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ghost-proofbaby · 2 years ago

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twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR FIFTEEN

in which Eddie learns what it means to be honest, and you learn that some answers can only lead to more questions.

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, smut, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ wc: 4.7k+

→ a/n: this chapter is my enemy. that's all. all the homies hate this chapter for the hell it gave me both in writing it and posting it

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

15:00 ────────ㅇ─────── 24:00

SIX MONTHS EARLIER

You were so caught up in your own disappointment, you never saw the flash of recognition that crossed Eddie’s face. Only the anger that followed.

“Is that the dude who stood you up?”

His voice is weak as he asks the question, a breath that barely reaches your ears as you jump at the unexpected proximity.

“What?” you spin around to face him, “Jesus Christ, why are you creeping over my shoulder at my phone? Trying to see who else doesn’t follow me on Instagram?”

He cringes at your bitter tone, all the vodka you’ve turned to venom in your hurt, “You didn’t answer my question – is that him?”

“Why do you care?”

It’s the short version of the real questions binding you. A million different threads of confusion, and each one constricts you tighter than the last, all of them tangling together in the confusion.

Why do you care when you dislike me so vigorously? Why do you care when you’ll only use my answer as ammunition against me? Why do you care to hurt me so badly tonight? Why do you care if Nancy and I are friends? Why do you care to point out how I don’t belong in this group-

“I don’t,” he interrupts your internal panic, pausing the restless twisting of anxious twine.

You take a deep breath, you let your eyes wander over him, taking him in. He’s ditched the soft-spoken act, his voice coming out powerful finally. The confidence is almost overdone; he sounds as if he’s trying to make up for something not there.

You crave for distance to be put between the two of you, but he makes no move to step away as you ask, “Then why do you keep asking me?”

You can’t begin to understand him, completely unsure of where to ever start with the task. He’s a hollow stranger of the man you’d initially met that night in the bar. You’ve seen how he acts with the others, how he treats Nancy like royalty at times and how he’s warm with Argyle. You’ve seen him share joints and laughter alike with Jonathan. It’s hard to miss when he and Steve both begin to get overly passionate about a topic, Robin always finding a way to join in. Eddie is capable of warmth and care, of friendship and genuine love, but not when it comes to you.

“I was just curious, sue me.”

“If I had a good lawyer, I would,” you snap back quickly, patience wearing thin.

It makes him grin – a damn grin. Shit-eating as ever as he replies, “I know a guy if you’d like one,” and he keeps grinning, and you don’t even notice when a line is crossed and that faux glee no longer meets his eyes as he continues, “Speaking of knowing a guy – do you know the guy on your screen?”

The threads are twisting again, and the friction is leaving your blood boiling. “Fucking obviously.”

“Is he the one who stood you up?”

“Fuck off, Eddie.”

You can’t handle this right now. You’re drunk – not so drunk you won’t remember the night, but still damn drunk – and you’re overthinking. Letting the threads cut off circulation to your brain, letting yourself only be consumed with overthinking about your place within the group. You don’t even have the capacity to question why Eddie is so persistent in finding out about the bartender who left you looking like a fool the night before; you miss his genuine, burning curiosity and the anger that still broods in him as your anxiety bubbles up.

Were you and Nancy friends? Maybe Instagram did matter. Surely, she followed everyone else in the group, didn’t she?

“Why won’t you just answer the question? Why are you so damn stubb-”

“You don’t care!” you nearly scream, throwing your hands up in defeat, slamming your phone down onto the counter beside you, “You don’t care, you’ve made that clear, so I don’t understand why you need to hear me say it so fucking badly. Why do you need to hear me admit how pathetic I am? We both know where this is going – I say yes, you use it against me, I end up looking like a fool for a second night in a row,” your chest heaves and your eyes burn, but you won’t look at him. You can’t bear witness to him watching you bleed in the middle of Steve’s kitchen, “I’m not doing it. Not tonight.”

He looks as if you had slapped him. Stunned, aghast, taking a step back to finally give you the space you had so desperately craved. You don’t even really care about it anymore; the damage is done and you’re already spiraling, thanks to him.

“Do you think so little of me?”

His voice is small again. Deceptively soft, a treacherous whisper you know you can’t look into. He’s not really hurt. It’s all probably an act, a guise to get you to play into how he wants the night to go.

“With what you’ve given me to work with?” you scoff, still blinking your eyes rapidly, trying to stave off the waterworks, “Yeah. Yeah, I am starting to think that little of you.”

“Have you considered I was just trying to be friend-”

You’re not sure how his sentence is going to end, whether he would claim to be trying to be friendly or trying to be friends. You’re not sure which one makes you more livid.

It’s the second one. “You just mocked me, made me doubt if I had fucking friends all because of Nancy not following me on Instagram. Don’t you dare say you were trying to be friends with me right now.”

If you were more sober, you would have cursed yourself for blatantly revealing to him that he’d gotten to you. Your wounds were now on display for him, and you stiffened as you realized and awaited the expected handful of salt he’d be rubbing into them.

We thought he wasn’t going to come, so we invited you instead.

The fight’s only just begun and you’ve already lost – not just this battle, but the entire war.

You know they would choose him. If your friends were given the choice between you two, they’d choose him. And it shouldn’t sting, it’s expected given how long the group has known each other, but Eddie’s animosity towards you has done nothing to soothe the ache stirred by that truth. You would never ask them to choose, you know better, but you’ve always known the answer.

It’s him, not you.

“I was joking-”

“No, that was not joking. It wasn’t funny. It was mean.”

Mean, cruel, ruthless. What Eddie did rings sharply in your chest, in your brain that’s currently running on overtime to process your waves of emotions. The threads are so tight, you expect to see a puddle of blood at your feet on Steve and Robin’s kitchen floor.

“As if you’re any better,” he sharply laughs in disbelief, shaking his head, “You want to talk about mean? Let’s talk about my date with Chrissy and you’re fucking fiasco.”

Your stomach drops. The battlefield lurches into uneven ground, because what you did really was unfair. But you had been bitter, and you had been mean, and you had been….

You had been jealous. Jealous not of the romance that was honestly leaving much to be desired between him and Chrissy, but that platonic friendship. The kind you had yet to earn from him. The kind you were starting to doubt if you ever had, genuinely, with the rest of the group.

“I’m-”

“Sorry? Yeah, well, sorry don't make her call me back.”

This is where, if you were speaking with anyone besides Eddie, you offer a real, genuine apology.

But you’re speaking with Eddie. You’re burnt out from a long week, your pride still remains wounded, you’re suddenly questioning if you even have any friends, you’re drunk, and you’re speaking with Eddie.

