as his thrusts turn shallow.

“Thank you, Coach.” You groan, eyes closing as your stomach tightens.

Ted curses, “Sweet Jesus, fuck, you feel amazing, Sugar, better than ice cream on a hot day.”

“Ted-” You dig your nails into his ass making him hiss and thrust harder, “Ah, fuck, yes- yes-” Ted doesn’t stop, repeats the movement again and again until you-

“Fuck, yes, Coach, yes.” He groans, loud, head dropping into the crook of your neck, and between the waves of your orgasm, you feel him come, twitching inside you and jerking until — nearly simultaneously — both of you stop, taking deep breaths and rest there Ted’s cock softening inside you and your breath slowing down as he nuzzles your jaw.

Neither of you talks when he pulls out, depositing the condom and moving to kiss your forehead before leaving to grab a wet cloth and clean you both up. His touches are careful, caring, making your chest constrict as you look at this brilliant man.

“How do you feel?” He asks as he climbs in beside you, wrapping his arm around your waist and resting his lips against your shoulder.

“Like I still don’t know shit about American football.” Ted laughs out loud and with a bright, unhindered smile.

I'm so scared this isn't as good as I think it is 😅

It took a whole other turn than where I originally started, but I got excited while I was writing.

@theultimateslashgirl @wonderbreadbucky

#ted lasso one shot #ted lasso x you #ted lasso #ted lasso x reader #ted lasso smut #jason sudeikis #coach lasso

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wandsandwheezes · 3 years

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Family Man | F. W

TW // mentions of prem kids, pregnancy, children but mostly pure fluff

Taglist ✨ @witch-and-a-half @weasleysflowr @hufflepuffgirly @theweasleysredhair @wand3ringr0s3

If you asked Fred Weasley what his pride and joy was, people would usually expect him to beam proudly about the success of the shop with his brother, nevertheless, when he smiles fondly and says 'Thea Weasley' people are more often than not surprised.

Fred loved his Daughter so much that words couldn't describe how much happiness filled his heart every time he saw her. The second she was born, she had him wrapped around her little finger, a father that would do anything for her.

When you and Fred married, you were quick to fall pregnant with your first child, a Daughter, named after your Mother but the absolute spitting image of her father, however her soft strawberry blonde locks curled into ringlets, a trait that seemed to sprout as soon as her hair was long enough.

"How're my girls doing?" Fred whispers, pulling off his jacket, having just walked in from a day at the shop. You're sat with your daughter nestled into your side, about an hour or so deep into a nap. Fred gently scoops her up, not before pressing a small kiss to your forehead with a sweet hello, her little arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, falling back asleep instantly.

He took her up to her bed, tucking her in underneath her covers before pressing a gentle kiss to her hair, "goodnight my sweet angel, sleep well"

"I wish she'd stop growing," He says, joining you on the sofa, allowing you to cuddle into his side, his hands moving to play with your hair as he kicks off his shoes. "one day I'll wake up and my little girl will be an adult."

Laughing gently, you trace circles on his chest, feeling relaxed against him, you reminice of the moments you'd had together as teenagers, talking like this about your futures, getting married, how many kids you'd wanted and how you'd both give anything to do all of that with each other.

"Unfortunately Freddie, all they do is grow," You move to press a kiss to his cheek, nuzzling your nose into his neck for warmth, causing him to wrap his arms even tighter around you.

Little did you know that day, you were already pregnant with your second & third weasley children - the twins, like their father but one boy and one girl, Lee and Winnie. Identical apart from the eyes, the girl like her fathers and the boy much like yours, both with signature weasley hair.

Not even a few months after the twins you found out you were having another son, Billy who looked much like his uncle Bill did as a child, as Molly had pointed out hence his name. You originally wanted to call him Jamie but when you met your little boy for thr first time, both you and Fred decided that Billy was definitely more fitting.

finally your youngest daughter, Arabella. She was a gift that none of you had expected, after some complications after having Billy, you didn't think that having another child would be on the cards again. You found out you were pregnant a week or so before Fred's Birthday you had taken test after test, and even a trip to St Mungos to make sure, but as your doctor assured you, Arabella was on her way.

The thing about little Bella was that she was a tiny baby, a premature birth. When she was born she was so fragile looking and hearing her cries broke Fred's heart. The doctors said that she was quite frankly a miracle, making her just another pillar of pride for your adoring husband.

Having five children with Fred was an interesting experience, the house grew louder and louder and soon became like a second Burrow, children in and out of the house, magic everywhere. It truly was reminiscent of both of your childhoods. Despite having all the children to look after, he loved all of them with his whole heart and nothing less.

Your kids loved loved going to see Fred's parents and getting to spend time with Uncle George and Uncle Ron it was heart-warming to watch your family love the people you chose to be your family. Winnie absolutely adored being around Ginny and Lee wanted nothing more than to be like his Uncle Harry.

When Thea's Hogwarts letter came, Fred genuinely thought he was going to have a heart attack, "Merlin, Y/N, my little girl isn't old enough to be going to Hogwarts!" he was sat across the table from you eating his lunch, The sounds of Lee and Winnie bickering as Billy quietly draws and Arabella sits in your lap, listening into the conversation. To you, you were watching your babies grow up right before your eyes but to Fred they were always his babies.

"Freddie, my love it'll be the twins next, Lee wont shut up about getting to see Uncle Harry at school." you laugh, playing with the little curls on Arabella's head, a trait inherited from her oldest sister, "give it four years and our Bella will be off on her first year at Hogwarts with all of her siblings."

"I don't even want to think about that, I really don't know how Mum did it, sending us off one by one." you laugh lightly looking at your husband with a small smirk, "From what i heard from Molly, she was all but kicking you onto the platform, apparently you and George were a nightmare"

"We so were not!" he defended, feigning fake offense, rolling his eyes and taking a bite from his sandwich. "I think we were absolute golden angels" you raise an eyebrow at him, shaking your head, "You can be a golden angel and take Thea with you to Diagon Alley tomorrow to get her supplies, I don't fancy a day trip to London with the whole weasley clan just yet!" you laugh, he nods finishing up his food, the plate finding it's way to the sink, being washed up magically like at the Burrow, he presses a kiss to your hair, heading quickly to step into his father shoes, only to break up the growing argument between the twins.

You sat, content in the family you created, praising your younger self for putting up with all of Fred's antics because really, you were the luckiest girl on earth, with the greatest man alive, a loving father and the best Husband.

The time came to send Thea off on the Hogwarts Express, Molly had agreed to look after the rest of the children as you sent off your oldest, you were crying with fred as you hugged your little girl goodbye before she got onto the train. "Remember, Thea, it doesn't matter what house you get put in, and if you need someone to help you, you find Ted or Uncle Harry and they'll help you out." she laughs, wrapping her arms around her father's neck giving him a long hug. "I'll be fine, Dad, after all, I've got the weasley name to live up to!" he smiles proudly at his daughter, i give her one last kiss, giving her a couple of galleons for the train, "I love you, Thea." she hugs me again, "Love you too, Mumma!"

"One down, Four to go." you joke, leaning into your husband's side as you wave the train off, "At least the twins will have each other and Thea next year, the poor girl is all on her own!" you shake your head, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I'm sure she's already made friends, she's much like you when it comes to being outgoing..." he smiles, calming down a little, "I can't believe we've just sent our first off to Hogwarts." you hug him gently. "Neither can I, Freddie, neither can I."

#fred and george #fred weasley #fred weasley fic #harry potter #weasley twins #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley x reader

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soyforramen · 3 years

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Whoops, I slipped into a follow up of this prompt.

“How’s the wrist?”

Such an innocuous question. It rings flat in the sharp crags that line the chasm between them, echoing hollowly between them. But it’s still more than he’d said Saturday night. More than he thought he’d say.

Betty, never one to let any pain shine through, smiles at him. Her face morphs into that perfect Cooper mask, no crack or wrinkle to suggest anything was out of the ordinary. It pierces his soul to realize that he doesn’t know how to read her anymore.

To him, she looks just as happy and carefree as the first day they’d met in third grade.

“Still sore, but no lasting damage,” she says, rolling her wrist as proof. Even her voice is peppy and varnished to perfection. “How’s your head?”

His hand moves without thought to his forehead, his fingertips grazing the ugly red mess. Jughead jerks his head to the right, a move practiced in the mirror this morning to ensure his hair covered the welt.

“Nothing an aspirin can’t take care of,” he mutters.

He raises his coffee cup to his lips to keep from mentioning the whisky and rye he’d fallen headfirst into, a palliative cure after she’d disappeared up the stairs, leaving nothing but confusion and nadir in her wake. The lingering hangover was still a symphony of banging pots and pans along his temples, a never-ending reminder of his regret (relief?) of doing nothing.

They sip their coffee in silence, waiting for the meeting to begin. The artificial bridge he’d thrown across the chasm between them frays, its tethers loosening. In less than a minute, it’s fallen into the yawning black hole that now lies between them.

Betty's words… no. Not that. It was his inaction. His confusion. His uncertainty that created this false rift between them. The gravity of it tugging and pulling at every second between them, every atom, every conceivable future between them, each a warped, stretched snapshot of a future never to be.

It was enough to make him want to crawl back into the bottle and never come out again. His hand shakes, an aftereffect of the late night drinking, and he shoves it deep into his pocket. Betty’s eyebrows draw too close together, too close to concern for his tastes.

Toni claps her hands together, and Betty shoots him one last curious look. He refuses to look at her, turning to refill his mug. When he turns back around, Betty is in her usual seat next to Archie, a plastic smile on her face. Jughead slouches against the counter, too lost in his own morbid thoughts to pay much attention to the upcoming game to notice the increasingly concerned glances Betty sends his way.

Jughead watches as his students shuffle in, the twins he affectionately calls Bill and Ted the only two showing any trace of life. The bell rings, a clanging, offensive noise that makes everyone wince. It’s doubtful he’s the only one nursing a hangover.

“How many of you did the reading?” he asks when they settle in.

A collective groan ripples throughout the room. He can’t blame them; he’d never been able to finish The Odyssey in high school either.

“Pop quiz time,” he says.

Another groan, this time with a rousing argument against it, echoes through his already pounding head. Jughead holds his hands up in a conciliatory gesture.

“I want you to write about betrayal.”

The class quiets, some exchanging glances. It’s a sharp turn, a quick 180 that throws all off them off balance. Jughead has been ruthless so far, both in his grading and in his push to get them to learn critical thinking skills. Even he’s surprised at this course of action.

“Any kind of betrayal you can think of. You can talk about personal betrayal, family betrayal. Maybe one of your friends kissed your girlfriend, or maybe your mother chose your sister’s side over yours. Or maybe you write about a fictional betrayal. Hamlet and Ophelia, Brutus and Julius Caesar, Edward Pensieve and the Turkish delight.”

Wynnie’s hand shoots up, and Jughead inwardly winces. She’s always been the one to push back against any assignment, the one who questions everything he expects from them and makes class ten times longer.

“Can we write about a made up betrayal? With characters on, like, TV or something?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, he nods. “Anything is fair game, as long as you write it in a way that someone not familiar with the show, or book, or whatever, can understand what’s going on.”

“What about poetry?” another student asks.

“So long as you put the effort in, poetry is fine. Text threads, short stories, poems, letters, anything written.”

“Can we work together?” one of the twins asks.

“Sure, as long as you don’t bother the other students,” Jughead says with a shrug.

Bill and Ted high five before dragging their desks together.

Jughead is surprised at how well they’re taking this assignment. Every last thing has been a fight with them, from getting their attention to taking a test. Betrayal, though, seems to be something everyone can relate to.

As the class begins to write, Jughead sits down at his own desk. For a moment, he watches his students, kids in the same position he was once in, and wonders why he’s even here. Riverdale offered him little more than characters he could mold into his own, a setting for the decline of small town America.

Today, though, his mind wanders along words and phrases, glimpses into a different sort of reality. One ravaged by decay and rot, left to perish alone. And yet, he can’t help but see the small, green shoots of the future poke out of the ashes, tiny hints of hope for what’s to come. Perhaps nothing is ever static and unchanging. Perhaps things can turn around.

Jughead reaches into his bag for his own blank notebook.

He’s sitting on the porch that afternoon, struggling with the illegibly written translation. It’s a shame the state requires them to teach only the recommended books; Jughead would love to see how the story unfolds when thrown onto a fire.

“Hey.”

Jughead starts. When he sees it’s only Betty (only?), he stands abruptly, his entire body on fire, his legs jittery and ready to run.

“Hey,” he repeats. “Archie’s not here, but –“

Betty shakes her head and shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Can we talk?”

He swallows. Stupid of him to think he’d get away from this conversation. Jughead waves to the chair next to him. As Betty passes, her perfume tickles his nose. Long gone is the strawberry body spray she used in high school, a sweet, cloying smell. Now it’s a perfume, one that tickles his nose and clogs his sinuses.

They sit there quietly, neither willing to speak first. He’s lost for words, unable to start.

She sits patiently, calmly. Betty seems as if she hasn’t a care in the world, as if they were there to talk about the weather. Part of her training, he realizes. She’s no longer as impulsive as she once was, reaching and grasping and desperate for an immediate answer. This Betty Cooper is a reminder of the past, but only that.

“I’m sorry,” he manages, starting with the simplest of things.

Next to him, Betty shifts. He thinks he hears her sniffle (crying? allergies? derision at his lame start?), and he has to quash his immediately reaction. All he wants to do is reach out to her, to comfort her, to promise her the world to keep her from suffering.

But he’d done that before, long ago, in a completely different world. And he’d been trod upon, brushed aside in favor of her own cruel form of betrayal. Nothing he could have done after would have fixed the wound she’d carved in his soul. Even now, seven years distanced from the teenage woes, it lay between them, still raw and sore and bleeding from the continued betrayals of his life.

He wonders how he would have responded to her if he hadn’t known. If he hadn’t come home one night early to hear her and Archie upstairs. If he hadn’t turned to the Wyrm and listened to Sweet Peas acidic sniping just to get lost among the agave pinas and the juniper berries.

“It’s not,” he stutters, trying to find his footing, unsure of what he wants to say. “I couldn’t stop loving the Betty Cooper I knew. But I also never stopped hating what she did to me.”

The admission is the first emotionally honest thing he’s said in years. It’s painful to realize how deep it lay inside him, how long it took to finally cut out this festering, putrid thing that burrowed into him. Like a tumor, it could only grow, fed by hate and anger and depression. Hate and anger for both of them. It hadn’t turned out like it was supposed to.

Now that it lay out in the open between them, he felt different. Heavier, in some ways. But there was also a release. The pressure that had been building for so long was slowly lowering, as if he’d finally found the valve that would bring things back to normal.

“And I don’t know you,” he said, the words pouring out now. “Seven years, and only a handful of texts, a few voicemails. You’re not the person I remember. Hell, everyone is different from who they were, who I thought they were.”

He pauses to run a hand through his hair. He can feel Betty’s bright eyes staring at him, pleading with him for something, anything, that will make this better.

“We’re both different now, and there’s no way you can still love me. You don’t know me, you know who I was. We can’t just pick up where we left off, even if we wanted to. There’s too much between… Even if we were stupid enough to try,” he trails off, his words meandering as they try to find footing in the rocky space between them.

“We didn’t leave things in a good place,” Betty murmurs in agreement.

She shifts, and he looks at her for the first time since they sat down. Her legs are tucked up against her body, arms wrapped around them. It’s a protective stance. Against him, perhaps, or against the bare truth that he’s put in the open. He can’t blame her, not since he’s protected himself against most of his own life in other, less healthy ways.

Jughead sighs, empty of anything else to say. He stares at the fading light glowing through the leaves. It’s the perfect, picturesque scene of two high school sweethearts reuniting. At least, it was supposed to be. He didn’t know if he ever could do that to himself again.

Archie’s old truck chugs up the street, and Jughead stands. He scrapes the palms of his free hand along his pants, the other hand gripping his book. Archie waves through the windshield with a bright grin, and Jughead gives a half-hearted wave back before going inside.

He’s exhausted; after being mad for so long, it’s strange to be so empty of feeling. He’d give the world to be able to retreat back to Alphabet City and it’s various loan sharks. There, at least, he’d know the pain was no one’s fault but his own.

Jughead closes the bedroom door behind him, shutting out the rest of the world. It wasn’t his business what Betty did despite her attempts to bring him back into her life. He didn’t know if he was ready for that, or if he’d ever be. Ever since he’d been back, her presence gnaws at him, chipping away at the walls he’d built up over the years against her presence, and it frightens him that she’s stepped back into his thoughts so quickly and easily.

Thoughts and ideas collide and churn violently in his head. He throws himself down on his bed, determined to fall asleep despite the chaos.

But this time, sleep doesn’t come as easily as it always has. Words and feelings and phrases splatter against the back of his eyelids, graffiti tattooing images of a world never known. He pushes back against the cacophony until he can stand it no longer. Desperate to empty his thoughts, Jughead turns on the bedside lamp, pulls his laptop out from under the bed, and begins to write more than he’s been able to for years.

#bughead fanfiction #riverdale #i heard you like angst with your angst

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pinkpatiencecreepers · 3 years

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Izzy Stradlin & Johnny Thunders: An essay in the making lol

Okay, time for the conspiracy theories over here. Nah, just kidding but let's talk about the connections between Izzy Stradlin and Johnny Thunders. Here's my take:

I'm currently reading "Too Much Too Soon", the authorized biography of the New York Dolls by British journalist Nina Antonia, who was also close friends with Johnny. The thing is that I can't help but find a lot of similarities between Izzy and Johnny (of course, taking into consideration how much of an influence was Thunders in Izzy's life, not only on a musical level).

So, let's start analyzing some facts about Johnny's life and observations from the people who knew him. First, he didn't grow up with his dad, since the latter split when Johnny was just a baby and he was raised by his mom and his older sister.

From an early age, he developed an interest in fashion, rock music, and especially, in Keith Richards. So much, that he dyed his hair jet black and asked his sister to cut his hair in the same style as Keith’s. During his teenage years, Johnny made a reputation as a regular on the NY music scene of the late 60s and was praised for his unique appearance. He didn’t look like any of his peers and people often wondered where he got such rare and incredibly interesting pieces of clothing since they couldn’t be found at any of the local thrift shops. Turns out, he bought his clothes at the women’s department and customized them with the help of his mom and sister.

In terms of his personality, people described him as a quiet, shy, and reserved guy, except when he was on stage and you could see him jumping around and living his best life. Also, he started dabbling in drugs pretty much since puberty, beginning with pot, and then experimenting with LSD, quaaludes, coke, meth, etc., until getting to the ultimate killer: heroin.

Also, alongside with frontman of the NYD, David Johansen, Johnny was responsible for writing the most important songs of the band, as well as being praised as a songrwriter. Same as Keith Richards, he was keen on simple and precise compositions and focused mostly on bluesy sounds and nods to old school rock n’ roll with heavy influences from the greats Muddy Waters, Bo Diddley, John Lee Hooker, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, etc.

.....

Got all that? Okay, now let’s go with our Indiana boy.

At this point we have pretty much nailed down Izzy’s background and biography, right? We know that he was raised by his mom and his grandma Elizabeth back there in Lafayette. He has two younger brothers, Kevin and Joe. His dad split and left for Florida where he remarried and had two other kids.

Same thing, from a very early age he became interested in music, mainly thanks to his grandma, who was a drummer on a local jazz band. He was also greatly impacted by Don Kirschner’s tv show where lots of the most important musical acts from the 70s made appearances. He definitely saw the Dolls there and they became one of his favorites.

We still don’t know many details about his life as a teenager in boring Lafayette, except the little that he, Axl, or other close sources have shared. Izzy started smoking cigarettes and pot, firecrackers, and the usual soft drugs that all of us have taken during high school years at one time or another. We know that he liked skating, playing drums, and drawing, among other stuff.

Things start to get interesting when he gets to Los Angeles. Being Keith & Johnny MAJOR influences on him, he dyed his hair jet black and styled it the same way as Johnny in the early 70s. Long, straight, and looking like raven feathers. So, if you are a hardcore fan of the NYD and one afternoon you casually bump into Izzy down the Sunset Blvd in 1980, you’d highly lose your shit and think you’re seeing Johhny Thunders himself in front of you.

Also, like Johnny, Izzy didn’t start playing guitar. He was a drummer, then a bass player, and finally a guitarist. The difference in Johnny’s case is that he first played bass and then switched to guitar.

Now, concerning clothing, Izzy also brought attention for his curious looks, being one of the first people in Hollywood to wear creepers (according to Hollywood Rose founder and close friends with Izzy, Chris Weber). Same thing happened in New York to Johnny when he decided to subvert the local style by wearing chunky shoes and platforms. Not saying that he was the creator of the look (neither was Izzy), but they certainly inspired some people to do the same and express themselves through fashion. Izzy also used to customize his clothes, DIY some of them, make jewelry, thrift flips, etc.

On top of that, as a little tribute to his idol Johnny, Izzy embraced the color pink by wearing it in jackets that he spray-painted, socks, shirts, etc. Mix that with his ivory skin, dark hair, and facial features and you have another Mr. Thunders right there (And they DO look like they’re related... as well as Keith, Ronnie Wood, Sami Yaffa, Nasty Suicide, Tracii Guns, etc. On the fandom we call that breed of rockstar: “Emo Rat Boy” lol).

Another thing is that Izzy’s drug of choice was smack and as it also eventually happened to Johnny, it made him all doom and gloom, moody, and vanished the once happy and joyous spirit, both on stage and in real life.

Even in the dynamic between Axl and Izzy, you can see the same chemistry and looks of Johnny and David Johansen back in the day. Even the essence of the New York Dolls as a whole is visible during the formation days of GNR. Just look at Arthur Kane and Duff McKagan, and this is just a little example.

To finish this, around 1990-1991, Izzy is seen playing the same guitar model that Johnny is most known for, Gibson Les Paul Junior in yellow. And in the late 90s-early 2000s (I’m not exactly sure when) he made a cover of “Do You Love Me?”, really, but really inspired by Thunders.

And that’s all, folks. THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK.

PLEASE LIKE AND REBLOG IF YOU ENJOYED IT!

UPDATE: @roger-taylors-car please illustrate this with pictures. I can’t do it because my internet connection is SHIT. Thanks and excuse my French. Much love!!!

#izzy stradlin #johnny thunders #sweet izzy #guns n' roses #new york dolls

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baldrambo · 4 years

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What do you think Hopper’s funeral was like? I’m kinda curious about whether or not that’s going to be addressed.

I am SO sorry for getting to this like 80 years after you sent it, lmao. This was such a good question and the more i thought about it the more I got these clear images in my head of that day, and the more I wanted to just write it. I have 0 expectations that it will be addressed, honestly, SO here is Jim Hopper’s funeral service, told through the eyes of 4 non-Party members.

It was the last funeral, and by far the largest. Karen Wheeler found herself thinking it was also the most beautiful. She shifted her weight in her tall black heels and glanced around at the throng of solemn people in black. The casket stood at the epicenter, a large block of shiny wood that shone brightly in the afternoon sun. In a way, the symbolism of it felt silly. There wasn’t a body. There hadn’t been any bodies.

Attempting to banish the morbid thought from her mind, she glanced sideways at Ted who was staring solemnly at Pastor Charles. Was he reading from the Book of Revelation again? She found it next to impossible to concentrate on any of the readings, anymore. Ted had willingly attended every funeral with her, without complaint. A fresh wave of guilt struck, and she swallowed. Holley peeked over from her Dad’s arms, her large blue eyes carrying a new weight to them. She was a kid now, not a baby anymore. Karen reached over and gently caressed Holley’s cheek and that familiar, deep and abounding love for her children coursed through her like a powerful current. Karen wondered how someone could ever survive the loss of a child.

