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arandomdai · 3 months

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Persephone Lost Herself To Marriage

⚠️ Warning: I'm just saying my opinions (and theories) like everyone else. So put your tin foil hats on, it's going to be a LONG read. Enjoy!!!⚠️

• The Realization

This was/is a cry for help. She's finally admitted something that we (some of us) already noticed. The fact that she's so worried about her blue corpse of a man's feelings, while in denial about killing hundreds if not thousands of mortals in seconds...is nasty work. Like okay you don't know yourself, good we are getting somewhere. But are you willing to change your ways like finally admitting that your Mom was right, Minthe was right (about you and your man), Zeus was right (where he says they didn't know each other long), finally realize your selfish and a murderer, etc. Like I wanna see the change, not this boohoo act. And speaking of Demeter, she is a little bit at fault for why Persephone acts like this. If she would've told her about being a FG, teach her how to defend herself, help her control her powers or help make her own decisions, none of this wouldn't happen. Now Persephone (this her own fault here)is trapped with guilt, a blu gru, and a whole population of shades coming in. Once this is over, I pray to God that she wakes up, and leave that man, live in the mortal realm, and hopefully come to terms/works on herself to know who she is because her being a Queen is not one of them.

•Hades Is Her Downfall

This man never loved her. He wanted to sleep with her knowing he had a girlfriend (Minthe at the time) and when she was only 19 years old !!!(smdh 🤢😒), somehow he shows up in her nightmare saying, "I Know That I Can Smell Your Ambitions As They Rot At Your Feet.", he didn't let Persephone tell him what happened, lies about everything, disrespects Demeter, never gave Thanatos a real apology, never actually going to therapy, etc, need I say more? This man genuinely hates powerful women. He sabotaged Demeter's right to rule the mortal realm, gets angry when women stand up for themselves, preys on the vulnerable and young, dangles money over them, had an affair with Hera behind his brothers back, etc, and Persephone still thinks he's husband material... chile. Like how come she doesn't see those horrible qualities and notice that he brings out the worst in her? Real men don't treat women like this. To be fair, that first genocide she caused was all her fault, like yes they were playing in her face, but she didn't need to start killing people. But you know what she did, she was willing to help the shades get into the Underworld (and he was mad about that 😒). Now we're on to our second genocide, and this man was the cause of this as well (mostly her fault but still). The fact he said "I can't stop her from trying." Like yes you can Blunocchio 🙄. I'm so tired of him, and his evil ways. Persephone really needs to understand that man was never in her corner, and if he was, he would've left her alone from the very beginning. The lesson is don't EVER let a man be your downfall and try to make you feel powerless. If he can't take how powerful you are, he was never the one and he's an insecure a**hole.

• There Was Always Someone

Hydros tried to warn Gaia

People thought Rhea was stupid for loving Kronos

Probably someone close to the Missing Goddess tried to warn her

Demeter warned Persephone

Do we see the pattern? Constantly losing yourself in love with abusive men, getting your powers drained because they wanted to prove that they were worth loving, and trying to prove the haters wrong (looking at you author)? Well, yes. Persephone had her twenties to look forward to (school, TOGEM, and starting her future), but made a man child the #1 priority. Had her thirties (self reflection, getting her shit together, realize she can do bad by herself.), but still managed to keep him in the #1 priority slot, instead of her and her own mother. Like does she not get that her mom is her real best friend? These fertility goddesses (excluding Metis 🤢) wish that they would've listened to those people/or families, and saw from their point of view that their men weren't no good, and go from there. Like did Persephone ever think about what Zeus told her ( his back story about what happened to Rhea), nope. Just ignored it because she never listens, and loves finding out the hard way 🙄😒. If the author wanted a real ('cause let's be honest, it's not) feminist retelling, she could've had Persephone look at the fertility goddesses differently, Seeing there struggles, learn that Demeter just didn't want to see her get hurt, and walk away from him (but in a perfect world I guess 🫤). Remember y'all there is always someone in your corner that is looking out for you and/or showing they love you.

• Persephone's Fate

Until she starts listening to the right people, know how to think for herself, and realize that man ain't crap, she's doomed. Years from now, she's going to be trapped in a marriage full of regrets and shattered dreams, sparkling and useless if you will. Hades will continue to use and abuse her. Hell, wouldn't be surprised if he started cheating on her like he cheated on Minthe. Also, wouldn't be shocked if she becomes the next Hera, after all she was just her stand in. Hades would take most of her powers, someone defeats him, and puts him in prison somewhere, she starts seeing him, and no one else can. Would that be something? I mean he was in her dreams telling her that her ambitions will rot. Also people wouldn't want to come around her, and she gotta live with that for the rest of her life. Demeter, lasion, and her son living life to the fullest, so who can she call? She is stuck in a tragic cautionary tale of a fertility goddess. Someone that wanted to prove the haters wrong, wanted to be worthy of loving, and a victim of a man's abuse and manipulations.

#lo critical #anti lore olympus #anti lo #lore olympus criticism #it was hades all along #lore olympus critical #tin foil hats

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certifiedlovergirlsstuff · 1 year

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valentine

pairing: steve harrington x reader

WC: 1.9K

warnings: cursing, some suggestive stuff, a little nightmare sequence that involves punching and blood mentions. should be it!

summary: you blinked and suddenly, you had a valentine. ❤️

A/N: a late v-day post, i guess. inspired by the lovely Laufey song. much love to @alecmores for proofreading 💗💗💗

it cut off some of the ending when read on mobile 😒 but it’s looking completely fine on computer. just an fyi

masterlist

I’ve rejected affection for years and years. Now I have it and damn it, it’s kind of weird.

Out of your twenty-one years of living on this planet, this is the first year you have a relationship and it’s simultaneously the greatest feeling in the world while also making you want to run away. But you can’t find it in yourself to run, not from him.

Steve. Steve Harrington is your boyfriend.

You feel like you need to pinch yourself every time he looks your way and throws a smile meant for you, or feel the furnace heat of his fingers grasping your hips before pulling you into a kiss, sweet or searing.

He tells me I’m pretty.

The two of you are just laying in his bed on a lazy saturday morning, with no hurry to be anywhere, facing each other as you practically share his pillow causing your noses to bump with a simple shift. The blanket covers both of you from the waist down, your top half open to the slight chill dancing through the room.

Steve's shirtless and you're wearing an oversized shirt you found at a garage sale, one that goes to rest at the top of your thighs, but right now it’s bunched up high, allowing Steve to toy with the elastic of your underwear and drag his knuckles over your exposed waist. Legs tangled together, your cold feet pushing into Steve’s calf causing a gasp of shock from the boy which pulled a heartfelt giggle from your lips.

“You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid my eyes on.” A hand instantly moves to tuck loose strands behind your ear.

You don’t say anything, you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Soft eyes that twinkle, an easy smile that displays his stunning smile lines, his freckles, and moles that mark his face and body that you smother with thousands of kisses when given the opportunity. How his bed head of hair is curled and twisted this way and that, the ends tucking and touching his ear lobe and neck or even his jaw.

You don’t know how to respond to the sudden compliment, you haven’t received much in your years. So as you memorize him, you instantly say the words back to him, in your own way, of course.

“You’re quite pretty yourself, Steve Harrington. Very nice on the eyes.” A finger trailed his nose and down to his jaw.

A deep rumble from his chest filled you with a warmth that pushed away the February chill. You weren’t sure if you should’ve called him that. Most guys don’t like the word "pretty" being used when complimenting them, most like strong or handsome, pretty to them seems weak when it isn’t towards a girl. But when you looked at Steve he was all those to you, but pretty will be the one to always come to mind when you look at him, especially in moments like these. Intimate and away from prying eyes.

With every passing moment, I surprise myself.

You’re usually scared of guys, whether it be in a general sense or a relationship kinda sense. You’ve been on dates, didn’t like the guy and stopped talking with him or you liked him and went on a few dates but those ended up fizzling out as well.

But Steve Harrington made you feel scared, but the good kind of scared. The roller coaster adrenaline scare, where you’re whooping and hollering at the top of your lungs. Clinging to the metal bars for dear life worried you’ll fly away, but they're holding you securely in their grasp.

Steve constantly made you smile and laugh, scream out of slight fear or extreme pleasure. He held you in firm hugs, his chin digging into your scalp as he slowly swayed your bodies. He made you feel safe and loved.

Loved. You’ve fallen in love with him after just a year. Now you were scared.

What if he’s the last one I kiss? What if he’s the only one I’ll ever miss? Maybe I should run, I’m only twenty-one.

You began to panic. There was no real reason to panic, but you're an overthinker, constantly making useless scenarios in your fast-paced mind, thinking the worst of peaceful times. It’s a terrible flaw, but one you can’t push away no matter how much you try.

‘What if he gets bored of me? What if he thinks I’m clingy? What would he do if I told him I love him?’

Evil thoughts that would creep up in the time of silence.

You stared at nothing while you sat behind the counter at Family Video, body unconsciously swiveling the rolling chair from side to side. Steve and Robin are out on the floor putting away new releases and returning stock, their friendly banter becoming white noise to your ears as more corruptive thoughts came to mind and cramp every single space in your brain.

Your fingers pick at your nail beds, you don’t even feel the pricks of pain or feel the little trickles of blood pooling to the top. Only when you feel someone else’s hands pulling yours apart into their hold do you snap from your trance.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Steve's melodic voice rings in your ears.

“Huh?” Not too sure what he means.

His eyes are focused on your hands, pulling each finger in his eye line and then bringing a kiss to each nail. It made you flush at the sudden display of affection.

“I was calling for you,” another kiss, “and you didn’t answer so I came here,” kiss, “and your eyes were just wide and you were picking at your nails. I thought you stopped that.”

‘Great now you disappointed him’ ‘Probably thinks you’re a liar’

You bit your bottom lip, “got lost in my thoughts. That’s all.” A shrug of your shoulders.

He still held your hands, fingers laced together and his thumb ran atop your knuckles. He was warm and comfortable, it pushed the negative thoughts away just a bit.

Then he crouched down, hands placed on your knees and head tilted to look up at you with your small bit of height. His head tilted and swayed, trying to find your eyes that you wanted to hide away from him, he could always find what was wrong in the end.

“Sweetheart,” he sighed, “I’m not gonna make you tell me what’s wrong, or I won’t act like a mind reader, cause I’m not-“ “Beg to differ on certain days.” You interrupted.

He breathed a laugh, “if you believe so. But I just want you to know you can talk to me if something is bothering you, especially if it’s about me. Cause I don’t want you to think the wrong thing.” He squeezed your knees.

You looked at Steve, held his eye contact, and said, “I really like you, Steve Harrington.” The closest thing to I love you right now.

He smiled wide, “I really like you too, sweetheart.”

I’ve lost all control of my heartbeat now.

He said the words. He said the words.

“I love you, (Y/n).”

It felt like all the air left your lungs and now you probably looked like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing. Trying to process everything that just happened while also trying to find the words for a proper response.

“(Y/n)? You okay?” He has a firm hold on your biceps.

Your own hands are also holding his biceps, eyes dancing across his face. You wanted to memorize this moment, the way he looked in the overhead lighting of the grocery store where you were buying snacks for a night in.

He just had to say the words that rocked your heart in the freaking grocery store!

“Sweetheart, say something, please. You’re scaring me a bit,” a chuckle but you knew he was concerned.

“Uh,” you blinked a few times, “really caught me off guard with that.”

The both of you chuckled, you from the absurdity of the moment and Steve from your comment. But it felt so perfect, a special moment to remember for the future.

When I hear I love you, now I’ve got someone to lose.

You tried fighting back, you desperately tried with all the strength you could muster into your bones. You yanked hard against the metal cuffs, the skin on your wrist starting to sting from the breakage. You tried kicking with your legs, but it was no use, you weren’t close enough to hit anything or anyone.

You could only stare and scream as you thrash. Watching helplessly as the soldier beats Steve down with his knuckles. How his skin breaks and bleeds, the loud cracks of his nose breaking causing blood to spill from his nostrils.

“Stop! Stop! Please! We’re telling the truth!” You tried to plead with them.

They just laughed and continued the harassment. Steve always being the hero, making sure they don’t lay a finger on you, causing him to be the center of their attention and attacks.

When the soldier got tired from throwing punches, he gripped Steve’s neck tight. You could slowly see the blood leaving his face, the air not making its way to his brain. His feet scrambled against the floor to find some purchase.

In what seemed to be his final moments, he looks at you.

“Steve!” You cried as you blotted upward from the bed.

Your chest heaved with heavy breaths and sweat formed at your temple while your back and chest were sticky with perspiration. A hand touched your chest to feel your heart as you pushed sticky strands from your face.

‘Just a nightmare’ ‘It was just a terrible nightmare’

“(Y/n)?” A scratchy voice was heard through the darkness of the bedroom.

“Steve, sorry.”

You felt him sit up, his hand rubbing circles to your back along your sleep shirt. He laid his head on your shoulder and placed his free appendage on your thigh.

“Was it a nightmare? Cause usually if it's dreams, there’s a different way we go about things.” He tried for a laugh and you gave him one. “There we go,” he sighed.

“Can you just hold me?” You whispered. An unspoken ‘I love you’

“Always, sweetheart.” ‘I love you too’

The first one to ever like me back. I’m seconds away from a heart attack.

“You know you are my first boyfriend, like ever.” You randomly blurt one day in Steve’s kitchen.

“No way, I find that hard to believe.” He called over his shoulder as he worked on breakfast.

“Oh!” You hop onto his counters, “and what makes you think that? Do enlighten me.”

He didn’t say anything quickly, so just as you were about to say something, he spoke up, “because you’re… you. Anyone would be lucky to be with you.”

He said the words so easily like they were the most obvious answer to your question. He was trying to give you a heart attack with how sugary sweet he is.

“Like I can’t believe I get to call you mine. Every day I wake up and remember I’m dating you and it makes my day one hundred percent better already. And knowing I get to call you or see you throughout the day, it keeps me from going insane during the boring or terrible moments.”

You were speechless. Steve caused every word and thought to leave your mouth and brain, all you could say was, “I love you.”

I blinked and suddenly, I had a valentine.

#steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington reader insert #steve harrington x reader #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #stranger things x reader #Spotify

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veryace-ficrecs · 10 months

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Nimona fic recs

I have seen the movie, I love the movie. Here, recs.

In all honesty, I have the comic, read it years and years ago, and this movie was a fantastic representation of it.

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

Kiss it and make it better by Bagge - Rated G

After Ballister removes the arrow from Nimona's leg, she decides she kinda enjoys the attention.

late at night by romeoandjulietyouwish - Rated G

Nimona is still getting used to Ambrosius, it helps that Ballister loves him very much.

finally home by romeoandjulietyouwish - Rated G

Ballister brings Nimona home to Ambrosius.

When The Smoke Clears, I Will Be Here by petrixhoric - Not Rated

When the last sparks of Nimona's light faded, Ballister collapsed among the ashes. To his rescue comes Ambrosius, who is ready to scoop him up and take him home. Everything hurts in Ballister's world: his heart... His body. He let's himself be vulnerable around the man he once loved, for the sake of all he's just been through.

Phantom Aches & Love by lostmagician - Rated M

Ambrosius wakes up to find Ballister perched on the edge of the bed, hunched over, his left palm braced against his knee.

between starshine and clay by TealWren - Rated G

Bal had been gone for too long. Or, three months after everything, Ambrosius goes looking.

Welcome Home by FaboKraken - Rated T

Nimona comes home. Ballister can’t believe it. Aka A home is sometimes a brooding one-armed science tech not-villian, a socially awkward golden knight who’s allergic to olives, and their accidentally-aquired sort-of-adopted 1000+ year-old-teen of mass chaos

twenty thousand years of this (seven more to go) by hereforthehurts - Rated G

“Shhh, stop. Stop, it’s okay,” The voice soothes, now, hands hovering above her head, already formed into the shape of her hair, but doesn’t dare to touch her. “Nimona—listen to me. You’re home. You’re alright.” Home. Noun. Four letters. Two syllables. But what the fuck does it mean to a girl who’s been a deer and a fish and a shark and a dragon and somehow in the end, despite all of that, nobody at all? What the fuck does it mean to a girl who’s seen the moons change its shape too many times over and brought fire to every valley where her baby feet steps? or: violent nightmares aren't new to nimona. what's new is the pair of arms that holds her regardless, and a place that normal people call home.

Shapes of Regret by then00breturns1101 - Rated G

It takes a while to adjust after Nimona's... death. Ballister is still grieving, Ambrosius is trying his best. At least they have each other again.

(I'm) the monster under their bed. by levi2207 - Not Rated

Be it simple curiosity, or something deeper, one day Ballister asks Nimona a question He's not ready for the answer.

trail of flowers through the wood by winter_hiems - Rated G

After everything, Ambrosius turns up at Ballister’s lair in the hope that Ballister might take him back.

If Ballister had adapted to live without his arm, how much easier must it be for Ballister to live without the man who had cut it off? Just because Ambrosius had apologised didn’t make it okay. He’d taken off his lover’s right hand.

How I Feel... by lostmagician - Rated T

“But I don’t wanna go to school,” Nimona protests, stomping her foot. “It’s not fair. I’m not a girl!” “I know you’re not a girl,” rejoins Ballister, because she’s repeated it roughly two hundred fifty times. “But there’s no other way. Nobody knows you’re alive, and this is for the best.” Or: Ballister thinks Nimona should go back to school, as a way to avoid suspicion. Chaos ensues.

Cheaters! by otomiyatickles - Rated G

What Ballister thought was going to be a quiet night alone, ends up being a night full of fun and laughter with the two people he holds dear.

it's nice to have a friend by immortalbanner - Rated G

If there was one thing true about Ballister's life it was that Ambrosius was one of the first people to accept him.

Fondly by ChiseHatori - Rated G

Ballister awakens from a familiar nightmare and Ambrosius comforts him.

Bond by Anonymous - Rated T

"This way! He's getting away." The clink of heavy armor makes Nimona know exactly what's coming. More knight, but they're not after them this time. This time they're after.. the human? This pathetic human? The one without an arm and suffering from heavy blood loss. "Isn't there a monster living in these tunnels?" A frightened voice asks. A laugh echoes throughout the stone walls. "Relax, the only monster here is Ballister."

Not a People by MaroonLeoInvestedCrybaby - Rated G

Nimona always has a habit of getting injured during fights but nobody has ever worried about her, that is, until Ballister Boldheart came around.

Enough courage to trust by spookygreen - Rated G

Nimona and Ambrosius don't really like each other, let alone trust each other. One of those days, they finally get a chance to bond - through kicking ass and having pizza.

#nimona #nimona movie #ballister boldheart #ambrosius goldenloin #nimona fanfic #veryace recs #ao3 fic recs #fanfic recs #ao3

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the-coffee-fandom · 10 months

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✨ Nimona Fic Recs ✨

A good handful of Nimona fics I really enjoyed (I especially suggest the bottom three)

As The Rain Continued To Fall (Complete)

Rated G - Hurt/Comfort

Ballister x Ambrousois

It was the middle of the night, and it was dark, and he was Awake.

A night, after the end of the Movie. Ballister, alone with his thoughts.

Ashes Of The Hearth (Incomplete)

Rated T - Hurt/Comfort

Ballister x Ambrosius & Nimona

Nimona knows her power. Knows her limits.

Well, most of them.

Sidewalk Reinventions (Complete)

Rated G - Hurt/Comfort

Ballister & Nimona

Nimona, the Best and Most Renowned Shapeshifter in the World, or: a chronicle of the shapes Nimona takes through the years.