A genuine apology would be like terrible shards, dredged up your throat and being clung to desperately by your whining pride. You’re bleeding enough as it is without that.

“My apologies, friend. I am so terribly sorry you weren’t able to get your dick wet.”

You both deserved what was coming, really. You deserved it. Because suddenly, just as it always ended up between you two, hateful words were exchanged. The worst part isn’t when Eddie snarks about how at least he can get his dick wet, unlike you, nor is it when you spit out how being a slut isn’t something to be proud of. It’s a blur of sharp tongues and jabbing knives, both of you swiping for any which way to make the other bleed.

It’s the cruelest you’ve been to each other yet, because somewhere below all of the surface-level insults, there’s real pain pulsing there. There’s your bloodied threads of anxiety, wretched thoughts and doubts as to if you should even be in this apartment tonight. There’s something more in the lines that form between Eddie’s furrowed brows as he matches your anger. His volume raises right along yours, and whenever his voice breaks over certain quick-dagger remarks, you don’t look into it. Especially not when it happens as he brings up the bartender again. All the failed dates, as he so kindly reminds you of.

“For someone who claims to not fucking care, you sure do talk a lot about those ridiculous fucking dates,” you seethe finally. Somewhere in the argument, you’d downed the rest of your drink, leaving an empty glass beside you.

“Because they prove my point!” he shouts in exasperation, “Because you… you… you can’t take a fucking hint.”

A final thread wraps around your throat. You feel as if you can’t breathe.

“And what is that hint, exactly?” your tone shakes as you ask it, past anger and past heartbreak.

Why do you still care what he thinks? Do you still care what he thinks?

The vodka says yes.

Yet Eddie says no, shaking his head immediately.

“Oh, so now you don’t want to speak your mind?” you hate how vulnerable you are, the lilt of your voice with unshed tears and the crack in your chest that you’re sure he can hear. You want to scream, you want to pound your fists against his chest. You want to throw a proper tantrum, like an absolute child. Like a little kid on the playground who no one wanted to play with, “You had all this shit to say, and now you bite your tongue? Fuck you, Eddie.”

“You don’t want to actually know,” he says flatly. He’s emotionless, and it burns you even further. Here you are, overflowing your cup with all your emotions, and his well has run dry. Even the tick you had managed to get out of his jaw is gone. All the anger, all the false signs of him actually caring have vanished.

You bite down on your lip, struggling to take a deep breath. Trying to even your anger, to bring yourself down to his level. You’re tired of the uneven battle ground. “I don’t? I never knew you were a mindreader.”

“Don’t have to be a mindreader to see the way you’re about to burst into fucking tears.”

You suddenly wish you could take the glass on the counter beside you and just toss it at him, full force. Make him physically bleed as he continues to stab at your pride, your ego, your emotions.

You’re not even sure he’d bleed at this point. Maybe he’s a fucking robot designed to do nothing but hurt you.

“Fuck you,” you state plainly as the first tear falls, repeating yourself with a more vindictive tone, “Fuck you. It’s not like you care about my fucking feelings, so just say it.”

“Fine,” he’s still so indifferent, still so emotionless, “You’re so dense, you never realize that you’re not wanted. Not by those assholes, not here-”

It’s your final breaking point. You don’t care to hear the rest of his sentence, temper taking the reins as you reach for the glass beside you.

You throw as hard as you can.

You tell yourself it’s dumb luck and bad aim when the glass shatters against the wall behind Eddie and not his shocked face. Not mercy. Not the ghost of hope, evaporating with a whisper of glass shards as the final shovel full of dirt falls upon the grave. You can see it clearly, the gravestone that marks the fresh grave: Here Lies Possibility. Here Lies All That Could Have Been.

It’s over. Eddie knows it – his emotion finally shows, but you don’t stick around to see it.

Eddie’s wrong. For once, you see you’re not wanted, and make the choice to leave.

—

HOUR FIFTEEN - 6:00 AM

“It was about you. I got banned because of you.”

You don’t know how to respond at first. Honesty hangs heavy between the two of you, suffocating in the morning light.

You asked him for honesty. He gave you honesty.

It should be a celebration, but all it does is build a pit in the bottom of your stomach that threatens to weigh you down to the bottom of his ocean.

When you finally respond, you enunciate each word carefully, “Eddie. What do you mean?”

“I got banned. From the bar. Because of you.”

“No, yeah, I gathered that,” you stress, the crease between your brow deepening, “But…. I… elaborate?”

You can hear the cars on the street below, echoing honks and engines thrumming. Songbirds sing in the distance and shops are opening; the entire world surrounding you two is awakening with a long yawn and a gentle stretch.

Your world feels as though it is coming to a full stop, but life is carrying on.

“Which part?” he breaths out a humorless laugh, “The part where I got banned, or the part where it was because of you? Because the ban is pretty straight forward – I threw a punch at a guy, he threw a punch back, now I can’t step foot in Fat Tuesday on Mill Ave-”

“The part where it’s because of me, you idiot,” you interrupt him in exasperation, “What the hell do you mean you got banned because of me?”

Silence. You’re met with silence.

Maybe honesty has run dry, just like that.

You search his face and count your luck, at least he admitted this much, before sighing, “Okay. You don’t have to tell me-”

The honesty comes bursting out of him. The well of it is anything but dry, “It was the bartender that stood you up. He was there that night after our fight, after the party at Steve’s.”

The bartender.

You hadn’t thought of that guy in ages, had long since forgotten his name and face since he’d bruised your ego.

“I…” your voice trails off, unsure and unsteady as you take tentative steps away from the balcony’s railing, “I’m… honored?”

Honored isn’t quite the right word. You really don’t know how to feel right now. Should you be thanking him, assuming it was in your honor that he started the fight? Or should you press on, test the limits of honesty and figure out if you’re interpreting this entire confession incorrectly?

Eddie chuckles dryly before he suddenly walks over to one of the two lounge chairs on the balcony, a small table separating them adorned with a crystal ashtray, “That’s all?”

“Should I not be?” Confusion bursts and blooms across your face, and Eddie’s only reaction to it is furrowed brows as he sits down, “I mean, you just told me you not only threw a punch, but took a punch from some dude who stood me up on a first date once. I think at the very least I should be-”

“I expected you to have more questions,” Eddie cuts you off as he taps his carton of cigarettes on the table beside you, more of a habit than a necessity. His knee is bouncing with each tap, an invisible beat you try to track and end up failing miserably before you take the other chair beside him, “You always have more questions.”