Karen turned to Mike, who stood stoically on her right, his hands at his sides like a soldier standing at attention. He was staring over Pastor Charles, his attention on the trees in the distance, his eyes unfocused. His mouth was set in a tight, straight line. He hadn’t said a word all morning. Hadn’t said a word since dinner last night. The dinner table had been deadly silent, the new norm.

“I don’t want to go to the funeral tomorrow,” Mike spoke up, his voice eerily flat and quiet. Karen looked up from her plate and squinted at Mike, confused. “It’s the last one, Mike. And it’s for the Chief.”

He clenched his fork in his fist and looked up at her, a strangely hollow look in his eyes that made her stomach start cramping up in knots. “I’m not going.” Karen looked over at Ted for help. His attention was conveniently focused on Holley. Karen put her silverware down, gently. “I know this is upsetting for you, Mike, and….”

“No. No! You don’t know!”

“Mike...” Nancy reached over to put her hand over his and he wrenched it back standing up in his chair abruptly. “It’s not like I actually wanted him to DIE!” He shouted, kicking at his chair. It went flying backwards, striking the wall.

Karen and Nancy both stood up. Nancy stopped her. “I’ll go.” She gave her mom a reassuring look, and wiped her mouth with her napkin, tucking her chair into the table neatly.

Nancy was standing at Jonathan’s side, leaning on his shoulder, her hand wrapped around his arm. Nancy kept sneaking glances at Jonathan, whose hands were in his pants. Jonathan wouldn’t meet her eye, his attention fixated on Joyce who was staring ahead, stone-faced, at Pastor Charles. Her face was still strangely devoid of emotion. Will flanked her on the left, a head taller than her now. Clearly uncomfortable, he kept shifting his weight and looking over at Joyce, too.

3 days after the fire, Will answered the door, his polite smile more a grimace. He stepped aside to let her in. Joyce was sitting at the kitchen table, a large ashtray full of cigarette butts in front of her. She’d looked up at Karen, large, dark circles under her dry eyes. “Thank you for stopping by.” Karen nodded, watching the trail of smoke from Joyce’s lit cigarette float up towards the ceiling. Joyce redirected her attention to the ashtray, barely blinking. Karen looked nervously over at Will who gestured silently towards the front door. Unnerved, she stopped in the doorway, turning back. “If she is upset and needs someone to talk to….”

“She hasn’t said much since the fire,” Will interrupted. “Thank you for stopping by, Mrs. Wheeler.”

Nancy caught Karen’s eye and gave her a small, sad smile.

Karen had thought, naively, after the fire, that they might, finally, trust her. Trust her with this weight they carried with them, this weight that had been hanging around since that girl had made an appearance in Hawkins. She couldn’t shake the feeling that they knew, they ALL knew something she didn’t. Even Joyce.

She glanced down again at Mike. His lower lip was quivering. Karen reached over and slipped her right hand into his. He gripped it back, tightly.

***

Scott Clarke thought Karen Wheeler was still the most beautiful woman in Hawkins. He watched her place her hand in Mike’s, her black dress effortlessly drawing attention to her slim figure. She had been his first crush, he remembered. She dated Scott’s older brother, Rob, when Karen and Rob were seniors in high school. He had been in….6th grade? 7th? It felt like an eternity. A bead of sweat dripped down his neck in the heat. He tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his button down.

There were beautiful white lilies lying delicately on the casket and perched in small bunches surrounding the funeral attendees. They were freshly picked. Were they the Chief’s favorite flower? It didn’t seem like they would be. He thought the Chief was probably the type to prefer wildflowers. He thought he would prefer wildflowers at his funeral, too.

He would remember the morning after the fire for the rest of his life. He woke up like any other summer day, fried 2 eggs, toasted two slices of bread, and sat down at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of coffee in his Friday mug. His weekly copy of Science Magazine opened in front of him, he flipped on the news, prepared to ignore another day of local Indianapolis crime. Within moments, his coffee and breakfast were forgotten. Frantically thumbing through the prior year’s class roster, he stationed himself in front of the phone for the next 5 hours. It was around three in the afternoon when he finally got off the phone with the Police Department and marked the last student on his list safe. Moments later a sobbing Ms. Landon called. Frank Rose in last year’s 5th period math class disappeared from the 4th of July Festival and was presumed dead in the fire. Scott had gone over and spent the evening with her.

Suddenly growing aware of the silence, Scott blinked, focusing back in on Pastor Charles. He stepped aside to allow Flo from the Police Station to begin her eulogy. Scott glanced around him at people growing increasingly uncomfortable in the heat.

Maxine Mayfield was conspicuously absent. Scott hadn’t seen her since her brother’s funeral.

Lucas Sinclair stood adjacent to Scott, his parents behind him. He fiddled with the buttons on his coat and his mother swatted at his hands, leaning in and whispering in his ear. He stood up straighter and turned to his left. Dustin and Claudia Henderson were standing beside the Sinclair’s, Claudia Henderson periodically blowing her nose loudly into her handkerchief. The boys exchanged a look and turned their attention another ten feet away to a handsome, familiar-looking older boy with longer hair. The older boy met their gaze and shook his head slowly. A warning.

It had been the boys that first made him suspect something else was going on.

A few days after the fire, Scott reached up and knocked on the door. Erica Sinclair opened it a moment later, staring up at him. She put her hand on her hip. “WHO are YOU?”

“Mr. Clarke. I’m here to see Dustin and Lucas.” Moments later he heard loud thudding on the steps and the boys appeared in the doorway, shoving a protesting Erica back into the house behind them, shutting the door loudly and standing up against it, staring awkwardly at him.

“I came to check on you, boys. Dustin, when I stopped by your house your mom said you both had been at the Mall the night of the fire.” The boys exchanged a worried glance and turned back to Scott. Lucas grimaced. “Yeah, we….we were there. It was….it was a really, really big fire.” “Huge,” Dustin interrupted. “We were…we got caught in it. But we got out.” Lucas nodded along enthusiastically. Scott swiveled between the two of them, skeptically.

“Anywayyyy, we better get back inside. Almost time for dinner. Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Clarke!” Lucas called out as he scrambled for the doorknob. “Yeah, thanks!” Dustin scuttled inside after him, shutting the door abruptly.

Scott looked down at his watch. 2:55pm.

The boys had stopped fidgeting and were focused on Flo now, their faces solemn. Scott looked back over at the older boy, who was staring up at the sky, as if he were trying not to cry. Steve Harrington! That was his name. He’d nearly flunked the boy in 7th grade. He had to be 17? 18 now? How did he know Dustin and Lucas? Frowning, Scott turned back to Flo, who was struggling to finish her statement. Joyce was standing just beyond the casket, as resolute as ever, the crowd of mourners centered around her and her sons.

Strangely, Scott found himself wondering if Joyce ever figured out what was wrong with her magnets.

***

If only the Chief were here now, Calvin Powell thought to himself, to see the entire town of Hawkins show up for his funeral. He could just picture him blustering about the office with a lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth. “Just bullshit obligation,” he’d mumble. And if he knew Flo would be the one giving an impassioned eulogy on his behalf, he would be mortified. Powell stared over the casket as Flo’s lilt carried across the field. Well, the Chief could suck it. Because he’d gone and gotten himself killed, and now here they all were. Without him.

Scott Clarke was standing straight ahead of him, watching over Dustin Henderson and Lucas Sinclair. There were some hardened people in this town, but that man certainly wasn’t one of them. He’d been on and off the phone with Scott Clarke the day after the fire. That’s when he’d still been acting as de-facto Chief. Not anymore, of course. The Feds had seen to that.

Powell re-directed his attention to Flo as she walked towards him, wiping at her eyes as she folded her notes up and tucked them inside her dress. He gave her a small, reassuring smile and squeezed her shoulder as she stood beside him. Callahan was nearby with his young wife. When the Chief took over, everyone figured he would make Callahan Deputy. He ruffled a few feathers by naming Powell. He still remembered the Chief’s first week on the job.

“I already TOLD you,” Roger Walsh sneered. “I’m here to talk to the Chief. “Well I’m Deputy,” Powell cut in. “So I’m here to….” Walsh interrupted by sniffing and crossing his arms, his lip curling in disgust. “Deputy.” He clicked his tongue, staring Powell down.

Hopper waltzed into the station, his eyes red-rimmed, and headed over to the counter for coffee, ignoring the two of them. “Chief Hopper,” Walsh interrupted him, uncrossing his arms. “I need to speak with you about….”

“Talk to my Deputy,” Hopper interrupted, tipping his head back and swallowing a swig of coffee. He turned towards the men, grimacing. “I don’t have time for whatever *this* is today.” Hopper headed past the men towards his office. “This is bullshit,” Roger cut in. “You are the Chief, I don’t want to talk to this nigg…..”

Hopper stopped and swiveled, aggressively grabbing the man by the scruff of his shirt, pulling him forwards. He smacked his lips. “What?” He tilted his head, looking down at the man, his face stormy. “Go ahead.” His voice was dangerously low. “What were you going to say.” Roger gawked at the Chief, terror in his eyes. Hopper let go and pushed the man backwards. “Get the fuck out of my station,” he growled. “Powell, I don’t want to see him again.”

Flo nudged him sympathetically. He was crying. Powell sniffed, angry with himself. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. Not here, not now. The Chief wouldn’t want him to. He swiveled away from her, hoping Callahan hadn’t seen him. Jonathan Byers was standing next to Pastor Charles now. He was wearing worn down black trousers, his right hand resting in his pocket, a piece of paper in his left. He took a deep breath and began reading.

The Feds had showed up within days, sauntering about the office arrogantly. Powell wasn’t sure how a picture of Hopper’s dead daughter contributed to a federal investigation but then again, what did he know? He was just a small-town cop.

Jonathan Byers had chosen today of all days to demand an audience with Powell. He stood in front of the desk as Powell scooted his chair to the side for a man with dark shades. The man looked up at Jonathan pointedly and then continued out of the office with a stack of papers from the bottom drawer. Another agent strolled in and also stopped for a moment to stare at Jonathan, recognition all over his features, too.This second man grabbed another box of papers in the corner.

Powell opened his mouth to question the boy when Jonathan blurted, “Flo said you were helping her with Hopper’s funeral arrangements. I want to give a eulogy.” Confused, Powell frowned, scooting his chair back to its proper place. “Son, that is very nice of you to offer, but….”

“He was there for my Mom and I, when Will disappeared,” Jonathan interrupted, passionately. “When NO ONE else was,” his voice broke and he looked away. Taking a deep breath, he looked back over at Powell. “We’re the only family he has, now.” Powell didn’t have it in him to say no.

Things grew quiet and Powell re-directed his attention to the boy, who was struggling. He stopped to put his head in his hands. Nancy Wheeler approached slowly and took his other hand, standing with him. Jonathan got himself together and continued. Powell glanced over at Joyce, who was staring down, her eyes trained on the grass.

Powell felt the worst for Joyce Byers. Ever since Lonnie skipped town she’d been on her own, and she always seemed one bad day away from a breakdown. But the Chief had a way with Joyce. Powell suspected the Chief had been sweet on her, he even teased him about it once. “I was with her when we found Will in the woods. I’m just doing my job,” the Chief had shrugged.

As Jonathan finished up his speech, he walked back to his mom, hand-in-hand with Nancy. Jonathan reached for her hand when Joyce turned away suddenly, retreating towards the parking lot. The entire town watched her as she went. As if she were the Chief’s Widow.

Powell never bought that the Chief wasn’t sweet on her. Just like he never bought that Will had been lost in the woods, or the fire at the Mall was just a fire. But then again, what did he know? He was just a small-town cop.

***

Jane always came to visit, at least every two weeks, without fail. But it had been a long time. Too long. Slowly but surely, Terry Ives built up her strength to go and find her daughter.

Terry squeezed her eyes shut, her daughter’s features coming into crystal clear focus. She reopened them, pushing herself up from the rocking chair. A bed lay fifteen feet in front of her, a still figure laying on top of it.

Jane. Her feet splashing in the inch of water that filled The Void, Terry approached the bed, her heart pounding. Jane’s eyes were closed, and she stirred for a moment on the sheets. Asleep.

Standing there for a moment, Terry sized up the faded green comforter and white bedframe. This wasn’t The Cabin. Terry kneeled beside the bed, water soaking through the bottom of her nightgown. Faded tears stained her daughter’s sleeping cheeks and a beige shirt was folded in her arms. A small patch on the arm read “Hawkins Police.”

Terry leaned forward and rested her hand on her cheek. “Jane,” she whispered gently. Her eyes fluttered and opened. Jane blinked for a moment, confused. Jane sat up slowly and looked around, still gripping the uniform. “Jane!” Terry exclaimed, louder this time. El continued to look around the room, the confusion turning into despair. “Mama?” She whispered, clutching the shirt tighter.

Something was terribly wrong. She could barely feel Jane’s energy, it was weak. Too weak. Terry rested her hand on her daughter’s cheek again, but she didn’t move. Jane squeezed her eyes shut tight. “Mama,” she murmured, and a soft sob escaped from her lips. She pulled the shirt to her chest. “I can’t feel you, Mama. I can’t feel him,” she began to cry, her despondency like painful tendrils reaching into Terry’s own heart.

Horrified, Terry glanced around her desperately. Why couldn’t Jane see her? Why couldn’t she feel her? Something fuzzy beside the bed grabbed Terry’s attention. Focusing in on it, a small nightstand materialized. It was adorned with a lamp, a clock, and a picture frame. The frame included 2 small boys and a petite brunette woman.

The woman. The woman who came to see her with the Cop. Why was Jane in her house?

Terry heard a noise behind her and turned around slowly. A small green car came into focus. Terry took a few small careful steps forward. The woman was resting her head on her arm, leaning up against the car. She was taking shallow, shuddering breaths, her tiny frame quaking ever so subtly. In pain.

She was wearing all black, standing in tall grass. Not with Jane. As Terry approached, the woman picked her head up. Her big brown eyes were filled with tears. She put her hands up to her eyes, dabbing at them carefully with the backs of her hands. The grief etched into the lines of her face matched Jane’s. Taking one final deep, sharp breath she squared her shoulders and started walking away.

Terry watched her figure pass by Jane’s bed, fading away into a cloud of smoke. Where was the Cop? Terry felt the beginnings of exhaustion creeping into her mind and she pushed them away. She had to find the Cop. She fought for a mental image of him. Her mind was going fuzzy, Jane’s bed fading in and out like a t.v. station competing for a signal. Panic creeping in, she squeezed her eyes shut, pushing for the memory. Her breath grew raggedy from the strain as she opened her eyes.

Another bed began to materialize, this one without a bed frame, this one far, far away. Yet somehow so close. Blinking, Terry slowly stepped towards it, the image continuing to cut back and forth with her daughter’s. As she grew closer to him, The Void seemed to expand around her. The air grew colder and her heart began beating faster. Thump, thump, thump. He was lying on his side, curled up in a ball. Shivering. Not safe. She was a few feet away when his voice grew slightly stronger, his image momentarily clear.

“You don’t tug on Superman’s cape….you don’t….spit. Into the wind. You don’t pull…the mask off that old lone ranger…..and you don’t….mess around…..

….with Jim.” The hopelessness and fear were so powerful, Terry nearly froze. Mustering her last bit of strength, she reached for him. Her hand closed over his. Terry gasped audibly. “El?” He whispered into the darkness.

And with that, he was gone. Jane was gone. Terry felt the sensation of falling, sharply, backwards. She grasped for something, anything, in front of her as she fell, her hands closing around thin air. She landed in her rocking chair, now frozen in place.

“Terry? Terry!” Becky leaned over her sister. “Why is the lamp blinking, honey? What is going on?”

“Breathe,” Terry whispered. “Sunflower. Three to the right, four to the left. Rainbow. Four fifty. Breathe. Sunflower. Three to the right, four to the left. Rainbow. Four fifty.”

“Terry, what is it?” Becky whispered, urgently.

Breathe.

#stranger things #jim hopper #joyce byers #el hopper #jonathan byers #will byers #mike wheeler #nancy wheeler #jopper #jancy #karen wheeler #scott clarke #officer powell #terry ives #stranger things fic #i hope this hopper callback to will in TUD is obvious that is totally what i was going for!!#anyway hope you enjoy your fic #unpredictablybittersweet #fic

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oftherainn · 3 years

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Lamentations of a Short King [January 6, 2021]

IN PROGRESS

Rainn rests the tip of his helmet against the little crook between Aly’s neck and shoulder, keeping his arms firmly and securely around him as he feels the rush of cold January air around them as they ride through the city, probably all scenic and shit or whatever...like he really cared in the moment, a stream of breath exiting his nose like...fuck, Jesus, was he really going to let some lady he didn’t know from a rando ass store live rent free in his head? It’s Free Real Estate...the stupid meme causing an audible snort to move through him in spite of it all, even though...he feels the edge of a thought that was Unproductive and Contrary to the shit he was working on begin to creep into his headspace like devilish tendrils...along with the kinda eugh he was already feeling that day, feeling that itchy kinda...eugh in his own skin beating through his consciousness even as...taking a deep breath, focus on what You Can control...you can Control how you React to it...how you Think about it...his internal consciousness sounding less like the calming voice of his therapist and more like...Michael, for whatever reason, before the thought of Michael makes him remember what Jada said about Thee Christmas Suit (tm), the mental picture of That kinda sorta making him feel at least a little better, or at least a bit distracted, but it Worked, ha....before he hears the sound of the bike stop, moving to take the helmet off, sure he had some (not, Rainn, not) god ugly helmet hair as he...looks up at Him and like...bleh, tries to push the thought on the fringes there in the moment out like...shoo...as he...as he...he’s with You, stupid...he reminds himself as he quickly puts the caveat on the Thought that it was like...an endearing kinda stupid like...Two Halves of a Whole Idiot but like he was ??? Both the idiots ?? The whole momentary line of thought kinda deflating like a balloon in how little Sense it made in the moment before he tries to Reframe it, Reframe, yeah, that coming more clearly in Her voice, taking a kinda sorta...solace ?? in it, yeah, as he takes the original seed of a Thought and just...You’re a Good Person. If you Weren’t a Good Person, you wouldn’t be so worried about how Bad you are. And yeah, you’ve Made Mistakes, but it’s about owning them and growing and like...what’s Good Now, and like...this is good, really good, Fuck what other people say, he...internally ted talks himself or whatever...before realizing he was looking up at Aly with like...that (not) dumb little smile on his face because he was feeling that whole...warm, fluttery mmm kinda...nice shit...so gay, ha, he chides himself as he tries to not look so fucking...gay for him in the moment, kinda...hopping off all casual...like...yeah, even as a little...half smile kinda flickers up on his lips because, yeah, he was fucking gay for him, feelings, grosss, he teasingly admonishes himself even as he lets himself Feel it as he goes up on his tip toes for a kiss like the Short King he was or whatever, an internal dry snort moving through him, make Daddy (read: Blackbear, plus TMG) Proud, a few little notes of the song trilling through his thoughts as he...mmmmm, feels Good and Nice and Warm, and just...Loved, or some gay shit, what the hell ever, slowly, kinda reluctantly...finally drawing back as he moves to grab the Candy and other little treats for the fam out of the back thing that was like a trunk but not really a trunk as he moves to gesture his index finger towards альоша, damn, a (not) dumb little warmth turning over through him at the Full Government Name in his thoughts and just how...fucking cute? It was...honestly...ha, as he does his best like...Serious Face, holding his gaze like he meant Business, “Now don’t you do anything I wouldn’t Do,” he reminds, even as a little chuckle breaks through, Do not Did, very important Loophole, as Uncle G would say, before the little half smile makes its way back onto his lips like it lived there Rent Free as he takes in the Aly Smile, That One, that just like...radiated warmth and light and made him feel so fucking gay, giving him a little salute as he walks backwards a few steps, watching him leave before turning around to head into Jess’s building after putting his mask on, hoping that the whole crew was home, because he was bringing some Quality Shit, yeah, getting that little !! of like...excitement for them to open the little Holiday gifts he had worked with Aly, альоша, to put together, hoping they’d like them and it could just be a nice little token of just how damn much he appreciated them all and everything they had done for him, a little bit of...warm gratitude and appreciation flooding through him, as the little smile flickers onto his lips again as he texts Jess to let her know he was there and...yeah.

#( * rps. )#( * in progress rps. )

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ipaintwithwords · 3 years

Text

Christmas Short Story Exchange

Wolves Without Teeth

Fandoms: Life is Strange, Life is Strange 2 Characters: Sean Diaz, Lyla Park, Daniel Diaz, Chloe Price, David Madsen (mention), Brody Holloway (mention) Tags: Post-Redemption Ending, Post-Save Arcadia Bay Ending, light angst with happy ending, mentions of depression/antidepressants, reminiscing, ambiguous/open ending, POV heavy, pretty scenery and dogs and ghosts

And I run from wolves breathing heavily at my feet And I run from wolves tearing into me without teeth

♪♫♪♫♪♫

Millions of stars lit up the vast, deep indigo canvas of the night sky along the coast of Oregon. It was a quiet, peaceful night, the kind that was made for intimate strolls and heartwarming conversations and marveling at the beauty of the ocean, hand in hand, barefoot on the shore, accompanied by the light April breeze and the soft whispers of the waves. It was made for campfires and laughter, grilled fish and cold beer, and acoustic guitar covers of songs that people don’t listen to enough on Spotify, even though they really should - it was a night made for moments ephemeral and eternal at the same time, a series of overexposed polaroid images in the sand.

However, for the young man driving under the endless rows of majestic pine trees, the night was but a spectacular backdrop for his hours spent on the road. Slightly more memorable than the day before, and infinitely longer than any other day of the past week he’s spent driving, one hand on the wheel, the other one either stroking the gentle crosswind with a cigarette between his fingers or buried in the thick, brown fur of the adolescent wolfdog snoozing on the passenger’s seat, curled up like a content, well-fed little roll with her favorite blanket between her front paws.

That night, he was holding onto the wheel with both hands. Eyes fixated on the highway, his anxiety was skyrocketing in his chest, flooding the back of his mind with dark thoughts and his head with an unbearable migraine, building up slowly but steadily, creeping into his skull, even the empty - and otherwise numb - socket of his left eye. Not that he was a stranger to headaches, but unlike all his past encounters with nasty migraines, this time he had no idea what to blame: the cigarettes, the lack of sleep, all the synthetic food he shoved down his throat the past few days, his ridiculous deadline drawing near by the minute… Or perhaps the fact that for the first time in fifteen agonizingly long years, he was back on a road he never thought will see again.

The only difference was that this time, he was on his own. There was no comforting presence beside him, no hula dancer figurine on top of the dashboard, no excited chatter coming from a kid high on adrenaline on the backseat. It was just him and the shores of Oregon, his sad music and his snoring dog (who wasn’t exactly the chatty kind, which, honestly speaking, never truly bothered him; he adopted her for the very same reason) and this stubborn, intrusive, demanding migraine that seemed to have made a cozy little home for itself in his forehead like it was meant to live out the rest of its life under his skin. And somehow, it managed to grow even stronger when out of the blue, the music was interrupted by the steady, low buzzing of his phone.