Happiness Found In You (Complete)

Rated G - Fluff

Ballister & Nimona

Here’s some fluff for that sad little man with the baby girl eyes

Following the ending of the movie!!

Not A People (Complete)

Rated G - Hurt/Comfort

Ballister & Nimona

Nimona always has a habit of getting injured during fights but nobody has ever worried about her, that is, until Ballister Boldheart came around.

(I’m) The Monster Under Your Bed (Complete)

Not Rated (G rating content) - Angst With Happy Ending

Ballister x Ambrosius & Nimona

Be it simple curiosity, or something deeper, one day Ballister asks Nimona a question

He's not ready for the answer.

Late At Night (Complete)

Rated G - Hurt/Comfort

Ballister x Ambrosius & Nimona

Nimona is still getting used to Ambrosius, it helps that Ballister loves him very much.

Twenty Seven Thousand Years Of This (Seven More To Go) (Complete)

Rated G - Hurt/Comfort

Mentions of: Panic attacks and PTSD

Ballister & Nimona

Home. Noun. Four letters. Two syllables. But what the fuck does it mean to a girl who’s been a deer and a fish and a shark and a dragon and somehow in the end, despite all of that, nobody at all? What the fuck does it mean to a girl who’s seen the moons change its shape too many times over and brought fire to every valley where her baby feet steps?

or: violent nightmares aren't new to nimona. what's new is the pair of arms that holds her regardless, and a place that normal people call home.

Enough Courage To Trust (Complete)

Rated G - Fluff

Ballister x Ambrosius & Nimona

Nimona and Ambrosius don't really like each other, let alone trust each other. One of those days, they finally get a chance to bond - through kicking ass and having pizza.

Me And The Devil, Walking Side By Side (Complete)

Rated G - Hurt No Comfort

Gloreth & Nimona

On her seventeenth birthday, Gloreth sets out into the forest to finish what she started.

Or, one possibility for how the knights came to be.

Kiss It And Make It Better (Complete)

Rated G - Fluff

Ballister & Nimona

After Ballister removes the arrow from Nimona's leg, she decides she kinda enjoys the attention.

Stick Figure Stones (Complete)

Rated G - Hurt/Comfort

Ballister & Nimona

The first time Ballister came across the well, he was drowning.

Or; I thought "what if Bal found the well" and wrote this in like an hour and a half :>

A Glimpse Of What I Call Home (Complete)

Rated G - Fluff

Ballister & Nimona

Ballister realizes his dream of having a family has already been granted, after a minor slip up from Nimona during casual conversation.

Eight Months Later (Incomplete)

Rated T - Hurt/Comfort (but highlight the hurt)

Mentions of: Su*c*de, Panic Attacks, and PTSD

Ballister x Ambrosius & Nimona

Nimona’s alive. Ballister wants her to know how much people love her. He takes her to her memorial.

It doesn’t go great.

My Glory Is Yours (Complete)

Rated T - Angst With A Happy Ending

Ballister x Ambrosius & Nimona x Gloreth

Eight years after the fateful incident with Nimona, Gloreth makes a wish to fix things by the old well where they met. To her surprise, she finds herself 1000 years in the future.

#nimona movie #nimona #nimona fanfic #nimona netflix #Nimona is my obsession now #fanfic #fanfic rec #I made a list for peoples #because I love these fics so they should read them too #fanfiction #I’ll make another one later because trust me I have more

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startrekfangirl2233-writes · 10 months

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Worst Day

Part 6 of Sometimes All You Need (A Getaway Car)

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Reader

Description: You're not sure what you'll do if Jake doesn't pull through. It's true - your relationship isn't that old - yet you can't help feeling like the connection between Jake and you is far deeper than a paltry fling. So seeing Jake, your Jake, prone and motionless in a hospital bed is more than you can bear. But you're a fighter, and so is Jake. Having some pleasant company while you wait, that's great too.

Disclaimer: Mentions of injury. Military Deployments. Long-distance relationships. A very eerie nightmare (mentions of blood)

Warnings: Female Reader

Word Count: 4288

Author Note: Here’s Part 6 of Sometimes All You Need (A Getaway Car). Jake finally makes his way stateside again, but as we know from the last episode, things don't look too good! But it'll get better... ish. Love ya! This chapter was wholly written by listening to the song Worst Day - MAX x Illenium on repeat. All of the bold + italicized parts are lyrics from the song!

AO3: Cross Posted Here!

My Masterlist

Previous Part | Series Masterlist | Next Part

It’s been twenty-four hours since you found out Jake has been injured. You’ve been a nervous wreck, barely sleeping or eating as you wear a worn trail into your kitchen tile. You’re running on fumes of coffee and unadulterated spite, every pore in your body rebelling, when you get the call from Maverick saying that the medevac will be landing in half an hour and will be transporting Jake to Naval Medical Center shortly after. You're nervously grasping the steering wheel of Jake’s truck the entire way there. Soon enough, you’re propping up a corner of the Emergency Room waiting room. Just as you’re about to call Maverick again, a flurry of action erupts against the ambulance bay doors. Doctors and other medical personnel descend in droves. You’re on your feet the minute the doors open, walking towards the doors.

You look a mess. You’re wearing your rattiest pair of jeans and a torn, worn t-shirt that’s inside out. Your hair hasn’t seen a comb since you woke up at 3 in the morning, what feels like a lifetime ago. All you care about is Jake. Your first look at him in three months nearly sends you to your knees. He’s motionless lying in that hospital gurney. His skin is pale, but for the lurid bruises painting his skin. You’ve never seen Jake this motionless, this still. He’s the life of the party, at the center of every gathering, always moving and his energy is infectious. But like this? The sight burns like a blade, cutting you from neck to sternum, seeing him unmoving, letting things happen rather than doing . You don’t even notice your knees give out, only registering the sharp crack as they smack into the tiled flooring as you collapse. You watch vacantly as the team of medical professionals cart him right into an operating theater. But no matter how you try to move, you can’t get your legs to cooperate.

The hands that help you up are Maverick’s. You’re not sure when he reached the hospital, but you’re so glad he’s here. He hugs you as you cry, hopeless gut-wrenching, exhausted sobs that rack your entire body. You’re wrung out when you stagger to one of the chairs in the waiting area in front of the Operating Room. In truth, you’re not likely to get much information until a doctor comes out to speak to you. Each halting breath you draw cuts like a thousand knives as you sit hunched over with your elbows on your knees and stare unseeingly at your steepled fingers. Worry and shock and fear and pain cloud every sense.

As an hour turns into two, then three and four, you slump against the back of the chair. Your eyes are itchy, heavy, and swollen with the many tears you’ve shed over the past day. Sleep is practically clubbing you over the head, and you’re quickly losing the battle to stay awake. Maverick is still standing at attention, green eyes intently boring through the closed operating room doors. In the span of a few breaths, you must fall asleep because the next thing you see is Jake.

Closed my eyes and had a dream

About a lonely place

Where flowers only bloom in gray

All the magic turned to dust

Only memories left of us

It’s a place you’ve seen before, one you remember being before, in fact. A picnic out on Mission Bay, if you remember correctly. It was a date early on in your relationship, one back when you were still trying to figure Jake out. He’d driven you to the park and laid out the picnic along with a chilled bottle of wine. The two of you had talked and laughed the entire afternoon away. But while you're seeing everything as you remember, something's just ever so slightly off. All the colors are oversaturated and yet faded at the same time. It feels like it’s been so long since you’ve been that happy. You feel like you’re in a movie reel, seeing Jake’s smiling face after so long. He’s close enough that your fingers should be able to make contact with his skin, but every time you get close enough, he disintegrates the minute you touch him.

I'll never see that tree thе same

The one that we both carved our names

Into with razor blades

Then made out in the summer rain

It had started raining partway through the picnic, and you’d taken refuge with him under the boughs of a colossal willow tree. Sheltered under that tree he’d helped you carve your name and his into the aged wood before kissing you like you were everything he needed to breathe. You’re there now. But when you try to fall into the kiss, Jake’s face shatters into sand in your fingers. It’s sticky and warm and wet when you clench your hands into a fist.

But it’s not sand in your hands when you look. It’s blood, dripping from your fingers, splattered over your face, and staining your dress. The droplets are hot and cloyingly sticky as you try to fight your way to water to wash them away. Suddenly, the willow tree’s branches grip and tear at your dress, skin, and hair. The entire time you fight the grasping branches, you can hear Jake’s voice. But it sounds completely unlike how you’ve ever heard him before. His voice is pained and harsh, screaming your name for help, for assistance. Each word rips into you, tearing you apart because while you fight to reach him, you never seem to get any closer.

You jolt awake, tasting copper in your mouth to the sounds of more medical professionals running into the Operating Room and Maverick hovering in front of you.

“What happened, Mav?” You swallow uncomfortably, trying and failing to summon enough saliva to wash the traces of metal from your mouth.

“I..” He runs his hands through his hair before slumping into the chair next to you. “I dunno, kiddo. They were calling a code blue through the hospital PA.”

“D-did something go wrong with Jake’s surgery?” You can’t hide the fear in your voice.

But with his lack of response, you don’t know anything more than you had before. This time, as you settle down to wait again, there’s more fear filling your mind. Your mind is trapped again in that constant loop of ‘what ifs’, ‘what happeneds’, and ‘what nexts’ again. Please let the code blue not be for Jake. Please. But as you’ve discovered intimately over the past day, your prayers are rarely answered by the powers that be, if they exist at all. You’ve chewed your lips until they’ve bled, and every muscle aches when a doctor steps out of the operating room.

“Hello, are you here for Lieutenant Jacob Daniel Seresin?” You can see the exhaustion lining his face.

“Yes. I’m his emergency contact.” Your voice shakes as you stand up. “This is his CO, Rear Admiral Pete Maverick Mitchell.”

“It’s nice to meet you, miss.” He snaps off a quick salute to Maverick before turning back to you. “Lieutenant Seresin’s surgeries have been a success. We were able to reduce the swelling in his brain and set his tibia and collarbone. Partway through the procedure, Lieutenant Seresin went into cardiac arrest. Thankfully, we were able to stabilize his condition and get his heart beating again.”

You’ve got your hand over your mouth as his words hit you, wrapping an arm around yourself to keep from collapsing at his feet.

“What does this mean for his recovery, Doctor?” You need to know.

“We’ve placed Lieutenant Seresin in a medically induced coma. This is to allow his brain to heal further. We’ll keep an eye on his recovery the entire time he’s in the post-anesthesia care unit. Once we’ve determined his brain has healed enough, we’ll stop the medication and allow him to come out of the coma. Then we’ll assess his physical condition from there.”

You can’t hide your relief or how tears well up in your eyes at the words. Mav wraps an arm around your shoulders. “The doctor says he’s going to be just fine, kiddo. He’s going to be okay.”

You know what Mav means, but a part of you can’t believe it. Not until you see it. Sure enough, just as Mav said, it’s barely a quarter of an hour later that the hospital bed with Jake in it is wheeled out. It's with a considerable amount of relief that you watch eagle-eyed as the doctors and nurses settle Jake into the hospital bed in his post-anesthesia care unit room. If only you could recognize the man you see before your eyes. This stranger? You're having a hard time reconciling him with the impression of Jake in your head. Jake’s always been filled with a sort of uncontainable energy, like lightning whipping through clouds, gathering momentum to strike where you least expect it. It’s a part of your relationship with him that you enjoy the most. He’s never boring, and you never feel like you’re boring with him.

So when you droop into the chair by the bed and take in the sudden hush inhabiting the room now that it’s just you and him, a part of your brain feels like it’s stuck. It’s a constant feedback loop of worry and pain and terror ruling your brain right now. Despite the consistent tinny beeping emanating from the heart rate monitor, you can’t believe that Jake’s going to be okay. Each breath you force into your lungs stinks of that special hospital smell of disinfectant and cleaning products and sickness. You grip his hand, gasping at how cold the fingers are, how the strength seems to have drained out of them. You can still see the bruises peeking out from beneath the hospital gown. His head is shorn close to his skull, and you can just make out where they had to cut into his skull to reduce the swelling in his brain through the bandages swathing his skull. You love this man. So why is it that you can’t stand to see him like this? With a ventilator helping him breathe and drugged up in a coma while his body heals?

Worse still, you can’t help but wonder what this means for what Jake loves to do the most in the world. Will he ever be able to fly again? Jake flies like it’s in his blood, like he’s made to do it. He adores it. Did this incident, be it accident or deliberate, just strip him of the capacity to do the one thing he’d always dreamed of doing? Then there’s the thought of Jake’s family in your mind. How do you get in touch with Jake’s brothers and sisters? You know Jake’s not close with his dad. But his mom and siblings should know, right? But if Jake wanted one of his family to know, wouldn’t one of them have been his emergency contact? The thoughts have you kissing the palm of his cool limp hand and dragging the chair closer to the bed. Your voice is barely there as you finally speak after hours of silence.

“J-Jake.” Your voice hitches on a sob as you glance over his face. "What happened, handsome? This was supposed to be a routine rotation on board. You weren't supposed to get hurt."

A part of you can’t help but wait for a response. But one doesn’t come. Jake’s still and silent with a ventilator over his mouth, and his eyes closed. If you’d known any differently, you would have happily assumed Jake was just sleeping. But he’s not. You want nothing more than to hear his voice again.

“Jake, Oh, I almost lost you like that” Your voice is soft as you cup his jaw, leaning over his still form, tracing your way gently over the stubble growing on his cheeks and chin. “Oh, don't wanna think about that, Oh, don't wanna think about that, The thought of you never comin' back”

You’re still clutching at his hand a few hours later when a couple of nurses stop into his room to take his vital signs and subsequently chase you out as visiting hours end. It leaves you out in the parking lot in Jake’s truck longing for the days when you could have just picked up the phone and called Jake when you missed him. The two of you have had so many conversations like that, spilling secrets in the dead of night, and it’s one particular conversation that you remember the most.

It was late and well into the witching hour. You’d been out with Jake once again, and once again, time had gotten away from both of you. You'd been lying in the bed of his pick-up truck, star-gazing yet again. But you weren't near North Island, not this time. You'd driven north and west, leaving San Diego in the rear-view as Jake's truck ate up the miles between you and the Mojave Desert.

In a small camping area just off the desert, Jake had parked the car and helped you into the truck’s bed via the tailgate. He'd pulled out two paper cups and a bottle of champagne.

"What're we doing now?" Your voice had been questioning as he'd proffered the cup to you with the biggest grin.

"This, gorgeous, is because I missed you. It's been a long week, my darling girl. What better way to spend time with each other than you, me, some good alcohol and dinner under the stars?"

You'd sipped a mouthful of alcohol from the cup before setting it down on a stable bit along with the bottle and Jake's own before levering yourself into his lap. The kisses you'd shared with him that night had tasted like champagne bubbles and pure joy.

"Not that I mind, pretty girl, but d'you want to tell me what that was for?" You can still remember how his voice sounded.

"It’s been,” You’d peppered another few kisses across his lips and cheeks, “a completely harrowing, disgusting week. I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever. The worst part is that it felt like no matter what I did, it wasn’t enough. You’ve described it once, you know? The feeling when you’re up in the sky flying supersonic when you go into a turn and the whole world seems to be sitting on your chest? That’s what this week has been like for me. And I can’t. I can’t tell you that it was just one thing weighing on me, because it’s not. It feels like a perfect storm.” You’d buried your face into the crook of his neck after you’d finished speaking, taking in the scent of his detergent, cologne and the ever-present light whiff of jet-fuel embedded in his skin.

“What about now, baby doll?” His big hands feel so good against your back as he massages the tense muscles running down your back. You’re plastered so completely against him that you can hear the rumble of his voice in his chest as he speaks. You shrug, infinitesimally, burrowing even closer to him. Your voice is muffled in the fabric of his shirt as you murmur, “It’s always better with you, Jay. Always. Love you.”

Jake had finally coaxed you out of his arms and into eating some of the food he’d packed. The night had ended with the two of you lying side by side in the bed of the truck looking up at the stars. This far from the city and its light pollution, you can see thousands of pinpricks of light shining in the sky above. You’ve been pointing out the stars for a while when Jake tugs you close. He intertwines your fingers with his before pulling your hand to his mouth. You can feel the prickling tug of his stubble against the soft skin and the dampness of his lips. He kisses your digits carefully before tugging you in until you’re curled into his chest.

“Gorgeous girl, you changed my life the day I met you.” Your resulting huff is disbelieving.

“I’m serious! When we met, I wouldn’t say that I was at a low in my life, not necessarily, but I did feel like something was missing. That missing piece, that was you. Baby Doll, I knew I was going to fall for you completely the first word you spoke. One day, one day soon, I’m going to take you home. To Texas. I want you to meet my mama, my brothers and sisters. They’re going to love you as much as I do.”

Jake was going to say something more that night, but in truth, you’d been so blown away by him that all you’d been able to think of was making him feel your love. That’s the closest you’ve ever gotten to an indecent exposure charge, fucking Jake in the bed of his truck and waking up in the early morning light completely naked in his arms.

It’s silent in the house as you walk in, not bothering to turn on any lights. As you fall into bed just wearing one of Jake’s old tees and a pair of panties, you make a fervent promise to yourself and anyone who’s listening. You’re going to see Jake’s smile again, hear his voice again. When you do, you’re going to let him take you home, because you love him, and he needs to know how much you do.

The next three weeks you spend in Jake’s hospital room. The doctors and nurses in the post-anaesthesia care unit get to know you intimately. It helps that for much of the day while you’re there, you’re mostly quiet, typing away on your laptop while attending the occasional meeting, allowing the doctors to do their thing unimpeded. Jake’s condition doesn’t change. The doctors check on him every day, monitoring his brain waves and ensuring that none of the surgical sites are becoming infected. But no matter what they do, he stays lost in a dream world that nobody can pull him from.

The doctors ensure you over and over again that he’ll wake up when he’s ready. You can see the immense amount of sympathy in their eyes each day when they can’t offer you anything but empty platitudes. Three days after Jake’s admittance to the hospital you finally break down and call his mom. It hadn’t felt right, keeping such big, potentially life-altering news from her.

Georgia Marie Seresin is just as Jake had described her. She’d descended on San Diego with all of the force of a Category 5 hurricane not even a day after you’d called her. If you’d had the presence of mind to notice the resemblance you’d have giggled at how much Jake reminds you of her. You’re not sure what you’d expected when you’d called her but it definitely had not been to face the brunt of her mothering. She’d hugged you tight and thanked you for taking care of her son for so long by yourself.

“It’s alright now, sweet thing. Mama Georgie’s here.” She’d held you tight as the tears had welled in your eyes. “We’re going to take care of our boy. Now that I’m here, we’re going to get you taken care of as well.”

Her first order of business had been to take you home, leaving Jake’s eldest brother Will to sit in the room with him while she got you into a shower and some home-cooked food to eat. She brings your house to life in minutes. You haven’t been all too terrible in taking care of yourself. In fact whenever you’d felt yourself slipping, you’d been hearing Jake’s voice chiding you into doing better. You’d give anything to hear it again in person, perhaps with the addition of a six foot tall aviator draping himself over your back while muscling you out of the kitchen with a kiss or two or five.

Thankfully, Mama Georgie, as she’s insisted you call her despite your protests, pretends not to notice how you fall apart in your bedroom every night. Or how your eyes go all misty and faraway whenever you catch Will’s silhouette out of the corner of your eyes. It’s a relief having them here. They give you hope that Jake’s going to wake up. Maybe you did it backwards, meeting his mom and brother before you were ready, and definitely before he was. But if there is anybody who deserves to be surrounded with the people he loves when he’s hurting, it’s Jake. Having Mama Georgie and Will in San Diego helps, especially when work upticks and all of a sudden you’re spending more time trapped in your home office working on what feels like everything under the sun when you’d rather be with Jake.