I do, you think immediately, I have a million and one questions I can’t ask.

Each question flurries past you in a blur, and you’re sure if they’re capable of making you dizzy that there’s no way Eddie could handle them all being thrown at him. There’s also a small part of you still terrified that pressing too far will send him running; ask one wrong thing, and Eddie will retreat to his tall, defensive walls, once again separating him from you. Progress, no matter how minimal, is progress. You can’t risk backtracking.

“Of course I do,” you repay his debt of honesty in a quiet tone, nimbly picking at the hem of his sweatshirt as it brushes your thigh.

“Then ask them.”

“If I ask you more questions, are you going to shut me out?”

The entire morning stills. The breeze turns stale, the sounds of the Sunday hustling and bustling seemingly pause.

You can’t help but look into his big, brown eyes. You try to communicate with a single look, a silent plea for him to please say he isn’t.

“I won’t shut you out,” he’s hardly louder than a whisper, but that’s enough for you.

You don’t know where to start: Did you punch him because of me? Did he say something first? Did you have an ulterior motive? Did you know about my date with him before that night? Did you guys talk about me?

The final one sparks a chill down your spine, uncomfortable at the thought of Eddie having discussed you with the bartender, having been the one to tarnish the man’s view of you enough to leave you stranded at a restaurant alone.

Normally, you’d slowly ease him to the point of your actual question. But your patience has vanished as you look at him now, as you watch him under the promise that he won’t shut you out.

“How did you know him before the fight?”

His lips twitch with a grin, “I was a regular, he was a bartender. Can I make it anymore obvious?”

“Are you quoting Avril Lavigne to me right now?” you ask, flabbergasted before shaking your head in an attempt to clear your thoughts and move past this joke, “You know what? Forget I asked – so he served you often? Were you…. Were you friendly?”

“Well, he once took me out behind the bar and kissed me, but he never got around to buying me dinner. Might have been because of my mean right hook, but who knows-”

“Eddie,” Your voice cracks in desperation, “Please, be serious. Just for one minute.”

It kills you to say it, because part of you is convinced this is a vision of the boy you’ve been chasing after for so long. This is the boy who is best friends with Nancy. This is the boy who is always invited without hesitation to smoke with Jonathan and Argyle. This is the boy that Steve and Robin had ranted and raved about in all those classes before you’d met him. This is the boy you’d met that first night in the bar in brief passing, and had been seeking out ever since.

A boy who felt like coming home after a long week.

It kills you to tell him to quiet down all the grins and jokes that are making your heart ache in such a terribly peculiar way.

“I’m sorry,” something in you gleams with gratuity when his grin takes it’s time fading, him throwing up his hands in faux defense, his playful tone still woven carefully. He’s not shutting you out. “I can be serious. I- Give me a second. Scout’s honor, I can stop fucking around.”

“You better,” you jilt, caving into the joking ever so slightly.

It’s easy to do when he looks at you this way. His eyes sparkle as if the honesty has freed him of some great weight. However he had expected you to react, it wasn’t this way.

All at once, he has become something brand new to you. You’re in his sweatshirt, barefoot on his balcony as you can still smell his last cigarette lingering in the air, and you wonder if you’ve never considered yourself a morning person because you’ve never experienced a Sunday morning with Eddie. If you had felt his morning light like this before, even in a sleep-deprived haze, you would have certainly enjoyed the early hours sooner.

“Okay, okay,” he takes a deep breath, forces away the grin you can still see in the crinkles beside his eyes, “To answer your question, no. We weren’t really friends, I didn’t even know his name and I’m pretty sure he didn’t know mine. He just knew my order.”

“Whiskey and coke,” you whisper, pulling a knee up to your chin, resting it and looking at Eddie with unbridled softness. Fifteen hours ago, you couldn’t have known nor cared about his go-to drink.

“Whiskey and coke,” he confirms. It’s in the pull of his lips – he’s fighting another smile, feeling just as soft as you are at the way you’ve learned something new about him, “Not that it’s hard to remember. Definitely easier than an amaretto sour.”

“Amaretto sours are not hard to remember,” you shake your head ever so slightly, chin slipping and lips dragging across the skin of your knee. Eddie’s eyes waste no time focusing on the movement, “Okay. So you two weren’t really friends, that’s good to know. I guess my next question would be, was he working that night?”

Eddie leans forward, elbows pressing into the tops of his thighs, “Are you asking if I’m badass enough to storm into a bar and throw a punch at the bartender on duty to defend your honor?”

His words paint quite the picture for you. “Did you?”

“No. Lower your expectations of me, please.”

It takes everything in you to not just throw your head back in laughter, having to settle on giggles suffocated against the skin of your knee still. You wrap your arms around your shin tightly, keeping your leg folded up into you as you shake with the soft laughter.

“Okay, one last question - who threw the first punch?” you sigh. The image of how fearful Eddie had looked when he’d first admitted to this entire ordeal is silly now. You already know the answer to this question, he wouldn’t have been so nervous to tell you if he hadn’t been the one instigating the entire thing, but you ask it to humor the two of you.

It’s a good distraction from the buds and blooms alike, all awakening along your vines. The vines don’t feel so constricting anymore. As a matter of fact, you think you’re able to recognize their beauty for the first time. Verdant greenery lined with splashes of reds, of violets, of yellows that are almost the same brilliant shade of gold that his eyes seemingly flash every time the sun hits them just right.

“I did,” he answers just as you expected. He also shrinks into himself, just as you had also expected, “I just saw him there, and- actually, I don’t know if this next part is just an insult to injury but I…” he trails off, not taking a single breath as he meets your gaze. You’re sure he’s searching for anger, for repulsiveness, for hurt. He’ll find none. You only nod your head and encourage him to keep going, “Okay, he was there on a fuckin’ date, sweetheart. A date, the night after he stood you up. So I just…I just decked him. And honestly? I don’t regret it. He deserved it.”

When he’s finally finished spilling his guts, you’re left fighting a grin and an overflowing chest of blooms. He’s flushed and nervous and goddamn it, he beat the shit out of some dude in your honor. You should scold him or be more upset, but you only start laughing again.

“Why are you laughing?” Eddie scrunches up his face, continuing to lean forward, almost as if trying to get closer to you, “Seriously, what’s so funny about that?”

You’ve thrown your head back in delight now, just as you had wanted to earlier, and release your hold on your leg as it falls back down from your chest, “Jesus Christ, I wish I could have seen that in person.”