All of a sudden, violent waves of frustration crashed down over him as he took a quick glance at the device’s screen. Tightening his grip on the wheel until his nails started digging irritated crescents into the faux leather, he grit his teeth while staring at his phone, its buzzing resonating in his temples as if someone was trying to drill into his brain. The buzzing lasted for a solid two minutes before the screen would finally turn dark again and the pulsating sensation in his temples quieted down a little - only giving him a few moments of calm and quiet, though, as his phone started ringing again the moment he was about to sigh in relief.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”, he grunted loudly in anger, waking the peacefully sleeping wolfdog pup with either his hoarse voice or the annoyed dash of his hand as he reached out for his phone to pick up the incoming call and be over with it as fast as possible. He knew exactly what’s coming for him, and he was in the mood for anything but fighting with his best friend on the phone right now.

“What the fuck, man?!”, hissed a young woman on the other end of the call with a furious whisper-shout, as soon as he pushed the green button. “Are you being serious with me right now? Where the fuck are you, Sean?”, she hissed, and Sean heard a door slamming shut behind her, most likely the backyard door, to be precise, as she stormed out of the kitchen for a smoke.

“You knew I’ll be busy this weekend”, much to his surprise, he magically managed to keep his voice calm and his words collected when he answered after a few moments of hesitation. “I DMed you and I also texted the group chat yest-”

“Yeah, and I thought you’re just trying to back out of going to Walmart with us!”, his feeble attempt of coming up with explanations was met with an angry snap from the young woman. “And I actually can’t believe that we’re having this conversation? Like I can’t comprehend the fact that for whatever fucked up reason, you are actually ditching your own brother’s birthday weekend”, she scoffed, lighting up a cigarette with two impatient click-clacks of a cheap 7-Eleven lighter.

“I have a deadline, Lyla, and it seems like you’re the only person who can’t accept that”, answered Sean with a deep, resigned sigh, only trying to resist the sudden urge of smoking for a brief second before he rolled down the window and reached for his cigarette case. “I talked to Daniel about it, alright? He was the first person I called”, he murmured under his nose, shoving a crooked cigarette between his lips. “And to be honest, I still don’t understand why you guys insisted on throwing this huge ass party for him for an entire weekend... Y’all know he prefers his PS4 and pizza over twenty of us being all over him for three days, right?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was me who’s about to ruin his birthday! Fuck, man, thanks, now I can see that it was me all along”, Lyla let out a burst of dry laughter, more threatening than the sharpest blades in the world. “You are unbelievable, Sean.”

“I’m doing everyone a favor by skipping, y’know”, said Sean, sticking his hand out the window, unleashing the tiny smoke-dragons of his cigarette into the night. “‘Cause let’s be real, we both know that it’s me who’d ruin his birthday” he added with a shrug, making Lyla snort in disbelief.

“I can’t think of a single reason why his favorite person in the world would do that, so please enlighten me with your wisdom, Sean-Wise”, suddenly, her tone softened, bringing a massive lump to Sean’s throat.

“The last thing he needs right now is his useless, depressed brother”, he answered quietly, unable to resist the suffocating grip of anxiety on his neck. “And thankfully, he understands that his useless, depressed brother needs to submit an unreasonable amount of work ‘til next Wednesday, so… Yeah. We’re both doing each other a favor, to be honest.”

“Sean, I… Useless? Why would y- What do you even… Hollup for a sec” sighed Lyla, slightly frustrated, as a small voice suddenly called for her. “Yes, baby, what’s up?”, she said, words and smile warmer than the morning sun, and Sean couldn’t help but smile too when he heard her switch to Korean the next moment, most likely reaching for her daughter Hannah, and gently pushing a strand of dark, silky hair behind her ear like she always did.

“Sorry for that, Miss Thing is getting cranky because she only ate five times today”, Lyla returned to the call after a good minute, and Sean could clearly see her roll her eyes as the door shut close behind Hannah. “So where were we…”

“You were about to give me a Ted Talk on self-love because I called myself useless”, said Sean with a faint smile, before carefully flicking the cigarette butt out the window. Lyla didn’t answer immediately, at least not with words - her silence, on the other hand, was heavy with worry, a calm before the storm Sean knew too well. After all, thirty-three years of friendship teaches a thing or two about another person, especially a friendship like theirs was.

“You know, I had a feeling this is gonna happen”, when Lyla finally broke the silence, she couldn’t conceal the sad, resigned bitterness in her voice. “At least tell me where you are, man…”

“I’m in Oregon… Driving along the coast, actually”, Sean answered, giving his dog an affectionate scratch behind the ear, and making her turn her all-knowing, golden eyes from the night view on him. “Don’t worry, I’m not alone. Chestnut’s here too.”

“Dude, she didn’t even bark when she heard my voice”, said Lyla, with a very obvious and even more dramatic pout on her face. “But wait, what the fuck are you doing there? In Oregon?”, she asked, and this time, it was her confused frown that Sean could see crystal clear as if Lyla was sitting right next to her.

For a brief moment, he truly wished she was.

“I’m chasing ghosts”, when he spoke eventually, it felt as if there was someone else talking with his mouth, unseen powers forcing the air out of his lungs and his tongue and teeth to form the words that echoed for a seemingly endless moment in the car and inside Sean’s head.

And before he could even blink, the echo sunk even deeper, into the darkest pits of his scarred, hurt, lonely soul, as he found himself staring at the unmistakable silhouette of Arcadia Bay in the distance after a slight turn in the road.

He spent the night at Otter Point, in his car, right next to the very same visitors plaque he broke down at, for the first time since fleeing Seattle on that nightmarish afternoon all those years ago, to a man he just met - a man who changed everything, although fifteen years later, Sean wasn’t sure anymore that it was for the better. He wasn’t sure whether he’d still be alive at all if it wasn’t for Brody and his golden heart that night, but he was certain of one thing: that compared to all the horrible things that happened to him, to them, death would’ve been but a merciful release.

Death didn’t come for them, however, at least not in its form that’s known to most people. Instead of taking them, it decided to befriend the Wolf Brothers and tag along on their journey, from the suburbs of Seattle to the iron gates of the Mexican border - and after that, the lifeless, ashen grey walls of a suffocatingly small prison cell in Washington. It was there that night too, in Sean’s car, a worn, cherry-red station wagon just like Brody’s, and inside his head, too, buried deep under the quiet, unsteady chaos of his thoughts. It was in every breath he took, every pill he swallowed, every minute he spent awake wondering what is he even doing, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing that could make it go away, that could make death change it’s stubborn mind and to leave Sean Diaz alone, because, throughout the years, it simply grew too fond of him.

And with time, Sean just… Accepted it. He accepted being handpicked by death itself and stopped fighting it because no matter how hard he tried to avoid it, to get rid of it, to pretend that everything was fine, nothing helped; nothing but the acceptance and the handfuls of numbing bitterness he consumed at least two yellow tubes of each month for the past, God knows how many years. Of course, things could’ve been a lot worse, and Sean was fully aware of that - he knew that he was extremely privileged for being able to settle back into society relatively easily after being released from his sentence of nearly two decades spent in one of the country’s biggest federal prisons.

Frankly speaking, it wasn’t about settling back into society as much as it was about doing something he secretly always dreamed of, even before the story of the Wolf Brothers began on that chilly Friday afternoon, in a completely ordinary, perfectly average October of a past, long-lost life. In fact, if someone told sixteen-year-old Sean that everything that’s about to happen to him will eventually lead to a new life in which he is a comic book artist who gets paid for drawing the weird shit in his head, sixteen-year-old Sean would’ve probably laughed until his stomach hurt and happy tears started rolling down his cheek.

And yet, there he was that morning, on top of a hill above the Oregon coast, moderately enjoying his cheap instant coffee in the back of his station wagon (and after a glance at his peaky-faced reflection in the mirror, extremely judging his lack of self-discipline regarding taking care of his beard) while waiting for his tablet to charge fully so he can proceed with the next strips for the fifth chapter of The Adventures of the Pack. Chestnut was running around in excited circles, chasing grasshoppers and butterflies and occasionally, her tail, not particularly minding either her owner or the breathtaking view of the coast, and along with it, the quiet town of Arcadia Bay.

At first, he didn’t even think of making a stop at a seemingly insignificant place like Otter Point on his not-so-spontaneous journey - for some much-needed inspiration or for bittersweet reminiscence, he wasn’t entirely sure anymore -, but while going through dozens of maps and routes and painful memories on a sleepless night before his trip, he stumbled upon a picture Daniel sent him for one of his birthdays spent in prison. A picture from Away, to be precise, of a cozy little bonfire and four people with marshmallow sticks in their hands and tipsy smiles on their faces - a picture that kept him up awake for the whole night, with tears stuck halfway in his throat, desperately trying to fight their way through the walls Sean has built around himself. And the moment he saw David in the picture, he decided that after all the phone calls and visits and almost fatherly check-ins from the man throughout the past fifteen years, the least he can do is stopping in David’s hometown for a quick page or two on his way down South.

“Man, it must be tough being you”, Sean chuckled as he put his empty mug on the small writing desk in the corner of his on-the-go bedroom, looking at Chestnut playing in the dry dirt alongside the road with a wide, amused smile on his face. “Careful, though… I’d rather not break my neck trying to rescue you if you fall down” he added, climbing out of the back of his car with nimble reflexes, the sudden movement answered with excited bark coming from the wolfdog pup.

“Would you look at that”, said Sean with an impressed little snort, walking up to the fence and bending over to rest his arms on it, eyes roaming the endless, unbelievably blue ocean and the gentle waves washing up against the pale sands of Arcadia Bay’s shores. “Can’t decide if it’s beautiful or the most boring shit I’ve ever seen, to be honest… What d’ya think, huh?”, he raised his eyebrows, peeking down at Chestnut yelping next to him, and giving her a loving scratch behind the ears. “Come, check this out”, he beckoned to the visitors plaque next to them with his chin, patting Chestnut’s side gently as he stepped up to the laminated board, full of colorful images of the local wildlife and the town’s various attractions.

“Yeah? That’s where you wanna go?”, he laughed, as Chestnut suddenly stood up on her rear legs, front paws propped against the plaque, curious golden eyes fixated on the picture of Arcadia Bay’s imposing lighthouse. “Y’know what, why the fuck not, we got all the time in the world… At least ‘til next Wednesday'' Sean sighed, looking up from the slightly faded photograph to the actual lighthouse in the distance, peeking out from countless majestic pine trees, its bright, white light rotating with a slow and steady speed on the opposite end of the bay on top of a cliff.

There was something strange, something unsettling about the tall, robust tower that Sean couldn’t exactly put his finger on. He found himself staring at the lighthouse as if it held all the secrets, all the answers to all the questions he’s been searching for all his life - he couldn’t move, he couldn’t blink, he couldn’t even catch his breath for what felt like an eternity, even though it was but a mere moment. As if something was calling him, an invisible, eerie force locking his eyes on the lighthouse, Sean just stood there petrified, and if it wasn’t for Chestnut and her eager little woof startling him back to reality, he probably would’ve stayed there like that until sunset.

“Yeah, why the fuck not”, he murmured under his nose, shaking his head like he just woke from a weird dream as he turned away from Arcadia Bay and walked up to his car, trying to ignore the uncanny tingling in the back of his head - and the unmistakable feeling of being watched by a pair of all-seeing, otherworldly eyes.

It took surprisingly long to get to the other side of the bay from Otter Point. By the time Sean reached the lighthouse, the sun was high in the spotless blue sky, radiating its warm light so dazzlingly he had to shield his eyes with his hand as he exited the car. He parked the station wagon in a small clearing surrounded by fragrant, sky-high pine trees, at the bottom of a meandrous set of wooden stairs half-eaten by the soil, and began his short hike up to the lighthouse with Chestnut trotting by his side. The forest around them was peaceful and bustling with cheerful and welcoming Spring life; they saw busy bees and chirping birds and dancing butterflies everywhere as they made their way uphill, following the glimmering sunspots on the ground.

“Alright, same rules apply, okay? No running along the edge, it’s rocky down there”, said Sean when they reached the top of the stairs, grabbing Chestnut’s collar the very last minute before the pup could just storm off to explore the uncharted territory. “Stay… Staaay…”, he raised his eyebrows as the pup looked up at him with giant eyes full of excited sparkles, wagging her tail like the clearing in front of her was the last one on Earth to roam. “Good girl. Run along now, but carefully, please”, he said after a moment or two, as he let go of Chestnut, watching her dart off as a fired arrow with a proud, fatherly smile on his face before following the pup to the clearing.

The lighthouse stood tall on the edge of the cliff, watching over Arcadia Bay like a robust, all-seeing guardian. Seeing the tower up close, Sean felt the same magnetic energy that practically hypnotized him from all the way across the bay, only this time, he felt it ten folds stronger, as he stood there and stared at the lighthouse, tilting his head back as much as he could to take in the breathtaking sight in all its mesmerizing entirety. It felt like he arrived in another dimension where time didn’t work as it did on his own; as if a heavy, velvety curtain fell on the world, closing around the cliff and creating an odd, languid void where the pace of time just wasn’t the same. It was quiet, yes, peaceful, even, but at the same time, the air was strangely disturbed, unsettling and mysterious - and eerily inviting.

After what felt like half a lifetime of staring at the lighthouse, Sean noticed a worn bench on the edge of the cliff. He watched Chestnut sweep across the clearing, very much occupied with chasing something that looked like an azure-blue butterfly at first glance, before walking up to the bench and sitting down on it, turning his gaze towards the magnificent view of the bay below him as he reached for his cigarette case in his pocket. With the first puff of bitter smoke, he closed his eyes, and for a while, he just listened to the waves crashing against the rocks at the bottom of the cliff and the squawking of a few stray seagulls circling around the lantern room, before bringing himself to unzip his backpack and pull out his tablet and sketchbook from the messy depths of it.

He only hesitated for a brief moment before he put the tablet back in his bag, and along with it, his deadlines and professional responsibilities, settling with his trusted sketchbook instead. He preferred drawing on actual paper with an actual pen anyway, and he felt like procrastinating a little before letting his work swallow him in one bite. Flipping through dozens of pages of unfinished drawings until he finally reached a blank page, Sean started sketching Arcadia Bay with strainless ease, his eye constantly moving back and forth between the sketchbook and the view until the chaos of thin, black lines started to come together and he didn’t have to look anymore.

And this is when the time truly stopped around him, as it always did when Sean took the pen. It was just him and his vision of the world under the sun, and of course, Chestnut running around the clearing, her lanky, brown form always somewhere in the corner of his eye.

“You’re really pressed about this butterfly, aren’t you”, he chuckled as Chestnut ran across his feet relentlessly, making Sean look up from the content little wolf he’s been sketching for a while without even realizing that he started adding it to the drawing. He didn’t even notice anymore, since this was the case with many, if not most of his drawings - as if he was physically incapable of finishing a drawing without wolves in it, or for that matter, drawing for someone who wasn’t his brother.

“I mean, it’s a pretty fucking stunning butterfly if you ask me”, answered a mischievous voice beside him, completely out of the blue, startling Sean so unexpectedly that he almost fell off the bench.

“De puta madr-!!”, he exclaimed in fright as he turned his head, and the next moment, he found himself staring at a young, slim girl, leaning against the crooked fence on the edge of the cliff. “I mean, ugh Jesus. Sorry, I didn’t see you there” he added quickly, clearing his throat as he looked the girl up and down, wondering how long has it been since she got there - and most importantly, how in the world didn’t he notice her when she arrived.

“It’s kinda rare that anyone does, to be honest” shrugged the girl, stepping away from the fence, piercing blue eyes shifting from Sean’s colorless face to the sketchbook in his lap. She was tall and slender, wearing ripped jeans with a leather jacket and a black beanie, electric blue hair framing her narrow, elfish face. She looked like she was in her late teens, early twenties, maybe, and even though Sean was certain he’s never seen her before, somehow it felt like he’s known the girl for his entire life. “What are you drawing? Can I see?”

“Sure, take a look” he said, scooting over a little so the girl could sit next to her. “It’s a… I don’t even know what, that started off as a landscape sketch” he explained, scratching the inner corner of his empty eye socket and suddenly wishing he put on his eyepatch before coming up to the lighthouse. The girl, however, was way too invested in his sketchbook to even notice that there was something unusual about his appearance, and even if she did, she didn’t seem to be taken aback by it - or at least she didn’t feel the urge to stare, unlike most people Sean has met throughout his life.

“This is really cool, dude” the girl said after a while, looking up at him with a wide, impressed grin before turning her gaze back to Sean’s drawing. “Are you like, an artist or something?”

“Artist is an overstatement but yeah, I draw comics for a living” Sean answered, reaching out for Chestnut when he noticed the pup is running towards him. “This one isn’t for work though. It’s a… Gift. For my brother”, he added, his smile suddenly fading with the words, and not returning even when Chestnut wriggled her way in between his legs and placed her head in his lap, staring up at him with giant puppy eyes.

“Something gives me the impression that he’s the small one”, the girl chuckled, pointing at the younger wolf on Sean’s drawing, chasing a butterfly on the edge of the cliffside looking over Arcadia Bay, next to his bigger, scruffier, one-eyed brother, relaxing under a pine tree.

“I have no idea what makes you say that” said Sean with a faint smile on his face, gently fondling Chestnut’s head in his lap. “The older I get, the more it feels like it’s the other way around, to be honest”, he sighed quietly, feeling his entire chest harden all of a sudden as he took a glance at his sketchbook between the long nails of the strange girl next to her.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” asked the girl bluntly the next moment, carefully closing Sean’s sketchbook and putting it between them on the bench. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in Arcadia Bay before, and that’s pretty shocking considering that we’re talking about a town of 200 people where nothing ever happens…”

“Yeah, I’m just traveling. Thought I’d drive through town and check out the view from here” Sean answered, and as he pulled out another cigarette from his pocket, he couldn’t help but notice the sudden sparks of longing in the girl’s eyes. “You want one?”

“Not gonna lie, I could kill for a smoke… But no thanks. I… Can’t”, the girl gulped, watching with eager eyes as Sean reluctantly put the cigarette in his mouth. “Oh, no, it’s okay, I don’t mind. The smell’s gonna do the trick” she said, exhaling the smoke of the first huff with a strange, almost euphoric smile as Sean lit his cigarette at last.

“Oh man… You got some superior shit right there” she said, her smile slowly growing into a content, wide grin. “But anyway… As much as Arcadia Bay is the most boring shithole in the whole wide world, I hope your trip was worth it in the end.”

“Sounds like you lived here for a while, huh?”, Sean asked, eyebrows raised, to which the girl let out a sarcastic snort. “Oof. That bad?”

“There are no words to describe just how bad, my dude” the girl answered, shaking her head and wrapping her arms around her long legs pulled up to her chest. “I’ve been stuck here my whole fucking life. Wanted to leave since I was fourteen” she continued, the playful cheer suddenly leaving her voice and leaving behind gloomy shadows on her face. “Should’ve gotten the fuck outta here the first chance I got”, she said sourly, planting her chin between her knees and staring blankly in the distance, to a faraway place Sean couldn’t follow her to - and even if he could, he wouldn’t want to.

“So why didn’t you?”, Sean blurted out before thinking twice, but before he could even think of a way to apologize for possibly having crossed a line, the girl laughed out loud and dry.

“Have a wild guess, dude. ‘Cause of love, of course”, she snorted again, only this time, sarcasm was replaced with something much darker in her tone. “I was just waiting for the right time y’know. Back then, I had no idea that no such thing exists. Not for anything, not for anyone. There is just you and time, and time is nothing but a massive fucking trap, waiting for you to get stuck in it” she said, eyes darker than the coldest nights of winter. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to explode like that.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize for anything”, Sean shook his head, placing his burnt-out cigarette butt under the bench next to the previous one. “I’m just not sure I get what you mean.”

“No worries, I wouldn’t expect you to get it anyway” the girl shrugged, and the next moment, she turned her gaze to Sean, all-seeing blue eyes staring right into his soul. “You know, people hardly ever come to the lighthouse anymore, except when they should be somewhere else. And even if they come, they barely notice me. It’s nice that you did. And that you listened, too. I’m not sure where you’re supposed to be now, but I’m glad you’re here” she smiled, patting Sean’s hand with a surprisingly cold palm briefly, retreating almost immediately as he shuddered next to her.

“Yeah, I’m glad I took a little detour too” he smiled back at the girl before his glance wandered off to his sketchbook lying between them on the bench. “But I think I should get going now. I’d love to stay and chat, but… I’m ridiculously late already”, he added, a concerned frown taking over the upper half of his face, and a bewildered grin the lower, as somehow, at that moment, he realized there’s a chance that perhaps he has given into the nonsense of his own depression slightly more than he should have in the first place.

“Yeah, you probably are”, said the girl with a playful wink, standing up from the bench and stretching her long arms above her head. “Man, what a spectacular fucking afternoon. I mean, look at the Sun. Such a radiant bitch boss, for real”, she declared lovingly, making Sean laugh out loud for the first time in the past few days, or even weeks, maybe.

“Need a lift?”, Sean asked the girl as they turned their backs on the lighthouse, and started walking towards the staircase leading to the small clearing at the bottom of the cliff.

“Nah, thanks, but I’m not done here yet”, the girl said, shoving both her hands in the pockets of her skinny jeans. “Got some wandering to do, y’know… Contemplating the beauty of Spring and all” she looked at him with a somewhat shy smile, and Sean decided not to risk crossing any more lines with any more questions.

“I guess this is where we part ways then” he nodded his head when they reached his station wagon, waiting patiently next to the tourist map of the cliff. “Enjoy contemplating the beauty of Spring, I guess?”, he smiled at the girl, opening the door of the passenger’s seat for Chestnut.

“Yeah, thanks, man. You take care too, okay?” answered the girl, and the next moment, before Sean could say anything, her eyes suddenly widened. “And don’t forget to sketch up a cool portrait of me or something if you got the time, will you?”

“Stop reading my mind, a’ight?” Sean laughed, waving at the girl before sitting in his car, a sudden burst of energy washing over him as the door closed behind him. The urge to drive as fast as he just can was stronger than he’s ever felt it before, but somehow, he managed to control it, closing his eyes and leaning back on his seat for a long, silent moment before reaching for his phone. Swiping away dozens of notifications, he then opened his contacts and pressed call on the first name on top of the list - the only number he’s ever called, really.

The ringing stopped right after he pressed his phone between his ear and shoulder, and turned the car key under the steering wheel.

“Hey enano. I’m on my way.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Hey! Thank you for reading! ❤

This short story is my contribution to a Christmas Short Story Exchange we did with my best friends. (It is also my first ever fanfiction in English!) I was writing for one of my best friends who got me into Life is Strange years ago, so when we pulled each other’s names and I found out I’m writing for her, I immediately knew that I’ll work with the Diaz brothers and Chloe.

2020 Christmas Short Story Exchange Word count: 5353 | Written December 22nd-27th. I’m on AO3 now! Head over for more fanfictions. ❤

#fanfiction #Life is Strange #Life is Strange 2 #Sean Diaz #Daniel Diaz #Lyla Park #Chloe Price #Post-Redemption Ending #Post-Save Arcadia Bay Ending #under 10k #story #writing #writers on tumblr #short story #fan fiction #fanfic #light angst

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patchwork-panda · 4 years

Text

If A Moment Is All We Are (Ch.1)

This is the Dazai x OC/”reader” with bits of Kunikida x OC/”reader” fic I created.