You’re at the end of your rope the day Jake wakes up. You’d been on calls working since about 3 AM. You’d been so frazzled that you hadn’t even been able to say goodbye to Mama Georgie and Will when they left at about 10 in the morning. When you get the call at 4 in the afternoon, you nearly don’t pick up. But you’re so thankful you do, because even as Mama Georgie tells you Jake is awake, you can hear Jake in the background. His voice is hoarse and barely there, but you can recognize it from a mile away.

It takes you an inhuman amount of control to finish the last hour of work you have and run to the hospital. You’re white-knuckling the steering wheel of your car, forcing yourself not to speed the entire way there. You park the car in what is the sloppiest parking job you’ve done since you were first learning to drive and run into the hospital. You can’t prevent the way your body sags against the door frame when you see Jake propped up in the hospital bed. He’s pale and covered in bandages, but he’s the best sight you’ve seen in months. Mama Georgie’s fluttering around him, fluffing up his pillows and making sure he’s comfortable.

It's Jake who notices you first, smiling that gorgeous grin you missed so much at you.

"Hey, my gorgeous girl! Four months and the first time you see me and I don't even get a kiss and a hug?" His voice is teasing even as you can hear the hoarseness from where he'd been intubated not long ago.

You don't even register Mama Georgie or Will walking past, you're that fixated on Jake. His eyes haven't left your face once, not even when you're sitting in the chair by his bed. You're inexplicably afraid to touch Jake right now. Over the past weeks you've had many nightmares, most of which ended with Jake disappearing at your touch. As with most things in your relationship, Jake takes the lead by carefully dragging his knuckles across your cheek. At the first tender touch, your eyes well and you can't help your sobs as you take his hand. His eyes widen as tears spill in hot trails down your cheeks.

"Aww, hey Gorgeous. I'm alright. I'm going to be okay." His words just make you sob harder. He brushes your tears away before tugging you up, despite your protests, to perch on the side of his hospital bed.

"What're you doing, Jay?" Your voice is stuffy and confused as you look down into his face. From your new vantage point you can see the exhaustion weighing on him as well as the stiff way he's moving as he looks at you.

"Give me your hand?" You place your hand in his and relish in the heat of his skin as he splays your fingers over his heart. You can feel his warmth even through the hospital gown. "D'you feel that gorgeous? That's my heart, beating for you. I'm still here. I hurt like I got run over by a herd of the cattle we have at the ranch, but I'm here. I'm going to heal up and be as good as new in no time at all, okay?"

His voice goes soft and gentle as he cups your cheek. "So no more crying, baby doll. Now why don't you get over here and give me a kiss, hmm? I've been on a ship in the middle of nowhere with only dreams of you for company for months. You're not going to let a sailor live in these conditions while eating hospital food, now are ya?"

Your resulting giggle is strangled as you carefully press your lips to his. You can’t help kissing him over and over again. You keep the kisses feather-light before drawing back and resting your forehead gently against his. Your voice is a whisper as you murmur, "I love you, Jake. So much. Don't you ever, ever do this again, Jake. Finding out you'd been hurt was the worst day of my life."

"I know, baby doll. I'm sorry. I didn't intend on getting hurt. Forget getting hurt so badly. Can you ever forgive me?" His words make you gasp and shake your head. As if he were to blame.

It's as you settle back into the chair by his bedside that you respond with one word. "Always."

His smile is tired and soft as he murmurs back, "I love you." You sit in that chair watching as his face smooths, the lines fading as he drifts off to sleep. You press another kiss against his lips and settle in to watch over him. Jake's safe and home. There’ll be rough times ahead as he heals, but you can rest now.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

Taglist:

🚙 @mayhemmanaged

🚙 @love2write2626

🚙 @little-wiseone

🚙 @eli2447

🚙 @f1maverick

🚙 @desert-fern

🚙 @daphne-turner

🚙 @djs8891

🚙 @shanimallina87

🚙 @chaoticassidy

🚙 @kmc1989

🚙 @dempy

🚙 @mamaskillerqueen

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luvfae · 2 years

Note

Hi gorgeous, I hope you’re okay (considering everything that happened 🫠) and take the time you need to do it (if you decide to do it), but I would appreciate and love if in My Favorite Henderson, Reader has a nightmare of what happened in Vol. 2, but she wakes up and Eddie is safe sleeping at her side (or he wakes up and console her) ❤‍🩹

MY FAVOURITE

HENDERSON

PART TWENTY SEVEN

fandom: stranger things

parings: eddie x f henderson reader

warnings: nightmare, death (in nightmare, eddie isn’t dying in this series ever), swearing, crying, mention of sex (bc these two are horny mfs)

masterlist

You were in Hawkins but at the same time you weren’t, it was a different Hawkins. It was cold and dark and you were frozen in place. You couldn’t move a muscle, only watch as your boyfriend attempted to fight off what seemed to be thousands and thousands of mutated bats.

Tears rolled down your cheeks as more and more bats appeared, knocking him to the ground. You screamed your lungs out for him and suddenly they all dropped. Everything went silent, only the sound of your breathing and Eddie’s groaning could be heard.

Your feet became unglued and you took off, running straight for him. You collapsed beside him, hands on his cold, blood stained face.

“Eddie,” you whispered as tears streamed down your cheeks.

“Y/N,” he smiled, looking up at you.

“Don’t leave me,” you said. “I don’t want to live without you, Eddie.”

“You’ll be okay,” he replied softly. You shook your head, grabbing his hands. “I love you, Y/N,” he muttered as his eyes fluttered shut.

“I love you too,” you sobbed, leaning down and kissing him. He didn’t respond, he wasn’t making any noise, his hands were like icicles and his chest was no longer rising and falling. “No. Not yet please, I can’t do this without you Eddie! Please don’t leave me-“

You gasped, eyes opening wide, sitting up straight. You were in your bedroom, Eddie shaking you awake.

“Fuck, Y/N…” He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “You were scaring me… what were you dreaming about that got you so worked up?”

You turned to him, collapsing onto his chest and his hands immediately migrated to your hair, caressing you softly as you sobbed into his chest.

“Hey, hey, hey, shhh,” he cooed. “It was just a nightmare baby, you’re fine.”

“You were dead!” You yelled. “You died in my nightmare and I couldn’t do anything about it, I just had to stand there and watch,” you cried.

“It’s okay, i’m right here. I’m right next to you, very much alive,” Eddie said, one hand moving to rub circles into your back.

“I can’t lose you Eds,” you said, moving onto your knees to look at him. “Not now, not ever.”

“You won’t, princess,” he smiled, his hand moving to your cheek. You melted into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut. “I promise.”

Eddie wiped the tears from your cheeks and shifted to press a kiss on your forehead. He scooped you into his arms, holding you close, you reached up to kiss him when your bedroom door swung open and-

“Can you guys keep it down?” Dustin croaked, squinting his eyes at the pair of you. “It’s 3am and it’s a school night,” he said.

You pursed your lips, holding back a laugh but when you heard Eddie snort you lost it. The pair of you broke out into a fit of laughter and Dustin groaned, slamming your door shut.

“We should have kids one day,” Eddie smiled down at you.

You scoffed. “Yeah right, I can barely handle Dustin,” you replied. “Besides i’m pretty sure hearing Dustin cry as a toddler made my ovaries permanently shrivel up,” you said.

Eddie laughed at you, pressing a kiss to your lips. “We’ll talk about babies another day,” Eddie said.

“We could always practice making one right now,” you suggested with a smirk.

Eddie stared at you in shock. “I just woke you up from a nightmare five minutes ago and you wanna have sex?” He asked.

You shrugged, “only if you want too.”

“Obviously I want too, take your pants off.”

#stranger things #netflix #eddie munson #dustin henderson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #my favourite henderson

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allefendra · 8 months

Text

Chapter 1

Although the bonfire roaring in the town square obfuscated the sky, the sparkling array of the galaxy was still clearly visible to the sharp eyes of Dema Simondred. Her distinctive eyes reflected the warm glow of the flame with an inhuman, almost predatory shine, which only served to make the mustard-colored rings around her irises more apparent, but her skin, deep as coal, seemed to swallow the light. As a subservient canine might, she bared her vulpine grin to any passerby who glanced in her direction, earning her at best a muted scowl and at worst an unconcealed glare. The crumbling cobblestones beneath her bare feet felt cool despite their proximity to the flame. She wiggled her toes in a feeble attempt to draw warmth to them.

Something hard and sharp struck her between the shoulder blades and she pitched forward, windmilling her arms instinctively to keep her face from plowing into the ground. Her numb toes bent and flexed against the edges of the stones, and she thanked the stars her feet had already gone numb. With an involuntary grunt, she straightened, pretending not to be bothered by the now throbbing wound on her back. Slowly, she turned to face her assailants, aware already that she could do nothing to prevent their assault.

A group of children, none of which was old enough to be off their mother’s apron strings, giggled mischievously as she raised a rounded brow at them. One clutched a rough chunk of stone in one hand, a slingshot in the other, but dropped the rock nervously as soon as she directed the full force of her glare upon him. On the opposite side of the square, adults mingled with mugs of ale or spice wine in their gloved hands. None took notice of the scene unfolding.

Dema estimated the oldest of the bunch to be of maybe nine or ten winters, a wiry child wearing a pair of shoes riddled with holes and a dress stained with myriad colors. The girl held her nose much too high for one of her station, though Dema’s own station couldn’t be said to be more than slightly superior.

“You have had your fun,” Dema growled, “now be off.”

The oldest advanced, proving herself to be the leader of her ragtag gang. “We take no orders from you, Dema the Demon!” she sneered, somehow holding her nose even higher than before. “We will leave when we feel like it!”

“Oh? You don’t fear the demon, then?” Dema replied calmly, running a hand over her bare scalp. “I could haunt your nightmares, you know. Now that I’ve had a good look at your face, your dreams would be easy to locate.”

The child blanched. “You’re bluffing! None can enter another’s dream!”

Dema began to methodically stretch each muscle in her willowy frame, starting with her neck and going down. The children watched her anxiously, confusion plain on their faces. “Perhaps I am bluffing,” she said, a wicked smile spreading across her face, “and perhaps not. Regardless, I don’t need magic or trickery to deal with the lot of you. All I need are my two legs. I’m an honorable sort, so I will make this fair. I will give you to the count of twenty before I move. Use those twenty seconds as you will.”

The children scattered like leaves taken by the wind, a few squeaking cacophonous yelps, some down alleys, others toward the decrepit Forktongue Bridge, but all with the panic of the hunted. Dema smirked to herself, satisfied with her own ingenuity. Despite her lithe figure, she was actually a terrible runner, and she certainly wouldn’t have been able to catch even one of those children barefoot. Not only that, but she lacked the innate spark for Resonance, which was said to be endowed to no more than one in every thousand born. Demons, of course, were all born with Resonance, which is precisely why so many feared them, but “Dema the Demon” knew herself to be no demon at all. A child of foxfire, perhaps, but not a demon. Her lack of Resonance was proof enough for that.

She was still smirking when a rolling pin connected with her rump, startling more than injuring her. Knowing better than to respond, she stifled her grin and stood arrow-straight. She swallowed hard, producing an audible gulp.

“Mother,” she said quietly, clasping her hands behind her back and staring intently at her bruised toes, “I thought you would be fast asleep by this late hour.”

“I thought the same of you,” Mistress Simondred snapped, tapping Dema again with her rolling pin. “You might be able to fool your father with a wad of hay stuffed under your blankets, girl, but I know better. I heard not a sound from your chambers this evening. Usually, by this time of night, you would be dreaming and squawking like a crow. I knew something was amiss when I heard not a peep.” She paused, inspecting Dema up and down. “And just where are your shoes? Did we not just purchase a pair of sturdy shoes from Mistress Yohan a week past?”

“Father would surely have noticed I left had I taken my shoes, Mother,” Dema said levelly, still fighting her wry smile. “This was the only way.”

“The only way to broken toes, I’d wager,” her mother grumbled, staring concernedly at Dema’s toes. “You’d best hope you can manage to work tomorrow on those feet.”

“I’ve faced worse.”

“I’m certain you have.”

The two stared at each other intently, evaluating each other in the way of two wolves. After a few seconds, Mistress Simondred sighed and wrapped Dema in her fleshy arms.

“Oh, Dema,” she murmured, placing her free hand at the back of Dema’s head as she embraced her tightly, “you can’t imagine how I feel when I find your bed empty. I never worried so when I found your brother’s bed empty. Not until the morning I went to rouse him and the bed still lay empty. I still check your brother’s bed on occasion, when the longing strikes me too deeply and I lose my sense.” She pulled back so she could gaze into Dema’s eyes. “I cannot lose another child. I cannot. From now on, your bedroom will be warded in the evenings. I have no other choice. This foolishness has gone on long enough.”

“Mother!” Dema exclaimed, fury making her face appear even darker. “I will not accept this! I am not my brother.” “I’m sorry, Dema,” her mother said, a melancholy look in her gray eyes. “It can be no other way. These people have no sense. Today, they give you dirty looks. Tomorrow, they could give you a knife through your ribs. You trust too much.”

Dema felt a drop of something cold and wet strike her scalp. Automatically, her hand covered the top of her head, and another drop glanced off the knuckle of her middle finger.

Mistress Simondred looked warily to the sky and shook her head with irritation. Her eyes looked wet in the firelight as she turned them to the sky. A melted snowflake, or tears?

“Another of these snowstorms,” she groaned, and began rifling through the leather sack hanging from her belt pouch. “I tell you, this is Ribbin’s work. Who’ve heard of snowstorms in the ides of Verdance? Lucky for you, I’ve a hat for you somewhere in here. I’ll find it. But we truly must return home now before you lose those purple toes of yours to frostbite.”

Warily, Dema tilted her head back, knowing she would see no stars and lamenting their loss. Only moments before, the stars had been strikingly bright against the black velvet carpet of the sky. Now, she could see nothing but the charcoal gray of thick, raging clouds.

“Just a moment ago…” she began, but let herself trail off as she realized her mother wasn’t listening. Mistress Simondred was muttering to herself angrily, still searching for a hat in her absurdly large pouch. Large pouches had come into fashion, but no pouch around any waist in town rivaled the behemoth flopping at Mistress Simondred’s side.

“Ah! Here it is!” she said triumphantly, drawing a black beret from the bottom of the sack. It was mildly crumpled and would need to be reshaped, but it didn’t really matter. By that time, the only villagers who might see her in adequate lighting would likely be drunk anyway. “Oh, Goddess above! This isn’t your hat! It’s your father’s!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dema replied, ignoring her mother’s hypocrisy. If she ever uttered an oath like that to the Goddess, her mother would wallop her hard with her rolling pin, or any other implement at her disposal. “It will keep my head warm either way. We’ve a long walk home and I’m getting colder by the second. Can we go, Mother?”

“Yes,” she answered, “but stay close to me. There are brigands afoot this time of evening.”

As soon as her mother turned away, Dema rolled her eyes dramatically. In all of Forktongue, she had encountered not a single brigand, unless one counted the cutpurse who had once sliced her belt pouch. Unfortunately for the cutpurse, the pouch was merely a fashion accessory and held no coin. In the world her mother imagined, a thief schemed in every side street, a conman plotted on every corner, and a murderer waited with bated breath in every shadow. It was a wonder her mother had mustered the courage to comb the streets in search of Dema that evening. With that thought, a surge of guilt washed over her, and she almost conceded to herself that her mother had been right to set a penance.

“I’ll fetch you a hot brick for under your covers once we get home,” her mother said softly as they stepped into a particularly dark street. “You must be frozen to the bone.”

“I’m a touch chilled,” Dema lied.

“Why are you walking in that strange way? You look like a rod has been inserted in your spine.”

Dema looked at her from the sides of her eyes. “I hurt my back when I was working today. It feels better if I stand straight.”

“A pulled muscle, is it? Well, no matter. Tomorrow we’ll have our baths. I’ll massage your malady then. There’s no pulled muscle that can withstand a massage in hot water. Not when these hands are doing the massaging,” she said cheerily, gripping her rolling pin in both hands enthusiastically. She could have slipped the rolling pin into a fold in her apron, but she preferred to hold onto it whenever possible.

“No!” Dema blurted sharply. Realizing her blunder, she adjusted her tone. “I mean, no. That’s not necessary. I am sure it will relieve itself in the night. Sleep cures many afflictions.”

“That is certainly true,” Mistress Simondred replied, though it was clear only half her mind was on the conversation. The other half was scouting the way ahead, ensuring no threats would impede them. “Just another mile,” she said to herself quietly, as though to soothe her own frayed nerves.

“Not a mile, Mother. Perhaps half a mile.”

Changing the subject abruptly, Mistress Simondred said with renewed anger, “What were you doing this evening, anyway? What would possess you to make such a rash choice?”

“I wanted to see the bonfire, Mother. Sorzen is always speaking of it. I just wanted to see it for myself. He claimed the flames climbed as high as the Mayor’s house is tall, but I know now it was just another of his tales.”

“I ought to box his ears, filling your head with such foolishness. I should have known Sorzen inspired you to this. I’ll be having words with his mother, mark me.”

“That isn’t necessary, Mother.”

“Isn’t it? He knows you can’t travel around as freely as others, yet he natters to you day and night of all the sights and sounds and smells you cannot have. He is no friend to you, girl. You’ll learn that one day.”

In silence, they continued on together. Dema was astounded when her foot touched the silky dirt of Wayward Path. Had they not, just an instant before, been surrounded by the squalor of the city? The dirt path, just as cold as the cobblestones before it, somehow cheered her, its familiar texture acting as a balm for her injured toes. The light layer of frost over the dirt only served to magnify its soothing effect. Her mother claimed the dirt of Wayward Path was the ashes of Resonants burned long ago in the city square, but Dema had met none who could corroborate the tale. In some ways, her mother was as histrionic and imaginative as Sorzen, though Dema would never say so to her face.

In the distance, Dema could make out the faint flickering of candlelight seeping out from beneath the canvas curtain that served as the front door of her family’s tiny domicile. A silhouette crossed back and forth across the entryway repeatedly, which made the light appear to flash. She could tell by the bulk of the figure that it was her father, a man often mistaken for a blacksmith with his wide shoulders and bulging biceps. Few outside of the business knew just how much muscle a baker could develop through the rigors of his or her routine. Even her mother, a woman round and soft all over, had a thick layer of muscle beneath her plump exterior from long days kneading dough or lifting trays of hot confections.

“He’ll be as mean as a badger tomorrow,” Mistress Simondred said, smacking her rolling pin against her palm with irritation. “I told that man to take himself to bed. Why does he never listen?”

“I don’t know, Mother.”

“Not all men are of this nature, you must know. Some are quite excellent listeners, I hear.”

“Sorzen is a good listener.”

Mistress Simondred shot her a grimace that would curdle fresh goat’s milk. “Sorzen is a rascal of questionable character. If he cared a whit for you, he’d listen less and talk more. He’d talk you out of your harebrained schemes, at the very least.”

Dema shrugged. “I was only citing an example.”

Her mother put the rolling pin into her apron for the first time that night and whirled to face Dema. “Now,” she said, “not another word of your foolishness. Your father is not pleased. I would suggest against your usual way. Say neither a word of Sorzen nor any others among your companions unless you’d like your father to visit each personally with a loaf of bread.”