Eddie’s stunned. But you mean it – if your heartbroken self from six months ago had witnessed that, you would have considered Eddie your best friend immediately. This entire feud would have been cut six months short just from one simple punch.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp out, desperately trying to compose yourself once more, “I really shouldn’t condone violence. I just – man, I cried over that guy. A whole month of those stupid, cheesy, ‘good-morning-beautiful’ texts, and he had just left me hanging, y’know? I mean, I’m sure he’s not a bad person-”

“No,” Eddie interrupts, smiling right along with you, “No, as far as we should be concerned, he’s a fucking asshole. Fuck defending him, we’re never going to see him again anyways.”

We’re never going to see him again.

Eddie probably has no idea what he’s done, referring to the two of you as a joint unit for the first time in a future tense, but it makes you ache all over. That heartache and warmth you felt for him is no longer secluded to just your chest; you feel it from your toes all the way to your scalp, traveling and leaving kisses of goosebumps in its trail. A sudden yearning floods your entire nervous system, the entire roadmap of your heart and your veins and your arteries – you like the image of you and Eddie, Eddie and you, still being a resemblance of a pair beyond just these measly twenty four hours. You like to imagine being able to call him up out of boredom some time next week. You like the thought of him joining on bar crawls with you and the girls. You like the thought of spending every Sunday morning with him from here on out.

Some of those are reasonable. Some of those aren’t. The yearning rushes through you all the same.

“Yeah,” you agree softly, “We’re never going to see him again. Fuck him.”

Eddie hums and leans back in his chair, finally beginning to relax, leaving you a moment to reflect.

He was telling the truth, he had been honest; he had gotten banned from a bar for you. He’d seen the bartender who stood you up, and he’d decided to defend your honor. Even after that night. Even after that fight. Even after the glass you had thrown.

Even after the cruel words he had said.

The yearning stops in its tracks, coming to a rough halt as you glance up at him sharply.

Even after the cruel words he had said, even after claiming you weren’t someone who was wanted, he’d defended you.

“You know what?” he suddenly says, but your mind is still whirling and you can only hum in response, “I kind of like honesty. I sort of dig it,” you wish you could muster up more than a smile as he boyishly grins at you, “What else do you wanna know? Hit me, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. The yearning rushes past the floodgates, the pink strikes your cheeks, the ache rings out from the very hollows of your bones.

You know what you really want to ask him can’t be answered right now. Because even with the change in him, the one that weakens your knees and has you wishing for things in the future, he was still once the man from that night. He still once made you bleed, made you cry. And even if he’s apologized, and you know he means it, it can’t erase that fact.

And it worries you. Because as all the feelings swell in your chest, you’re left with yet another unanswered question.

Why would you defend me after that fight?

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#twenty four hours #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #this chapter is my fucking mortal enemy #rewrote out the angst and postponed it simply because if a guy ghosted me and i found out my 'enemy' rocked his shit i'd cackle #anyways #i hope this is worth the struggle i put in

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gengwasted · 1 year ago

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I’ve just realized I forgot to post this one

Inspo once again taken from heartslogos works! (Fantastical but true)

Wings + mermaid aus tickle something in my brain I adore them so much.

#kavetham #haikaveh #alhaitham #kaveh #fanart #genshin fanfic #genshin impact #this one was so fun to read #I wanted to draw serpent haitham all may but ended up postponing it lol #birb kaveh has my heart #gengdraws #staysafe and have a nice life 💛🌻

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vincess-princess · 4 months ago

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in darkness shall you be reborn

Chapter 19

Word count: 3740 Warnings: blood, guts, etc. A/N: let's pretend there hasn't been nearly a month between the chapters. i like to have some writing in reserve when i post, so i usually write a little bit in advance. and writing has been especially hard lately

Vince climbed through the hatch and looked around. Nausea rose up his throat, his breakfast almost spilling out.

The deck was a bloodbath. Bodies were strewn around, missing limbs, heads, guts spilling out. Right by the hatch thin-legged Tom looked at the sky with unseeing eyes, his throat slashed so deep his head and neck were held together by a sliver of skin. An unfamiliar man lay nearby, his arm nearby slashed neatly off his body, still grasping at his saber. A smell of blood and smoke hung in the air.

Well, Vince’s guess about the assault seemed to be correct. And the Shout crew were the ones left standing. Well, some of them. Most were sitting or lying down, Izzy fussing around them like a mother hen. But the majority seemed to be alive – for now, at least.

“Oh, hey Vince!” he heard a familiar voice from behind his back. He turned around and saw Duff. With one hand he was pressing a rag to the deep cut on his forehead, with the other – holding Slash by the shoulders. Slash seemed to be unable to step on his foot and groaned every time Duff made a movement. Duff led him to a crate by the board and unceremoniously dropped him on it. “You made it, man! We saw two Metallicos climbing down the hatch and thought you were done for.”

“Apparently not.” Vince headed towards the two pirates. “What in the fresh hell happened here?”

“Fucking Metallicos. Thought they could fool us, take us by surprise. Well, they are no more.” Slash pursed his lips. “Should’a trained better.”

“No damn privateer has an ounce of honor. Though, what else could we expect from the king’s whores?” Duff continued.

“You were attacked by privateers?” Vince blinked.

“More like heinously betrayed,” Slash grumbled. “I knew from the start there was something fishy here. Metallicos and cooperation? Unheard of. I wonder how the captain even believed them.”

“Yeah, it’s not like we’re short of gold at the moment. But he wanted more, apparently.”

“Wait – cooperated?” Vince tried to clarify.

“Yeah. Hetfield offered Sixx to take over a Dutch ship carrying spices to Americas. Promised a huge profit. We board it, eliminate the crew – the Dutch are poor slaves anyways – and then his men attack us! Of course, once we realised what was happening, they didn’t stand a chance. But they got a few of our boys by surprise.” Duff sighed. “Anyway, we’ve got both Hetfield’s ship and the spices, so I guess we’re winning here.”

Hetfield. That was the man the Baldie and Three Fingers mentioned when they came to the galley. He gave them Vince’s description – and, apparently, told them to search for him on the ship. How did he get to know Vince was here? And more, why did he need him? Could he recognize him on sight? Or maybe the Whartons put out a call for Vince’s rescue together with the description?

A lump formed in Vince’s throat. Those men could have come to save him. His family surely offered a big award for his rescue – Metallicos would absolutely want to cash in on it. And if they were privateers, maybe the Crown itself had a say in the matter. What if Vince’s rescue was one of the reasons they attacked the Shout crew?

And he killed them. Killed them with his own hands. Sure, they were a bit nasty, but that didn’t mean anything, right? A privateer is still a pirate, serving the king or not. And pirates weren’t the most well-bred kind.