I’m just gonna post the entire text of first chapter below the cut bc even tho it’s at zero hits, I still feel there’s people out there who might want to read it...

OC is based off “The Story of Your Life” by Ted Chiang, the basis for the movie “Arrival” w Amy Adams.

Shout-out to @discoten for Beta-ing this first part :)

*************************************************************************

Pale gold. Rose red. Dusky purple.

My eyes traveled from one brightly colored glass panel to the next, finally landing upon the deep azure blue of the Virgin Mary’s veil. I kept my eyes trained on her face, trying to stay focused on the massive stained-glass windows, the beautiful art shining all around me, anything to pretend I was at this gallery under different circumstances. Shafts of colored light as bright as shattered gemstones danced across the floor in the late afternoon sun, flitting over the black-clad bodies of the two men who lay prone nearby, their silent forms looking unnaturally still against the vibrant carpet.

I swallowed uneasily, a familiar sort of nausea creeping up from the pit of my stomach as I watched the dark pool of liquid around them grow wider and wider, the smell of iron heavy in the air...

Squeezing my eyes shut momentarily, I wrenched my attention away from them, trying to go back to staring at the windows but found myself looking once again into a pair of steel-gray eyes. There, at the entrance of the gallery, standing so still he may was well be a statue himself, was the young man who’d slain the two security guards lying on the floor nearby. With his pale face, stark-white cravat, and torn black overcoat, he reminded me of a vampire, or maybe even a god of death—his very image called to mind a painting of the Grim Reaper I’d passed on my way into this room. If only I had heeded the warning...

If I had, then maybe I wouldn’t be staring into a pair of piercing red eyes right now—the eyes of a shadowy monster attached to the back of this man’s cloak. As if sensing my thoughts, the demonic creature bared its dagger-like fangs and growled, its bloody, gaping maw stretching wide.

I kept my hands in the air. My cold, sweaty palms trembled on either side of my face as I returned my attention to the stained-glass windows around me. I’d had my hands in the air for so long that my arms were getting tired but I couldn’t drop them—I didn’t want to think about what would happen next if I did. Then the headlines tomorrow would read: “Attack at the South Pier Art Gallery. Three dead: two curators and one visitor.” In perhaps a day or two, they’d identify my corpse as “Kusunoki Kyou, aged twenty, a college drop-out and local shut-in.” They wouldn’t be able to get a hold of my parents; they were overseas and I hadn’t seen the rest of my family in so long, I wasn’t even sure if they were still in Chiba any more. Maybe the reporters would interview one or two of my former classmates... But would they even be able to find anybody who still wanted to talk about me after I shut myself away so abruptly?

“Hey, how have you been? Akutagawa-kun?” the man behind me called out brightly, the lilting tenor of his voice jarring, given our current situation.

I kind of figured he was crazy from the moment we met, but not this crazy.

What kind of man tries to play catch up with a friend (acquaintance? I honestly had no idea how they knew each other) while holding a gun to somebody’s head—my head? Even though I couldn’t turn around to see his face, I could picture his cheerful smile, the twinkle in his intelligent brown eyes, the layers of bandages wrapped around his neck. I could practically hear the gears in his head turning behind me as he watched Akutagawa and calculated his next move, the tone of his voice giving absolutely nothing away.

There was a tiny click—the sound of the safety being shut off—and I grimaced as I felt the metallic chill of the handgun’s muzzle pressing more firmly against the back of my head. Akutagawa immediately shot a dirty glance over my head at the person holding me hostage. He spat out a single name:

“Dazai-san.”

I went back to staring at the windows.

I really shouldn’t have left my apartment this morning.

***

Ramen.

Instant ramen was the reason I decided to venture out of my glorified broom closet for the first time in probably weeks. Had I known that the craving for convenience store food would lead to my being shot to death in six hours’ time, I would’ve ignored the growling of my stomach and taken my chances with starving at home instead.

Maybe.

I’d stayed up far too late the night before binge-watching the latest season of a new anime I’d picked up and my best guess for when I’d finally fallen asleep at my computer was probably around three in the morning. When I finally woke up (sometime around noon), I had Pocky crumbs in my hair, my pajamas were sticking unpleasantly to my skin and my stomach was grumbling from the lack of real food in who knows how long. Unfortunately, my pantry was empty, so I did what any normal person in my situation would do: put off going outside for another couple hours by picking another anime to watch. I only realized I really needed to get going when I finally reached into my giant bag of snacks and found it empty.

Dread building in the pit of my stomach at the mere thought of going outside, I threw off the pink bunny pajamas that I hadn’t changed out of in a while and tossed them on the growing pile of clothes on the floor. I hadn’t done the laundry in weeks and it was anyone’s guess which pile was “clean” and which was “dirty” (I’d lost track of which was which days ago). However, I didn’t have a real need to distinguish between the two until today... I stepped into the bathroom, walking right past the tiny cracked mirror above the sink without really looking into it and pulled the shower curtain closed. I knew what I would see: a greasy, dead-eyed otaku version of the creepy girl from The Ring, with long black hair and reddish-brown eyes, only instead of a haunted child, I’d see an adult who failed to get her life together after just two years of moving out of her relatives’ house.

Half an hour later, I’d dressed myself in an old pair of jeans and a large sweatshirt emblazoned with the logo of a magical girl anime and was desperately fishing around in my kitchen drawer for the thing I needed most: a pair of gloves. I hadn’t needed to go outside in so long that I’d forgotten to stock up on nitrile gloves and it was with an enormous amount of relief that I finally retrieved an old pair at the bottom of the drawer.

I was too tired and hungry to notice the small hole in one of the gloves when I pulled them on, nor did I notice when I put on my face mask and tied up my hair. Honestly, I was just lucky the torn one didn’t rip completely away from my hand when I was putting on my shoes but maybe it would’ve been better if it did. Maybe then I wouldn’t have ended up at the art gallery...

But I wasn’t thinking about my gloves when I prepared for my short trip; I was thinking about food. After all, it was supposed to be a quick trip, just a short walk through the hallway and down the street to the nearest convenience store, then back. It honestly might not have been so bad if everything that happened after hadn’t gone so horribly wrong.

The first thing that went wrong happened the moment I stepped out of the building. Blinded by the sudden appearance of sunlight, I smacked right into an old lady walking in front of my building and immediately fell on my butt.

“Oh my, Kyou-chan!”

I groaned as I slowly got back to my feet.

“Is that you, Kyou-chan? Nobody’s seen you in weeks; it’s been so quiet on your end of the floor that we thought maybe you moved out!”

“No, I’m still here, Yamazaki-san,” I replied, recognizing the woman’s face before her voice.

Mrs. Yamazaki lived on the same floor as me and was kind of a busybody, but a caring one. The evening I’d first moved into the building, she’d knocked on my door around dinner time and asked if I knew how to play Mah-Jong. One of her friends had canceled on their group last minute and they’d needed a fourth. I’d declined as politely as I could but was still somehow dragged out of my room by the boisterous old woman and forcibly socialized over a cup of hot genmai-cha. I’d meant to return the favor by dropping by with some kind of snack in hand but never got around to it.

I could feel the guilt curling in the pit of my stomach as I took in her tiny form, her smiling face but all I could do was smile weakly as she remarked on how malnourished I looked and how long my hair had grown since she’d last seen me. Then she spotted the tote bag in my hand.

“Kyou-chan! Are you going shopping?”

“Not really, just getting some ramen at the convenience store.”

Mrs. Yamazaki’s eyes widened.

“Is that all you’ve been eating these days?” she asked, sounding concerned.

“N-no. I’ve had...”

I thought back to my box of strawberry Pocky.

“...Other things.”

She frowned.

“That won’t do,” she declared.

Without waiting for me to respond, she grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the nearest crosswalk.

“Yamazaki-san!” I tried to wrench my arm out of her grip but she was surprisingly strong for her age. Or maybe—I cringed—maybe I’d just become extremely weak after months of being a shut-in and not getting any proper exercise. Drawing commissions hardly worked the arms.

“This isn’t the way to the convenience store! Yamazaki-san!!”

Before long, we were inside an actual grocery, Mrs. Yamazaki chatting away merrily as she pulled vegetables off the shelves and tucked them away into her own basket (I’d run into her just as she was about to go anyway). Occasionally, she’d grab something green and leafy and stick it into the basket she’d forced into my hands, and she kept doing it until she’d buried the thick layer of ramen and junk food that lay at the bottom of the bag. When she was satisfied with the composition of my groceries, she nodded approvingly and hurried me towards the cash registers.

“There now,” she laughed once we were outside and I was carrying a very heavy bag of things I hadn’t actually intended to buy. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

She stepped off the sidewalk and two things happened very quickly: one, a truck ran a red light, barreling towards her as she attempted to cross the street, and two, as I dropped my groceries and rushed forward to save her, my right glove caught on something sticking out of my bag and finally ripped.

“Yamazaki-san!”

I reached out—my fingers stretched towards her.

“Look out!!”

Several onlookers screamed as I seized Mrs. Yamazaki by the back of her jacket and yanked her back. We fell to the ground, crashing down onto the sidewalk just as the truck sped through the intersection, honking madly as it flew by. Somebody behind us was yelling for the cops, several people had taken out their cell phones and as one of the grocery store employees rushed over to help us up, I felt an odd stinging sensation in my right hand.

I looked down and saw that my right glove had been completely shredded. Though I still had coverage on most of my fingers, much of the pale blue nitrile was hanging off my right hand in thin, ragged tatters and there were several long scratches on the palm of my hand from where I’d scraped it against the sidewalk when I fell.

The store employee, a stout, middle-aged man with bulky arms, helped a very shaken Mrs. Yamazaki to her feet, and though I could feel her trembling as she clung to me, I tried to shift my posture as she leaned on me. I couldn’t let her touch any part of my bare hand.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” the man from the store asked.

“Y-yes, I’m fine,” Mrs. Yamazaki answered, her voice quavering as she looked up at the man and then at me.

Tears sprang to her eyes and before I could stop her, she got down on her knees and bowed deeply, touching her forehead to the ground in gratitude.

“Y-Yamazaki-san?”

“Thank you!” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You saved my life, Kyou-chan!”

“Yamazaki-san, please,” I dropped to my knees as well and tried to help her up. “You don’t need to do that. Please, get up.”

As the store employee and I raised Mrs. Yamazaki to her feet, she chuckled, her eyes wide with wonder as she looked at me.

“And to think, if I hadn’t met you on your way out this morning, I might be...”

She shook her head slowly and I exchanged a worried glance with the man who’d come to help.

“I don’t know where I would be if you weren’t here, Kyou-chan,” Mrs. Yamazaki breathed. “From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

Though she seemed to be completely fine, with no broken bones or serious injuries, she continued to cling to me, and I felt her grip on my arm tighten as the employee informed her the police were on their way and we may want to stay to give a statement. Panic slowly rose in my chest as I felt my uncovered wrist coming out of my sleeve but as I carefully began to extricate myself from Mrs. Yamazaki’s grip, she suddenly turned to me and looked me up and down. She gasped.

“Oh, Kyou-chan!”

Her eyes had fallen upon my scratched palm.

“You’re bleeding!”

I yanked my hand away.

“I’m fine, ma’am.”

“Let me see it,” she demanded, grabbing my wrist. “I insist.”

As the store employee ran inside to get some band-aids, Mrs. Yamazaki gently picked up the edges of the ripped nitrile, pulling it away from my bloody, scratched-up palm, oblivious to my attempts to get away. As the glove gradually peeled away from my hand, I felt the warmth of her wrinkled skin brush against my fingers.

And then it happened.

The sound of canned laughter echoes throughout the room. Flickering green and white light casts odd shadows upon the walls. The cat-shaped clock above the television reads half past eleven in the middle of the night but there is another sound that is audible over the muffled noises from the TV. It beats in time with the clock and it sounds like something dripping, something liquid and warm.

Tick.

T i ck.

The clock cat’s eyes shine with unnatural green light— light reflected from the television screen. They are blank , open, and staring, just like the eyes of the woman draped oddly over the side of the television set, her eyes wide with fear and shock.

Mrs. Yamazaki clutches at her chest. Blood dribbles thickly from between her fingers, her breath comes in wheezes and gurgled gasps as she slumps further and further down the side of her TV set. She leaves a bloody hand print on the side panel and falls to the ground.

Someone is laughing.

I am laughing.

The sound is deep, unfamiliar. There is a large, bloody kitchen knife held fast in my fingers, which are thick and hairy. I move my arm to check the wound Mrs. Yamazaki had inflicted on me and I see the vivid tattoo of a monstrous green snake, its fangs sinking deeply into a cracked human skull.

The television returns to its regularly scheduled programming. A time stamp appears in the upper right hand corner...

I came to, to the sound of somebody calling my name and immediately let out a sharp hiss of pain. While I was out, I had dropped to my knees, scuffing my jeans, and I could feel the thin skin over my kneecaps bruising horribly against the concrete sidewalk. Thankfully, that was all but my hands were shaking and I had a massive headache. Looking alarmed, Mrs. Yamazaki, not a single knife wound visible on her body, held my hand in both of hers with a troubled expression on her face. She had been the one calling me.

“Oh my goodness! Are you alright, Kyou-chan? You’re as white as a sheet.”

I immediately ripped my hand away and stuffed it into my pocket, just as the store employee returned with bandages. As he stuck out his hand to give me the bandages, I took a step back, shrinking away from the two of them.

“I’m fine.”

I stuffed my hand deeper into my pocket, ignoring the stickiness of the drying blood.

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Yamazaki asked, worry clouding her voice.

“I SAID I’M FINE!!”

That came out way louder than I’d meant it to. The people around me looked startled. I could hear the whispers. My Ability, “The Story of Your Life,” the curse of seeing visions of the future of those I touched, had manifested at the worst possible moment. I picked my bag off the sidewalk and ran.

#bungou stray dogs #bungou sd #dazai x oc #dazai x reader #kunikida x reader #kunikida x oc

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yurtletheturtlehenderson · 4 years

Text

S.T. REWRITE - S2:E5; Chapter Five, Dig Dug - [Pt. 4 - FINAL PART]

A Will Byers x Reader Series

After a run-in with Will, a troubled Y/n teams up with an unlikely ally in her search for answers. “Bob the Brain” tackles a difficult problem.

Warnings: Racism

||3rd Person POV||

"Alright," Bob calls out. "I got 2.5 inches. What'd you got?"

"I'm not sure" Mike calls from Joyce's room. "Mrs. Byers."

"Hold on!" She calls, stretching the measuring tape around the corner.

The group had set out to find the x on the maps. With Bob's help, they were able to pinpoint most of the locations depicted through Will's drawings. Unfortunately, they had yet to find the spot where Hopper was. Bob was at the kitchen table, mapping out coordinates while Mike and Joyce measured the distances between marked areas.

"Twenty-one feet, four inches."

"What about Tippecanoe to Danford Creek?" Bob asked.

Joyce's face scrunched up as she thought of where she last saw it.

"Da-Danford, Danford?"

"Dining room!" Will answered excitedly. Joyce joined him with the measuring tape. She turned to face Bob who was in the other room.

"Sixteen feet, ten inches."

"What about Danford to Jordan?"

Joyce sighed, hurrying across the room to Bob's side.

"That's gotta be enough?"

Bob began sputtering, shaking his head sadly.

"It's not. It's really not."

"Can't you f-figure it out?"

By now, everyone was regrouped around the table. Everyone was watching Bob hopefully. He shrugged.

"Well, it's hard. The ratio isn't exactly one to one. I-I mean, if you're twisting my arm, and you're twisting my arm, I would say the x is" he drew a few lines on the map with his ruler, double-checking his math. "maybe, a half-mile southeast of Danford?" A beaming smile found its way onto Joyce and she exclaimed happily.

"Thank you!"

She leaned down and planted a big kiss on Bob's cheek, bringing a smile of his own to his lips.

Grabbing the map, she took out of the room, Mike, Will and a confused Bob behind her.

"What? Are we really going?"

×××

Dustin pulls his bike into the Wheeler driveway. Hopefully, Mike was home. And hopefully, he'd have a pretty damn good explanation as to why he wasn't answering his coms! He stood at the front door, repeatedly ringing the doorbell and waited impatiently. He could have sworn he heard a muffled voice call out.

"Ted, can you get that please?"

When Mr. Wheeler opened the door, Dustin tried to remain as cool and collected as possible though it was difficult. He looked Mr. Wheeler in the eye and spoke carefully.

"Your line has been busy for over two hours, do you realize that?"

With the same unimpressed look painted across the man's face, as it always was, he nodded simply.

"I do realize."

"Is Mike home?"

"No."

"No?" Dustin repeated, his composure cracking. "Well, where the hell is he?"

Mr. Wheeler's usual plain and tepid voice raised suddenly as he looked behind him into the house.

"Karen, where's our son?"

"Will's!" Came Mrs. Wheeler's voice from inside.

Mr. Wheeler calmly and disinterestedly looked back to Dustin.

"Will's," he said simply.

Dustin sighed heavily.

"No one's picking up there. Nancy, what about Nancy?" He tried.

"Karen, where's Nancy?"

"Ally's!" She answered shortly.

"Ally's," Mr. Wheeler said and he shrugged. "As you can see, our children don't live here anymore. You didn't know that?"

Dustin felt all his hope evaporate as he looked at the dull man.

"Now, are we done here?" He asked pointedly.

Dustin sighed heavily, all efforts to be polite were long gone.

"Son of a bitch, you're really no help at all, you know that?" He said over his shoulder, as he walked away.

Ted called put lazily after the boy, his heart not fully in the fight.

"Hey, language!"

Dustin had returned to his bike, he picked it up hotly, now feeling completely on edge. His ears perked up when he saw a car pull up near the sidewalk. He watched in curiosity until he saw someone unexpected climb out. Steve Harrington. He was lazily carrying a bouquet of roses that hung at his side and he was nervously muttering to himself as he made his way across the lawn.

"Listen, I've been thinking, love you, I'm sorry. 'Sorry', what the hell am I sorry for?" "Steve!"

Steve was equally surprised to see the Henderson kid eagerly making his way towards himself. He stopped as the kid approached him, and he gestured to the flowers in his hands.

"Are those for Mr. or Mrs. Wheeler?" He asked.

Steve gave the boy an odd look and shook his head.

"No, they're for-"

"Great," Dustin ripped the bouquet from his unsuspecting hands and headed for Steve's car.

"Hey, what the hell? Hey!"

"Nancy isn't home," Dustin answered simply.

"Well, where is she?"

"Doesn't matter. We have bigger problems than your love life. You still have that bat?" Steve watched as Dustin opened the passenger side door and looked to him expectantly.

"Bat? What bat?"

"The one with the nails." He replied, obviously.

"Why?"

"I'll explain it on the way."

Dustin climbed into the passenger seat and only then did Steve snapped into action. Breaking into a jog, he couldn't help but ask.

"Wh-? Now?"

"Now!"

With that, Dustin closed the car door and watched impatiently as the boy made his way to the front seat.

×××

Hopper groans as he swipes yet another handful of dirt behind him. He stops for another break though he knows he shouldn't. If it hadn't been for his watch, he surely would have lost all sense of time. And all his had managed to show for it was a hole in the wall two feet long that barely fit his torso. An overwhelming sense of defeat blankets the man and he feels himself slide down the wall of dirt and onto the floor.

He could feel the tickle in his lungs grow stronger and he coughed weakly. Despite the tightness in his chest, he does what always brings him false feelings of comfort. He pulls out his pack of cigarettes. In his weakened hazy state, Hopper fails to notice the small but thick tendrils of vines snaking their way towards his legs.

Before he can do anything to stop them, he sees the thick ropes curl around his ankle and he jolts at the sudden contact. He scrambles to his feet in a panic, momentarily losing his balance.

"Son of a bitch!"

He bends down and begins to claw frantically at the vines. Stopping himself before he can waste more time, he searches his pockets until his fingers land on the cool metal of his knife. Quickly, he pulls out the tool, unsheathing the blade and he brings it to the vines that are now up to both his knees. Unfortunately, he is too focused on the vines at his feet, he fails to notice the vine that has made its way up to his back and around his neck.

Hopper grunts as his back hit the ground, knocking the air out of him. Hardly any time passes for him to be completely ensnared in the sentient undergrowth and his cries for help are quickly smothered and snuffed out, buried underground with him.

×××

"And that was the last we ever saw her. After that, she was just, gone. I can't believe it's been that long, it feels like yesterday." Lucas finishes.

Max nods, a concentrated frown on her face.

"Yeah, I mean, I bet," she says, lifting Lucas's hopes. "Wow"

Lucas nods, a sense of relief washing over him at how the skeptic was taking it. She had, for the most part, remained silent during his story. She didn't show any effort to hide her confusion but seemed to go along with it.

"It's crazy, I know."

"It's crazy, but," she shrugged. "I really liked it."

It was Lucas's turn to be confused. "You like it?"

"Yeah," she frowned slightly, a tight smile on her face. "Well, I mean, I had a few issues?"

"Issues?"

"I just felt it was a little derivative at some parts."

Lucas was flabbergasted, and his high hopes came crashing down to the ground.

"What are you talking about."

She shrugged simply, tucking her palms in her lap as she looked at him with irritation. "I just wish it had a little more originality, is all."

Lucas could feel anger bubbling up in his chest. He leaned forward, a frown etched into his brows.

"You don't believe me?"

Max chortled and gave the boy a pathetic glance. Her voice began to rise steadily, her own anger taking over her false intrigue.

"Lucas, come on, seriously? How gullible do you think I am?"

"Why would I make this up?" Lucas shot back.

"I don't know! To impress me, or something? Or, you're just like, insane." "I tell you all of this," Lucas declares hotly, rising to his feet. "I mean, top-secret stuff, risking my life, and this is how you react?"

Max scoffed, still not allowing herself the possibility of believing what he had told her to hide the small seedling of fear that had burrowed itself inside her. She did as she had learned to survive. Brush it off. She looked at him with an amused expression painted on her face.

"'Risking your life?'"

The frustration festered inside of Lucas at the girl's unwavering amusement at the traumatic experience.

"Oh, so this is funny to you?"

"Yeah, I mean, kinda funny?"

Lucas only glared at her, and a smug smile finds its way onto her face as she rises to her feet.

"Stupid, but funny."

Shrugging him and the properly burrowed feeling of fear off her shoulders, she waltzed towards the door, her board in hand.

"Where are you going?"

She stopped and gave him a passing look. "Story time's over, isn't it?"

Lucas feels the harsh sting of her words and decides he wants to put in a few of his own. As she strides out of the arcade, he stays on her heels.

"What is wrong with you? I gave you what you wanted."

"I wanted to be a part of the group, not apart of some joke."

Her mask of anger had begun to crack, and shining through was genuine hurt. Lucas did his best to convey his seriousness, though at this point he didn't know how much good it would do.

"It's not a joke," he said again slowly.

"You did a good job, okay?" She said, nodding though Lucas could still detect a hint of sadness. "And you can go tell the others that I believed your lies and get your little experience points, or whatever."

Quickly, she turned on her heels, her red hair whipping over her shoulder and he quickly followed, grabbing her arm gently. She turned to look at him shocked, but he quickly released her and spoke softly once more.

"We have a lot of rules in our party, okay? But the most important thing is, friends don't lie. Never, ever, no matter what."

"Is that right?" She said confidence dripping from her words knowing she had caught him. "Then how do you explain this?"