Dema shivered, and not just from the cold. Her father, armed with only a loaf of his fresh bread, could convince almost anyone of anything. She trusted Sorzen, but not so much that she’d allow him to be tempted with a good rye or a sourdough. “Mother, I am sorry. Truly. I never meant to worry you.”

“I know it, girl. It’s your father who’ll need convincing,” she said in a hushed tone, now just outside the canvas flap. With a strong hand, she yanked the canvas aside, revealing the interior of their home.

Her father stared at her wildly and wiped sweaty palms on his apron. Wisps of hair stuck out in every possible direction, giving him the appearance of a man recently struck by lightning. He was standing in the center of the room, in front of the hearth, which was as cold and dead as the soil of the Wayward Path. The only light or heat came from a solitary tallow candle burning on the dining table. An ornately carved rocking chair in the corner of the room was the most exquisite of their furnishings, while the other furniture was obviously scavenged from some garbage heap. Her parents’ bed rested against the only wall with a window, which meant it was always quite chilly under those covers. Her bed was located in the only enclosed room in the hut, a blessing for which she rarely remembered to offer thanks.

“Thank Allefendra, you’re alive!” her father boomed in a voice that reverberated off the adobe walls. He looked to be on the point of tears. “I thought...I thought…”

“I’m perfectly well, Father,” she said deferentially, lowering her head. The look in her father’s eyes was almost too much for her to bear. “I am sorry, but I had a good reason.”

“What reason was that?”

“I wanted – no, I needed to see the bonfire.”

Master Simondred threw up his hands in exasperation and plunked down onto the bed. It creaked under his mass. “I could scarcely breathe, Dema,” he growled, “I could scarcely move because you ‘needed’ to see a bonfire? If you wanted to waste your hours staring into a flame, we’ve candles aplenty. What you’ve done is deplorable. Despicable! How could you do this?”

Dema’s throat constricted. “I can’t continue living this way. I just can’t.”

“You’ll continue living this way, or you’ll not continue living at all!” he shouted, pounding a meaty fist into the quilt. “You shame your brother!”

Her face stung as though her father had just backhanded her. Tears sprang to her eyes, magnifying their eerie glow. She maintained her steady gaze on her father, refusing to disengage. Before she could speak a word, her mother placed a gentle palm on her forearm, forestalling her.

“You’re both exhausted,” her mother said placidly, as if placating a pair of scuffling toddlers. “This is a talk better had by the light of day.” Master Simondred started to speak, but she cut him off with a stern glare. “I’ve said what I’ve said and I expect you will obey. Both of you.”

Master Simondred shook his head in disgust. “It’s past time I started work. Dawn comes quickly.” He brushed off non-existent dust from his apron and adjusted the apron strings at the back of his neck. “Dema, you’ll be no good with the customers if you don’t sleep. Stella, you’ll need your rest as well. You can meet me in the morning.”

“Do you not think it would be best to open late?”

“Open late?” he scoffed, “I haven’t opened late in eight winters. I certainly won’t do so now.”

“Paitin,” Mistress Simondred pleaded, “you mustn’t do this. Truly, you ought not open at all tomorrow. I can’t imagine many customers will be in. Not with them all suffering the grog horrors. Besides, I could hardly see past my own fingers out there. It is cold as Ribbin’s breath. You’ve no need to be risking yourself out there. Which reminds me, light the hearth, you fool man! Have you not seen your daughter’s feet?”

He stared down at Dema’s feet, squinting. The light from the tallow candle was dimming each second. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “Indeed I had not! Dema, child, tell me you haven’t yet lost your new shoes. I expected those to last at least a year.”

“She didn’t take her shoes because you would have noticed they were missing,” Mistress Simondred replied in a mocking voice. “Clever like her father, down to the core.”

Master Simondred beamed for a moment before coming back to his senses. “I see.” He grabbed his wool cloak off a peg in the wall and draped it around his shoulders. It made him look like a lumbering boulder with a head. “I’ll light the hearth, but the two of you must get to bed. You ought to get in the same bed to share some heat,” he suggested. “Clean yourself up, girl. I’ll not have soot in my sheets.” He passed her a bucket of frigid water, sloshing a few drops in the process, that had been used to collect the rain which seeped through the thatch roof. He stalked out of the shelter, almost stomping.

She compliantly splashed the water over her shins and feet, trying not to wince at the temperature. She took note of a sharp pain at the edges of a toenail. She’d likely lose that nail. As she rubbed the water over her skin, her mother fetched a minuscule nub of soap and a dingy towel. She took it gratefully.

Mistress Simondred dabbed a second towel on Dema’s face. It wasn’t dirty, really, but she continued to wipe at her cheeks nonetheless. “There,” she said softly, pushing Dema’s face up with a finger under her chin, “now I can see that beautiful skin of yours.”

Dema fought off a snort. “I am glad at least you take pleasure in my demon skin.”

“You are not a demon!�� her mother replied furiously, cupping both of Dema’s cheeks in her hands. “Look into my eyes! You are no such thing! Say it!”

“I am no such thing,” Dema answered, though her mouth, pinched as it was, struggled to enunciate the words. “I’m tired, Mother.”

“As am I. Slip off your dress and get in bed. Your shift will do for night clothes tonight.”

Ice cold and mentally numb with exhaustion, Dema fell into slumber immediately. Even as her father lit the hearth, she remained asleep. Her mother snuggled up beside her, grateful to share the warmth. From his rocking chair, Master Simondred regarded his sleeping wife and child with affection, noting the similarities in their features. Notwithstanding the stark contrast in their skin tones, Dema’s face was almost an exact copy of her mother’s. He rose, kissed each on the forehead, and trudged into the blizzard, all the while making a list in his mind of each chore and task that need be completed at the bakery.

#writing #original world #oc #fantasy #wip #novel #fantasy fiction #fiction #female lead #adult fantasy #dark fantasy

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outsiders-owen · 6 months

Text

Hey, Soup? You home?

Oh! I'll be at the door in just a second, Owen, I need to put some stuff away- oh god damn it, why do I have such an awful storage system-

...

Anyway! Hello, hello, come in! What brings you to my humble abode...?

I- give me a second.

...Are you okay?

No- I-

...

Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, I just need your advice on something. My Voices won't shut up about it, so I'm coming to you.

Oh! Okay, do you need, like, a potion or something..?

No. Just advice.

Alright, how can I help you then, Mr Orange?

It's about Apo.

Ohh.

Yeah.

What about him?

Soup, what do I do? He's- he was my best friend. And he lied to me. How do I get over that? How do I get over that, and the fact that he has the blood of, like, twenty people on his hands? I don't know what to do.

It's- yeah. Yeah, Owen, you're right. It's a really tricky situation. It feels like he betrayed you, and it hurts. It hurts more than a thousand daggers, and it cuts so deep, and you're going to need time to live with that. Apo hurt you, and what he did wasn't okay. It isn't okay.

...

And you're allowed to feel betrayed, you're allowed to feel pained, you're allowed to feel like your entire world has been pulled from under your feet. You're allowed to take time to yourself, and you're allowed to cry, and you're allowed to tackle this awful, hard situation on your own terms, in your own time.

I just-

Shh, I'm not done.

Apo has been there for you so many times. He's been there when you're hurting, and when you're happy, and when you're apathetic to everything around you. He's seen you at your worst and your best and your angriest and your silliest, and you've seen all those sides of him as well.

He has soothed so much hurt, and you never thought in a million years he could be the cause of pain for you.

But-

Owen, people make mistakes. Apo made a mistake. A big mistake, an awful mistake, a horrific act! But that doesn't make him evil. Apo is not evil, he did not have bad intentions, he didn't know what the lever would do, and he was scared. He lied to you because he was scared, he was so, so scared. I know and you know and even he probably knew that you'd cover for him, that you'd think of him no differently.

But fear makes people act strangely, it warps our minds and makes us see things that aren't there, hear undertones in people's words that don't exist. And Apo was feeling so much fear.

Soup, he lied to me.

And would you have done any different?

Yes! I trust him, I trust him with my life-

You need to try and understand how he's feeling right now. Owen, I know you're feeling hurt and betrayed and you have every right to be, but please try and see it from his point of view. He was terrified.

The entire clearing was trying to find out who pulled that lever. We were all on a witch hunt for the culprit. Imagine how scary that must have been, to know that if you admitted to the thing you had done, there was a chance that- well, that this would happen.

Someone found out, Squidney came back from the Maze and she told us Apo pulled the lever. And his worst nightmares were realized.

...

You're the one person that he knows he can trust unconditionally, and now you're turning your back on him.

I can't decide what you do for you, Owen, but please. For Apo, for yourself, for everyone else in the clearing. Please don't give up on him. It would ruin you.

I... thanks, Soup. I'll think about what you've said. It- yeah. Yeah, I'll think about it.

Alright. Are you going already? You didn't even finish your tea!

Yeah, uh... that was a lot. I need to go think about it.

Oh, alright. Come talk to me if you need any further advice, yeah?

Yeah.

Okay! Bye, Owen!

See you around, Soup.

#outsiders smp #outsiders smp roleplay #main storyline #owengejuicetv #owengejuicetv roleplay #soup

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nomsfaultau · 1 year

Text

I couldn’t sleep so sleep headcanons for Sleepy Boys Inc!

(Specifically my SCP AU) ((Also Tubbo fight me))

The Blade: to call it a light coma would be underselling it. He simply does not wake up. It’s especially heavy after a battle, and sometimes when he’s really sleepy he’ll circle a spot three times before flopping down. Snores in a deep rumble that Philza pretends sounds sweet like purring but this is simply not the case. Unfortunately he tends to sleep outside because he is simply Too Big for most human doors. It doesn’t tend to effect him though.

Tommy: it does affect Tommy though, because he 100% always curls up next to The Blade, though sometimes it’s hard to spot him. Often wakes up squished, and shouting doesn’t wake The Blade but it occasionally gets Philza’s help to squirm out. One day he’s going to suffocate to death in The Blade’s fluff. Tommy doesn’t care though, since physical contact helps him calm down much faster after nightmares. He is very proud of the fact he doesn’t wake up screaming anymore, since that would mean interrupting his friends’ sleep.

Philza: only sleeps because he’s convinced he has to. Preferably, coiled on top of his hoard children. Wings seem to naturally form a cocoon around him and whomever is closest. Often ends up in whatever sleeping arrangement Tommy and The Blade are in. This has led to the three of them getting referred to as ‘the pile’. Occasionally prone to day napping like the old man he is, in which case his natural habitat is a warm flat rock for him to bask on like a little lizard. Everyone keeps telling him he isn’t actually cold blooded, but he just waves them off and spreads out his wings to better catch the sun’s heat. Wilbur: like three miles away from everyone else, because he’s edgy and has control issues. Barely sleeps at all, and a chronic insomniac because he can’t outrun memories at night. Which could be solved if he ever TALKED to his FATHER, but, again, edgy and control issues. Sleeps with a flashlight and his shoes on and is always ready to bolt up in a second. Midnight snacks if he thinks they can afford it.

Tubbo: Theoretically familiar with a bed, but much prefers to be twenty feet up in a tree in a little nest of blankets and pillows. When actually sleeping on the ground, tends to wake up in a field of newly blossomed flowers. They’re usually teased for this. Technically hundreds of thousands of bees don’t sleep at the same time, so Tubbo is usually on watch duty. A handful of bees tend to dapple Tommy’s hair like a crown, to make sure he’s sleeping well or be there if he gets a nightmare.

#Cute hcs are almost as good as 8 hours of sleep #Tubbo is a Sleepy Boys Inc shareholder #sbi au #sbi family dynamic #sbi fluff #bee tw #scp au #but only to me #fault au #something to nom on #sleepy boys inc #Sbi hc

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sparkbeast20 · 2 years

Text

Tear new skin (Diavolo X MC X Barbatos)

This is part 5 of Cold and Warm Blooded Pt2 Pt3 Pt4

Summary: Diavolo let himself go, while Barbatos is conflicted to whether he should let his internal demon out.

Warning: Painful transformation, fleshes tearing, and Bone breaking

The whole castle is quiet, with the occasional roar and thrusting from Diavolo’s room. It was strong enough that you can hear and feel it from your room and throughout the halls when you walk around the halls, some paintings and hall decorations are tipped over or adjusted from their place. Every time you see them, you quickly fix them before moving on.

It's been two days since the last time you saw Diavolo. Every time you brought food to him. You can only leave it in the hall due to him being territorial and the whole hall is like an oven. You can only stand for like 5 to 10 minutes before you feel like you're being cooked alive.

Barbatos on the other hand. You actively avoid going down to his basement, fearing what you’re going to see. All you are able to do is knock on his door, and there’s to kind of respond you step away and go by your day.

Once you are done fixing the painting to head to the kitchen and start making lunch, all the while your thoughts are on how both Diavolo and Barbatos will act drastically different like what you witness in Diavolo’s room or do they act more like themselves with slight differences?

You had your lunch and left Diavolo his. You decide to sleep the afternoon away, knowing that that’s all you can do for the day.

As you lay on your bed and stare at the ceiling above you, all you can think is how are you going to deal with both Diavolo and Barbatos if they act more… demonic.

You close your eyes, let sleep take over you, and let your mind make those thoughts into dreams or nightmares.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

Looking down on the cup of tea right in front of him, Barbatos can’t shake the feeling that he's been drinking his tea and yet the cup is still full. He glanced up to see the being sitting beside him. Their faces are distorted and their voices are muffled. Then they reach down at the table and grab a plate of macarons then hand him the plate. He smiles and reaches out to grab the plate, as he is about to grab it the plate and the figure fades like smoke.

Barbatos was taken aback by the sudden disappearance; he kicks his chair away and quickly stands.

Barbatos’ vision blurs as he tries to speak but no works come out. The whole place surrounding Barbatos turns gray.

Next all the furniture vanishes and everything when dark.

All Barbatos hears is his own heartbeat, and breathing. He tries to reach out and walk, but nothing seems to be in front of him now.

What seemed like hours, Barbatos stopped walking and dropped to his knees and started panting, it felt like he was slowly losing his breath.

‘So you finally show up, old friend’

Barbatos’ eyes shifted frantically as his blood ran cold, he slowly looked over his shoulder to see who or what spoke.

Behind him were two large gates of a giant cage. He saw that the cage locks are destroyed and the thing inside the cage stares at him with his cold and unforgiving eyes. “You” he whispered.

‘Yes, it's been how long? Five to ten thousand years since we last spoke’

“Twenty to be correct”

‘Well at least one of us remembers how long I have been locked away’ The beast said it as cold as possible.

“And it was warranted, time has changed. You, the side that is just all primal desire and instinct has no place in my mind”

‘Well now, you are in mine domain. Until you are willing to let me out of this prison. You’ll be here with me.’ the beast laughs as he turns back further in the cage leaving Barbatos alone… again.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

The moment he kicks you out of his room, Diavolo slowly starts to change. More close to a dragon. His skin is turned into scales, his feet and hands as well as his nails turn into claws. And now he feels his lower back ache like hell.

After his last warning to you, Diavolo barely leaves his room, only to grab his plate of food out in the hall left by you. But today he can't even get out of bed… well what’s left of it. You didn’t know that due to the pain, Diavolo took his anger out on his room, destroying everything in sight. Right after he broke everything, he went on in his instinct and used the materials to make a giant nest in the middle of his room. Where he is now laying face down, groaning in agony due to the pain right above his ass where his tail bone is.

He knows what’s going to happen, he's starting to grow a tail.

Unlike Barbatos and the brothers with tails, he can only swing it, there is no dexterity to his tail.

In his frustration, his body reacts and starts to heat up again. He grunts in annoyance because it kinda forces him to get up from his nest so he can head to his bathroom to cool off.

He has to do it, otherwise he’ll burn the entire castle down. He's only doing this for your safety. He can survive the flames and Barbatos is the complete opposite to his heat so he has no worries for his friend.

Diavolo slowly pushes himself up and gets out of his nest, as he painstakingly walks towards the bathroom.

He instinctively reaches out to open the bathroom door, but he remembers that he burned it last night after his last trip.

He opened the tab and let the water fill his built- in tub as he headed to his sink and mirror.

As the tub is being filled, he splashes some water on his face to start his cooling routine.

As soon as the water hit his face, his whole face let out steam and the water quickly evaporated. He sighs in relief.

However it doesn’t last long, he can feel the lingering ache in his wings, he bents over the sink both hands on it. He slowly scratched his wings upward, he groaned with each moment, then a cracking sound made him stop and sigh before folding them back to him.

“Fuck…” he curse under his breath, this change is taking a toll on his body and is not getting any better anytime soon.

He knows that this will take a while, but not this long. Most of his skins are scales now, his more dragon than human looking. And yet, why does he feel like it is just halfway done.

All that takes his mind off from this change is you, and what he will do once this all ordeal is over…

“Diavolo…” a familiar voice sends a sudden jolt throughout his body, his eyes widen and his heart start to beat fast. He slowly turned his head to the tub and there he saw you naked sitting in the water beckoning to come to the water seductively.

He stared for so long that he was put under some sort of trance, a second later he turns his whole body around and slowly walks towards the tub. He watches as you walk closer to the side of the tub where he is at. He was too under the trance to notice that water didn’t move when you walked. When he is at the edge of the tub he drops down on his knees and you move closer to him and grab his face with both hands, and all he feels are you lightly phantom touch. “How-”

“My Beautiful prince… Oh how I do miss you, your strong jaw-” you tracing your finger on his jaw, before looking down on his chest “Your perfect cut chest” Than you move your fingers and start feeling his pecs. “But you're still not yourself” your soft and seductive tone vanishes at the end and turns deep and serious. When you look into his eyes, he doesn't see any emotion in your eyes. That snapped him out of his hypnotic trance and grunts before pulling away and taking five steps back.

“You're not them!” Angered, Diavolo starts to heat up as steam comes off of him.

“Clever Diavolo, however you’re only making things harder for yourself…” the figure morphed into a shadow and got out of the water. As he walks closer to Diavolo the figure slightly changes in the same shape as Diavolo. Diavolo back as the shadow moved closer “Can’t you sense him…? He is about to come out from his prison. And you’re still in this weak form!”

Diavolo knows who this shadow is talking about, and it boils his blood to no end. “Even in this form I can still beat him”

“Oh~ And I thought that the fallen angel was full of himself… By any chance are you subconsciously trying to prove something, hm?” The shadow stalks around Diavolo. “You truly believe that you don’t need me!” Diavolo clenches his fist. Then he summoned fire and hurled it to where the shadow was. Diavolo was shocked when the shadow disappeared from the room, before looking around and landed his sights on the door where he saw the shadow standing in his room. He growled, spreading his wings and flew out of the bathroom in an attempt to charge at the figure.

As soon he came in contact the figure disappeared and Diavolo ended up crashing into his wall luckily the magic he cast in the room kept the wall in one piece however cracks start to appear showing the magic is wearing thin.

He placed a hand on the wall helping get back on his feet. He groans in pain, the added frustration is causing to lose focus on his control. He can feel his skin getting tense as his muscles throbbing and swell. He tries to walk back to the bathroom so he can cool off his skin. But end up stumbling and falling forward in the middle of the room.

It was too late, he couldn't stop the change from happening, all he could do was groan in agony. Before he knew it he felt a sudden pain in his spine as his spinal bone grew short spikes going through his back starting from the back of his neck slowly going down his back.

As soon as it reaches his tailbone, like someone took a sharp object and stabs his lower back he screams in excruciating pain as his tail starts to grow.