“Dude, you alright?” Duff frowned. “You look like you’re gonna drop dead.”

“Yeah,” Vince heard himself saying, “yeah. I just need to sit down. I just need to… sit down.”

On shaky legs he shuffled away from the two friends and lowered himself on the deck. He killed his saviors with his own hands. He killed his own chance at rescue.

The air was filled with moans and yelling, Izzy gave commands somewhere in the distance, pirates hurried by. It was all a background noise to Vince. The thought gnawed at him, consumed him piece by piece. He was doomed to stay on the Shout till the end of his days.

He wasn’t allowed to wallow in his misery for long.

“Oh, here you are!” Tommy came up to him, his now bandaged hand hanging off his chest on a dirty rag. “We need to get rid of all these damn corpses onboard, and you’re among the only ones who’s almost unscathed. Robbin will help you.” He pointed at a grim blonde man with an eye patch crouching before one of the corpses. Vince hadn’t spoken to him before, and Robbin didn’t seem too eager to communicate either.

Vince rolled his eyes. “So I’m not a man enough to fight but a man enough to drag around corpses.”

“We didn’t let you fight not because we think you can’t,” Tommy replied sharply. “We’ve seen you in practice. There’s a different reason.”

“What reason?”

“You’ll get to know it someday. But for now, you’ll have to make do with what you have.”

“Did these privateers want to rescue me?” Vince asked directly. He didn’t doubt Tommy would lie to him, but maybe he could see a clue in the face of the first mate.

But Tommy just grinned wide. “Not everything is about you, princess. These bastards, may they burn in hell, wanted our loot. And now they don’t want anything because dead people don’t need things.”

Vince sighed. Tommy wasn’t as easy to crack as Mick. Or maybe Vince just didn’t know him well enough. “What about corpses of the crew?”

“We’ll bury them with honor, so just drag them to the center of the deck. Izzy will give you some sheets to cover them with. Wait, are you bleeding?”

Vince showed him the gash in his forearm he got from the pirate. It slowly but surely soaked his sleeve in dark-red.

“Oh, that’s nothing. I’ll call Izzy, he’ll patch you up in a moment. I think he’s done with the heaviest cases already. And then – corpses!”

Tommy strolled away. He was energetic and high-strung, as if the battle excitement still hadn’t let him go and he had nowhere to pour it into.

Izzy came with his usual bottle of vodka and a bundle of rags.

“Not as bad as it could be,” he murmured, pouring vodka all over the gash. “I’ve heard you took out two of Hetfield’s bastards all by yourself. Nice work.”

“Thanks.” Vince felt a tinge of pride. News spread fast, apparently.

Izzy dabbed a rag on the edges of the wound, wiped the blood that trickled down Vince’s arm and bandaged the gash.

“All done. You’re good to go.”

“Thanks. A lot of work today, huh?”

Izzy sighed heavily. “Yeah.”

He left. Vince glanced at grim Robbin that he was supposed to dispose of corpses with. He didn’t look one bit friendlier, but Vince surely wasn’t going to do everything alone.

Robbin didn’t answer his greeting, but did follow him to the first corpse. Guts that were spilling out of its stomach dragged on the deck behind it. The corpse sunk with a loud splash, and the water went wine-red in that spot for a second.

Getting the two corpses out of the galley up the hatch was an especially excruciating ordeal. Robbin on the deck pulled them upwards while Vince pushed them up from down below. The Baldie’s guts dripped all over his shirt, and Three Fingers’ boots left a trace on his cheek, and Vince, sweaty and dirty by the end of it, regretted killing them a hundred times over. Should have cut off their arms or something so they could walk out on their own and bleed out on deck.

At some point Vince lost count of how many spilled guts and cracked skulls and cut off limbs he saw that day. By the end of it he got numb and tired enough to not care. He only hoped they wouldn’t make him scrub the deck as well.

There were four corpses of the crew which Vince and Robbin arranged at the center of the deck and covered with white sheets. Soon the sheets were peppered with little red spots, but the corpses weren’t bleeding anymore so it didn’t go beyond that. Vince’s muscles were ringing with exertion and his legs were shaking – all those pirates sure ate too much for his liking.

When they were done, he and Robbin plopped down on the deck in a spot clean of blood to take a breath. For the first time Robbin looked Vince in the eyes and gave him a barely noticeable nod. Vince must have done well in the eyes of the pirate.

Just as he settled to have some rest and watch the sunset, he saw Mick approach him in big strides with a determined expression on his face.

“Here you are!” he said. “I need you in the galley. Dinner isn’t gonna cook itself.”

“Oh, come on,” Vince moaned, hiding his head between his knees. “I just spent two hours dragging corpses around, can I have some rest at least?”

“You’ll have to answer to all the hungry crewmates then. C’mon, c’mon.” Mick pulled on his sleeve. With a groan, Vince rose from the deck, shook off dirt from his irreparably ruined pants and followed Mick.

***

Blood soaked into the wooden floor of the galley, and the floor was cold and wet under Vince’s bare feet. He already dirtied his feet on the deck, so it didn’t bother him much. The blood on his pants and shirt already started to harden and stink, and Vince disposed of the shirt – it was ruined beyond repair anyway. The breeches weren’t much more pleasant to stay in, but he couldn’t walk around the ship naked. He hadn’t fallen so low yet.

“Which one of them broke her?” Mick suddenly asked as he lit up a lamp.

“The one with three fingers.”

“The one whose stomach you cut open?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he suffer? Or did he die quickly?”

“One doesn’t negate the other.”

Mick sighed. “Yeah, that’s true.”

He pulled out a rag, poured some water on it and gave it to Vince.

“Wipe yourself up. I don’t want all that blood to get into the food.”

“Do you, by any chance, have another shirt you don’t need?” Vince asked, wiping blood off his chest. It dried up and stuck to the skin, and he had to rub it hard to get rid of it.

“Nah, kid, you took the last one.”

“But I can’t just walk around like that.”

“You very much can. It’s not like it’s too cold for that, and no one cares about that bony chest of yours.”

“I care.”

“That’s your problem. C’mon, we need to get to work. Hungry pirates after a fight are no good to deal with.”

Mick decided on regular porridge: it was quick and filling and required low effort. Muttering went across the crew when they presented them with a pot of porridge instead of meat, but the hunger prevailed. Soon quiet descended on the deck, and it was even quieter than usual during dinner: no one was eager to make jokes and talk much that day.