This time, she gestured for him to follow her. They turned the corner and into the isle of games. She swiftly ripped the piece of paper from the screen that read, OUT OF ORDER, and stuck it on Lucas's chest with remaining bits of tape that resided on the back.

Lucas sighed, ripping the piece of paper off his shoulder and gave her a pleading look. "I had to do that, to protect you."

Max snapped once more, her anger and her own frustrations getting the best of her. "Protect me from who, exactly?" Max's voice began to rise in volume. "The big government baddies at Hawkins Lab." She rested her board against the machine, and she angrily stuffed her hands into her pockets for coins before inserting them into Dig Dug as she yelled at the boy.

As calmly and discreetly as possible, he spoke to her as his eyes darted around the arcade.

"Keep your voice down."

Her demeanor shifted to quickly to that of exaggerated understanding.

"Or maybe to protect me from the Demogorgon from another dimension."

"Max, I'm serious, shut up!"

Ignoring him, and his voice still rising, she turned to him, this time speaking with exaggerated excitement.

"No, no, no. I know, it was Y/n and her other superpowered friend, what was it? Eleven-" Max's eyes widened when Lucas suddenly threw his hands over her mouth. His eyes were pleasing and he whispered under his breath, begging her.

"Stop. Talking." He glanced over her shoulder worriedly. "You are going to get us killed. Do you understand?"

Only then did it click for Max when she saw the desperation, the fear, in Lucas's eyes. It was enough to chill her to the bone. She pulled his arm away from her face and looked at him seriously for the first time since he tricked her. Desperately, she searched his eyes. For anything, any sign of humor, any hint that he was putting up an act to convince her. But to her horror, she saw only fear.

"You're serious?"

He stepped back, his voice still low.

"I really wish I wasn't."

She quickly recovered, and while she had begun to believe, her skepticism was quickly trying to convince her otherwise.

"Prove it."

A defeated look washed over Lucas. He shrugged lightly.

"I can't."

"So what? I'm just supposed to trust you?" He nodded solemnly. "Yes."

She shifted on her feet lightly and something clicked.

"Can't Y/n show me her little trick or whatever, just-"

A car engine roared to life outside, cutting her off. She sped to the window and much to her chagrin, it was exactly who she had suspected.

"Shit, I gotta go."

Pulling yet another surprise from her sleeve, she faced Lucas and grabbed his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She looked deeply, but briefly, into his eyes, giving him a pleading look of her own.

"Don't follow me out. Okay?" She whispered gently.

She released his hand and opens the door, heading out. Lucas couldn't stop the words that left his mouth in desperation.

"Do you believe me?"

She never answered, and he watched solemnly as she scurried to the blue Camaro and scrambled inside. Someone pushed past his shoulders trying to get by, the door still cracked open unknowingly giving away his presence to Billy Hargrove. Max scrambled inside the car, tucking in her feet and her board and closed the door. Billy, who had his head resting on the headrest and looking out of the window seething.

"The hell I tell you?" He growled.

Max gave him an odd look.

"I'm not late."

"You know what I'm talking about."

Swallowing her fear, she quickly recovered and masked her face with confusion.

"Oh, Lucas?"

Billy scoffed in disgust, his brows furrowed under his sunglasses as his anger rose.

"So he has a name now, huh?"

She cursed herself for stammering, knowing he would pick up on it but prayed he didn't.

"It's a small town, okay? We weren't hanging out." She assures him.

Billy shrugs lightly, and his voice lowered. "Hmm. Well, you know what happens when you lie."

Max shook her head.

"I'm not lying."

For the first time in their exchange, Billy looks at Max. His head lazily rolled over to his other shoulder and he searches her face quickly. Thankfully, he seems to buy it and returns his gaze to the road, his left arm still hanging out of the window and the car speeds off. After the car is gone, Lucas seems it safe to exit and he scurries to the parking lot, watching the car disappear. Worriedly, she looks out the window behind her before quickly looking forward in fear of being caught.

×××

El and Y/n watch patiently in the kitchen as Becky cuts an old towel in two. She holds it up to them, the cloth now the perfect size and shape for a makeshift blindfold. "Like this?"

El nodded, her chin still resting gently on her palm.

"Yes."

The three returned to the living room, and Y/n, per El's request, had turned the volume up on the television set so the static echoed throughout the room.

El sat on the carpet, legs folded beneath her as she folded the cloth into a proper blindfold. Becky sat to the left of Y/n, who sat criss-cross just a foot or two away from El, giving her space.

"It's okay if I sit here, right?"

"Yes," El said, securing the blindfold around her eyes.

"And I won't mess it up or anything?"

"No," El answered, growing short.

"Okay." Becky licked her lips nervously, looking longingly towards her sister.

"If you talk to Terry, will you tell her that I love her very much? And that I'm sorry that I didn't believe--"

"Stop talking," El said crossly.

"Okay, sorry," Becky mumbled.

Y/n caught her eye, and she mouthed a 'sorry'. Becky's lips pressed into a firm line, shrugging, implying she didn't take it too seriously. Her attention was mostly concentrated on her sister, and Y/n had begun to feel the same as Becky did. In the aspect that she felt out of place while El communicated to her mother.

"Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow." Terry mumbled, her fingers twitching and lips twitching. "Run. Breathe. Sunflower."

El awoke in the familiar dark landscape, her toes curling slightly in the imaginary water.

Her mother sat before her, just as she looked moments ago in the living room.

"Run. Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow."

El timidly made the journey forward, growing closer to her mother which each step. She only hoped this would work.

"Three to the right, four to the left. Four fifty. Run."

"Mama?"

"Sunflower. Rainbow."

"Mama, it's me..."

"-four to left. Four fifty."

"...Jane."

Her heart was hammering in her chest, but she did her best to remain calm. Her mother was only feet away, she was upset with herself for being nervous, she had wanted this her whole life. Yet, the closer she got the more nervous she became.

"Breathe. Rainbow."

"I'm here now,"

"Four fifty."

El took the final step, now only inches away from her mother. After the words left her tongue, everything happened quickly. "I'm home."

The women's head snapped in her direction, her eyes boring into El's, desperation clouding them.

"No."

Terry reached for her daughter, her hand reaching out and snatching El's hand, startling her. El was jerked forward and before she knew it, she felt her eyes open on the black landscape. Instantly she had been transported further into her mother's mind, but she had yet to figure that out. To her it felt as if everything was rebooted, like she had only just now woken up in the void and the last few moments hadn't happened.

But she was alone.

"Mama!"

Her wails were interrupted by uneven footsteps scurrying behind her. El whirled around to see a woman in a long orange dress running to the right. Eagerly, she followed and she watched in horror as the woman she now recognized as a younger version of her mother, had begun to slow. She was grasping her very pregnant belly and panting heavily, seemingly trying to catch her breath and continue on. Before she could reach out to her mother, try to talk to her, El found herself watching curiously as her mother looked worriedly over her shoulder.

Her eyes were filled with sorrow and she whimpered, her lip quivering as she tried not to cry. Curiously, El turned to see what her mother was looking at and her eyes widened at the sight. El noticed she was wearing a hospital gown similar to the one she wore back in Hawkins lab. Her [m/b/t] (mother's body type) figure wobbled tiredly across the landscape, heading straight for them. She was panting heavily like she had been running a great distance, and her speed was rapidly decreasing. Behind her, a swarm of angry men in uniform - bad men, El realized - hot on her heels.

"Terry!" She cried. "Go! Now! You can still make it! You know where to go-!"

The woman was tackled to the ground, and she wailed in pain. El jumped back in fear even though she wasn't too close. El got a better look at her, and she watched in sorrow and guilt as the woman was grabbed roughly and yanked to her feet. She was dragged away, screaming and kicking, fighting for her life.

"Terry, what are you waiting for?! RUN!"

El watched aghast as the [m/b/t] (you're mother's body type) woman was pulled farther and farther away, her screams never ceasing. Unlike anything she had ever seen in the void, she could make out the bad men turning a corner and they disappeared around an invisible corner. Before El could make put what happened, a loud bang was heard and the screams stopped. El stumbled back in fear, tears streaming from her eyes. Her ankle caught something and she fell backward into the thin pool of water. She hid her face in her hands, the panic rising in her chest and she realized she was hyperventilating. The sound of her mother's wailing brought her out of her panic, or at least it redirected it.

Her mother had similar tear streaks running down her cheeks and El knew her mother was in the same boat. But her eyes fell to her mother's large stomach and she finally noticed the emerging bloodstains running down her dress. Throughout the whole ordeal, El wondered why her mother didn't take the woman's advice, why did she stop? And where was she telling her mother to go? Millions of questions like these had bounced around her brain as everything unfolded, too caught up in the horror of what just unfolded to try and answer them. But now El knew.

She knew why her mother stopped. She was in pain and she was bleeding a great deal. She scrambled to her feet to help her mother but she did not know what to do.

"Mama? Mama!"

Just as soon, her mother groaned in pain and stumbled to the ground, grasping her stomach. El immediately and tearfully knelt beside her sobbing mother, laying a shaky hand on her mother's arm.

"Mama! Mama!"

The woman wailed, clutching her stomach, completely unfazed by El's presence.

"Oh, my baby!" She cried worriedly.

"What do I do?" El asked frantically. "Mama, what do I do? Help me!"

A familiar voice echoes out, calling out fearfully.

"Terry? Terry!"

"Mama, what do I do? How do I help you?"

"Terry, where were you? Oh, my God!"

El looks up in the direction of the voice, only for everything to blur. El is transported outside, nothing she can identify but she sees the face of the familiar voice. It's Becky, she's younger and she is looking right at El.

"Oh, my God," she sniffles, looking around worriedly. "Okay, breathe. Just breathe, alright? Breathe."

She sees her mother lying on the grass yards away from a house, and now she knows she is not seeing through her own eyes. She is reliving her mother's past.

"They're on their way, okay?"

El sees her mother's hand reach for her bleeding stomach and look back at Becky.

"They got her. [y/m/n], they got [y/m/n]. I have to go, I have to leave! I have to get her out, I h-have to get her out-" Terry wails in agony, clutching her stomach. "She did it. She got... her out... I need to go- AAHH"

Becky shakes her head, reaching out for her as she takes Terry's hand in comfort.

"Terry, no! Just breathe, alright? You need to breathe, I've told you, no one is coming for her, alright?"

"They wanted her, and they're gonna want Jane! Don't make me do this," she wailed, shaking her head.

She lets out another wail of agony and everything begins to fade.

"Terry!"

Everything goes black and the next thing El knows is she is being wheeled through a hallway, two nurses looking at her.

"Stay with us, darling. Stay with us."

El sees her mother writhing in pain on the moving bed, clutching her stomach.

Big lights swarm her vision, and she looks around as several people in green clothing and latex gloves stand and move around her. El sees her mother groaning on the table in pain, and slowly a gloved hand brings a mask of some sort to her face.

El sees a small blade glide across her mother's skin, blood dripping from the cut and the next thing she sees is a tiny infant come into view. It cries with its small high voice, visibly animated in movement. El realizes it's her, and her mother is fighting to stay awake. A set of eyes, all too familiar to El, come into view. The man's face is mostly covered by his mask, but El knows all too well it's Papa. Confirming her suspicions, the man pinches the white mask and pulls it down to his chin revealing the face of the man that tortured her for years.

Everything goes black once more. It is quiet, and for a moment El thinks the vision is over. But a bright light reveals itself, and the first thing El can identify is a vase of sunflowers.

Her vision plans over to see a tearful Becky. She gives the weakest of smiles and speaks, El can hear the lump in her throat as she is holding back her tears.

"Hey, there."

Her mother stirs awake on the hospital bed. She groans, and looks around worriedly.

"Jane? Where's Jane?"

Becky shakes her bowed head, tears clouding her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She croaks, reaching forward and taking her hand. "Honey, she didn't make it. I'm so sorry, Ter, I'm so sorry."

Terry shakes her head, anger and panic rising in her.

"No, I saw her!" She said simply.

Becky shook her head.

"No, no, she wasn't breathing."

"She was crying!"

"No."

"Oh, God." She breathed, the memories swarming back to her. "Becky, it happened. I saw her, an-and he was there! He was there! He had her and-!"

"No," was all Becky could muster, sniffling.

Becky took a deep breath, still shaking her head, unable to meet her sister's eye right away.

"Terry, no, I'm sorry, I wish that were true-"

"It is! Becky, I'm telling you, I saw it! We have to get her! He took her!"

"Who was there, Terry?" Becky asked, trying to calm her through her own tears.

"He took her!" She said, growing more frantic.

"Terry-" Becky warned.

But Terry had already begun to sit up despite her sister's efforts to keep her in bed.

"No, no, no! Don't take it out! Terry!"

She had ripped the IV out of her arm, and seconds later a nurse came in, holding her down.

"No, no! I need to get her! Becky, I told you!"

"Terry!"

"-I told you this would happen! I need to get her!"

Terry was soon restrained, several members of the hospital staff were pinning her down and El watched as a syringe was plunged into her skin. The scene quickly changed, she could see several papers and file folders strewn all over the floor. She could hear her mother's voice nearby.

"Three to the right. Four to the left." She mumbled.

She sees the dial of the safe click to the zero, and her mother opens the safe. Inside, sitting atop several papers and envelopes is a gun. Shakily, her mother picks up the gun, she sighs as she stuffs several bullets inside.

Her mother is now in a car. She takes a deep breath, collecting herself before exiting the car, purse clutched tightly in her hand. She closes the car door and El sees her mother cross the parking lot to the familiar building she escaped from. Trailing behind a few similarly dressed women, she blends in effortlessly with them. That is until she stopped by a security guard.

"Ma'am, can I see your badge?"

Terry stops, taking a deep breath. She turns around, pulling the gun from her bag. She aims it at the man and anybody that tried to approach.

"Stay back. Stay back!"

She sees the guard reach for his gun and she panics, pulling the trigger. The last thing she sees is the guard falling back before everything goes black once more. She can hear alarms blaring, and Terry is now rushing down a hallway, several people in lab coats jumping aside. She hopes from door to door, peering inside and asking for her daughter.

"Jane? Jane?"

She looks over her shoulder and that's when she spots it. The rainbow room. A door across the hall with a small rainbow painted on the inside of the doorframe.

Eagerly, she opens the door. Inside, she finds two young girls playing, one of them she knows to be her daughter. She steps forward cautiously, but happily. Each of them give her an off look and she smiles, leaning down to her daughter.

"Jane... No!"

She is pulled away from Jane before she can grab her. She fights and kicks to the best of her ability but the men's' hold on her is too powerful. The girls watch curiously as she dragged away and Terry only fights harder.

"No! No! She's my child! No! She's my child!"

The sight of the tiny rainbow painted on the walls is the last thing in focus as she is dragged far away.

The next thing she sees comes in flashes. Hands struggling and hair whipping around as Terry struggles the grip of several bad men.

"No! No."

El watches helplessly as her mother is roughly pinned down again once more, several straps fighting around her form. As she struggles, her head falls to the side and there before her is Papa. Standing still, watching as she is restrained.

Her cries of protest are muffled when they place a rubber mouth guard between her teeth. A pair of gloved hands bring two metal rods to her forehead, Terry becomes increasingly frightened, like she can guess what comes next but El does not.

"Four fifty," Papa says.

One of the men nods, reaching over and setting the dial on a silver and black box. A low hum grows louder as he sets the dial, she can hear it in the rods and she knows what's coming. Terry's muffled screams cry out in protest, but it does not stop the man from flipping the switch. Her mother begins to convulse, her muscles go stiff and she writhes and shakes in pain. Her hands lose grip on the metal poles of handles at her side and she goes limp, tears in her eyes and she pants heavily.

Everything starts over in quick flashes as she stares at the ceiling. All of it, happing in short spurts.

"RUN!"

BANG.

"Oh, my God! Okay, breathe. They're on their way."

She's wheeled through the hallway.

"Stay with us, darling."

Jane crying.

Her eyes open and El can hear her mother's voice.

"Sunflower"

"He was there!"

Nurses retrain her.

"Three to the right. Four to the left."

She unlocks the safe and shoots the gun.

She sees the room.

"Sunflower."

The dial turns.

"Four fifty."

"RUN!" A gun goes off.

"Breathe." Jane cries.

Flowers at her bedside. "Sunflower."

Gunshot, she approaches the door. "Rainbow."

The dial turns. "Four fifty."

She convulses.

"RUN!"

"Breathe,"

"Three to the right. Four to the left."

"Breathe"

"Sunflower."

"Rainbow"

"Three to the right."

"Breathe."

"Four fifty."

"Breathe."

"Rainbow."

"Three to the right."

"Run!"

El rips the blindfold off her eyes in panic, her breathing heavy and uneven. As she is brought back to reality she looks up at her mother in her rocking chair. There are tears in her eyes and she is sadly uttering the same words.

"Run. Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow. Three to the right. Four to the left."

El feels a pair of arms wrap gently around her and she can feel her own shaking, her shoulders rising and falling rapidly. She feels a hand grab hers and she knows it's Y/n. She squeezes her hand for comfort and Y/n gently runs her thumb over the back of her hand, showing her support.

No one says anything for a while, and apart from her mother's mumbling, she sits in silence embracing the support given to her as she tries to calm her racing heart.

×××

"There's nothing. There's nothing here." Mike says worriedly.

Mike, Will, Joyce, and Bob were all packed inside Joyce's Ford Pinto in search of where they believed Hopper's location to be.

Worriedly, Joyce spares a quick glance at Bob who holds the map in his lap.

"Are... Are we close?"

"We're in the vicinity," Bob replies.

"What's that mean, the vicinity?" She asked worriedly.

"It means we're close. I don't know. It's not precise." Bob sputters, feeling the guilt and pressure weighing on his chest.

"But we did all that work!" Joyce exclaims, exasperated.

"I told you, the scale ratio is not exactly one-to-one. We needed to take--"

"Turn right!" Will shouts suddenly.

Unbeknownst to the group, Will had closed his eyes. Taking Mike's advice to heart, he took advantage of the information, his now memories, stored in his brain. Quietly, he had sat, his eyes darting back and forth sporadically under his eyelids as he searched the tunnels in his mind.

"What?"

Everyone looked to Will, even Joyce, but she made sure to return her attention to the road.

"I saw him!" Will answered.

"Where?"

Joyce began looking around, squinting around the vicinity and Will feels the panic boiling I'm his chest. He leans forward urgently, his words turn to a quick panicked shout as he tries to convey his words without missing the turn.

"Not here. In my now-memories"

A knowing gasp falls over Mike and Joyce, while Bob whirls around to look at Will, flabbergasted.

"In your what?" Bob asks.

"Turn right!" Will yells again.

Everyone is thrown to the side of the car, Will bumping into Mike, and Bob nearly falling on Joyce as the car violently jerked to the side. A horrible screech filled everyone's ears as the tires flew across the pavement. Everything happened in a matter of seconds as the car took down a sign attached to the wooden fencing, as well as several clumps of hay that temporarily covered the windshield. Before they knew it, they were thrown forward when Joyce slammed on the breaks, stopping only inches away from the back of Hopper's car.

Joyce whirled around to look at Will, then Mike.

"Are you okay?"

Will nodded and she faced the front once more. Everyone was panting heavily still, collecting their breath.

"Superspy," Mike confirmed between breaths.

"What's Jim doing here?" Bob asked, recognizing the car in front of them. "Joyce?"

Ignoring his questions, Joyce returned her attention to the back seat and looked between Will and Mike.

"Boys, I need you to stay here."

Will shook his head frantically as she climbed out of the car.

"No. Mom, Mom, Mom, it's not safe." He called desperately, leaning over to look at her.

"That's why I need you to stay here! Stay here!" She ordered.

Slamming the car door, the boys sat in silence as they felt the car shake slightly. Bob and Joyce trudged across the field, careful not to step on the many rotten pumpkins.

"Hopper!" Joyce's worried and shrill cries echoed across the field and into the night.

Easily spotting the small crater in the dirt, Joyce descended the hole Hopper had dug and Bob followed cautiously. His arms were outstretched after Joyce who held her arms out for balance as her feet slipped across the unstable dirt.

"Hey, be careful." He shook his head, nervously spewing commentary in disbelief. "Just going down the hole."

At the bottom of the pit, a large circle roughly the size of her dining room table had caught her eye. Bridging the gaps over what normally would have been a hole in the ground, was what looked like several worms the size of large snakes. But they weren't, they were a dark purple-pink and they did twist and move, constantly interlacing themselves, seeing themselves together in a big lump, it soon became clear to Joyce what these were. Hopper's last few words to her echoed in her mind.

"Vines." She gasped.

Hesitant to break her gaze away for too long, she gestured to shovel that stood near Bob's feet.

"Give me that."

"The shovel?"

"Yes, give me the shovel!"

Compliantly, he handed the shovel to Joyce who eagerly grabbed it tight in her hands. With all the strength she could summon, she brought the metal spade down into the vines. They shrieked and hissed, and her contact had hurt several of them. Unfortunately, this came with a splash of dark smelly goo sprayed from the vines and painting Joyce and Bob's clothes.

Cringing, but quickly recovering, Joyce began to repeatedly stab the colony of vines. They hissed and squealed once more but they one by one they hastily recoiled back into the dirt. Deciding enough room had been made and enough vines were gone, she threw the shovel to the side and whirled around to face Bob, a determined look in her eye.

"I need you to help me get down there." She ordered.

Growing frantic and increasingly worried, Bob hunched over slightly and waved his arms.

"Joyce, what are you talking about?" "Bob! Now!" She roared, extending her arm.

Joyce gasped in horror when her feet hit the ground, her eyes had adjusted to the dark almost at once, and she was panting heavily at the sight around her. Not allowing herself any more time to waste, she stepped further into the tunnels.

"Hopper!" She called. "Hopper! Hopper!"

Frantically, she looked between the two directions the tunnel stretched in. She didn't know how much time she had, but she knew it wasn't much and she certainly couldn't risk checking each path. She heard a thud behind her, and she turned knowing Bob had descended. Sure enough, she wobbled slightly, catching his balance from the long drop and he collected himself. "Joyce, what is going on? Where are we?" Stammering, she reached out to Bob and looked him up and down, making sure he had safely made the drop.

"Bob, are you okay?"

Bob's attention was pulled to his surroundings once his eyes had adjusted. He looked around in amazement and shock.

"Tunnels. Is this Will's map?" He asked.

She had reached into his jacket pocket, knowing he always kept a small flashlight for emergencies.

"Hopper!" She called, scanning the tunnels for any sign of the chief.

"Are we in Will's map?" Bob asked once more.

Biting the bullet and picking a direction, she began navigating the tunnels, calling out for the missing man.

"Hopper! Hopper!"

"We're in Will's map," Bob mumbled excitedly, following Joyce close behind.

"Hopper!"

"We're actually inside Will's map!"

"Hopper!"

"How did he know all this?"

They both quieted when they reached a fork in the path. Glad Bob had kept his flashlight on him, and glad she had used it, she stepped forward when the light caught a broken cigarette on the ground in front of the left tunnel.

"Bob! Over here!"

She knelt down by the cigarette, she picked it up and showed it to her boyfriend.

"It's his! He's gotta be this way! Come on." Before he could respond, she took off down the left tunnel, mindful of her steps and the large ridges protruding from the ground. Giving one last uneasy look from where they came, trying his best to memorize the details of the path, he quickly fell back in line after Joyce.

Just outside above the entrance, Mike and Will had exited the car and slowly approached the edge of the crater.

"Do you see anything?" Mike asked. "I mean, in your now-memories?"