He slowly prop himself up enough that his upper torso is off the floor, then a sudden surge of pain on lower abdomen which he reacts to cross his arms across his stomach with nothing supporting his body, Diavolo falls on his forehead, his back is arch.

Then he feels that his skin is suffocating him, the longer he stays like this the tighter he feels as if he's being squeezed to death as his bones slowly break, reform and shift beneath his skin. Left with no other opinion, Diavolo pushes up in a kneeling position on his knee and digs his claws into his chest where there his flesh remains and not being covered by his scales. He groans as he digs his claws deeper where he can feel his actual skin is. With one fell swoop he tore his skin off, blood splatter on the floor and roared as he continued to rip his ‘Human’ flesh off, tossing them to the side which were starting to burn into flames. All the while his hands and feet shift into something more dragon-like.

Soon he begins to grow. While his bones, changing his entire skeletal frame his shoulder blades moving his arms to make him stand on all fours.

The remaining flash on him quickly burns off, and finally he reaches up and grabs the flesh on his face, digs his claws deep and rips the flesh right off as his skull reforms jaw shifts into a snout, and teeth turns to fangs.

Once it's all done Diavolo stretched his wings up right, the tip of his was sharp enough to scratch the ceiling. He threw his head back and let out a booming roar, shaking the whole room. He slowly dies down and looks straight before looking around the room. Before landing his sights on the door that leads to the hall, he closes his eyes for a moment to get a good hearing of the place.

Then he heard it, he eyes quickly, deep in his domain he could hear footsteps running down the halls. He took one good sniff and there he can smell a soul…a human soul.

He grins before charging through forward and breaking down the wall. Whatever is left to keep Diavolo in has completely vanished, his free to roam through the castle to hunt.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

Barbatos can’t remember how long he was in this mindscape, ever since his other side left him alone. All that Barbatos can do is watch all the memories he has.

He is currently watching an old memory of him and Diavolo. This is when Diavolo tries to convince him to be his butler, if Barbatos can cringed this would be a good time to happen. He was slightly embarrassed about his past self and Diavolo.

“Just because you have the tea that I was searching for, I owe you my servitude? Inbred must have ruined the royal line…” Barbatos said slightly sarcastically. However from what Barbatos experienced with the other king he wouldn’t go past that demon just making fun of him.

All of a sudden Diavolo starts to laugh, which throws off Barbatos. Well he can give this demon something. At least he can laugh…

“Good one, hahah… If Mephisto heard that he would see you as an enemy to the kingdom for insulting the prince of devildom.”

Barbatos was thinking about it at times, he would’ve overthrown this demon. If it wasn't for his pact with Solomon he can kill him now and move on with his existence.

Current Barbatos heard all his past self was thinking. He feels embarrassed about how he used to think, he was bitter after he got into a pact with Solomon. Now only he was created without a purpose but back then he was bound to limitation by his “Master”.

He can understand what his younger self felt, so the idea being to serve another being he despises the idea of serving to someone.

But as time went on Diavolo showed that he wasn’t going to treat him any less.

Barbatos starts to smile as the montage of his life flashes, some were bad, good, tragic, and some were the best thing that ever happened to him.

Dispited he is the demon who has the ability to turn back time, he was content with his choices and he wouldn’t change any of them.

But then he has reached the last memory he had, and it was you talking to him. Suddenly everything in his mindscape got darker as he watched the memory play out.

As soon as you lay next to him, everything went dark and Barbatos quickly stood up. “No! There’s has to more than that-”

‘Your turning senile old friend…’ Insteadly gate of his other side appears right in front of Barbatos.

“There’s got to more than that! Did they leave when I fell asleep?-”

‘Barbatos! If you worry about them, then let yourself give in!’ the beast turns his face to the side, all Barbatos can see is the beast’s jaw and fangs, while the rest is hidden in the shadows.

“You would like that won’t you…” walk up to the gates and bang his fist on one of the metal bars. “I kept you locked away for a reason! You are the definition of my darkness. You are the constant reminder of what I despise about my creation. That I’m nothing more than just a tool of destruction” Barbatos glares into the cage as his eyes glow and he slowly shifts to his demon form.

The beast let out an annoyed deep hiss, before standing up and turning around. He stood up straight huffing his chest head looking down on Barbatos.

There it stands a Barbatos demonic side, a black and teal Salamander and Lizard-ish demon whose entire body length clocking at 25 to 28 feet long from nose to the tip of his tail. His height is around 10 to 13 feet when he stands with his chest prop up. On his back are fin-like wings which only helps him swim.

The beast flick his fork tongue and hiss before lowering his head to meet eye level with Barbatos. ‘If you can accept your past self, his actions and attitude then you can give me a chance… Tell me. What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?’

“Simple. Planning to escape…” quickly and simply, but Barbatos is surprised that the beast laughs, causing him to raise a brow.

‘From the start, yes. But I’ve seen what you've been through. Like you to your old self I came to realize how you’ve changed. From a demon who despises his creation to a loyal and one of the most powerful demons who is currently walking.’

Barbatos looks into the beast’s eyes to see if there’s any signs of sarcasm or deceiving but he couldn’t find it in his eyes.

“How can I trust your word on this?”

‘Because you view me as a different being, when in reality you and I are the same being. The real question is can you trust yourself to have such freedom again? Even with someone you hold dear willing to stay by your side in your moment of weakness? MC is scared for you, Barbatos.’

“They shouldn’t be scared for me. I should be scared for them. They're all alone in the castle waiting for one of us to… Tame ourselves…”

‘Ah see? You finally get your real reason to be here. It is easy to know your goals. But actually doing something takes realization. Your plan tamed me and so did Diavolo with own demon. But you both worry on the surface when in truth you two are stopping yourselves’

He was right. Barbatos feared losing himself with this part of him and let the beast control when in truth all he had to do was accept that part of him as his own rather seeing it as a different entity.

He looked up and stared straight ahead looking into the eyes of his beast and he saw the iris with the sclera pitch black. He took a slow and calm breath and slowly reached both hands and placed them on the bars of the cage. He whispers open and soon the cage slowly opens as both he and the beast slowly take a step back away from the cage as it opens.

A moment of silence filled the air as the beast took one step of the shadow and tilted his head at Barbatos. “We have an understanding. No harm comes to MC. I have a strong assumption that my lord is letting his other side in control so there is no avoiding confrontation with him once we come out of our chrysalis?” end it with a brow raise.

But all the beast responds with a fanging smile and ‘Our?’

Barbatos flashes a close eyes smile back to the beast with placing his thumb and index finger on his chin. “My mistake” with one chuckle from Barbatos. They took that as a sign. With one quick strike the beast lunges forwards and devours Barbatos. And everything went dark.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

The sound of a shell cracking echoes throughout the stairway of the room. The torches you like everyday went out as the black and teal chrysalis began to break. The thing moves around itched to be set free it fins, claws, horns and tail push outward managing to break the hard outer shell leaving the inner paper like shell. It placed its claw on the last shell dug its claw on the shell piercing it and tore it enough to push its snout out through the newly made hole. It hissed, then snarled once its whole snout was out and felt the cold air of the room.

With one last push, it slid out of the chrysalis off the pillar where said chrysalis is placed and slid into the water below washing away the slime and glistening like gel over its body.

It swam towards the stairs and emerged from the water, hissing as it flick its forked tongue then snarled when it caught your scent. It looks up from the bottom of the stairs then flicks his tongue to get a better sense. But then it smells something else in the air, it fades from its standing but it senses a domineering aura moving around. Then it heard a loud roar from upstairs powerful enough to shake the entire Castle.

It hissed in reaction before quickly climbing up the stairs stealthy, once it made its way to the entryway of the room it stopped and stared at shuttered right next to the door.

This was the first time Barbatos saw himself like this. In his demonic form.

“It's such a long time being in this form” He smiles at his reflection, his black slick skin with teal reflective glisten when the moonlight seeps through the windows of his room.

But before he could get a moment to look at his form, another roar shook the castle. Barbatos sighs knowing that Diavolo has completed his transformation and is now looking for you. However Barbatos tells from how Diavolo’s roars are. He's getting frustrated. And knowing his temper, it is best that he finds you first, before his master does.

End of Part 5

Tagging: @hobin-gnoblin

Note:

Hi, yeah so this was suppose to be the last part, but when I was checking the word count, it was 6k words and I wasn't even at the part where MC try to calm Diavolo and Barbatos yet!!

So there will be another part after this, and hope to be the last part.

Any who, here's the transformation part of the story, I might have unintentionally maybe made Dia's transformation kinda macro?!? It wasn't intentional I swear! I had to listen some werewolf and dragon asmr and story podcast to get the transformation part right.

Plus I never knew that macro was a thing, who knew hehe XD

Also here are the links to Lucifer's, Mammon's, and Levi's solo pairing in this AU

If there's grammar or spelling error, please let me know and don't be shy to leave a comment or rebloging with cute tags. I just love to see you guys thoughts on this :3

#obey me #omswd #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me diavolo x reader #obey me barbatos x reader #obey me mc #obey me monster love #obey me blue lotus petals #obey me blood

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aimasup · 2 years

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THIS IS AN APPRECIATION POST AND ATTENDANCE IS MANDATORY

MY FACE IS SMASHED AGAINST YOUR WINDOW AND I'M SHOUTING THIS THROUGH THE GLASS

YOUR LIL COMICS OF SUN AND MOON ACTUALLY DOING DAYCARE STUFF LIKE PLAYING WITH KIDS AND DEALING WITH CLUELESS PARENTS ARE THE BEST DAMN THING I'M SO GLAD SOMEONE DREW THEM DOING DAYCARE STUFF IT'S ALL SO REAL AND HITS SO CLOSE TO HOME I USED TO BE A NANNY AND A SWIMMING TEACHER AND THOSE COMICS MADE ME FEEL COMBINATION KID NOSTALGIA AND FLASHBACKS FROM THE PARENT TRENCHES

THAT ONE PICTURE OF SUN PRETENDING TO LOOK FOR THE KID HANGING UPSIDE DOWN OFF HIS BACK AND GIGGLING UP A STORM? I AM BLESSING YOU WITH A THOUSAND DAYS OF WATCHING PUPPIES NAPPING IN THE SUNLIGHT.

MOON BEING GOOFY AND PRETENDING TO BE THE BEDTIME MONSTER? YES YES YES YES I AM PHYSICALLY MANIFESTING IN YOUR HOUSE AND MAKING SURE EVERY PENCIL YOU HAVE IS SHARPENED EVERY PEN IS UNCLOGGED AND EVERY STYLUS NIB IS FRESH.

AND!!! I JUST WENT ON A DEEP DIVE THROUGH YOUR ART AND IT WAS LIKE BANGER AFTER BANGER JUST NOTHING BUT THE HITS LIKE HALF THE OLDER ART I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW WAS YOURS LIKE THE ONE WHERE SUN AND MOON ARE CLIMBING ON EACH OTHER LIKE THEY GOT SPOOKED BY A MOUSE ON THE FLOOR? THAT'S BEEN A FAVORITE OF MINE FOR AGES AND I HAD NO IDEA IT WAS YOURS UNTIL LIKE FIVE MINUTES AGO LIKE LOOK AT THE JANKED-UP POSITIONS THOSE GUYS ARE IN YOUR GRASP OF ANATOMY AND BELIEVEABLE-BUT-EXAGGERATED POSES IS HONESTLY BREATHTAKING ARE YOU ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE WHO CAN ROTATE A HORSE IN YOUR MIND YOU SEEM LIKE ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE WHO CAN ROTATE A HORSE IN YOUR MIND

NOT ONLY THAT BUT APPARENTLY I'VE REBLOGGED YOUR STUFF FROM OTHER PEOPLE'S REBLOGS BEFORE I EVER GOT INTO SUN AND MOON AND FOLLOWED YOU

MOST OF YOUR CUPHEAD COMICS! THE CORPSE BRIDE AND NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS CROSSOVER! THE OZZIE X FIZZAROLI COMICS! AT LEAST ONE OF THOSE BLACK HAT COMICS! YOUR ART HAS CHARMED ME OVER AND OVER WITHOUT ME REALIZING IT WAS ALL MADE BY YOU EVERYTHING YOU MAKE IS SO GOOD AND YOUR BRAIN IS SO WRINKLY

YOUR NEVER EVER GETTING RID OF ME ANIMATIC SINGLEHANDEDLY REIGNITED MY OBSESSION WITH LEARNING THE AERIAL SILKS AND I FOUND A STUDIO IN MY AREA THAT DOES CLASSES AND I'M HOPING TO START THAT AFTER I FINISH ACTING IN THE HAUNTED HOUSE THIS YEAR AND I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT WHEN I MANAGE TO TIE MY RIGHT HAND TO MY LEFT FOOT TWENTY FEET OFF THE GROUND I'M GONNA BE THINKING OF YOU

--------------------------------------------------------------------

1. YOU'RE THE HUMOROUS PINEAPPLE PERSON. I'VE SEEN YOU. AND NOW YOU'RE IN MY INBOX. @ordinarydoodles. FUCK. /pos

2. WHAT THE FUCK THANK YOU I'M GLAD YOU WERE SO AFFECTED? I THINK? THANK YOU FOR LIKING MY SHIT. HAVE A GOOD ONE.

#submission #art stuff #thank you again! I hope your fingers are ok. this is practically an essay.#the fact that you were a swimming teacher and a nanny and worked in a haunted house is very intruiging

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ibrithir-was-here · 1 year

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Last chapter for October's writing prompt for Endless Heirs AU!! Thank you so much for everyone who's enjoyed it! Definitely would like to come back to this AU for sure :,)

Lycanthropy

Halloween in the Dreaming was, to put it lightly, a scream.

Dreams promised the delights of autumn, the freedom of running about beneath a perfectly crafted disguise, the joys of a thousand types of candy, and the perfection of a well executed scare.

Nightmares took on the forms of ghouls, witches, vampires, werewolves, a dozen different horror movie icons, most of which Daniel still wasn't allowed to watch, all of which seemed to be more loved than feared.

It was a day when Dreams and Nightmares intertwined until it was hard to tell one from the other sometimes. And Daniel, freshly off to bed from a successful night's trick-or-treating, the taste of chocolate still on his tongue, was ready to enjoy all of it--

Or at least as much as Dream deemed age appropriate for him, apparently.

"Ah come on! I can handle it! I'm the heir to the Dreaming and the Nightmares are part of that right?"

"His Lordship is very busy fulfilling his role as the King of Nightmares this evening and he has not deemed it appropriate for you to accompany him. You may pass through the designated areas of the Dreaming on the map Lord Morpheus provided for any All Hallows Eve adventures you may wish to engage with."

Lucienne said crisply, handing him a hand drawn map that barely skirted the edges of the Nightmares realm within the Dreaming.

"Ah tough luck kid" The Corinthian said with a sharp smile, ruffling his hair as he made for the doors.

"Maybe next year you can get an invite to the party. And it's a doozy let me tell you--"

"You can tell him all about it as you accompany him on his route." Lucienne cut in, stopping the Corinthian in his tracks.

"What?!" He sputtered, whirling around to give Lucienne a disbelieving glare.

"Lord Morpheus specifically requested that you accompany Master Daniel on this excursion, so that no other Nightmares get any ideas."

"But--but I---Lucienne come on it's Halloween!! Do you know how absolutely feral Dream gets in the Nightmare realm on Halloween?!"

Daniel was sure if the Corinthian had eyes they would have been shining like those of a teenager gushing over their favorite idol.

"I guess you'll just have to wait till next year as well." Lucienne said with a curt nod, as she turned back into the hallways leading towards the Library.

Daniel and the Corinthian glumly watched her go, standing in silence for a moment after she'd shut the doors before Daniel asked:

"So you wanna go to the Nightmare party?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

****

They'd gotten a little over the edge of the Nightmare realm when the Corinthian stopped in his tracks and abruptly turned around, pulling a protesting Daniel back with him by the hood of his Hawkman costume.

"No, no what am I doing---Dream will definitely disintegrate me again if I take you there…"

"Ah man" Daniel huffed, kicking his feet and sinking down to mope with his hands in his chin

"Sorry Kid," The Corinthian said, soundly truly apologetic as he sat down next to Daniel

"Whatever, I get it" Daniel grumbled, looking wistfully out at the edges of the Dark Woods that marked the border to the Nightmare realm, dark mist swirling enticingly out from it and faint shrieks already beginning to echo out. Daniel wished vehemently he was twenty two and not twelve.

"Say…" The Corinthian said suddenly, the light from the blood red full moon above them causing his glasses to glint in a dangerous way.

"If we can't have our treat of going to the party…How about we do a trick?"

Daniel pursed his lips, eyebrows raised. He liked the Corinthian, he was like a mix of Fun Uncle and Cool Older Brother, and he knew this new Corinthian was a lot less--intense then the older one had been ( though he hadn't been privy to all the details about what exactly the old one had done). But he knew enough about both of them to know it was best to be wary when the Corinthian grinned like that.

"Like what?"

"Like give Miss Prim n' Proper Lucienne a good old fashioned scare, nothin' too serious, just ruffle her feathers a bit"

Daniel mulled it over, he liked Lucienne too of course, but…well she was a bit of a stick in the mud sometimes, and it was Halloween…

He found himself grinning back.

"Ok, what did you have in mind?"

The Corinthian beamed.

"Ah kid havin' you in charge is gonna be fun"

He reached out and pulled Daniel in close to start whispering his plan.

"Ok, here's what we're gonna do…"

****

Lucienne paused in her rounds about the Library, she wasn't sure what had caught her attention, all seemed quiet and composed as always, and yet…

"Something…is not right…" She whispered to herself, turning slowly in a circle, eyes narrowing as they scanned her surroundings. The library, her own small kingdom, suddenly felt strange to her when she reached out into it. Usually cozy despite its spaciousness, it now felt close and tight around her, like the mouth of some slumbering beast, ready to snap shut around her if she woke it. She couldn't get a feel for where she was, all the ways felt fuzzy and indistinct. If she didn't know better, she'd have compared it to a feeling of a nightma--

And then a light behind her went out.

Lucienne whirled around to check it, and another light behind her back flickered out.

Then another, and another.

Lucienne grabed at a candelabra situated on a nearby desk, feeding some of her own limited power into it to keep the candles in it a light as the entire section of the Library around her descended into utter darkness.

The library was always quiet, but now, swathed in velvet darkness, it felt as silent as a tomb.

Lucienne bit back a gulp, and took a tentative step forward, the small circle of light she stood in wavering as the candelabra's flames moved with her.

Lucienne slowly, slowly, made her way down the aisle, keeping her free hand on the bookshelves as she moved, listening for any sounds in the muffeling darkness.

For a good five minutes, there was only the sounds of her breath and her steps, echoing faintly.

And then there was a rush of air just behind her, as if something had passed within a foot of her before disappearing back into the darkness.

Lucienne held stock still, her breath catching in her throat. She didn't dare call out, not without knowing who or what would answer. After a moment, she took another cautious step forward--and the same rush of movement was behind her again.

Lucienne whirled around, trying to catch a glimpse of her stalker within the candlelight, but all she could see was the barest flash of white, a blur without recognizable form. And then nothing.

And then suddenly the shadow of an enormous wolf, larger than anything Lucienne had ever seen, appeared before her, looming up to the ceiling, and a low rumbling growl issued from behind her.

Lucienne's latent raven instincts took full control and she bolted.

She ran down the aisle, blind to anything other than the need to flee and the knowledge that the massive wolf was rapidly closing in on her. She dogged right, then left, then right again, and still the beast kept up, a moving part of the darkness surrounding her.