Nikki dined on deck with Tommy a bit away from the crew. Vince feared even to look in his direction: what if he triggered the captain with a mere glance? He was extremely enraged at him today in the galley for no reason. Well, Nikki had some reason he thought up, something related to that Hetfield man whose crew they defeated. Did he suspect Vince had something to do with their betrayal? But why? He didn’t even see any of them before those two barged into the galley, let alone speak to them.

As the dinner neared its end, Nikki rose to his feet.

“Friends,” he said loudly, attracting everyone’s attention. “Crewmates. Let us honor our dead.”

He stood over the four corpses Vince and Robbin laid on deck. A speech followed, something along the lines of “we shared our bread, our beer and our battles”, reminding of each of the dead’s merits, recalling fun times together. Vince didn’t listen very closely – he didn’t know any of the dead. Besides, if he thought too much about what Nikki would say over his dead body, his heart would probably burst.

At the end everyone applauded very solemnly, and the corpses were gently descended into the water, with much more care than what Vince and Robbin applied. As everything was done, Nikki wished everyone good night and retired to his cabin, not sparing Vince a single look. It was a relief.

The one to spare more looks than Vince would like to was Tommy this time. Already slightly drunk, he came up to Vince, plopped on the bench next to him and invitingly patted his knee.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

Vince heaved a heavy sigh. He wasn’t as afraid of Tommy as of Nikki, but all his touches and pinches and smiles were not pleasant to say the least. Tommy hadn’t done anything of the sort to Vince yet – but Vince had a feeling it wouldn’t last for long.

“C’mon. Don’t make me wait.” Tommy’s voice hardened.

Vince looked around. Nobody but Mick noticed it, and Mick was assiduously looking away. There wouldn’t be any help from him.

“I haven’t finished my porridge.” Vince pointed at his half-finished plate.

“So?”

Vince bit his lip. Yeah, Tommy probably wouldn’t hit him too hard for disobeying, a smack on the head at worst. But he was also treated Vince pretty well (compared to Nikki, at least), and Vince didn’t want to lose his favor.

So he set down his plate, rose from the bench and walked up to Tommy. His moment of hesitation was cut short as Tommy pulled him onto his knees with his healthy arm. Incredible how much strength there was in those lanky limbs of his.

Vince wriggled on his knees a bit, trying to get more comfortable – if that was possible in such a pose. No one looked in their direction, but it was still only a question of time.

“That’s right, darling, get comfy,” Tommy said in his ear, hugging him with his healthy arm and drawing closer. Blood rushed to Vince’s ears, and he dropped his head, hoping that his hair would shield him from Tommy’s eyes, would help him keep his shame to himself. But Tommy didn’t let him.

“It’s alright,” he said, tucking Vince’s hair behind his ears. “We’re not doing anything, right? Just sitting there enjoying each other’s company.”

“Definitely not me,” Vince murmured, quietly but loud enough for Tommy to hear him – and grin in response.

“That’s the princess I know. Your obedience made me a bit wary.”

He pressed Vince’s head against his chest. For the uninformed they could look like a pair of lovers. Thankfully, the whole ship was informed enough, and the glances they were getting were quickly averted. That didn’t decrease the shame pooling in Vince’s stomach, but at least they didn’t stare openly.

“How you doing?” Tommy continued like there was nothing happening. “Was that, what, the second fight in your life?”

“Yes.”

“Were you scared? I was scared at my second fight. I was barely eighteen, and there were all those grown men brandishing sabers and guns. The smoke, the blood… We fought, we won, and I spent the night puking over the board from sheer stress.”

Well, even seasoned pirates had their first fights, Vince reasoned. He didn’t understand why Tommy was telling him this, though. What was his purpose? Get him all soft and trusting and then break it all – or let Nikki do it – to hurt him even more?

“I’m fine.” More scared of Nikki, he wanted to add but didn’t.

“Yeah, I see how you’re fine. Quiet, suspiciously obedient, and, oh, look at those shaking hands. That’s a fella who is totally fine.” Tommy cupped Vince’s chin and turned his head to face him. Vince looked him in the eyes defiantly – see, I’m not scared, not of you, not of anyone else.

“I have killed before,” he said. “Two of your men, to be clear. And two today. That makes a count of four.”

“That’s a solid count for a non-pirate. I killed only nineteen people, which, at ten years of experience, isn’t much. Nikki’s count is twice as high.”

“Only?!” Vince choked on his own saliva. “And do you mean Nikki killed nearly forty?”

“Well, he says so. He might embellish the number a bit, but I think it’s pretty accurate.”

Forty kills… forty people dead at the hands of the captain. He took lives like he took his morning beer – quickly, easily and ruthlessly. Killing Vince would probably be like snapping fingers to him. It was probably how it all would end. The question was not if, but when.

“You’ve been pirating for ten years?” Vince decided to change the topic. Tommy seemed benevolent enough to share some information. “But you don’t look much over twenty. How old were you when you started?”

“Do I look that young?” Tommy pouted. “I’m twenty-five already. Maybe twenty-six. My parents weren’t sure on an exact date. So… fifteen, I guess?”

“Some crew took you in at fifteen?”

“Me and Nikki, yeah. I was a cabin-boy. Not in the way you are now a cabin-boy, though. Hey!” Vince poked him in his hurt arm, and Tommy jabbed him with his elbow in response. Vince tried to use this momentary hassle to wrestle free, but Tommy’s grip was unyielding. He gave up and continued the conversation.

“And Nikki?”

“He was a bit older, so he qualified as a sailor. Nineteen, maybe?”

“So he’s now twenty-nine.” Vince examined Tommy’s face, looking for a joke, but there was not a sign of it even on Tommy’s eternally-grinning face. He must be serious.

“You sure know how to count.”

“Only twenty-nine, and already a captain of his own ship? How come?”

“Oh, that’s a long story. Let’s just say: a whole lot of blood got spilled.”

Tommy talked about it light-heartedly, but a shiver ran down Vince’s spine. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the details. On the other hand, it was always useful to know who you were dealing with…

“That’s probably because he gets angry often,” he said. “Sometimes without a reason. Like at me today.”

“Today?” Tommy suddenly got very serious. “Oh yeah, he was mighty pissed, and as much as I explained to him that you couldn’t possibly conspire with Metallicos – on account of you having never talked to a single one of them in your life – he still, I think, somewhat believes it. So you be careful around him for the next couple days. Try not to piss him off too much.”

So Nikki thought for some reason that Vince conspired with those enemy pirates of whose existence he learned a couple days ago and hadn’t seen till today? And even Tommy couldn’t convince him otherwise? Great, just great. Nikki didn’t look like a person who would let an emotion subside by itself; he was the one to make it everyone else’s problem. Vince’s problem, in particular.