Will shook his head, watching the ground uneasily. The sound of several engines captured the boys' attention and they turned around to see several vehicles flood onto the field from where they had come. To his horror, Mike recognized the white vans labeled HAWKINS POWER AND LIGHTING as the very same ones that had chased him and his friends the previous year. It was a fleet from Hawkins Lab. He was suddenly grateful Y/n had left, wherever she was, she would be safe from them. At least, he hoped.

The tunnels below their feet were filled with the echoes of Joyce's cries for Hopper. The pair had reached a cavity in the tunnels, the walls had pooled out into wide space that Bob silently identified as the x from Will's map. Joyce was much too preoccupied with the task at hand, the beam of the flashlight scouring the ground and she felt her heart leap into her throat when she caught sight of a large arm poking out from underneath a pile of vines. The pile of vines, she realized, had almost completely covered the man.

"Oh! It's his arm!"

She scrambled forward, Bob close on her heels and they collapsed to the ground beside him. Handing the flashlight to Bob, she began clawing at the vines around him, several of them breaking and snapping. Bob pointed the flashlight to Hopper's neck, the man lay fighting consciousness and Bob began tugging with his free hand at the thick vine surrounding his neck. "It's choking him!"

Joyce redirected her efforts to the vine that struggled to tighten itself around Hopper's neck. Much to their surprise, Hopper spoke in a strained voice. "Knife!"

Joyce looked around desperately for the tool, but Bob was quick to answer. The beam fell across Hopper and next to Joyce. "It's over there!"

Sure enough, just inches away from Hopper's grasp, was the man's pocket knife.

Quickly, she got to work and it wasn't long until the vine around his neck snapped, Hopper gasped for air, and looked to his hands.

"Hands!"

Joyce cut his arms free next and he was able to fight back. He took the knife from Joyce's hands, cutting himself loose from the tendrils surrounding his chest while Bob and Joyce continued clawing at the remaining restraints. Finally, Hopper broke free with a maddened cry. "Bastard!"

He sat up, swiping the blade across the restraints on his ankles, once more the goo erupted from the screeching vines, by now he was covered in it but he didn't give two shits. Bob and Joyce helped the man to his feet and Joyce hurriedly checked him for injuries, and she took his face between her trembling hands.

"Oh, my God. Hopper, are you okay?" She panted.

"Joyce."

"Are you okay? Are you okay?"

Hopper nodded, patting her on the arms gently and she released him. He swung his arm behind him and patted the man beside him.

"Hey, Bob."

"Hey, Jim."

The trio huddled together, backing away from the advancing vines. Joyce turned and jumped in fear when she saw a figure next to Bob, dressed in a hazmat suit.

"Oh, my God!"

"Go! Go! Go! Clear the area!" The figure ordered.

The trio did not hesitate to evacuate the area, heading back through the tunnel each of them had ventured. When the three were out of range, the figure, who had been properly equipped, aimed his device and a violent spurt of fire erupted from the end. The vines writhed and shrieked violently as they shriveled up.

At that exact moment, Will - who had been waiting worriedly outside as the army of men surrounded and descended after his mother and Bob - collapsed to the ground. Mike dropped to the ground quickly after him, grasping his friend trying to get him to calm. But it was no use. Will was now lying on the grass, his entire body felt like it was on fire. His vision was as white as the white-hot searing pain running through his veins.

"Will, what's wrong?" Mike wailed, feeling helpless.

Will convulsed uncontrollably, his limbs on fire, spreading as rapidly as the flames in the hub below. As the vines screamed in agony, Will screamed too. He was now on his back, screaming violently into the night. Mike jumped back startled, watching helplessly in horror as his best friend writhed in the grass, his mouth wide open and his eyes rolled back into his head as shrieked in agony.

+++

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sebthesnipe · 4 years

Text

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

First // Previously // Next

My Dearest Procyon

Masterpost

MDP Discord Server

Chapter 30

Original story based on this wonderful post by @underdog-arts

TW: Mentions of blood

Logan drew on Patton stretching and weaving his magic a bit clumsily. It was nothing like the magical energy he had shared with Virgil, or even the force siphoned from Noname. Patton’s magic was far stronger.

Logan could feel the force of it burning inside him almost painfully. Sweat beaded his brow at the strange sensation, his finger dragging across Virgil’s palm. A shimmering gold light marked the tight lines he drew as he continued to weave the ropes around them.

“Logan,” Virgil sighed watching him work. “That’s a bit much, don’t you think?” Virgil asked with an arched brow. The smaller witch could feel the waves of power coming from the man’s work.

“Yes, well,” Logan sighed, gaze narrowing in concentration. “It seems that this new power will take some time to grow accustomed to. I am more acclimated to a trickle rather than the flood I’m currently attempting to control, Virgil.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Virgil snapped. He was a bit testy, all things considered. He didn’t feel well, had very little magic, and Logan was just tossing this immense force around like it was nothing. Then again, judging by how much power they assumed Patton had, Virgil supposed it was something more than he, or even Logan, had anticipated.

“Right… Sorry,” Logan mumbled, keeping his gaze glued to the work at hand. His guilt washed through the connection with Patton, making the dragon frown slightly.

“Don’t worry, Logan,” Patton reassured, reaching out to rest a hand on his arm. “You’ll get the hang of it.” He was well aware that the words wouldn’t really help, but offered them regardless.

Logan shot him another glance, giving a small smile. Patton could feel the warmth coming from the lanky witch at his words. They might not have helped reassure the man, but they certainly caused a pleasant reaction. That was enough for Patton.

Logan turned back to his work, finishing drawing the sigil carefully into Virgil’s palm as Patton’s hand dropped away. Virgil’s own gaze was glued to the man’s work as Logan double checked each weave before finally glancing up.

“Are you ready?” he asked the smaller witch.

Virgil hesitated, trying not to get his hopes up. The bonding hadn’t worked with Patton. Why should it work with Logan? What if it didn’t have anything to do with them? What if he was the one that was broken? After everything, after Noname, Logan, Roman. What if he was just too used and damaged to be worth bonding with anyone?

He hoped that wasn’t the case.

He gave a small nod. Whatever the case may be, he had to try. He had to save Roman.

Logan’s honey gaze met purple as he and Virgil stared at one another, beginning to recite the words in unison.

“Élidaumet andam. Pesäemet andam. Uskolfeartiilamet andam. Sívamet kuuluuko kaike että a ted.”

The two witches paused, waiting to feel the pain that came with the bond, as it had before, but nothing came.

Patton could feel the tension in Logan rise as the witch tried to determine what he had done wrong.

“Perhaps, we should try again?” Logan offered.

“Right, yeah. Maybe we did something wrong,” Virgil nodded, knowing that wasn’t the case. He needed it to be the truth though. He needed to have done something wrong, otherwise-

Otherwise he wasn’t worth trying to save.

“Élidaumet andam. Pesäemet andam. Uskolfeartiilamet andam. Sívamet kuuluuko kaike että a ted.”

A moment of silence… Another…

“Nothing,” Logan sighed, casting his eyes downwards as he unraveled his weaves of magic.

“Well, it was worth a shot,” Virgil huffed, pulling his hand away and holding it close to his chest. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but only managing to cause another coughing fit.

“Don’t worry Virgil! We’ll figure something out!” Patton offered with a smile, reaching out for the witch.

Logan could feel Patton’s disbelief in his reassurance. It was a distracting feeling, though it certainly had its benefits. For once in Patton’s life, he didn’t have to feel completely alone.

“Yes, Patton is right,” Logan reassured. “We’ll find a way to rescue Roman and then perhaps you will be able to bond with him.”

“Ha!” Virgil barked sarcastically. “That’s if we manage to rescue him and if he would be willing to bond with me and if I can even bond with someone again! Let’s face it, Lo, the fact that I couldn’t bond with you makes it a pretty damn good chance I won’t be able to bond with anyone!” The smaller witch glanced at Patton to gauge his reaction at his choice of words, but couldn’t find it in himself to apologize. “Besides, for all we know, bonding with Roman could lead to the same situation you and I were in, only worse! Roman is human with no magical powers! I’d literally be feeding off his soul! I couldn’t do that to him!”

Logan and Patton shared a look, obviously uncomfortable.

However, Logan’s resolve was too much. Patton could feel he wouldn’t be able to convince the man to hide the truth from Virgil. After everything the two witches had gone through, he wouldn’t be willing to ask it of him either. Patton gave a consensual nod, causing the tension in Logan’s shoulders to ease.

“Actually, Virgil. That isn’t entirely true,” Logan began, moving to stand…

………………………………………………

Roman let his eyes fall shut. His eyelids felt like sandpaper against them. The stinging pain caused liquid to escape down his cheeks, but he wasn’t sure if it was water or blood. How long had he been hanging there? How long had he been awake in this endless darkness? A day? Two? A week?

He couldn’t tell.

Did time pass differently in the baku’s den? Would he ever be allowed to sleep? To see Virgil again?

Surely he wouldn’t die here, strung up like some cow being drained for the butcher. Roman was a prince! He deserved a more glamorous death. Though, at the moment he wasn’t too picky…

……………………………………………………..

“Roman?!!!” Virgil yelled at the top of his lungs as he walked through endless white halls. “Roman?!!!” he called again desperately.

He wasn’t sure how much time he had before he woke again or before his body gave out.

He was getting closer. He could sense Roman’s dream pattern. Everyone had one, a fingerprint in the dream world, something so uniquely them. The witch was a bit surprised when he had first sensed it. It was an odd time of day to be sleeping, but there was no telling what had happened to the prince in the time that they had been separated.

Virgil paused in consideration. He supposed he shouldn’t call Roman a prince any longer. From what Logan had told him, Roman wasn’t one. Roman had never been one. It was all so twisted and confusing and none of it really mattered. Roman was Roman and that was good enough for Virgil.

“Rom-” Virgil called once more, cutting himself off. He felt water on his cheek, causing him to glance up. Another drop fell, landing on his forehead. Another on his chin. The nonexistent sky opened, drenching Virgil in an instant.

He held a hand out, feeling the harsh warm water patter against his skin. Roman rarely dreamed of rain. Most of his dreams were filled with memories, horrible memories. Virgil often visited him, destroying and reconstructing his dreams to help him rest a bit easier. He would pull in jellyfish, giant eels, whales, flowers… all the things Roman seemed so intrigued by… but not rain. Especially, this dark thundering rain that raged around him now. A familiar kind of rain.

Virgil breathed deeply, the scent of lavender filling his nose.

“Remy,” he sighed softly, dread filling him.

“Well, that didn’t take you as long as I expected,” the sassy voice came, causing Virgil to spin. “Long time, no see, Doll,” they grinned, flashing their pointed teeth.

Remy stood a good foot and a half taller than the oneiromancer, towering over him suddenly. The thin flowing black cloth that wrapped around their body, tied at the waist, covered the majority of their too pale skin. Their flowing black shadow like hair shifted and twitched as they peered down at the smaller man.

“As happy as I am to see you, Remy,” Virgil sighed. “I was hoping it wouldn’t be like this.”

“How’d you know it was me?” Remy asked curiously.

“The rain and lavender were a bit of a give away,” Virgil admitted with a small smile.

“Bitch, you know rain is my jam,” they chuckled, giving a snap of their fingers, causing a set of chairs to materialize.

Virgil gave a nod, moving to sink down into the chair that was obviously meant for him. He waved a hand to will away the storm. This dream may have originated from Roman, but it was no longer his. Regardless, the witch hoped the act would bring the man some small comfort.

“You have him, don’t you? This was supposed to be his dream,” Virgil asked, smile fading as he watched Remy move to sit in their own chair.

“You mean, Mr. Too-toned?” they teased lightly, “He is a snacc, isn’t he?!” they giggled.

“Remy…” Virgil huffed, obviously not in a playful mood.

“Oh, don’t be such a downer,” the baku grumbled. “Yes, I have him.”

“Is he alright?! Is he hurt?!” Virgil rushed, tensing at the news.

“Guurl, take it down a few notches before you blow that cute little head of yours,” Remy huffed, giving another wave. A table appeared between them, already set with an elegant kettle and two cups of steaming dark liquid. Remy reached for their cup and sipped it slowly. “He’s alive, though a bit beat up. Nothing too serious from what I could tell. A few cracked ribs, a broken bone here or there. It looks like Lord Noname had some fun before sending me his scraps.”

The news didn’t make Virgil feel any better.

“But he is alive?” the witch asked.

“For now, yes,” Remy nodded, taking another sip.

“Does Noname want you to kill him?” Virgil asked, his anxiety only rising at the possibility.

“No,” Remy answered simply, watching the tension fall off the man in waves. “Whatever the boss wants, Prince Charming ain’t giving up anytime soon. He wouldn’t have sent him to me otherwise. I’ve got orders to keep him alive, Puppet,” Remy warned, causing Virgil to meet their gaze worryingly. “I don’t get those orders unless it’s something big, something he’s willing to get at all costs.”

Virgil nodded slowly, finally moving to accept the cup in front of him.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Remy,” he sighed. “We’re on our way there, but by the time we get there-”

“He could be dead or insane,” Remy nodded, “It is a very real possibility, Puppet.”

“If that happens, if I can’t make it-” Virgil paused, taking a long drink before focusing on his breathing. “Remy, he won’t be the only one that dies.”

“Guurl,” Remy chuckled, “I’ll admit what you’ve accomplished is impressive, severing your ties with the bossman, running away, staying hidden, but I doubt you’re strong enough to kill h-”

“Remy, I’m dying.” Virgil interrupted, causing the baku’s breath to hitch.

There was a moment of silence as Remy tried to process the new information.

“Don’t be so over dramatic,” Remy chuckled nervously. “Just because you don’t have your prince doesn’t mean-”

“He’s not a prince, Remy, and I’m not being dramatic. Roman is my last chance. If I can’t get to him, we're both dead…”

To be continued...

Taglist:

@hiddendreamer67 @nightashes @aequinoctiale @sumersnowlilly

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n0-eyedtaissa · 4 years

Text

Lethal Charm: Introduction (Serial Killer!Reggie Mantle AU)

A/N: Hello!!! It’s here, it’s finally here! Posted on Halloween in true sPoOkY fashion, here is the introduction to the fic I’ve been pouring over for so long! Loosely Based on the movie ‘Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil, and Vile’ as well as the real-life crimes of HORRIFIC serial killer, Ted Bundy.

Disclaimer: This story is in no way intended to romanticize Bundy or his crimes, all details about victims and their death have been tweaked and changed out of respect for the deceased + as a loose attempt to follow canon.

Warning(s): Mentions of death and violence, I will update warnings as the story progresses.

(banner image and literally MOST of the graphics for Lethal Charm were made by my best friend, @thebetterjonesboy, who has been nothing but encouraging during this process!)

Veronica sits tight as the guards go to fetch Reggie from his holding cell. It’s cold and grey, with a thin film of dust over the scratched metal table and the glass. It’s an ugly place for ugly people, the kind of people who commit grotesque crimes with enough pride to actually take credit for them in court. There’s a sinister bubble of guilt waking up in the bottom of Veronica’s stomach, a certain restlessness that takes up shop deep in her bones every time Reggie Mantle found a way to occupy her thoughts. Veronica nervously runs her hand over her thighs, holds her knees in place to stop them from shaking. Wills herself to untangle herself from his web, tells herself that this is the last time.

This was the last time.

There’s a metallic buzz as the door opens, a loud and heavy sound complimented by the jangling of Reggie’s chains as he shuffled into the room. The minute he sees her his gaze is locked, he doesn’t break eye contact as the guard freed him of his restraints. Reggie clears his throat, takes a second to marvel at Veronica through the warped glass partition. He examines the effects of time, feels a twinge of something like remorse as he looks into her hard brown eyes.

He always loved Veronica’s eyes. Loved to stare down into them when he was on top of her, encasing her body with his. Loved watching them glow golden under the sun, like when he had bought Lacey that kiddie pool she’d been begging for that summer. Veronica was beaming when he came home with that thing thrown over his shoulder, laughed with her head back the entire time Reggie stood in the front yard filling the thing up with water.

“She looks at you like you’re the one who hung the damn sun”

Any glimmer of hope was gone and Reggie knew it. But she was here, she came to see him…that had to mean something, right? Reggie fumbles for the phone receiver, gestures for Veronica to pick up the one on her side of the glass.

“That's a beautiful ring,” Reggie smirks, not bothering to hide the obvious hurt in his voice that Veronica wasn’t wearing the ring that he given her all those years ago. Veronica chooses to ignore the comment, but still finds herself spinning the thin gold band idly around her finger.

“Do you remember the night we met?” Veronica scoffs as she thought of the moment she used to cherish. The old college bar, the perpetual smell of stale beer. Reggie’s last quarter. Crimson and Clover. “You started all of this with lies, Reggie, have you ever been honest with me about anything?”

“My love for you was never a lie,” He replies with so much certainty that it sounds almost combative, like he was trying to prove it’s truthfulness to both Veronica and himself. “I remember the moment I first saw you, Ronnie. I fell in love with you in that very moment” There’s a tug at Veronica’s heartstrings as she listens to Reggie’s pleadings. He always knew how to hit where it hurt.

“We may have started with lies, but we’re not ending with lies. I need to hear the truth from you, Reggie. You owe me that”

Reggie grits his teeth, “How could you think I could do something like this? Really, Ronnie, do you not know me at all? I’d never think of laying a hand on you, or raising my voice at you, I told you, Ronnie, I’m never gonna be like my father.” His voice quivers and he pulls the receiver away from his ear and presses his hand to the cold glass. “I would never hurt a woman. I wo—“

“I’m the one who gave your name to the police. It was me” Veronica had to blurt it out before she lost the courage to. The words escape her lips and there’s a palpable shift in Reggie’s whole being. His persona deflates, ego knocked down a few pegs. His eyes are burning holes into Veronica’s own as he silently urges her to explain herself, to test her and see if she can talk herself out of such an act of betrayal.

“It was 1974,” Her eyes float around the small confines of the cinder block room as she tried to find something to fix her gaze on that wasn’t Reggie. “Right after that sketch was put in the paper, the man at Lake Sammamish, the one who used a fake cast to lure two young women into his Volkswagen bug” Veronica meets Reggie’s gaze when she mentions the vehicle, she narrows her eyes at him…Gotcha. She leans back in the chair and exhales a breath she didn’t realize she’d been keeping. “You know, I made sure that you would never find out that it was me that called; asked the cops, hung up right before they could take down my information.” Veronica chuckles, but nothing here was funny. “I thought I ruined your life with that call to King County, I felt so guilty because my call opened you up as a suspect for all of these other cases. For years I’ve carried this burden, but it’s not my weight to bare, Reggie. It’s yours.”

Reggie leans forward in the metal chair, coiling the phone chord between his antsy fingers and wishing it was a lock of Veronica’s dark hair instead. “Why do you blame yourself?” His eyes were dark and unreadable, Veronica used to crave nothing more than being able to figure him out.

“I blame myself because I trusted you.” Veronica’s voice broke again in the way that meant she was on the verge of tears. “I blame myself because I could’ve saved some of those girls…I’ve made myself sick turning over the ways I should’ve seen this coming, but I’m through with feeling your guilt for you.”

Reggie pulls the phone receiver away from his ear, putting some distance between himself and the sting of Veronica’s words. There’s a beat of silence before Veronica speaks again, louder this time, a product of her patience wearing thin.

“Did you do these things, Reggie?”

Despite the overbearing number of people who were under the assumption that Reginald Mantle was a cold-blooded murderer, his faith in himself never wavered. “Of course I didn’t. Of course not.” It was his longest-lived lie to date, hell, he thought that part of the fun was seeing how long he could draw this whole process out for.

Veronica glances over her shoulders, meeting hungry eyes of the burly-chested guards who were itching for a reason to pull Reggie away at a moment’s notice. “There are detectives from seven different states out there waiting for you. Arms full of case files, expecting your confessions.”

“I didn’t do anything, I can promise you that,” His lips pursed like he was keeping a secret.

“If you didn’t do anything, then why are you planning on telling them that you did?” Veronica pauses as she tries to fit all of the pieces together. “You’re trading the confessions to buy yourself more time”

Reggie raises his eyebrows, impressed that she came to such a grand conclusion so quickly. “It’s the only way I can save my own life” He slams his fist down on the table and Veronica jumps back despite the thick glass of the partition that was separating the two of them. “They’re gonna fry me any day now. The electric chair’s got my name on it, can you blame me for feeding them what they want? It’s all bullshit, but this is all gonna end soon” He clenches and unclenches his fist until his knuckles go white, like he’s frustrated that Veronica hasn’t given in to believing in him.

Veronica nods against the now-warm phone receiver, the plastic growing slick in her clammy hands. “You’re right, this is all going to end soon. And it’s gonna end with the truth. Did you do it?” Her question was growing more pointed and Reggie was growing more frustrated.

“No.”

“Midge Klump, that poor girl from the University of Washington, did you do that?”

“No,” Reggie shook his head fiercely.

“That girl from Utah, the one who couldn’t even stand to be in the same courtroom as you?”

“No,”

On the other side of the glass, Reggie smirks at Veronica. It’s a sick sort of gaze, a smile with no teeth that’s laced in bad intentions. “Oh Ronnie,” His tone is condescending, as if making Veronica doubt herself was proving to be the only defense mechanism he had left. “It’s clear that your visit isn’t for pleasantries, so I have to apologize for not adhering to your sad agenda.”

His mind games weren’t working this time, and Veronica continued to stand her ground, prepped with the names of even more of Reggie’s victims. “Those girls in Florida? From the sorority”

“Absolutely not,” Reggie’s answer was too quick, he was gunning to make Veronica believe in his innocence but it was obvious that she was too far-gone, no longer locked in his clutches.

Veronica gulps again, glancing down to the sheet of parchment paper she had tucked in a manila folder. “One of your victims was a child, Reggie. Juniper Blossom. She was twelve! And I let you go out with Lacey! I let you take her out for ice cream, let you drive her around in your car….” Veronica’s face wrinkles in disgust as she marveled at the horrors of what could’ve been.

“I DID NOT DO THESE THINGS, VERONICA!” Reggie yells, smacking his flattened hand against the dusty glass window separating them. Veronica didn’t flinch this time.

“Did you ever want to do those things to me?” Veronica asks the question carefully, panicked, as if this were the first time she thought about the chances of herself becoming the victim.

Reggie chuckles into the phone, he can hear her breathing grow heavier on the other end as she awaited a response. He sighs, running his cracked fingers through the mats of his greying hair. “I wish it was just you and me here, Ronnie. There’s a lot I could tell you, stuff we could really talk about…but there’s always people listening.” An icy stare is casted over his shoulder as Reggie gives one of the wardens a once-over before shifting his attention back to Veronica.

“Are you telling me that you’re sick, Reggie? They’re all saying that you’re crazy, that something’s wrong with you…”

“Back off!” Reggie grumbles again, slamming the phone down against the solid metal of the phone booth. For a second Reggie recognizes the look that crossed Veronica’s face, fear. She pulls the receiver away from her ear, sets it down, and for a moment Reggie thought she was preparing to get up and leave.