Lucienne shot down yet another aisle, and there, there at the end was a doorway. If she could just get to it, bolt it shut then--

"BOO!!!"

Lucienne screamed bloody murder and swung out wildly with her candelabra, barely missing the Corinthian's head as he ducked down just in time, falling to the floor with bloody tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks.

"You-you should have seen your f-face!!" He gasped out, clutching at his sides.

Behind him, the dark wolf shape slinked just into view, then sunk back down into the familiar form of Daniel, clutching his own sides as he collapsed into giggles next to the Nightmare.

Lucienne, once her breath had come back along with her reason, glared daggers at the pair at her feet as they continued to shake with laughter.

"That was not amusing" She said stiffly, hand on hip and candelabra held at an angle that showed she was debating taking another whack at the Corinthian. "When Lord Morpheus finds out--"

"Oh come on Luci, don't be such a freakin' spoil sport"

The Corinthian huffed, sitting up and throwing an arm around Daniel, ruffling his hair.

"I think that the kid did great with our little training exercise."

"Training exercise?"

"Of course! Like he said he's the heir to the Dreaming, which includes the Nightmare part. Only right he should have a chance to show off his skills! And as far as I'm concerned you got an A plus kiddo."

Daniel beamed up at the equally grinning nightmare, while Lucienne continued to glower at them.

"Spin it however you want Corinthian, as I said, when Lord Morpheus finds out--'

"Oh that's no longer a question of when"

A chill went down all three of them, and they turned slowly together to see the Lord of the Dreaming, silhouetted against the doorway, tall and dark and magnificently terrible to behold.

He came forward, gliding across the floor like dark mists at the edge of the Dark Woods, his glittering eyes the only point of light in his looming dark form.

"I was in the middle of the revels when I felt a disturbance, someone manipulating the Dreaming to create a Nightmare space within the very walls of my palace"

He stopped just short of the Corinthian and Daniel, still seated on the floor, frozen in place as they stared up up up at him.

"Naturally besides myself I knew there could only be one culprate"

Those glittering eyes fixed on Daniel, flashing as they did so.

"And what precisely do you have to say for yourself young man?"

"Um" Daniel said weakly, praying that he wasn't about to wet his pants. His mind went blank as those eyes flashed again, and he sputtered out the first thing he could think of.

"T-trick or Treat?"

The towering shape that was Dream stood frozen for a moment, and then a light ripple crossed over it, then another, and another. And then a sound issued forth from the dark tower that Daniel had never heard before and truly hoped never to hear again.

"Oh my gosh is he--is he having a stroke??" Daniel gasped, shrinking closer to the Corinthian, eyes wide and fixed on the shuddering Dream.

"No…" Lucienne whispered, stepping back slowly from her lord to stand by the other two.

" That's how he laughs"

Daniel's eyes went wide as saucers, moving between Lucienne to Dream to the Corinthian and back to Dream again. Wondering what just such a laugh could possibly bode.

And then another horrible thought struck him.

"I'm not gonna sound like that when I'm Dream, am I?"

The Corinthian, glasses fixed on the still laughing Dream, only shrugged.

"I mean, it's not off the table kid"

And that may have been the scariest thing Daniel had heard all night.

#my writing #endless heirs au #halloween #daniel hall #the corinthian #lucienne the librarian #lucienne #lucienne (the sandman)#morpheus #dream of the endless #sandman #the sandman #sandman fic

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oftincturedwords · 1 year

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title : dash-two chapters : 1/4 fandom : top gun ( 1986 ) rating : t+ chapter warning(s) : descriptions of food , mentions of eating , etc. characters : tom ‘iceman’ kazansky , pete ‘maverick’ mitchell , ron 'slider' kerner , sam 'merlin' wells , rick 'hollywood' neven , leonard 'wolfman' wolfe , mentioned nick ‘goose’ bradshaw , mentioned carole bradshaw pairing(s) : gen. m/m. eventual iceman / maverick additional tags : hurt / comfort , angst , nightmares , period - typical homophobia , anxiety attacks , panic attacks , explicit language , slow burn , eventual romance , brotherhood , sickfic , storms , flying , banter , brotherhood , grief / mourning , emotional hurt / comfort , developing friendships , male friendships , etc. word count : 4253 timeline : set post top gun ( 1986 ) , a day or so post MiG dogfight summary : iceman has been feeling off since the MiG dogfight, and as the hours tick by, it only grows worse, to the point slider isn't the only one to notice something's amiss with the pilot. maverick does too. a/n : no beta thus all mistakes are mine. disclaimer : i do not own any right to top gun ( 1986 ) neither am i associated with the production companies , nor any of the actors who portray these characters. i make no money off any of my stories , this is purely for entertainment purposes. read on : ao3 | read undercut

At the assigned push time twenty-two, Iceman ensured he was holding fix at two hundred-fifty knots and ready to commence approach. Allowing the mere seconds it took to confirm before he broke from the marshall holding stack stationed twenty-five nautical miles behind the carrier and held at ten angels, to begin to guide his aircraft to approach the carrier whilst radioing Mother, “Voodoo one-zero-four, commencing, 6.4, 30.01.”

The reply back was immediate, “Mustang to Voodoo one-zero-four, radar contact twenty-five miles. Final bearing three-three-one.”

“One-zero-four.” Iceman acknowledged smoothly, eyes trained upon the instruments before him.

“One-zero-four, switch approach, button seventeen.” Came Marshall on the mike, passing the duty of relaying recovery directions control over to Approach.

“One-zero-four, switching button seventeen.” Was what he transmitted back as per protocol, glancing through the canopy on impulse to spy the lights of the carrier on his nose before returning to the lowly lit gauges of the panel.

Descending at a rate of four thousand feet per minute until he reached five thousand feet altitude, steady handed and attentive, Ice checked in the moment he reached platform on the indicated channel.

“Approach, one-zero-four, platform, eighteen miles, 6.2.” He relayed that he’d reached five thousand feet altitude and his distance from the carrier, as well as his fuel level.

“Voodoo one-zero-four, roger.” The response crackled back over the radio, the officer over the radio's tone was certain and crisp, “Final bearing three-three-one.

“One-zero-four.” Ice acknowledged, dropping his descent rate to two-thousand feet per minute until he reached until twelve hundred feet altitude.

At ten nautical miles Ice reduced his speed down to one hundred twenty-one KTS, still remaining level at twelve hundred AGL. Upon reaching eight miles Iceman began to configure for landing without need for Approach to transmit dirty-up, he was already extending landing gear, tailhook, and full flaps, then slowing down to ON-SPEED angle of attack.

“Mustang to Voodoo one-zero-four, lock-on six miles, say needles.” Approach came over the radio again once Ice hit six miles.

Easily evaluating the colours of The Long Range Laser Lineup System, seeing his position was low and to the left, Iceman replies with, “Fly up and right.”

“One-zero-four, concur, fly mode 2.” Approach directed concisely.

“One-zero-four.” Ice said back whilst adjusting the position of the plane at the agreement from Approach, watching the slow flashing red light switch over to a steady amber one.

At four miles from the carrier, Approach again came over the radio, “Mustang to Voodoo one-zero-four, approaching glidepath, begin descent.”

“One-zero-four.” Ice replied back, bringing his descent down to seven hundred feet per minute to remain on glideslope.

“One-zero-four, you're paddles contact,” Came the Landing Signal Officer over the comms just as Ice was approaching ¾ mile point, “Approaching centreline… You're on centreline, three quarter mile, call the ball.”

“One-zero-four, Tomcat, Ball, 6.0.” Ice called the ball, relaying exactly as procedure dicatated.

“Roger Ball, twenty-five knots, starboard.” The LSO answered back, the voice clearly heard despite the subtle crackles and soft hisses throughout the transmission, with the report of wind speed over deck and its direction.

Inside half a mile, Ice received more direct instruction from the LSO, “You’re high, bring it down…”

Adjusting accordingly and with practised ease, or so much ease that came with landing on the carrier well after nightfall, not that there was too much that needed correcting from the LSO, Ice still followed every instruction to the letter. No further directions came from the LSO after the correction was made thus he continued forwards.

Bringing the plane in for the landing, the moment he made touchdown aiming to hook the third wire, Ice pushed to full throttle and retracted the speed brakes in anticipation of a bolter. Never be assured of an arrested landing was what they were taught, in case the tailhook missed getting caught in the spaghetti and had to take off again it was better to be at speed in order to ensure they didn't end up in drink rather than back in the air.

Moving with the jolt that shot him forwards and had him straining against his straps when the tailhook caught the arresting wire, he maintained power. When he felt the aircraft come to a complete stop and caught the signal from the yellow jacket on the deck armed with an AMBER wand, only then did Ice cut the power back to idle thrust and allow the plane to be pulled back by the wire until it was released. Following the further instructions by the flight deck crew and watching them communicate with each other so they could allow him to taxi to a parking location.

Once the aircraft was chained down to the deck near the bow of the carrier and Ice received the tie downs in place signal, he and Slider opened the canopy and unstrapped. A blue light was immediately shined by the plane captain on the ladder that had been unfolded by one of the flight deck crew so they could descend and see where to place their feet when they did so.

A fall from that height was significant and could cause injury which held the potential for it to be serious enough to ground a pilot or radio-intercept officer who misstepped and fell. From an intense jarring to possible fractures and breaks if one managed to land on their feet, worse if one fell on their backs or sides from that height. Which was why the light was provided with the swift accuracy the flight deck personnel always operated under.

“Woo!” Came an excited yet subdued hollar came from Slider, this late in the night wasn't the time for shouting, as he stood in the back and threw one leg over the side to begin stepping down, “There's a different sort of rush to night hops. Nice job, Ice.”

“It's not my first instruments-only landing.” Iceman said, trying to distract from the fact he had yet to follow his RIO’s example in deplaning, even though the other was halfway descended down.

“I know.” Slider replied, his feet thumping down on the deck and he stepped away to allow room for his pilot to drop down next to him.

Seeing he would be waiting a moment as Ice wasn't right behind him as he thought, he called up when he saw Ice’s leg just swing over the side of the plane to step down, “But that was the smoothest one yet, so nice job, pilot.”

Ice couldn't help the smile that drew up the sides of lips, hearing the genuine expression of praise through Slider’s own smile despite the irony of his RIO calling an arrested landing ‘smooth’, yet he didn't make a comment back.

Focussing instead on keeping his shaking legs as steady as he could and his feet firmly on the rungs, feeling the muscles of his legs bouncing involuntarily along his thighs and calves to the point he was cautiously ensuring he kept three points of contact at all times on the ladder. Descending down at a more sedate pace than the other man had, which had Slider’s brow furrowing touch at the odd slowness to his pilot’s self-assured pace.

Yet case three landings were always a more arduous task upon any pilot, this Slider knew. Those sort of recoveries were more mentally taxing, as they required a greater degree of focus, accuracy, and precision with only the guidance of their instruments and the directions of the LSO to bring the jets down safely. With very little to zero visibility about their surroundings depending upon the fullness of the moon and the amount of cloud cover. During normal landings, it was like attempting to land on a moving postage stamp in the middle of the ocean whilst flying in at 172 miles an hour, now factor in darkness to it which added another degree of difficulty.

It was terrifying as it was exhilarating to be able to execute, and it took a damn good pilot to be able to accomplish it.

Thus it hadn't surprised Slider in the least when it’d been them assigned to the night patrols for the next three nights whilst the other driver and RIO pairs would be alternating night hops with day ones. His pilot was just that good.

Although it didn't mean his driver was immune to the effects of the strenuous landings. Despite tonight's hop having been uneventful and the trap having been one of the levelest ones yet, it was still stressful to accomplish and it’d only been a little over twenty-four hours since that dogfight with the MiGs.

There was a strain upon all the aviators due to the recent engagement and the tensions the hostile dogfight had caused throughout the fleet. Although the SS LAYTON had been recovered and rescue went off with hardly a hitch due to the MiGs being distracted by the USS ENTERPRISE's Tomcats, there hadn’t been any true respite after the initial celebration.

Wondering if the recent action would ignite anything further, for wars and skirmishes never began with predictability. It felt as if everyone was awaiting the other foot to drop, whether that would be further trouble or things continuing to run smoothly, if not routinely, Slider wasn't certain. Just as most of the carrier’s occupants were.

They’d just have to weather the best they could whilst doing as ordered and completing their duties. Didn't mean they had to necessarily do it alone however, for what we're friends for if not embracing the sucky situations together?

Thus if Ice was a bit shaky after this hop, then so be it, Slider not only understood, but would leave his long time friend to stick it out by himself.

Feeling his RIO clap him on the shoulder as Ice dropped down onto the deck, he wavered only slightly with one hand still on the ladder. Ice noted the grip was bit too firm for it to have been a mere congratulatory slap, and he internally chided himself for thinking Slider wouldn't have noticed a deviation in his behaviour. Especially when night hops usually had him relishing in the challenge and eager to further prove his skills in handling an aircraft, leaving him feeling invigorated and proud.

He hadn't felt this exhausted nor shaky since the completion of his very first night trap on a carrier. But Slider didn't give voice to any questions of his well-being, only offering a nod when Ice had glanced at his RIO’s face to which he returned the gesture and he felt Slider’s hand fall away from his shoulder.

They walked off the flight deck into the internals of the ship in silence, companionable albeit sedated. Iceman wasn't the only one feeling the late hour and the stress of the mission hardly twenty-four prior, despite his outward appearance. He would be glad to shower off and return to his rack to sleep until breakfast. Which seemed to be what his pilot longed for as well, not that Ice was too talkative after a hop anyway. Even without the added strain from yesterday.

Slider had come to learn that his pilot preferred to analyse and categorise elements from the flight, whether it was a routine hop to a planned mission to an impromptu alert. Those minutes allotted between deplaning to debrief, Iceman preferred to spend in silence, or as much as he was able to, to ensure he combed over the details himself before having to give a report and be given instruction and grade in the debrief. Thus Slider kept his chatter minimal to none post-flights.

A pattern they had long developed and fallen into when they became pilot RIO team. Spending near countless hours around one another at the academy into flight training and further onto deployments tended to give insight into each other's quirks, habits, idiosyncrasies, and preferences. It was hard not to pick up on them, and find workarounds or accommodations for one another.

Just as Slider knew Iceman needed quiet after a flight until they debriefed and tried to ensure they could so his pilot could organise his thoughts. Iceman knew Slider needed energetic release of any pent up energy, yet hated to do so alone, thus Ice accompanied him to bars or on runs when stationed on base, or to the gym or wardroom at odd hours during deployment.

The sound of running water from where the showers could be heard by the time Slider and Ice arrived at the lockers to shed and stow their gear. Seems their wingman and his RIO didn't waste any time dressing down and jumping into the shower, likely of a similar mindset of wanting to hurry to debrief so they could catch a few hours sleep before breakfast. Or perhaps even to see if there was anything from midrats worth pilfering from the mess.

“Think the wardroom has anymore of those cinnamon rolls left?” Slider asked, oddly mirroring a thread of Ice’s thoughts, unclasping the straps on his helmet to remove it and running a hand through his hair to liven it up again after it spent the last hour and half squished within the confines of his helmet.

“We’ll have to wait until after the briefing to check.” Ice replied, his helmet already off and seated on the bench beside them, as he went about unbuckling his harness at the upper chest then middle, loosening it until it came undone before unzipping down the front and working to pull it down so he could step out of it.

Slider was doing the same beside him by the time he asked, “Feeling hungry too?”

“No.” Ice was now bent over pulling at the zips on the legs of his g-suit when he answered, his harness off and resting on a hook to his left, “But it's on the way back to our quarters so I don't mind coming with you.”

“C’mon, it's not like they have them everyday.” Slider turned to hang up his own harness, talking whilst he bent at the waist to begin removing his g-suit, “Or even every month. We should enjoy them while they last.”

“I don't really like sweets.” Ice countered, which drew a sharp snort from Slider and had Ice angling a confused glare at his RIO.

“I know that’s bullshit.” Slider retorted, turning his head to shoot his pilot a look of sharp disbelief, “Like you don't try to lift as many chocolate chip cookies you can from the mess whenever they serve them.”

The pilot raised his head enough to look his RIO in the eye, “Chocolate is different.”

Rolling with eyes, Slider scoffed to cover a laugh at the tone of the statement rather than the actual words themselves, but had to concede Ice’s point, “Fine. Chocolate is different, but that doesn't erase the fact you didn't eat much before we went up.”

A half-hearted shrug preceded Ice’s words, nonchalant and matter-of-fact, as he returned to unzipping his g-suit from round his lower legs and thighs, “I wasn't all that hungry.”

“And you're still not?” Slider asked, a tad incredulous, which was laced through his tone as it was hinted at across his face, “The last time you ate was around seventeen hundred yesterday with Maverick, Merlin, and I.”

It's been the usual fair for dinner, nothing special or really noteworthy. Neither was it exactly fresh for just because this was their new posting ( for now that was ) , the carrier was still several days out from a resupply. Powdered and reconstituted, or thawed then cooked, with fruit that was beginning to brown and bruise. Thus it had been normal, but Slider hadn't seen Ice eat with any reluctance then. None of them had. Especially when they needed the energy and he and Ice had been expected in the ready room within the hour.

Then Slider and Ice had bid the other Pilot / RIO team good night to go to the preflight briefing and then had been occupied with the briefing schematics, tactics, and checklists right up until Ice signalled to the yellow jacket they were ready for take off with a thumbs up and a salute. Then they were catapulted off the carrier, going from stationary to 150 mi/h in hardly two seconds and into the air. Their minds then occupied with solely completing their flight.

Ice sighed, closing the temporary locker after putting his helmet inside, leaning against it a fraction, he turned to look at Slider, “I’ll eat at breakfast, but right now I just want to do the debrief then sleep.”

Slider paused with his g-suit in his hands after unbuckling the last clasp from around his abdomen to stare at his pilot, taking a moment's consideration of the other man before he nodded, “All right. Fine. I’ll lay off.”

Another sigh, this one softer than the last, came from Ice, “I didn't mean…”

“No, I get it.” Slider intercepted the other's explanation, his tone less clipped than it had been a moment prior, because he did understand, even if he didn't like the idea of it, sometimes sleep was needed before one could eat, “I really do, Ice. It's fine.”

“Thanks.” Ice said after a pause, accepting the validity of Slider’s words, with a grateful upturn of his lips to which his RIO returned and they both turned back to dressing down from their flight gear.

Their lockers clinked shut a few minutes later in near tandem with one another, and they both headed towards the ready room for the debrief.

...

Returning to their shared room, Iceman and Slider tried to keep quiet as they readied for bed. Stowing their toiletries bags and unlacing their boots before dressing down from their flight suits to pyjamas. Or rather the symbolance of them since Slider forwent any form of shirt and simply slipped on a pair of grey sweats whilst Ice threw a blue ‘NAVY’ embossed t-shirt over his head after shedding his usual shirt he wore underneath his flight suit and a pair of black sweats.

Mindful of their slumbering bunk mates, each moved about quietly but with an easy swiftness that bespoke to the many times they have done such a routine. Despite this carrier not being their prior nor permanent posting, this portion of naval life was routine even when the rest was varied.

Yet none were infallible, no matter how well a routine is known or number of times done, so when Slider went to slip off his socks and accidently kicked his foot into his locker’s door, causing it to clatter then slam closed in accompany you his bit off curse this shattering the relative quiet of their room. A pair of grumbles came from the two other racks, unfavourable epithets falling from sleep laden voices as the noise managed to rouse both Maverick and Merlin.