“It seems me merely breathing already pisses him off,” Vince murmured.

“Well, sometimes you can be rather annoying just standing there with that expression of yours.”

“What expression?” Vince blinked in confusion. He might have let a grimace or two slip through, but usually tried not to let his emotions spill onto the surface. He wasn’t sure if he was successful in it, though.

“Well, that expression. When you pout and look from underneath your lashes. Like you’re all high and mighty and we’re just ants under your feet.” Tommy pinched his cheek. “Get rid of that noble residue, Vinnie, or finding friends on here will be extremely difficult.”

“I’m not doing that! At least, not on purpose!” Vince pushed Tommy’s hand away. In return Tommy grabbed him by the jaw, dug his nails into the skin on Vince’s cheeks and pulled his face very close to his.

“Don’t do that.” His hot breath blew over Vince’s face. “Or I might get angry too. And you wouldn’t like it.”

Yes, Vince had to agree, he wouldn’t like it. If Tommy didn’t lie – and he probably didn’t, seeing how he was defending Vince at the galley – he tried to talk sense into Nikki on Vince’s behalf. With questionable results, but it counted. And Vince didn’t want to lose an – it was hard to admit, but he had to – an ally.

“Sorry,” he said as clearly as Tommy’s hand on his jaw allowed him too. Which was not really clear, but Tommy understood him.

“That’s better. Now, let’s try again.” He pinched Vince’s cheek a second time, now much more painfully. Vince gritted his teeth and said and did nothing.

Tommy was satisfied. “Good boy,” he said. “Now give me a kiss and you can go. On the cheek, don’t worry,” he added, laughing at Vince’s miserable expression.

It didn’t make the situation much better, but Vince wanted to get away way more than he wanted to give the motherfucker a piece of his mind. He quickly gave him a peck on the cheek, his lips burning from the touch to the warm skin, and slid off Tommy’s knees the moment he released his grip. He couldn’t see Tommy watching his retreat, but he knew the asshole was laughing.

“Hey, Vince!” he heard Mick’s voice. “Where you going? We ain’t done here.”

Mick made him gather all the plates from the crewmates and only after that permitted to go to the galley with an additional ordeal of washing the dishes. But Vince was happy to, as long as he was away from all the pirates, and especially Tommy. He wasn’t violent, or cruel, or particularly unpleasant today, but Vince felt sticky all over from all those little touches and small taunts. It took him all his willpower to ignore them, and now he was tired and empty and just wanted to crawl under his blanket.

He did, eventually, after all the dishes and a couple other errands from Mick were done, and passed out of sheer exhaustion the moment his head hit his rolled-up rag that served as his pillow.

#motley crue #nikki sixx #motley crue fanfiction #tommy lee #vince neil #mick mars #my writing #in darkness shall you be reborn #motley crue fanfic #vinikki #pirate au #ive been planning on posting this chap for a while but kept postponing #because work drained all my energy

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forgottensoul793 · 7 months ago

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I hope someone leaks the movie or script

I know it's near high impossible with how guarded Mappa is with everything involving yoi, but it would be nice getting at least a synopsis of the story they worked on, so we could know at least some of Victor's lore. Maybe some sketches or storyboards. Skaters worked on it, didn't they? Maybe choreography. The movie was so close to being finished and we get nothing except a few empty words? Is the movie forever going to be lost in Mappa's server or some producer's USB? All that work and passion that went into it for years?

#yuri on ice #yoi #yoi was such a big part of my childhood #it was right there in my darkest times #and subconsciously i knew with all the postponing it wouldn't release #and the cancellation is just final release #but it still hurts #i had a yearly tradition of forcing new people I met during that year to watch it #i made so many memories with so many people with that movie #the fanfics #the fanarts #all the covers and memes and posts #i know fandoms die #this feels different #thank you yoi #im still going to continue my yearly christmas rewatch #i wonder how is it gonna feel this year

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cynicallyneutral · 5 months ago

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anyone else start doing smth and it turns out fun and then ur brain is like,,,whoa this is awesome and therefore u should stop doing it and save the fun for later

except later never comes…

it’s like ur brain treats fun as an investment and therefore by doing it later, it will double the fun or something

#idk like ny brain just has to stop me from doing it #i think it might be me like…damn i want my whole self to be concentrated on doing this one thing #so that i will enjoy it fully #ill do this after work so i have more time to do it #and therefore i will be happier for longer #kinda thing yanno #idk #it seems kinda silly that my brain actively stops me from #having fun at the moment for some goddamn reason #this is why whenever i feel like drawing #i would be in the middle of doing smth passively #like maybe work #and then i just postpone drawing even if im enjoying it a lot atm #my thots #u can just see it in the amount of unread books that i have #as well as my 400+ tabs of fanfics and manga i plan to read #theyre more than 400 actually bc that 400 is just one tab grou #and i have more tab groups skfhdjf’#im thankful my browser isnt crashing tbh

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sdvbraindump · 6 months ago

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I know it's early but are we all in agreement that the Shane pinup poster is super hot?

Like how am I supposed to get back to work after that???

#sdv #stardew valley #sdv shane #stardew shane #stardew valley shane #i was only supposed to take a break for dinner #now i'm like he also needs another 🌶️ one shot #like WHY #how the hell did this happen #how did i let a pixelated 2d fictional character have this hold on me #i'm about to postpone everything #sdv fanfic