Her breathing is slow, in through the nose and out through the mouth. Count to ten. Ground yourself. She can hear the echoes of her mother’s words in her ears, Archie’s. “This ends today, Reggie. I gave you my truth and now you need to do the same for me.” She can feel the tears threatening to spill over but Veronica bites them back, not wanting to give Reggie the satisfaction of seeing her break. She stops for a moment, takes a stuttered breath through her teeth,“All of these years I’ve been drowning. Drowning in the papers and the reporters, drowning in the guilt, drowning in you, Reggie”

Veronica maintains eye contact with the man sitting behind the glass, behind the bars. She searches to see if she can find an ounce of humanity left in Reggie’s gaze. A bit of his soul, if he ever had one to begin with. “I need you to pull me out of this whirlpool, it’s been killing me for years, Reggie. For years. Every time I think I can swim out of it, there’s another wave to shake me… and you’re there holding me back down.”

Reggie watches Veronica’s heart break and then his own. His body tenses, a shockwave to his system. His body is awash with sensations that he can’t seem to place; an ache in his chest, an unnerving sourness in his gut. A hot tear is running down his cheek but Reggie doesn’t care enough to wipe it away.

“Not you too, Ronnie,” His voice breaks and for a moment, Veronica thinks that Reggie looks almost human. The man clutches onto the tight coils of the phone receiver, wishing that there didn’t have to be glass separating the two of them. “You promised you’d never leave me, do you remember that?” Reggie thinks back to an easier time, back when Veronica and everybody else was still under his spell.

He puts his palm flat against the glass in hopes that the woman he thought he knew so well would touch her hand to the glass as well. “We had our whole lives planned out together, didn’t we? We were gonna get married, we were gonna get ourselves a big house on the sound; with a big ol’ backyard for Lacey and the dog to be able to play.” Reggie can’t help but chuckle, nostalgia was a hell of a drug.

Wiping a tear away, Veronica sets down the receiver in order to pick up a big manila folder hidden under her pocketbook. It takes her a moment to open it and she can’t help but think of all the times when Reggie laughed and called her long nails a hindrance to her mobility before opening whatever it was that she was struggling with. She struggles to even out her breathing before picking up the phone again in order to continue her last-ditch action interrogation.

“It took me over ten years to be able to look at this photo…” Veronica starts off cautiously before flipping over the thick cardstock material of the photo paper and slapping it against the partition. “What happened to her head?”

This was one of the more grisly photos from the police. A headless torso, swollen legs clad in blue jeans, naked from the waist up. The corpse is discolored, with lividity setting where the blood pooled under the skin of the body’s naked back.

Veronica hears Reggie draw in a sharp intake of breath, clearly shaken up at the visual. “The police said that they found her in the woods…” Reggie smooths over his hair with his hands, pushing the wiry flyaways out of his eyes. “It’s completely possible that animals could be responsible for something like this—” Before the man can continue further, Veronica interrupts:

“Animals don’t do that!”

“I’m not a bad guy….” Reggie whispers into the receiver and that’s when he realized that he had lost. The game was over. There was no one left to convince that he was innocent. He stares idly at an etching in the table, a way to fix his gaze and collect himself, to be able to put on the mask of kindness and charm that he’d lost control of all those years ago.

“You need to let me go, Reggie. Let me let you go.” Veronica loses her composure for a moment, her slender fist coming down angrily against the table and knocking a tube of lipstick out of her pocketbook.

Reggie doesn’t answer so she asks again: “What happened to her head?”

Neither of them speak for a moment and soon Reggie finds himself setting down the phone receiver, leaving Veronica in a static-buzzed silence. He thinks for a moment, his strong brow furrowing as he contemplates. Just as Veronica starts to lose her patience, before she was ready to get up and turn her back on Reggie Mantle for the last time, he moves. Looking at the dust-covered window panes that separated the two of them, he took his finger and spells something out in the layer of grime. As soon as she reads the message, Veronica can feel the bile rising up in her throat. In a panic, she gets up from the call station, trying to hold back tears and vomit, to keep any last shroud of dignity she still had. She pounds on the glass so the guards can let her out, not bothering to send a final glance at Reggie from over her shoulder. He shudders and wipes his eyes before smearing his hand over the window, obscuring the letters he had just spelled out.

H-A-C-K-S-A-W

#fic: lethal charm #southsidearchive #reggie mantle au #reggie mantle fic #veggie au #riverdale veggie #reggie x veronica #veronica lodge fic

38 notes · View notes

sunbrights · 4 years

Text

inktober #17: ornament

fandom: the magicians characters/pairings: this is a mosaic fic bc i'm a SAD SAPPY BITCH rating: t

“Green,” Quentin says, again.

“If it turns out the answer was ‘the spirit of Christmas’ all along,” Eliot says thoughtfully, slotting yet another green tile into F9, “I might actually, completely lose my shit.”

It’s Q’s pattern, so he’s the one up in the chair today, wrapped in a quilt and with their workbook flopped open in his lap. He leans up just enough to poke Eliot between the shoulderblades with the stick they use for orchestrating, the one that Eliot picked up on a whim years ago, and that Q has since shaped and smoothed into something actually useful.

“Shut up,” he says, all warmth. “It’s fun.” And then he says again, like Eliot even needs the guidance at this point: “Green.”

Christmas is a new thing. It’s Q’s new thing. And Quentin isn’t, like, a Christmas person, one of those people who prostrate themselves beneath red and green coffee cups and the one Mariah Carey song they know; he’d never even mentioned it before, in all the years they’ve already been here. But he mentioned it this year. Picked a day out and everything.

(“I just,” he’d mumbled into Eliot’s chest when he first floated the idea, late at night and unable to sleep, “I keep thinking about how when I was a kid, my dad—”

And Eliot doesn’t get it, but… he gets it. So: Christmas.)

They leave the last tile— a bright yellow one that goes right at the center of the star atop Q’s angular, geometric Christmas tree— for Teddy. He comes barreling out of the house on wobbly, excitable legs, Arielle hot on his heels, and Eliot has to catch him around the middle before he face plants right onto the puzzle.

“No,” he wails when Eliot tries to hand him the tile, months-deep already into his whirlwind toddler romance with the N-O word. “I wanna do it!”

He’s incandescently proud of himself when he’s able to squat down on his own and pick it up with both hands, his grin wide and toothy, so... really, Eliot’s the stupid one here.

“Alright,” Q coaches gently, one arm already wound around Arielle's waist like a weird, renaissance-y Christmas card. “Remember, just be careful— there you go.”

The tile slots in. Teddy pats around the edges of it like, presumably, he’s seen them do before, his little face screwed up in concentration.

Nothing happens, thank god.

Teddy doesn’t understand enough about the Mosaic to be disappointed by it. It’s only done what, from his perspective, it’s always done: nothing. So he tips his head back to look at them with that same bright, shining grin, and— honestly, Eliot barely remembers the last time he was disappointed by the Mosaic, either.

He flops dramatically back onto the tiles anyway, because Teddy still finds that shriek-laughingly hilarious, for some reason. He flops, too, fully starfished, one little boot making full-force contact with the side of Eliot's head.

“We’ll get a tree like this one today,” Q says, ever the voice of forward momentum. “Someone has to put the star on top. Who do you think it should be, Ted?”

Teddy shoots to his feet. “Me! I’ll do it!”

His hair is sticking up all over in the back. Eliot sits up enough to smooth it down for him. “You?” He lifts his chin and wrinkles his nose. Teddy scrunches his whole face back at him. “But you’re so short. How will you even reach?”

“I’m not!” He goes up on his tiptoes, arms stretched high over his head. “I can do it!”

Eliot leans back on one arm, rubs his chin, draws his thoughtful hum out, the whole nine yards. Teddy doesn’t waver for a second, hangs on to his determined eye contact, mouth set and fingers wiggling. In his periphery, Eliot can see Q rolling his eyes and Arielle hiding her smile into his temple.

Eliot snaps his fingers. “Ah. I see. How about—” and then he lunges forward to scoop Teddy up by the armpits.

Teddy shrieks again, this time right up against Eliot's ear. Which, whatever, he wasn't planning on winning any awards in long-distance listening any time soon. Teddy's just the right size now for Eliot to plop him on his shoulders, big enough and aware enough to keep himself steady without Eliot having to readjust his center of gravity every two seconds— which means he'll be way too big by this time next year, probably.

Demonstrably so, he twists his hands into Eliot's hair like the goddamn world is ending.

“See?” he crows, all his excitement kicking out through his legs. “I can do it! Daddy, I can do it!”

Q is smiling, sparkling like the whole fucking sky opened up and dumped every star in existence straight into the creases of his dimples. “You sure can, buddy.”

“Fine,” Eliot allows, catching Teddy's tiny, destructive feet in both hands, “but I get to hide the pickle.”

Arielle, who only hears the double-entendre, snorts indelicately into her hand. Teddy, who only hears the ridiculous combination of sounds that make up the word pickle, cracks up all over again.

Quentin, in his gold-star, stern-Dad-voice, says, “Eliot.”

“It’s only fair,” Eliot answers. “I did the legwork to get one, and, yes, it was exactly as tedious and impossible as it sounds. I deserve it.”

“What?” Arielle laughs, which he expects.

“What?” Quentin says at the same time, completely serious, which he doesn't.

“The ornament?” He’s getting the same blank, confused look, so he can’t help himself when he says, “Wait, what did you think I meant?”

“Eliot,” Q says again, decidedly less stern this time.

The thing with the pickle ornament is, it turns out, not as ubiquitous as Eliot assumed it was. He ends up having to explain it, which is— fine. Teddy’s excited, and Arielle thinks it’s cute, so they’ll do it. Simple. It should be validating, because it really was a pain in the ass, trying to find-slash-construct an ornament that would work.

On the other hand, he also kind of wishes he hadn’t bothered.

“We never did anything like that when I was a kid,” Quentin says, once Teddy has scurried back inside. It’s his affected-casual voice, the one he uses when he’s trying to make a point but doesn’t want to seem like he is.

“It’s really not that complicated, Q,” Eliot tells him. “But if you need help, you know I’m always happy to demonstrate.”

A wry, slanted little smile blooms across his face. “No, jackass.” And then it curls back in on itself again, quick as it came. He steps close, bumps their shoulders, tangles their arms, their elbows, their fingers. “I just, um. I’m pretty sure that makes it your tradition, El.”

Oh.

Eliot thinks it’s a weird way to frame it. Tradition is what Quentin is doing: letting the legacy of his family live on while his family isn’t here to participate. Eliot just… has a few semi-okay memories of tearing up a Christmas tree with his very Midwestern number of little cousins, and assumed everyone else did, too.

He says, “I guess.”

Q is peering up at him, searching his face. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about that,” he says, when Eliot doesn’t say anything else. “If it’s... weird, or bad, then—”

“Pretty sure that ship has sailed, Q. I can tell you from experience that if that child doesn’t find a pickle by this time tomorrow, we’ll have goddamn armageddon on our hands.”

“Sure, but...”

But... what?

The pickle ornament he found isn't really a pickle. It's a western marshlands long radish. They grow for months in muck and swamp slime, and they’re an absolute bitch to cook right; simmer them too hot, or for too long, and they get awfully, nastily bitter, bad enough to spoil a whole stew.

Teddy’s the only one in the family who likes them, because Teddy’s only ever eaten them after Eliot finally got the recipe right.

“It’s okay,” he decides, right that second. He tugs Q against him, tucks his worried, furrowed brow under his chin. “It really is. It’s— good. I think.”

“You think,” Quentin echoes, softly amused, but all his tense muscles go looser, just a bit. Just enough.

“Almost certain,” Eliot tells him. “Like, at least sixty percent. Minimum.” He closes his eyes, touches his lips just to the edge of Q’s hairline, and manages, softly, “Promise.”

He’s been doing this a long time. He’s spent years, decades, whatever, just— taking all the broken, sharp-edged pieces that came tumbling out of Whiteland back in the summer of 2010, and turning them into something new. Something different. Something his.

His stupid radish ornament. His queer little family. His shrieking, beaming son. His backwards, bizarre, beautiful mess of a life.

As far as traditions go, Eliot thinks he could do worse.

#eliot waugh #quentin coldwater #queliot #the magicians #anyway remember when i was doing inktober in october #ME NEITHER #whatever it's christmas this counts #this is way longer than an inktober should be bc ive got absolutely no chill when it comes to domestic bullshit sorry friends #inktober 2019 #sunwrites

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cynicalkairos · 5 years

Text

Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting

CHAPTER FIVE

Word Count: 3856

Warnings: Language, Mentions of Alcohol, Smoking, Self-Deprecation

Summary: Henry convinces himself to talk to Ted. Ted gets sober and makes a life-changing decision.

A/N: Oof, this took a while. Sorry about that. Life got busy and everything. But we’re finally there. Well, almost. Enjoy the angst (and fluff)

Previous || Next

—————

Henry knew that he loved Ted when he agreed to let Henry teach him how to dance.

It was really uneventful. There was no swell of violins, rose petals falling across the room, fireworks shooting off in the distance. If anything, it was one of the most mundane moments, perhaps, ever.

Well, at the time.

To the Henry sitting alone on the secluded balcony with a lit cigarette in his hand, it was one of the happiest memories of his entire life.

It was more than playing the game of loving someone and deciphering whether or not they reciprocate your love, a game that Henry knew all too well. But it was different with Ted. There was no debate over his attraction to Henry based on countless words and actions that Ted said and did over the duration of their relationship.

And because of that, everything that had to do with Ted gave him a sort of…self-proclaimed meaning, one that he decided was his purpose and not thrust onto him by others.

For a long time, Henry lived for one reason and one reason only: the apocalypse. After the deaths of his friends during college, he spent thirty years trying to find ways to stop it, find out when it was going to happen, and prepare for a life of survival. Henry felt guilty for not being able to prevent their demise, dealing with the pain through manufacturing a way to be the one who saved the day. And most definitely everything going according to plan without any help from anyone else.

With said apocalypse in full swing and demolishing the entirety of Hachetfield, Henry never expected Emma, four strangers, and one unconscious Infected to be at his door. And one factor he definitely did not theorize was falling in love with one of them.

Good god, he thought Ted was just an annoying asshole who badgered him constantly until he sobered up and closed his goddamn mouth for once. On second thought, Henry was initially attracted to Ted, but it was more physically than to his personality or anything else. It was characteristics like his lean frame and dark hair that fed his attraction. Even then, he didn’t know if his attraction to him was genuine or if it was the result of isolating himself for so long that one encounter with another person sent him over the edge.

Despite his feelings and all of the action happening in the house and outside, he dismissed the provocative thoughts of Ted that invaded his head and repressed them. “Once it ends,” the professor told himself. “Once it all ends.”

Henry spent his days in the lab attempting to find solutions and, over the course of the times that he ascended from the depths of his house, he watched the love between Emma and Paul grow. Of course, he couldn’t lie to himself when he thought about wanting that type of a relationship with someone, but every time, he reprimanded himself for not focusing on the task at hand.

The initial disappointment throughout the entire situation was that it never ended. Hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and before any of them knew it, it was nearly six months later.

Six months of Henry’s hopes and dreams crushed by reality.

Six months of Henry wanting to return to his normal life, yet knowing he never could.

Six months of Henry suppressing his emotions in favor of working on a cure for the people who fell to the apocalypse that never was going to work.

Henry sacrificed his entire life for what? Nothing. He missed out on finding love, being a parent, and starting a family just so he could chase the inevitable conclusion of failure. All of the things that he ever wanted out of life went to shit when the apocalypse destroyed the world around him.

Henry wallowed in self-pity for a couple more weeks with no hopes in finding happiness or any positivity from the outside world. He even replaced his usual turtlenecks and khakis with t-shirts and sweatpants, maybe jeans, out of complete negligence for his personal appearance. As an attempt to cheer him up, Emma used the information that Paul told her and weaseled the thought of Ted being interested in him. Henry didn’t believe her initially, but she assured him that Ted was interested in him of all people.

Then all of a sudden, those feelings returned to him in the same way a train would run over someone standing on the tracks.

Before that point, all of the moments that Ted would spend in his lab with him didn’t faze Henry one bit. He didn’t think twice about Ted bringing him his coffee every morning just the way he liked it or sitting there quietly as he listened to his concerns or anything that was on his mind. He only realized that Ted was flirting with him and trying to “woo” him when thinking back on those times.

The swirl of emotions that one conversation initiated engulfed Henry’s thoughts and effectively worked according to Emma’s plan to distract him from the current circumstances upon later reflection. All of his thoughts, no matter where they started, eventually wandered to Ted and, by this time, the attraction developed from the physical to everything about him.

He found himself laughing at Ted’s jokes, no matter how stupid or overused they were. Henry shared details about himself that not even Emma knew. Henry initiated more physical contact unconsciously, rather than deliberately like before.

After two painful days of emotionally losing control over Ted, Henry’s mind was relentless. The only subject that played in his mind was everything about Ted. Ted’s outfit that day, the way Ted smelt, even Ted’s facial expressions when he thought no one was looking. Henry wanted his inability to focus on anything but Ted to disappear.

So, he figured he would just tell him. Simple as that. Blunt, straightforward (despite how gay the confession was), and to the point.

“I find you attractive,” Henry recalled himself saying bluntly to Ted in between the repeated inhalation and exhalation of smoke from his cigarette.

It was a decent day and under the mental and emotional stress he was in, Henry was smoking on the balcony with Ted standing next to Henry and drinking a beer. This was a typical occurrence. Looking out at the Hachetfield skyline allowed both of them to reminisce on the days when the apocalypse wasn’t destroying humanity. They talked some but it was always relatively quiet, disregarding the occasional clink of glass or the sound of the exhalation of smoke.

When Henry said those fours words, Ted nearly choked on the beer and spat it out on the ground below them, avoiding death by beer. Once the coughing fit that ensued died down, Ted looked back at him to see Henry still calmly smoking his cigarette, as if nothing out of the ordinary was ever said.

Henry only looked over to him when Ted didn’t respond and he witnessed a flabbergasted Ted, jaw dropped to the floor and a stain from the beer that he choked on. The professor’s facial expression only turned mildly concerned while he said, “What?”

Even though his confession wasn’t a big deal to Henry, he found out later that it was monumental for Ted. Ted was sputtering and manufacturing a reply, until he just uttered, “What the fuck?”

“What?” Henry asked, shifting his stance to lean against the railing, the cigarette still dangling from his lips. “Good god, Ted. Get yourself together.”

“Get yourself together?” Ted repeated, clearly still shocked by Henry’s proclamation. “Fuck, Henry. You said that I’m hot!”

“And?”

“‘And?!’ You can’t just do that to a man! What am I supposed to fucking do?”

To be completely honest, Henry had no idea how to respond. He hoped that Ted would, you know, feel the same way, but he would understand if he didn't. Henry was— well, older than he was and had grey hair. Despite his insecurities, he rather enjoyed the freedom of not withholding his emotions anymore, no matter what Ted’s response was.

“I don’t know,” Henry said, shrugging and taking another drag. “I was reluctant to theorize about the aftermath.”

“Why not?”

Henry stared at his cigarette longingly, tapping the ash of the end and letting it drift to the ground below. He then looked up at Ted and met his eyes for the first time since his proclamation. Ted’s eyes were darting all over the place, scanning his face, his hair, anything he could take in at that moment.

“I was scared that you might not reciprocate my attraction.”

When Ted burst out laughing, almost dropping his beer in the process, Henry felt worried if Ted was okay or if his fears were coming true. Truth be told, laughter wasn’t on the list of responses that he expected. He didn’t know if Ted was mocking him or simply going insane.

“Are you fucking with me, Henry?”

“No—”

“I mean, why the hell would I not be into you?”

It was Henry’s turn to be shocked. The cigarette in his mouth fell and landed on his hand, leaving a small singe where it landed. Henry stamped the cigarette out, his eyes never straying from Ted’s. He watched Ted place his beer on the small table in the corner.

“Ted, I—”

“And just so you know, before you go and deny it, you definitely are so goddamn hot. Like when you traded your khakis for those jeans that one time— Wow.”

“Ted—” Henry attempted to protest and felt warmth flood his cheeks from the sudden compliment.

“Oh! And when you forgot to straighten your hair—”

Ted didn’t get a chance to finish his compliment to Henry when Henry cupped the sides of Ted’s jaw and silenced him with a kiss. He felt Ted still and then two arms wrap themselves around Henry’s waist, drawing him closer.

Henry could remember every detail from that kiss. The feeling of warmth emitting from Ted’s body, the taste of alcohol on his tongue, the brush of coarse hair from his mustache and stubble, even then he wouldn’t deny that he wanted more. To Henry, it felt…right, as if everything in his life was leading to this one moment. He never asked Ted about his experience from that kiss, but he probably did something right because there were more after.

After a few seconds, Henry separated himself from Ted reluctantly. He stepped back against the railing and shoved his hand in the inside pocket of his coat, scouring the space for another cigarette and his lighter. Once Henry found them, he lit one hastily and took in an inhale of smoke to ease the rapid beating of his heart. After another deep breath, he glanced over to see Ted slowly open his eyes again and locking with his own. Henry averted his gaze in embarrassment of being caught staring and toyed with the cigarette, taking a long drag.

“Henry, you just fucking kissed me.”

“Yeah,” Henry chuckled as smoke trickled out of his mouth, looking back at his cigarette to stop Ted from seeing him blush. “I suppose I did.”

Ted laughed with Henry joining in after a second. Ted took a few steps closer to Henry and took the cigarette out of Henry’s hand, extinguishing it in the ashtray. Henry then watched as Ted gently traced his fingertips along his arms.

He never thought that he would get this far. Henry believed that he would chicken out or never say anything, but not this. Here, he held Ted, he kissed Ted, he began the road of doing something he wanted to do for a long time. Henry couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t understand what Ted saw in him to even be in the room. Because of the way Ted talked about Henry, Henry figured he must’ve been a fraction of a bit attractive to Ted to get his attention.

Ted pulled Henry out of his thoughts when Henry noticed that his hands were on his jaw. Henry met Ted’s eyes and felt himself smile and blush even more. “Good god, Ted.”

Ted responded with wide eyes and a furrowed brow. “What is it?”

Henry placed his hands onto Ted’s shirt and gripped it tightly, balling the fabric up in his fists. He looked at his own fist, before meeting Ted’s eyes once more. “You’re such an idiot. You know that, right?”

“But I’m your idiot.”

“Yes, yes, you are.” Henry sighed dramatically and pulled Ted closer, a wide smile forming on his face. They gazed at each other for a moment. Looking back at it, it was the moment when Henry realized how stunning Ted’s eyes looked in the sunlight. Before, he only saw them in the fluorescent lights of his lab or everywhere else in the house. The sunlight accented the spots of honey in Ted’s irises that the lights inside the house masked through the terrible lighting.

“Are you gonna kiss me or keep staring?” Ted asked, intruding on Henry’s thoughts.

Suddenly, Ted’s lips crashed into his own, preventing Henry from responding.

Henry remembered the kiss that ensued was one of the best that he ever had, even though there were not many competitors for the title. The kiss quickly escalated from gentle pecks and soft caresses to deep kisses and needy touches. Soon enough, Ted tugged on Henry’s lip, asking for entry, which Henry gave immediately. Teeth clashed and, after Henry untucked Ted’s shirt, he grasped onto Ted’s hip in a way that was bound to leave bruises later. Meanwhile, Ted gripped onto Henry’s hair, hearing a muffled moan come from Henry’s mouth.

Being pinned against the railing didn’t stop Henry, though. Henry moved one of his hands onto Ted’s ass and gripped tightly, bringing him closer. The instant connection between the two caused them to separate, the feeling almost too much for either of them.

As the adrenaline of the situation drifted away, Henry took in several deep breaths and accessed his— well, compromising position.