“Trying to sleep through your fucking landing isn't enough, you have to wake us in here too?” Maverick grumbled, his face half smashed into his pillow when he rolled over in an vain attempt to escape the disturbance.

“Oh you mean you didn't ask for the 0330 wake up call?” Slider quipped back, although his voice was pitched low to combat his earlier clamour.

“Fuck you.” Maverick lifted his face from his pillow a fraction so he could snap back, yet the heat he placed behind the words was dulled by the sleep-rough quality of his voice.

The retort only caused Slider to laugh softly, which in turn spurred another mumbled ‘fuck you’ from the others’ racks, but this time it was indistinguishable as to which had repeated the sentiment since it sounded muffled by a pillow or blanket, or perhaps the other pilot and RIO had said it in stereo. Slider wasn't certain, but it had him laughing all the more as he made to jump up onto his rack above Ice’s before anything could be thrown at him for his laughter.

Ice was already in his rack, laid down on his side with his blanket pulled up over his shoulders. He faced away from the room, Slider noted as he stepped up, mindful of where his pilot’s limbs were, to heft himself one-handedly up onto his own rack. Settling on the standard issued mattress and underneath his own blanket, turning to face away from the room just as Ice had.

Quiet, or as quiet as it could become in the belly of an aircraft carrier, once again descended upon their quarters, the shuffling dying down as everyone found a position that was comfortable. The only noise was the subtle rushing of the pipes and mechanical operations of the carrier amidst the occasional background clatter of the night crew.

“Do I smell cinnamon?” Maverick suddenly asked, audibly sniffing and breathing deep.

“No. Go back to sleep.” Slider said, his words a slight garbled and muffled.

“You're eating something.” Came the accusation from Maverick, who was sitting up as much as his rack space would allow, which meant he was leant back on one elbow with his head dipped down a touch.

“So what if I am?” Slider snipped back, clearly having swallowed whatever he’d been eating as his voice came through without any distortion.

“Don't want to share with the rest of us, Slider?” Although it was structured as a question, Maverick’s tone suggested it should be a given, “That's cruel to bring dessert in here without sharing, especially since you woke us up.”

“I second that.” Merlin sleepily chimed in, awake enough to wonder what sweets had been prepared in the galley and to partake of any that may be shared, if Slider were so generous.

Slider scoffed, “You guys are horrible, I saved something from midrats to have after flying and you both are after it.”

“Just tell us what it is.” Mav quipped, not necessarily irritated as he was excited over finding out what it was.

“It’s a cinnamon roll. The cooks made some early for midrats.” Ice's tiredly pitched voice came from where he was laying on side facing away from them on his rack, purposefully omitting the detail that Slider hadn't saved it from his midnight rations but that he had gone back to snag a second one after their hop, “Can we all go to sleep now?”

“Traitor.” Slider tossed down at the rack below his, but it held no real heat behind it, before he addressed the other two occupants in the room, “See? You’ll get yours in the morning so lay off mine.”

“Cinnamon rolls?” Maverick’s voice audibly brightened before deepening down into a grumble, “But wait, that means you get two, one now and in the morning with breakfast.”

“I’m not sharing.” Slider said at the same time as Iceman groused something inaudible into his pillow that sounded vaguely threatening despite no words being intelligible.

“Fine.” Mav conceded with a look over the edge of his rack down at Ice’s before turning over to face the bulkhead whilst Merlin made a huffing noise from below that sounded like a cross between a muffled laugh and a scoff of indigence.

A beat of silence followed by a brief shuffling from Slider’s rack before something wrapped in plastic hit Maverick square in the back. Grunting, Mav flipped around, an expression of ire blossoming across his features aimed directly across the way at Slider until his hands felt the item that had been thrown at him. It was an unopened package of jelly beans.

“Share those with Merlin and leave me and my cinnamon roll alone.” Slider said in a way of explanation, then he as well turned over onto his other side to face away from the room and create the basis of a barrier between it and his half finished dessert.

The wording of that sentence had Maverick snorting, unable to conjure any words against the imbalance of the substitute. Jelly beans didn't hold a candle to a cinnamon roll, but sugar was sugar, and technically Maverick didn't have any leg to stand on when it came to demanding Slider to share. Especially not when he and Merlin had split a Mars bar he’d won off of another pilot when Slider and Ice had gone to preflight.

Not that Slider needed to know that.

Tearing open the small packet, Maverick shook out a few into his hand before closing it and shifting on his rack until he was able to lean over the side. Extending his arm down towards where Merlin lay in his own rack under his, he gave the packet a small shake whilst making a ‘psst’ hiss to ensure he caught the RIO’s attention.

“Thanks.” Merlin’s voice trailed up, pitched low, likely in diffidence to Iceman who was still turned away and probably already asleep, and Maverick heard the plastic wrapping crinkle as Merlin grabbed it.

Maverick released his own hold of the pouch to let Merlin have it, only then he shifted away from the edge to lay back himself. Rising his hand to his lips to pop a few of the candies into his mouth, uncaring if the flavours mixed together in odd combinations across his tongue. And they wouldn't keep until morning without anything to store them in so he might as well finish them now.

Thus fell asleep with the artificial flavours of cherry, cotton candy, and a conglomerate of sugary tartness that were less potent than the former ones thus left indescribable.

TBC.

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innocentlymacabre · 1 year

Text

Anna, Version One

tw: suicide mention (not acted on), alcohol, OD mention (not acted on)

Before we begin, I should make it clear that this story takes place in the early 1960s, when aeroplane rules were a lot laxer. One could brandish a cigar, or holster a pistol, or even brandish a cigar while holstering a pistol. Now, consider if you will, the thoughts of one James Augustus McCoy, as he goes airborne in a helm of metal, held together by nothing more than nuts and bolts, and is rocketed to well over twenty thousand feet in the sky, at speeds faster than any other passenger vehicle can even attempt. His nightmare treads the razor edge between the possibility that it’s merely James’ psyche feeling especially cruel, or that what he thinks he sees hanging off the edge of the plane is real.

ONE

“Okay men, we have a problem,” Jerry Cramer began, addressing the room of three carefully selected candidates: Phil Digby, Luke Kendrick, and James McCoy. “The Swiss are backing out of the deal. Staying neutral as ever, those tricky bastards.”

“Of course they are,” Digby chimed in. James had never particularly liked him. Kind of a kiss-ass and didn’t do his job particularly well. Digby didn’t know it, but the only reason he was on this little team was because they needed a fall guy if everything went belly-up.

“Goes against who they are or some other crap probably,” Kendrick barked through a cigarette. “Knew it was risky to go into business with them.” James didn’t fall for his gangster façade, but he liked the man. He did his job and was bloody good at it.

“Be that as it may,” Cramer said, regaining control of the room, “we’ve got to get this sorted out. James, I need you on the next flight to Switzerland. Talk to Meyer, get this sorted.”

“Fuck, you got me flying again? Kendrick. Kendrick will go, he’ll get it done. He knows the deal basically as well as I do. I am not getting on a plane again. I went when we started this thing. My flying is done.”

“Said it yourself, James – you started it, we need you to finish it. “Basically as well” isn’t the same as as well. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Just get there.”

“Fuck me,” James sighed. “I’m flying first class and not paying for anything. The company’s paying for the entire trip.”

“Done,” Cramer said looking satisfied with himself.

“Can’t believe I’ve got to go back. Damn Swiss need to learn how to finally pick a side.”

“Hey, hey, it won’t be that bad. Just get on the plane and try to go to sleep. You can’t be scared if you’re not awake,” Anna suggested.

“I don’t know.”

“Look, it’s not as if you’ve got much of a choice anyway. Best to just get it done and over with.”

James snorted but ultimately resigned to his fate.

“Good man. Call me when you land. And hey, remember to pack socks – you always forget to take them and end up with one pair for the entire trip.”

“Oh, good one. Thanks, honey,” James said, breaking away from selecting a shirt to reach for his sock drawer.

“Oh, and take a few cigars from the bar – the good ones – for your meeting. You don’t want to show up to one of these things empty handed. They’ll chew you up and send you packing.”

James nodded, not stopping to question his wife’s advice for a moment. He wasn’t sure what knowledge she drew on when she gave him advice, but she was never wrong. She was also a lot more confident and open than most other women. She spoke her mind and she spoke frankly and didn’t give a damn about who knew. It was one of the best things about her and was what made James fall in love with her all those years ago.

He made a mental note to grab the cigars on his way out and headed into the bathroom to pack his toothbrush. He very well could have used the one in the hotel, but James preferred his own. He took it out of the cabinet and placed it in a small pouch, then cleared the rest of the cabinet out and took a step back. James took a deep breath, then quietly locked the door before turning back to face the cabinet once again.

Another deep breath later, he reached forward and carefully scaled the back of the cabinet, feeling for the loose part of the wood where the back gave away to reveal a small, secret compartment. This was the one thing in his life that Anna didn’t know about. They shared everything else with each other, but this compartment was only his. And it had to be. If Anna knew what he kept in there, all she would do is worry.

James wiped the unconscious sweat starting to form on his temple, then reached for the 9mm. He checked to make sure the safety was on and that it wasn’t loaded, then placed it at the bottom of the pouch along with its clip. He replaced the false back and quickly restocked the cabinet, then sat down on the toilet seat.

He didn’t know why he carried it every time he flew. Maybe it was because he wanted to go out on his own terms. If the plane was going down, he was damned if he was going to let the fire get him – he’d shoot himself and that would be the end of it. But then again, Anna always liked to point out that things are often more complicated than they seem; maybe there was some other reason he took it with him. Either way, the 9mm was James’ constant companion throughout his aerial adventures.

TWO

James walked out onto the tarmac, dragging a suitcase behind him. Donning a bespoke black suit, he did his best to give off his signature don’t-fuck-with-me look, but a million alarms were going off inside his head. He gingerly ascended the steps, pausing at the top and leaned against the frame, taking deep breathes to calm himself down.

An old man in line behind him tapped him on the shoulder, “Scared of flying?”

“Yep.”

“Me too. But my daughter’s getting married, so,” the man replied with a shrug.

“Congratulations,” came James’ warbled reply.

“Don’t worry, take your time. I get it.”

James gave the old man a smile from over his shoulder by way of reply. He took a few more deep breathes to steady himself, then entered the plane. He clambered over to his seat, helpfully in the front, and began furiously strapping himself in, tightening the seat belt as far as it would go. He clung nervously to both armrests, staring out of the window at the men loading the luggage into the cargo hold below.

He wondered what would happen to the poor soul who accidentally wound up stranded in the hold, perhaps adjusting a bag at the back or correcting the fastening on one he noticed on his way out, the others oblivious to his absence. The hold door would shut and he would scream and shout, trying to alert the others to the situation, but no one would hear him over the roar of the plane engines. Then the plane would take off and he would hold on to some strap, some bag, something, for a while, but his arms would eventually grow tired and he would succumb to his fate. He would be tossed around from side to side, smashing into the cargo as he went. When the plane finally lands, they’d find him dead in a pool of his own blood, his body and bones shattered beyond hope of creating even a semblance of the man before.

James shook his head clear; he mustn't think of such things. Especially when there was so much else that could much more easily go wrong. The plane could lose connection with ground control, their frequency could be hijacked, turbulence might toss them abou-

No!

He stopped his thoughts midway once again, turning his attention to the other passengers filing in. James had a habit of making short mental notes of the people he was going to be around for any extended period; it made him feel more secure.

Naturally, first class was mostly solitary Swiss and Britons, most likely travelling for work. James could make out a banker by the way he was reading the business section of the newspaper and a lawyer who was working on the contents of a manilla file labelled HARVEY SAWYER VS KURT WAGNER. Other than that, it was anyone’s guess. There was one couple, but thankfully no child. James absolutely detested crying infants, and more so on planes. Their accents sounded like they were Polish. Oh, Poland – a tragedy if there ever was one. Bet no one saw that coming.

James caught himself drifting to death once again and decided there was nothing more he could do. He drained the small plastic bottle from the seat pocket in front of him and pulled his nightcap down. If things were going to go wrong, he'd rather go in his sleep, instead of having to face the danger head-on. With that in mind, he popped another one of Anna’s sleeping pills in, hoping he wouldn't hit the OD limit, and swallowed it dry.

Ten minutes later he wasn't feeling any sleepier, so he resigned to his fate and reached for the Daily Mirror dutifully placed in front of him. He glanced fleetingly at the date — Thursday, February 16th, 1961 — as if to confirm that he really was having to suffer through this nightmare and read the front page.

Bad move.

The top story read "Eight Hours to Live" and was about the United States ice-skating team. Their plane crashed and exploded, killing all seventy-two passengers and crew. James's stomach tightened at the same time as the rest of his muscles loosened, almost as if they were giving up.

They were just kids, none of them more than twenty years old. Their entire lives ahead of them. But they had been snatched up by the brethren of the very thing he now entrusted his life to.

When his body finally reverted to normal, James got up to go to the bathroom, thinking a cold splash of water would help him. He picked out a small kit from his bag in the overhead compartment and made his way down the aisle.

He walked slowly, each step taken deliberately after due forethought. He was quivering with fright, with half his body poised to jump right back into his seat at a moment’s notice the entire time.

James stood by the sink and gripped the edges with both hands, staring directly at his reflection. His eyes, while usually brown, were now a disorienting shade of red. The shock sent him back a few stumbled paces, knocking him into the toilet. He steadied himself with an outreached arm, leaning on the counter, once again staring at the red-eyed lookalike in front of him. James could see the veins popping out of his forehead, crossing over and under each other, throbbing dangerously hard, feeling like they were about to rip themselves out of his body. He shuddered, suddenly feeling very cold, and wrapped his arms around his body tightly, trying to drown out the noise of the cabin and focus on his own breathing.

He doused his face with water and looked up again. His face seemed back to normal. No more red eyes. He took slow, deep breaths as he stood in the small, closet-like cabin in a contraption held together by nuts and bolts at a lethally scary height, desperately trying to forget the fact.

He opened his kit and pushed the toothbrush to the side, his hand curling around the 9mm. He sat on the toilet and stared at its pure black body gleaming in the drowsy yellow light of the cubicle. It would be so easy to just pull down on the little piece of metal and end this misery. He’d never have to fly again, never have to endure this twisted form of torture again. He quickly shook his head clear of these thoughts though and put it back.

He had performed this routine every time he'd flown, never once going beyond just looking at the gun. Sometimes he wondered why he simply didn't leave it at home if he was never going to use it. For reasons he didn't really know himself though, he always kept it back in.

He had actually made it all the way to the taxi without it once, and as he sat in the car, James breathed a sigh of relief, thinking his fear had finally been washed away. But the moment he could no longer see his house in the rear-view mirror, he told the driver to turn back around and had dashed in to grab it.

The moment James returned to his seat, the seat belt sign lit up, and the captain's voice came crackling through the PA system.

"Passengers, this is your captain speaking. We seem to be experiencing some mild turbulence. Nothing to be afraid of, but I'm going to have to ask you all to return to your seats and strap in, nevertheless.” Then, after a beep, “Cabin crew, please take your positions."

"Nothing to be afraid of..." James muttered under his breath. He'd decide that for himself, thank you very much. And he decided there was something to be afraid of and tightened the seat belt until it was pressing into his stomach, set his seat upright, and pulled up the window shade. His head lolled to the side as he stared unseeingly out of the window, his mind wandering all over the place. The pills seemed to finally be working and James did nothing to stop it — he needed to at least mentally get out of there.

The flash from a jolt of lightning snapped him back to the present. He jerked his head towards the window and froze almost instantly. There was a man hanging onto the wing, clinging for his life.

He swayed up and down and side to side, slamming into the wing over and over again. The man feverishly clawed his way forward, as if he saw the tiny window as some form of solace. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly but James couldn't make out any of the words he was saying.

James frantically called the air hostess over.

"Man... wing... lightning... window."

He had trouble forming full sentences, producing only fragments accompanied by frenzied arm movements. When the air hostess finally came to his side, the only thing there was to see outside the window were a few clouds, lazily drifting along the night sky. The steward looked at him with a mixture of concern and confusion and asked if James wanted anything.

"A gin and tonic,” he decided. “Four parts gin." If drugs didn't cut it, alcohol would have to.

Lightning flashed outside again, and the figure had re-appeared. Only this time it wasn't the same person. He took a closer look at the figure in peril and paled when he realised who he was.

"Anna..."

No. No, it couldn't be. Not his Anna. James inched closer to the window, hoping, praying, pleading it wasn't her. Oh, but it was.

No. No, it wasn't. It was just a figment of his imagination. He wouldn't call for help again. He watched helplessly as she was tossed around like the man before her; he watched with desperation as she too tried to make her way forward. But the winds were not as merciful as last time. They did not allow her to make her way to the window as her predecessor had. James was even ready to break it himself and tug her in. But no. The winds picked her up, bashed her against the body of the plane, and sent her downwards, barrelling towards the ground to grant her a fate much like that of the lost cargo man.

Desperately, James called for the air hostess again but didn't even try to offer an explanation this time. He just sat there, curled up in his seat, clinging to his sides. The air hostess — Claudia, her name was — draped a blanket over him and brought him a warm cup of tea, telling him it would help with the nerves.

Needless to say, it didn't, but James fell asleep soon after that, his body finally buckling under the stress it had been handling.

Just under an hour later, Claudia gently woke James up from his pool of sweat and told him they were preparing for landing. He had made it, but felt like some part of him had died up there anyway.

THREE

He checked in at the reception and asked for his bag to be sent up to his room. He told the receptionist he was expecting someone by the name of Leon Meyer and to send him to the rooftop restaurant when he came, then headed there himself. James had been to loads of these meetings-that-weren’t-really-meetings, but he never failed to enjoy one. He never really had a taste for boring board room meetings with drab presentations and subpar food. As soon as James hit the big leagues, he went exclusively to these ones at lavish restaurants with expensive champaign and caviar and clever segues into business deals.

“No clever segues this time,” he corrected himself. This meeting was purely about getting the Swiss back on board as soon as they could.

The lift dinged and opened right onto the restaurant, greeting James with the overwhelming scents of sausages, meatballs, pastas, and beers. It was a purposely small place, designed to look and feel ultra-exclusive, only five tables across. James was shown to the one he had reserved from back home, then began taking in his surroundings, repeating his exercise of making mental notes of who he was sharing a room with.

He decided to start at the far end of the restaurant and work his way towards himself, then beyond. At the very end, overlooking the city below, sat a man that looked like he belonged in a Roald Dahl book. A rather heavyset man, he was stirring a cup of tea with his left hand and riffling through a paper set on the table with the other. He boasted a thick moustache and gave his left hand the occasional break to twirl its end. James watched him for about five minutes but didn't once see him take a sip of the tea.

At the table next to him, sat a man of quite the opposite build. He was tall and wiry, as if the wind may carry him away at a moment's notice. He had a large pitcher next to him, but regarded it with a certain air of suspicion, as if he didn't trust the waiter that brought it to him. Instead, he focused his attention on the fish in front of him. James scowled at the appalling pairing.

The next table was him. He had arrived a bit earlier than their meeting time, but Meyer was now ten minutes late and he didn't particularly like his lack of professionalism. He noted that with some bitterness, then continued with his observations.

Next to him sat a couple on their honeymoon by the looks of it. James guessed either rich parents or incredible luck, or perhaps some combination of the two. They ate out of each other’s plates and settled in an eternal embrace that they didn't seem to be coming out of any time soon.

Finally, with a view of the other end of the city, sat two men thoroughly engrossed in their conversation. They spoke in hushed tones and had barely touched the food in front of them; by the looks of it, weren't planning on at all.