Henry was leaning onto the railing of the balcony, hand still on Ted’s ass that, from this point forward, was never going to leave. Ted leaned his head onto Henry’s shoulder, seeming like he was trying to hide the bright blush on his face from Henry, but in reality, was seizing the opportunity to plant more kisses on his jaw.

Reminiscing over that moment, Henry couldn’t help but think about how fucking gorgeous Ted was in that position. With his hair sticking up in many different directions, his shirt severely wrinkled and untucked, and the red tint that his face acquired from either the lack of oxygen or the intensity of making out with someone, Ted looked almost…ethereal.

Almost two months later, Henry stood in the same position, watching that moment replay over and over in his head. It was the catalyst to the beginning of their relationship and their inevitable fight.

He was standing alone, watching the cigarette burn down into a pile of ash and trying to convince himself to do the unthinkable: talk to Ted.

Of course, it seemed a lot more daunting than those words let on. The possibilities were endless regarding how badly he could fuck everything up. He could say the wrong thing and initiate another fight. He could chicken out at the last minute and never talk to him, hindering what little relationship Henry believed they had left.

Henry knew that everyone was right. He had to do it at some point in time. He longed for Ted in his heart, but every time he wanted to go search the house for Ted, his mind told him that Ted would break up with him. He would rather not talk to him and remain together than talk to him and lose him forever.

Henry missed waking up to Ted’s outrageous bed head and the warm feeling of having his arms wrapped around Ted. He missed the random conversations that Ted’s mind manufactured and their constant use of cheesy pick-up lines that made each other blush. He missed each gentle touch, kiss, and word that they shared.

Fuck, he was in deep.

Henry was so in love with him that it hurt thinking of him and not being able to be near him.

Well, you could. His heart whispered. All you gotta do is talk to him.

Henry chuckled at the proposition. It was really that simple. He knew it was. The idea kept circling around his head for a reason and it was because of its simplicity.

You know what would happen. His mind replied. You would just fuck it up like everything else in your life.

As much as it hurt, his mind was right. He would fuck it up. Henry fucked up his life with his Workin’ Boys then and fucked up his life with Ted now.

Once the cigarette in his hand was rendered to a pile of ash, he blew the contents away into the surrounding air, watching as it disappeared into oblivion. Henry dusted off his hands and wiped them on his pants.

Then a notion struck him.

What if he just…disappeared? Then he would never have to have that fated conversation.

He shook the thought from his mind when he realized that Emma would drag his ass back here to stop him from avoiding it.

He rubbed his temples with one hand when his head began to throb from the abundance of emotion. Henry sat down and closed his eyes, leaning his head in his good hand. Combined with the pain in his hand, he wished that something would just numb all of the pain, whether it be physical, emotional, or mental.

Henry could hear Emma chastise him, saying, “You’re making things too complicated.”

Usually, he would never listen, but this time, he took her advice.

How did Henry confess his feelings to Ted? Simply.

If it worked once before, it might work again.

To win back Ted, he just needed to be extremely blunt.

Fuck you, mind. He thought, giving his conscience a mental middle finger. I’m gonna get my Ted back.

Henry stood up abruptly, regretting that decision immediately when another pang of pain spread throughout his hand and head. He groaned and moved to exit the balcony.

Expecting to have some time to prepare his words, he froze when he saw Ted standing in the living room, staring back at him.

Oh, fuck.

— — —

While Henry was having an existential crisis on the balcony, Ted hyped himself up in the mirror.

To give an accurate description of Ted’s mental status, imagine any teenage coming-of-age movie when the teen was getting ready for a date. Cheery, uplifting music and dancing montages, the whole package.

The only differences were that Ted was a middle age man and this was the apocalypse; everyone in that house abhorred music by that point.

A newly sober Ted regarded himself in the mirror. His hair was still wet from the shower and he actually didn’t look absolutely disgusting for the first time in a week.

Ted no longer reeked of alcohol but of some fruity body soap that Ted found in the cabinet. His hair wasn’t matted with sweat to the point that it was almost glued to his head.

Sure, he had to chug about four glasses of water to avoid dehydration, but he felt better than before.

The lack of alcohol really helped with helping him process what he was going to say and— well, everything that happened. (Shocking. I know.) Drunkenness didn’t really favor the thoughtful.

He spent so much time wallowing in the thought that Henry was in the wrong and should apologize that he neglected to put some of the blame on himself.

Henry wasn’t selfish and did things for himself. He always had others in mind. When Henry went out into Hachetfield alone, albeit it was a stupid decision, he did it so that none of the other occupants in the house would get hurt or die. He risked his life for the good of the people around him, not himself.

In conclusion, Henry did what he thought was right and necessary and Ted got angry about it.

When he saw the “blue shit” left unattended, anger bubbled from deep within him and he acted irrationally. He couldn’t help but toss it out. His Henry could have died because of that.

It wasn’t okay. His actions were not okay. He regretted saying every hurtful word, pushing Henry and everyone else away, and most importantly, hurting Henry.

He could never erase the look of pure despair when he looked back and saw Henry on the verge of tears.

He could never forget the sound of Henry smashing his hand against the counter and the crunch of the bones from the strong force.

Even in his drunken state, Ted heard everything. Every shout of pain, every curse to himself and others, every angry outburst from Henry. It only made him drink more and cry harder when he realized that it was his fault that Henry was like this.

Ted’s heart shattered more and more every time.

But now in his sober state, his love for Henry and his desire to fix everything only grew by the second. He was itching to simply be in the same room as him again.

Ted looked in the mirror at the final thing preventing him from hunting Henry down and apologizing to him.

His beard.

He neglected to shave while he was drunk, but now, he was faced with doing so. He could never talk to Henry with such horrible thing growing on his face.

Ted looked at the razor and picked it up slowly, looking at it.

He could go back to his typical mustache, but he needed something new. Something to show to Henry that he’s committed to moving on from their fight and embracing their future.

Fuck it. He thought. I’m gonna shave it. All. Of. It.

Before he could change his mind, he put the razor down and lathered on shaving cream over his entire beard.

Then he picked up the razor, examining it.

Finally, he made the first shave.

It already started. There was no turning back now.

Ted slowly watched as with every swipe of the razor, remnants of the days wallowing in self-pity went away.

Soon, he was clean-shaven. Ted had no idea if Henry would like it, but it was worth a shot. It was certainly something that he hadn’t done in years by now.

He ran his hand over the smooth skin and smiled. I don’t look too awful.

Ted rinsed off the sink and washed the hair down the drain, running the razor under the water as well.

He patted his cheeks with aftershave and quickly posed in the mirror, boosting his self-confidence.

Ted was determined to win the love of his life back, no matter what it took.

(I mean, seriously. The man shaved off his mustache.)

—————

A/N: I hope you enjoyed that. This shit show of a work is almost done. There’s one more chapter left. Feel free to like and comment. I really appreciate all of the support.

#tedgens #professor hidgens x ted #henry hidgens x ted #henry hidgens #professor hidgens #ted richards #snaff tedgens #tw: cursing #tw: smoking #starkid #the guy who didn't like musicals #tgwdlm #ted tgwdlm

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lurafita · 5 years

Text

Petvengers Chapter 4

Read chapter 1 here: Chappy 1

Read chapter 2 here: Chappy 2

Read chapter 3 here: Chappy 3

Bruce/Hulk

If anyone were ever to ask Peter, what it had been like the very first time he met Dr. Bruce Banner face to face, he would tell them that he was the embodiment of sophisticated professionalism, and not at all embarrassing.

If they were to ask anyone else that had been present at the time, however, they would tell a quite different story.

- (about 2 years ago) -

“I'm really not sure about this, Tony.”

Bruce said, as he was led through the halls of the tower's common floor, by the far too excited engineer.

Tony just grinned.

“Relax, Brucie Bear. I'm telling you, you are going to love the kid. Fair warning though, he can talk. Like, boy, can he talk. If he starts rambling, don't try to get a word in edgewise, just let him get it all out. He will run out of oxygen at some point, and that's when you seize the opportunity to get the conversation back on track. Because, believe me, Pete will somehow manage to totally derail the topic. Like yesterday, when he came over after school, he started out telling me about his and his friend Ted's AP chemistry project, and suddenly we are in a deep, philosophical discussion about the representation of real life issues in children's cartoons. By the way, you should absolutely watch more cartoons in your free time. Some are surprisingly deep. Did you know that Sailor Moon was way ahead of the curve on LGBTQ relationships? And considering the time period in which it first aired, that's saying a lot. And Captain Planet was actually taking on AIDS hysteria in 1992. Not to mention the fact that in Steven Universe, child heroes have to deal with trauma, instead of things just getting swept under the table. Really, this stuff is more educational than you might think.”

Bruce side eyed his friend.

“So the kid goes off on a tangent suddenly and just keeps going, huh? Completely disregarding the topic you were just talking about right before, huh? Wonder where he gets this from. This sounds in no way familiar. At all.”

Tony either didn't catch the sarcasm, or ignored it, and nodded.

“Beats me. Can't be his aunt, that woman is scarily on point. She never let's you forget, or talk your way around anything. She is just like Pepper in that regard. I think its the Italian blood in May.”

Before the billionaire had the chance to get lost in that particular line of thought, Bruce cut in.

“Look, Tony, I'm not worried about whether or not I will like Peter. From all the proud dad raving you have been doing since I got back, I already know that he is a great kid.”

(“Excuse you! I do not rave! Least of all proud dad like!”)

“I'm far more concerned about the kind of impact standing in a room with the man who turns into a giant, green rage monster at the drop of a hat, will have on a 15 year old. I'm really not looking forward to watching the kid run away in a panic.”

Tony scoffed.

“Oh please. If you turned Hulk at 'the drop of a hat', my tower would have crumbled years ago. Also, the kid is a superhero. He fought a maniac with alien weapons and a metallic bird suit. I'm gonna eat my 1.500,00 $ Italian leather shoes, if the Hulk scares Pete even a tiny, little bit.”

Bruce would have balked at the money that Tony spent on footwear, but at this moment, the two men stepped right into the living room. They were greeted by the sight of Steve, Bucky, Natasha, Colonel Rhodes, and one brown haired teenager. Which might have been a normal enough scene, if said teenager wasn't sitting cross legged on the ceiling, clutching a bag of marshmallows to his chest and alternating between stuffing one into his mouth, and trying to convince both Steve and Bucky that it counted as a healthy snack, since it was blackberry flavored.

And even though Bruce wasn't 'that kind of Doctor' he couldn't help but clear his throat.

“Actually, since the manufacturers have most likely resorted to using artificial flavors and food coloring, you probably have about the same health benefits from those, as if you just ate the sugar straight out of the container.”

Everyone turned to look at the two newcomers, and as the adults all smiled and stepped forward to welcome their friend, a wide eyed Peter lost his grip on both the bag of marshmallows and the ceiling, and fell to the ground in a heap. Before anyone could start panicking though, he was back up and with a kind of chocked off, high pitched scream/gasp, pointed his finger right at Bruce, and exclaimed “Don't move!” Then he ran out of the room.

And while Bruce had mentally prepared himself for just such a reaction, it still left him feeling rather disheartened. A quick glance around at the other people in the room showed three very confused Avengers (they had evidently not expected that reaction out of the boy), one Air force Colonel who was trying very hard not to laugh, and a grinning Tony Stark.

“So, should I be getting you some water to wash your ridiculously expensive shoes down with?”

Bruce asked the billionaire with a dispassionate sigh, but Tony was completely unconcerned.

“Just wait for it.”

They didn't need to wait even a second more after Tony had spoken, as Peter came running back into the room, arms overloaded with books, stacks of papers, and what looked like posters, which he all dumped onto the nearby couch table. Then the teen was suddenly right in front of Bruce and vigorously shaking his hand.

“Oh my god, Dr Banner, this is such an honor. You are like my favorite scientist ever! (Tony's indignant “Hey!” went ignored) I have read every one of your published papers and my friend may have hacked into your old university and found some of your papers that you didn’t publish, and now I realize that that’s not something I should tell you probably, please don’t sue us, but can you please sign everything I own and oh my god I’m shaking your hand and I’m never gonna wash that again ever. And can I get a photo, oh my god Ned is gonna be sooooo jealous!”

All the while Peter had been holding his phone in his other hand, blindly dialed a number and waited for the other person to take the call. Then he pressed the phone excitedly to his ear.

“Ned! Ned! You will never believe who I'm talking to right now! Think of the greatest scientist you know!... Okay, the greatest scientist you know who is currently alive... EXACTLY! (Once again, Tony's “It's like I'm invisible”, was ignored) Dude, I'm looking right at him. I'M SHAKING HIS HAND! … No, I'm not being a creepy fanboy... No, I have not yet let go of his hand...”

Rhodey laughed, Tony was jealously grumbling under his breath, Steve fondly shook his head, Bucky smirked, Natasha examined the impressive pile of things the teenager had brought for Bruce to sign, Peter continued shaking the scientists hand, while staring at him with awe-filled eyes and all but screaming into his phone, and Bruce... Bruce smiled.

- (back to the present) -

It was one of the rare, lazy, late afternoons on a weekday, that found most of the Avengers hanging out on the newly built terrace behind the tower. The strangling hold that the high temperatures of summer had held over New York city for the last few days, was finally ebbing away and Peter had seized the opportunity to take Hope for an extended walk. (Steve had declined Peter's invitation to tag along. Colonel, Bucky and him had risen early as ever, and already run a few miles) He had also somehow managed to ensnare Bruce in a discussion about something that had gone over the collective heads of everyone around (Tony was still stuck in a board meeting that Pepper had dragged him to), and the dark haired scientist had seemingly unwittingly followed the teen and dog out of the tower.

The two super soldiers had curled up together in the porch swing, Bucky carefully keeping track of Arthur's progress, as the little raccoon tried scaling the garden table that held the snack food. Steve with a sketch pad in his lap, drawing the image of Eames the cockatoo, hopping around said table while chanting “Posh tosser, bloody wanker”, and occasionally dropping down a blueberry to Colonel, who was happily waving his tail at the treats.

Sam, for some reason, found his bird's antics endlessly funny, and was filming the whole thing with his phone.

Clint and Laura had spread a brightly colored blanket over the grass and were having a picnic with Nathaniel and Lila, while Natasha was showing Cooper some easy self-defense moves a few feet away.

When Hope's familiar barking and running feet were heard, the assembled group knew that Bruce and Peter had gotten back from their walk. The over eager Pitbull ran out on the terrace, greeting everyone in turn with happy licks and a wagging tail (he jumped first into the laps of the two super soldiers, let himself be scratched behind the ears, then ran right at Sam, nearly forcing the man to lose the grip on his phone when he licked him right across the face, then launched his furry body onto the blanket with Laura, Clint, Lila and Nathaniel, and patiently waited until all had pet him at least once, and finally trotted over to Cooper and Natasha to join in on their play fight.)

This had been expected.

What was not expected was watching Peter come walking out to the terrace, carrying a huge tortoise (about 25 to 30 inches in length), and grinning widely when setting the reptile down on the grass. Bruce was following close behind the teen, his face a curious mix of shell shocked and confused.

Peter straightened up from his crouch and addressed everyone, while Colonel and Arthur (who was riding on the dogs back), came over to examine the new, slowly moving animal.

“Everyone, meet Bruce's new friend, Speedy Gonzales!"

“She is a 33 year old Sulcata Tortoise. Sulcata Tortoises can live up to 70 years and above, and weigh up to 120 pounds. Speedy isn't that big yet, though. She did grow a bit too big for her previous owner, and the guy was too cheap to invest in a bigger terrarium, because she needs hot temperatures to stay healthy. She will be okay to roam freely during the summer, but we will have to turn one of the guest rooms into a heated enclosure for her when it gets colder.”

The still completely baffled looking Dr. Banner turned to face his friends and coworkers (the Barton's and Natasha had come closer to inspect the newest addition to their home).

“...I don't even know how that happened. … We were talking about the latest research on cross-species genetic transfers, and all of a sudden I'm standing in an animal shelter and signing adoption papers for a tortoise. … I didn't even know shelters had tortoises...”

Sam, Bucky and Steve, who had already been victims of Peter's crusade against a pet-less existence, held up their glasses in a silent salute to the doctor. Natasha proudly nodded at Peter's accomplishment, and he respectfully bowed to his Sensei. Eames had landed on Speedy's massive back, and was seemingly taunting Arthur from his perch. The little raccoon shot the bird a nasty look, and climbed up into Lila's embrace. Cooper and Clint both seemed fascinated with the size of the tortoise, while Hope jumped between the father and son to get back rubs. Nathaniel laughed happily as his mother helped him feed a banana to the reptile.

Speedy Gonzales brought honor to her species, by patiently tolerating the chaos all around her, and chomping down on the yellow fruit.

Bonus: The Hulk!

"Uff!"

Spiderman shook himself free of the last remaining dust particles from the pile of debris he had dug himself out of, only a few minutes ago. All around him were the webbed up enormous bodies of the mutated rats. Some of them were twitching against their spidery cocoon, trying to get out of their bindings. Peter had done his best not to kill any of them, knowing that the animals had been victims of the illegal experimentation of the deranged Professor Stollack.

It wasn't everyday that a hoard of wild, three feet tall, rabid rats tried to take over Brooklyn. The whole team had been called in for some extreme pest control.

While Black Widow and Captain America had gone in search of the perpetrator behind this particular madness, Iron Man, Hulk, Falcon, Hawkeye, Thor, the Winter Soldier, Antman, the Wasp and Spiderman had taken to the streets and taken care of the mutated and very dangerous vermin.

Peter really felt sorry for the rats. While they weren't exactly among his favorite animals, they weren't evil. No animal was. And they didn't deserve to be experimented on and used like this, for one madman's twisted plans. He really hoped they could be returned to their original forms, and not have to be mercy killed.

/"Widow and me have taken the Professor and his underlings into custody. Everyone alright? Status report!"/ Came the Captain's voice over the comms that kept the team connected during battles.

/"I'm good, so is Feather-head."/ It was impossible to miss the smirk in Bucky's voice.

/"You won't be good for much longer if you keep it up with the nicknames, Frosty."/ As long as those two still argued, they were okay.

/"I'm fine, though Legolas might need to be checked for rabies. One of those things got a bite out of him."/ Peter would be way more worried, if Tony wasn't laughing as he said it.

/"My pants, guys, don't worry. No skin was breached. Mighty Mouse over there tore a fucking hole in my pants."/ Came Clint's answer.

/"His ass region, to be more specific. If anyone was wondering, Robin Hood is wearing Paw Patrol undies today."/

/"Look, Nathaniel likes the show, okay? How about we move things along?"/

/"Paw Patrol is cool. Call me when you watch it! I will bring Cassie!"/ Scott's joyful voice sounded.

/"Cassie only watches to keep you company, you know? By the way, Antman and I are both fine."/ Trust The Wasp to keep things under control.

/"I do not know this 'Paw Patrol', but I will gladly join you and your son for a viewing, if it is impressive enough for you to decorate yourself with."/ Fighting alongside the God of Thunder would never be not cool.

/"I'm okay, and I'm totally joining you for Paw Patrol. Got a bunch of the rats webbed up. Maybe Bruce can find a way to turn them back to normal. You know, once he has turned back to normal."/ Peter finally chimed in.

/"Speaking of, does anyone have eyes on the Hulk?"/ It was sadly impossible to equip the green guy with an earwig.

Spidey took a careful look around himself.

/"He was with me for most of the fight... Wait! I see him!"/

He had spotted the big guy a little ways away from his position, seemingly crouched over something. The part-time Avenger and full-time vigilante quickly swung his way to the Hulk.

/"Just... be careful, Spidey."/ Steve's cautious warning almost made Peter roll his eyes. He knew the team worried about his easy and unconcerned interactions with Hulk, and he couldn't really fault them. After all, the Hulk was the embodiment of Dr. Banner's uncontrolled anger, and was therefore, dangerous. But Peter's Spidey-sense never went off when he was around the big guy, or rather, it never went off because of the big guy, so Peter didn't worry. He knew though, that Tony was probably already on his way to them, just in case.

He landed beside the hulking giant.

"Hey buddy! You okay? Something wrong?"

The Hulk looked at him, and then slowly turned, so that Peter was able to see what was before him. The teenaged vigilante paled behind the mask.

On the ground before them laid the remains of what must have been a carton box. One of the pieces was large enough to read the handwritten 'Free to a good home', scribbled on it. Some of the carton pieces were drenched in red. And tiny bones could be seen among them.

Hulk's grumbling voice thankfully pulled him away from the grizzly scene.

"The evil mice were eating them... Hulk was too late to save the others."

Then Hulk turned further, and revealed a small, softly mewling kitten in his palm. The giant, green hand, made the little kitten look even tinier than it probably was. And Peter's heart just melted.

"I'm really sorry, bud, but you managed to safe this one! That's great! You are a hero! Do you mind if I took it for a minute? Make sure it isn't hurt anywhere?"

The Hulk grunted his agreement, and with a gentleness few would ever associate with the big guy, handed the little kitten over. Neither of the two turned around when Iron Man landed just a couple of steps behind them.

"Hey there, big guy. Spidey. You both good? You know, because you might want to let the team know that you are both good. So that the team doesn't worry."

Instead of answering his adoptive father, Peter addressed Hulk.

"She looks fine to me. But we might want to let a doctor check up on her. Just to make sure nothing is broken."

He placed the little kitten carefully back into his green friend's big hand, and the little fluff ball immediately curled up and started purring. Peter pat Hulk's shoulder in congratulation.

"She likes you!"

Iron Man had come closer.

"Is that a cat?"

Hulk smiled.

"Hulk likes her, too. She is tiny... Like Bug-boy. Hulk likes Bug-boy."

"You know, big guy, I don't even mind you calling me that. I like you, too."

"No, seriously, where did the cat come from?"

"Puny Banner is a doctor."

"Well, I was thinking more along the line of a veterinarian, but Bruce should be able to tell if anything was wrong with her. Especially with the equipment at the tower. And if all else fails, there is still Helen. She is the best doctor ever."

"Okay, one, Bruce would throw in that he is 'not that kind of doctor', right about now. And two, what is the deal with the cat?"

Hulk grunted.

"Hulk will go now. So that puny Banner can take care of her. Bug-boy tell puny Banner that Hulk is keeping her."

Peter nodded enthusiastically.

"Great! What do you want to name her?"

"Am I invisible to you people? What the hell is the deal with the cat?"

Hulk looked down at the purring kitten in his palm, a thoughtful look on his face.

"Little Smash."

Peter grinned.

"That's a great name!"

"Seriously, am I invisible? Did I die without noticing and am roaming the streets as a ghost now? Were those rats magic? Is this a curse?"

When the Hulk shrank back into his other half, Bruce found himself even more confused than he usually was after a transformation. Beside him, Peter, in his Spiderman suit, was trying to calm down a comically panicking Tony, who was still in his Iron Man armor, and apparently convinced that he had been turned into an astral projection of himself.

He was standing in the middle of a street in Brooklyn (in only his thankfully very stretchy pants), there were big, twitching web cocoons some feet away from them on the ground, and in his hands was a sleeping little kitten, purring up a storm.

Peter paused long enough from reassuring Tony that he was, indeed, both visible and audible, and definitely not a ghost, to quickly address the confused Bruce.

"That's Little Smash! She is Hulk's! He said to take good care of her! Oh, and she might need an x-ray."

Then he was back at pointedly not ignoring Tony.

Bruce looked down at the sleeping kitten in his hands and sighed.

Oh well,... at least she was cute.

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