James had just made this last observation when Leon Meyer finally walked in. Dressed in a crisp blue suit, he walked quickly, maintaining his air of bravado nonetheless. James saw him and waved him over.

"Sorry I'm late, James. There was a mess at the office I had to deal with."

James had long learned the art of fake politesse and called upon it once more. "No problem, Leon." Then, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat, "Gave these a little more time to mature," he said, placing a wooden cigar box engraved with his initials on the table.

Meyer gave James a look of appreciation and eagerly took one, chopping the end off with the cutter also from the box, and produced a lighter from his pocket for the two of them.

"Look, Leon," James began. "I respect you and your company enough to skip the usual formalities and just get right to it. What's the problem with the deal? We drafted it after weeks of meetings and made it beneficial to both companies. Yours actually stands to benefit more than ours." Most of what he said wasn't true, but James saw no harm in slipping the little details in. Anything to tip the scales.

"James, I like you. I do. But the boss changed his mind. Here," he said, opening his briefcase and pulling out a file. "We've drafted another deal." He pushed the folder across the table.

James took it and pulled a pen out from his coat, ready to amend the document. They went back and forth for a while, each cancelling out the other's changes until they reached a mutually agreeable middle ground.

The technical term for what conspired would be “price fixing”, but James preferred to think of it as simply allowing British products complete freedom in the British market. They celebrated their new agreement with expensive champaign and admittedly fantastic lobster.

“Thank god the company's paying for everything,” James thought.

Thanks for reading! You can read the full story for as little as $0.86! Why not a full dollar? Because my sense of humour is in need of serious medical attention and I think this would be funny.

This is my first pay-what-you-want project and I really, truly hope it goes well! With the holiday season upon us, it would make a great (print-ready) gift too. Thanks for all your support :)

taglist (ask to be added/removed!): @caspersgraveyard @zephsthings @mujhe-rone-do @shikayatein

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jeniffercheck · 2 years

Text

don’t you blame me (if i get carried away)

a/n: i was listening to ‘home team’ by indigo de souza and started to feel feelings about greta gill ✨ CWs & details under the cut

words: 4k

read here or on ao3

Imagined character study AU based on the moment where Greta tells Carson about Dana and says, “I was fine.”

CW: Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Disordered Eating, Homophobia, Slurs

“I knew I was ready to stop going steady, when the home team was losing 20 to 1.

I just really don’t give a shit about the score on the scoreboard—

Please, Lord.

Please, Lord.”

—

“Girls can’t play ball.”

The statement is sharp, like a thousand cuts. It pricks her like pins and needles, slowly fragmenting pieces of her heart until numbing out into a dull pain, never present but always there.

She shouldn’t question her father. She knows this; nothing good ever comes of it.

“Why not?” she asks. “It’s a team just for girls. They’re starting a few in the area and they’re going to have games and everything. Joey already made the team—”

“If Josephine DeLuca is the kind of girl they’re letting on the team, you’re especially not playing.”

“What’s wrong with Jo?”

She doesn’t know why she asks it. She knows the answer.

“Nothing, dear,” her mother pipes in. “She just has…qualities.”

Qualities. Meaning Joey’s not perfect. Like them. Like her brother. Like how Greta is supposed to be.

She tries to bite her tongue, tries so hard to avoid the interaction that she knows is inevitable, but she can’t help it. She always has to push.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do I need to spell it out for you, Greta?”

Her father’s tone is cautionary. He’s asking her to stop while she’s ahead, to go back to her room to her hairbrush and her etiquette homework and to act as the well-behaved daughter he’s raised her to be.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says it slowly, drawing out each pause and syllable, watching her father’s eyes grow angrier at every consonant until he slams the paper down on the kitchen table.

“I’m not letting you play baseball with a bunch of fucking queers!”

She doesn’t know why she says it, or what becomes of her, but she knows it’s all she has.

“You’re a fucking queer!”

She runs to her room before she has a chance to see his reaction, but the silence is deafening as she waits behind her door, heart pounding.

The rest of the night moves slowly. She hears her brother come home, the plates that rattle as her mother sets the dinner table. The chatter as they eat. She almost thinks her father had been kidnapped and replaced by a man who might take pity on her, allow her a slip-up for once in her life when it passes bedtime and he doesn’t show. It’s then that a soft knock on her door rips her out of her terror and back into the nightmare of reality, and her mother’s voice rings through the wood.

“Your father would like to see you downstairs.”

She waits for her mother’s footsteps to disappear and she counts to thirty, steeling herself for what’s to come.

She finds her father in the living room, cigarette in one hand and cane in the other. Her feet feel like dead weight as she dredges forward, and she wants to stop, wants to run but she can’t, she’s frozen in time, trapped in this moment.

Her father nods and she holds her hands out in front of her, calloused palms facing the pristine, white ceiling.

She stops crying after fifteen, stops counting after twenty, and when she shows up for school the next day barely able to hold a pencil, Joey doesn’t have to ask to know that Greta won’t be playing baseball that year.

iv.

“Your hands are so soft.”

He says it after the game, when the rest of the team has gone and it’s just the two of them in the dugout. Her parents left with her brother and the rest of the team to celebrate. She thought her father would be mad when she asked to go to the game, but then she mentioned that August was back in the lineup and she could see hope ringing in his eyes.

“You hear that, honey?” he’d said to her mother. “Greta’s been asked out by the starting pitcher.”

And now she’s in the dugout with him after the winning game and his lips are all over her neck and his hands are getting increasingly close to her chest, and she wonders if this is all she’s meant for.

“August,” she nearly whispers. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

He pauses for a moment, then smiles slyly with that boyish charm that’s supposed to do something to her and he laughs.

“Are you gonna tell?”

She questions if the other girls find this attractive. If they feel like willing participants rather than just unfortunate bystanders, and she wishes she could tell him to stop, that his sweat is gross and his fastball is slower than Julie’s on the girl’s team and his breath makes her wish she could be anywhere but here—but the words are stuck somewhere between her desires and the truth.

This is her ticket. This is as close as she’ll ever get to a dugout.

She feels his hand cup her breast and wills herself not to cry when he brings his mouth back to hers. She gives away as much of herself as she can; enough to satisfy a growing boy’s hunger, but too much to know she’s too contaminated to ever hope of fulfilling the sanctity of a marriage.

Not that she had any hope. If she doesn’t marry August, she very well might marry no one.

When he’s finished he gives her a kiss on the cheek and smiles, so she smiles back (and because really, he’s so nice to her and she never said no).

Greta thinks you must be able to smell the shame on her because when she returns home for dinner, the only thing her father gives her is a look of disgust and says, “You’re lucky you’re a beautiful girl.”

—and she knows that what he means is no man could ever want her so tainted and no man could ever want her so misbehaved and no man could ever want her because she could never belong to any man. She’s unfit.

But she sure is beautiful.

iii.

She racks her mind trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

She’s in her bedroom, has been for hours, just waiting for her father to come home. She’s run through all of the options in her head, the choices she has left.

She could admit to it and risk getting sent away. She briefly wonders if losing her mind would be better. If they could just drill that tiny hole into her skull and she’d be free from whatever suffering she’s obviously been fated to. Worse, they wouldn’t do the procedure. She could be subject to the other treatments she’s heard about—hot water and buzzing metal—and they all sound so painful.

She thinks about the fact that Dana won’t have a choice.

She feels sick, as the next thought crosses her mind.

She could blame it on Dana. The damage is already done, right? If she just tells her parents that it was Dana, and Dana was trying to pervert her and Greta doesn’t even know how she fell for it then nothing bad has to happen, right?

Except that she’d know that she betrayed Dana. That she wasn’t careful and she got them caught and then blamed it all on her, and everyone in town would know what a freak Dana was, meanwhile Greta would become a martyr. They’d look at her in the halls and they’d say, “Remember what happened to Greta Gill? Watch out for the signs of homosexuality or you could end up like her!”

She could say it was all a big misunderstanding. That she loved August and wanted to marry him but she was nervous about not being good enough. That she wanted to make sure she was perfect. After all, girlfriends can kiss, right? Why would there be any harm in kissing each other if they weren’t perverted, right?

The knob of her door twists. She braces for the worst, hopes for a second that maybe it’s a firing squad just come to put her out of her misery, but she could never be so lucky. Her father enters the room, a neutral expression on his face and she wonders if just this once, the universe has granted her the grace of mercy.

“This is going to cost me a pretty penny to bury, Greta.”

His eyes turn down at her. She shifts in her spot, suddenly unable to come up with any response in regards to her father deciding he was going to bury it. She averts her eyes, wondering if he will bury her too; take down her photos in the house and repaint her bedroom walls and pretend that he never had a daughter named Greta, let alone a daughter at all.

“You’ll be lucky if that girl can’t even remember her own name by the time they’re done with her.”

She looks back up, and his gaze has shifted. He’s looking at her as if he’s bargaining. As if this was an inevitable fact that he always knew. That for all his effort—keeping her from playing baseball, letting her be promiscuous without consequence, not asking questions when she suddenly made a new best friend in the next town over—his little girl could never be what she was supposed to be.

So in that moment, she decides to grant him the grace.

“It was an accident,” she says, voice shaking. “I just got confused.”

Silence. He stares at her for a long time. She wonders what options he went through in his own head, if he came to the same conclusions as her. She wonders if he even cares, or if he just cares that everyone else will care. She wonders if he hates her. He surely does. He has to.

“If you wish to stay here you will go to school, you will come home, and you will continue to see August,” he finally says.

She mulls over the words: if you wish to stay here. She feels as though it’s the illusion of choice. Where else would she go at seventeen and not a dollar to her name? She could run out to the city and become a grifter or a moll, but she’s only been to the city once and she wouldn’t know the first thing about making it out on the streets.

“And you will limit your contact with that… Josephine DeLuca.”

So it’s settled. She’ll finish school and she’ll make a home with August and she’ll live out the rest of her days begging the world for forgiveness for what she’s done to Dana. It’s the least she can do, the only reckoning she can imagine that would account for her deeds.

“The big game is tonight,” he says. “Put on a nice dress. We’re leaving at 5.”

ii.

August had done it. He worked his way through college ball and he made it to the minors; despite the achy shoulder and the fact that he throws more cookies than Greta thought could be possible from a starting pitcher. Greta had stood steadily by in the background the entire time, like the perfect trophy wife everyone knew she was destined to become.

In the beginning, it was easy. Her father had given her a chance. He’d given her so many chances and she continued to abuse them, twisting the goals in her mind so that she could continue to live life on her terms, but the wake-up call rang clearly: there was no life that could be lived under Greta Gill’s terms.

So she played the part.

She got married far too young, and made home with August far too early, and the only saving grace was that August thought he had far too much potential to risk ruining his baseball career over children. She made the argument easy for him; expressing disappointment but supporting his future over hers, like a good wife should. He never questioned her.

Her father had been proud, that first day he visited their home. For a while, she wondered if he would ever be able to look at her the same. If he could just forget about what happened and remember that she was his creation. All of the flesh and blood that made up the deviancy of her soul came directly from him.

She wonders if that scares him.

Now, she’s sitting next to him at August’s final game, in her best dress, and her father is laughing with Jo, something she never imagined in all her years of torment and torture, and she tries to be happy.

Greta is trusted now. She’s a good girl. She’s perfect.

She hears another disappointed shout from the crowd as the opposition’s batter hits the ball way into the outfield, another runner hitting home plate and giving the rest of the players the opportunity to load the bases.

The score is 16-1, and it’s the bottom of the 8th inning.

She eyes Jo, who’s having an in-depth conversation with her father about how the second baseman has been giving up opportunity after opportunity to force an out, and Greta wonders if she can handle this forever.

If she can wake up each morning and kiss August and paint her face as she gets ready to clean the house and prepare for dinner all day. If she can stomach living this lifeless existence until she’s forced to hunker down and have two and a half kids and be stuck with August forever.

The next batter hits a homer. She watches as the score-boy changes the number panels, slowly, agonizingly.

20-1.

She briefly wonders if being seen on August’s arm after this game could be any more embarrassing than being the town queer, and she decides that it can be. That if she has to sit through another baseball game in her life, watching men who couldn’t see a squeeze bunt if it was announced by the hitter himself, she wouldn’t survive.

She watches August wave to the crowd as another round of disgruntled shouts are thrown his way, and she’s unsurprised when a number of audience members shower him in support, even as he’s pitching what will be the most destructive game of his career. That boyish charm had turned into irresistible charisma, and she won’t be surprised when he still talks his way into a Major League spot by the next season.

She’s overcome by the urge to run, and when she excuses herself to the powder room just to be anywhere but watching that game, she has a moment of clarity upon coming across an advert for hair models needed in Boston.

She doesn’t have to settle for this stupid baseball game.

After all, she is a beautiful girl.

She makes the team.

After years of moving and running, mansion hopping in Hollywood and war bride hopping in Fort Worth, she and Jo finally made it to Chicago and they make the team.

They make the team and she’s still nothing but a pretty face.

“Hey, honey, what’s your bra size? Y’know, you’re much prettier than the papers make you sound!”

Greta should bite her tongue, should be a good girl and take it, but if there’s one thing Greta Gill has never done, it’s properly learn a lesson.

“Maybe if you would learn to shut your big, fat mouth!—”

She messes up. She tries so hard to be perfect for the people who want her to be, and then she crumbles under the pressure. Like she always does.

“You’re a bit too much out there,” Vivienne says. “If you could be a little sweeter, a little…less?”

Less?

Her whole life, Greta has been asked to be nothing but more. More kind, more girly, more smart, more submissive; and she realizes it never was more, it always had been less.

Less independent, less assertive, less promiscuous, less unruly. It was a trick, a paradox, the way she would always be too much yet never enough.

She knows she’ll never win.

Making the team was supposed to be everything. It was supposed to be a fuck you to her father, an ode to Dana, a “Look at me now!” to August, a moment to share with Joey—but it’s nothing. She feels nothing.

When she has to wake up hours early on game day to roll her hair and put on a face. When she can’t eat because she might look too bloated for the guys in the stands. They want her to smile just enough, but not too wide. Be approachable, but not too easy. Be competitive, but not too mean.

Play baseball, but not be a baseball player.

And so she does it. She’s exhausted and starving and numb but when she steps out onto that field she is anything but a baseball player.

It nearly breaks her in two when she realizes that it works.

Beverly comes up to her at practice and says she’s been requested on a date.

Requested.

It goes against everything she’s built herself up to be, to bow down to a request, but she’s not Greta Gill anymore. She’s Greta Gill from the Rockford Peaches and she goes on dates with fans when they request it.

She spends the week trying to forget about it. Trying to tell herself that it’s just one date and she’ll be everything this man needs her to be, that she can be perfect for one night.

And then Carson.

Carson with her wide eyes and her goofy wit and her husband.

Greta tries to tell her that marriage doesn’t have to hold her back. She’d escaped from it once; it cost her everything and everyone, but she did it.

Carson tells Greta that she doesn’t understand what it’s like to be tied down to someone else, to have to make decisions that don’t only affect you.

“You don’t get it.”

It makes Greta want to scream because she does get it, by God, does she get it, but she can’t say the words out loud, not in the field, not in front of everyone. She can’t expel a past that she’s tried so hard to pretend doesn’t exist; not while she’s Greta Gill from the Rockford Peaches, at least. And then Jo enters, breaking the tension before Carson could even know that it existed and the moment is gone.

Greta tries again, after the game where they’d finally won after trying so hard and wants to show Carson that she can have this, she can have Greta, but then Carson gets angry in a desperate plea that Greta’s heard so many times before and if she wasn’t broken before then she sure is now.

“I’m not like you. I’m normal.”

It crushes her in ways that the others hadn’t. Carson had told her it was okay to want, and really, she should’ve known better because wanting has only ever led Greta to disappointment.

She does all she’s ever known to do and fires back. She calls Carson an asshole and weaponizes herself, keeping only the best of Greta and pushing the rest deep down inside of her where no one could ever see.

She assigns Carson to the date and she says, “That’s what friends are for, right?” and she pretends that Carson’s looks of hurt do nothing to her because why should they? They’re just friends, right?

Beverly assigns Shirley as well to keep things “non-sexual,” and Greta’s reminded that she’s still not trusted. She’s a pretty face on a vanity baseball team meant to make money off of sleazy men while the real men are off to war, and her job is to keep them satisfied. She realizes that she’s not untrustworthy. She’s exactly what they want.

When Carson says it again, in the bathroom in the middle of the date, Greta finally understands what she means.

“I’m not like you, Greta!”

Carson’s not. Carson settled. She found a man that she loved, and could stomach loving. She had a home, and a family and she was amazing at baseball. Greta never had that. She was born into a life that couldn’t wait to chew her up and spit her out, every chance it got. She was always too much, always wanted too much.

She asked for things she couldn’t receive and then she took them anyway, leaving chaos and destruction behind her at every turn, narrowly escaping the rubble while the people she was supposed to care about suffered in her place.

She finishes the date with a smile on her face, because what else is there for her to do? And when she returns she tells Beverly that she had a lovely night and to pass on the message that the gentleman could request to meet her again at any time, and she hopes that the words are believable enough because as she says them she knows that if she has to go on a date with any man ever again she might just go away and never come back.

The next day she shows up to the game as nothing less than perfect, and she makes her catches and she waves to the stands. As she sits on first base she stares at the scoreboard, willing it to change, to tell her something, to do anything but represent their losses, but by the time they hit the top of the 6th and they’re already losing 4-1, she can’t look at it anymore.

She doesn’t want to win.

(vi.)

“Your hands are so soft.”

Carson doesn’t even realize when she says it, but Greta knows it can’t be true.

Greta’s hands are anything but soft now. It’s the one part of her old self that’s had no choice but to shed; she’s playing baseball for God’s sake. Her hands are going to be rough.

They’re bruised with invisible scars and the calluses are rough and heavy, but her touch is featherlight. She holds Carson like she might have to drop her at any moment, ready to jump apart at the rattle of the doorknob. She won’t be greedy this time, she won’t get caught.

But when Carson uses her own hand to grab Greta’s and pushes—hard —she realizes what Carson means.

She's giving Greta permission to take. She’s letting her want.

So, Greta takes what she can. She takes Carson’s hair into her hands and she takes Carson’s lips into her own, and when she’s ready, she takes all of Carson that she can see, and rides that high until they’re sweaty and panting through incredulous fits of laughter at the fact that they just did that. She’s reconciled with the fact that she may never find permanent love, but she has to imagine that this is what consummation feels like.

When her makeup was just right, and her smile was welcomed, and her body was perfect, and she was just allowed to be wild. Unruly. Full of lust.

She locks eyes with Carson one more time before they leave the bedroom, and she can’t wipe the stupid smile off of her face.

They finished up too late for her to do her hair just right, and the makeup is a little lighter than normal because Carson said, “It’s gonna be dark out anyway,” and Carson Shaw is looking at her like Greta Gill is the most beautiful girl in the world.

She can’t find anything at all that would break her out of the bliss she feels in this moment.

They get to the game and Carson was right, it is too dark under the lights for makeup tonight and as she’s walking out onto the field, she eyes the scoreboard and smirks. She couldn’t care less whether they win or lose.

But somehow, when they realize the Comets are cheating and they could be winning, she cares. She wants this win for Jo and she wants this win for Carson and she wants this win for herself, and finally, the world doesn’t smite her for wanting something for once. On the bus ride home, she locks pinkies with Carson and her heart soars.

She fucking loves baseball.

#greta gill #a league of their own #greta x carson #aloto #jfdkslafjdsklf #enjoy friends #if u hate it dont tell me i dont wanna know #<333333333

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