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sexynetra · 5 months ago

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WIP WEDNESDAY

Surprise bitch I’m alive (and making my editor work on this chapter under duress)

~~~~~~

Anetra slammed her sketchbook closed and whipped around in her seat to look at Marcia again. “Do you really think that’s helpful right now?” she asked coldly. “Like, I’m asking you for help so I don’t show my ass in this show and you’re here telling me I’m shit at it before it even starts. What the fuck is your problem?”

Marcia started. “I’m sorry… I didn’t think.”

“You never do.”

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corrodedbisexual · 1 year ago

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Like a cannonball

Steddie | M | ~3.3k | AO3 link

Written for @thefreakandthehair's wonderful summer challenge. I'm glad there were still some unclaimed prompts when I showed up late with Starbucks. 🥰 Prompt: cannonball.

Featuring: Fluff and Humor, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Coming Out, Friends to Lovers (idiots to lovers more like), Getting Together, Drinking, Marijuana, Summer, Moving In Together, Gay Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington's slutty shorts

Snippet below!

“Be careful, you might have to sweep me out of here with a broom or something in the end.”

“You can stay if you want.” Steve shrugs, a tiny roll of his shoulders.

“You asking me to move in, Stevie?” Eddie chuckles. “Geez, buy a lady a drink first.”

“You’re not a lady,” Steve points out.

Yeah, that’s kind of the whole point, Eddie thinks. He winces.

“I guarantee you, you don’t want me living with you.”

Steve frowns at him.

“Why? The way I see it, the pros outweigh the cons.” Steve sits up, cross-legged next to Eddie, and starts bending the fingers on his hand one by one as he talks. “I know for a fact that you can cook. You always pick good movies to watch. You know how to fix shit when I’ve got two left hands. You’re great company and fun to be around. You always have weed on you.”

Eddie snorts.

“And the cons?”

Steve appears to be thinking for a moment.

“Well, your music is terrible. Hey!” He yelps as Eddie throws at him the nearest thing in reach, which turns out to be an empty beer can. “Okay, your music is terrible and you’re really sensitive about that, but I’m gonna count that as one. Two, uh…” He stares at his hand with only one bent forefinger. “Actually, I got nothing.”

“I’m messy as fuck,” Eddie supplies.

“Eh.” Steve shrugs. “I’ve been to your room Eds, I wouldn’t put that under messy as fuck. You’re not like, a serial hoarder, or something.”

“Wayne always complains about my hair clogging the drain.”

“Baking soda and vinegar. It’s not rocket science.”

“I’m gay, Steve.”

Eddie stares up at the ceiling, and the silence that follows his words feels like an eternity, even though realistically, it’s probably only a few seconds.

“Okay,” Steve says, and his voice sounds… fuck, like Eddie just told him his Zodiac sign, or something. Eddie turns his head slowly to find Steve smiling. “I thought we were listing the cons here.”

Read on AO3

#LexsSummerFanworksChallenge #steddie #steddie fic #fanfic #misha-bawlins fanfic #i foresee a whole bunch of new fics in the challenge soon now that the bang deadline has been postponed lmao

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gremlinshatephilosophers · 15 days ago

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In the meantime while I’m writing and editing the other nyc preshow fics, here’s a little story based on the latest sims video about whether or not Phil actually understands what a death pact means

I Do Not Think It Means What You Think It Means

Rating: T

Words: 3,245

Summary: Dan and Phil have a death pact. Or so Phil thinks, sending out a tweet after they finish going over their wills with a lawyer.

Inspired by the recent DanAndPhilGAMES video, OUR FIRST SIMS DEATH - Dan and Phil play The Sims 4: Season 2 #17

#sorry I know everyone’s just focused on the mcr tour announcement #due to said tour announcement I may postpone the next fic upload until after the ticket sales #but for now have this silly little story about googling words before you tweet them #dan and phil #dnp #phan #dan howell #phil lester #fanfic #phanfiction #ao3 #i do not think it means what you think it means

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lilacthebooklover · 10 months ago

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Written for DAY ONE: REUNION of Purelily Week 2024

'Pure Vanilla Cookie felt like he was dreaming.

The past few hours had passed in a blur, Pure Vanilla wrapped up in a tangle of troubled thoughts, unable to truly concentrate on the task at hand. He’d learned so much about White Lily Cookie, about his Soul Jam, about Earthbread as he knew it– but the knowledge he had gained felt… Far away. Distant, almost, as though it had retreated into a far-off corner in his mind; vaguely present yet unreachable nonetheless.

He could smell that achingly familiar lily scent, feel his solid staff under his fingers, hear the soft faerie song around them, taste the terrified bile rising in the back of his throat. He could see her right in front of him. By all means, with such adrenaline pumping through his veins, Pure Vanilla ought to have been more grounded in reality than ever before.

And yet, as he looked into White Lily’s bright magenta eyes, lucidity felt a hundred miles away.'

OR: In which Pure Vanilla and White Lily had a little more time to talk before being thrown back into battle.

#purelily #I GOT IT DONE WOOP WOOP #pure vanilla cookie #white lily cookie #pure vanilla x white lily #pure vanilla crk #white lily crk #white lily x pure vanilla #purelily week 2024 #reunion #fanfiction writer #cookie run fanfic #cookie run kingdom #cookie run #nerdy prudes must die #no shadow milk this time <///3 #i postponed his arrival #ao3 fanfic #i'm so tired

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wisteriasymphony · 6 months ago

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actually guys what if i decided to throw a curveball at you guys and make tweos!marinette sympathetic by reminding you guys that at the end of it all she's just someone who fell prey to a parasocial relationship in order to make herself feel like there was someone out there whose love she could guarantee. that she's so focused on seeking external validation from adrien liking her back that she doesn't consider her heroism to be confidence-building accomplishments but a means to an end of "being loved". what if she was just a teenage girl who, like adrien, was being tortured by forces much more powerful than her.

#adrien and marinette have one core similarity in that they're both children who have been severely exploited for the gain of others #thewarmembraceofshadow #miraculous fanfic #it's a curveball in the sense that i was going to continue the felix stuff with the next chapter. but that can be postponed a bit

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daddyplasmius · 4 months ago

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this is let grief do its work, a fic (currently unedited rip) I started as a kind of sister fic to hand on my stupid heart, another fic I'd written earlier and uh. yeah. you guessed it. haven't finished. I'm working on this on the side, Flying Over the Pit of Death + its sister fic & my original novels being my main focuses right now. I will most likely continue lgdiw sometime in the future, it just isn't my main priority. Like all of my fics, this idea is free for anyone to take & run with. if/when I finish this fic, the edited version will go on ao3. For context: this is just a prologue of sorts, depicting vaguely what is happening on the human side of the Portal the month after the Accident. On Danny's side, he's been chillin' in the Ghost Zone, where he ended up after half-dying, believing he's fully dead (he's not) & only realized he's still alive after it was too late for him to tell everyone what happened cuz like, awkward & embarrassing lol. HOMSH takes place a year later, when things come to a head. I feel it's important to reiterate that, although Danny isn't actually dead, the characters think he is & act accordingly. okay author's infodump note complete, fic under a readmore

“when they first go, let yourself think every selfish, no-good, dirty, angry, filthy, horrible thought. let the waves of anger wash through you. let grief do its work.” ーCaitlyn Siehl; Grief Counseling

On the first day, Sam had thought that, maybe, Danny was just busyーtoo busy to answer their texts, and their calls, and everything else. But then Tucker called her. It was a horrible game of telephone at first. Danny’s parents told Jazz, who told Tucker, who told Sam, and that’s how the communication went for two days until she and Tuck had enough.

They went to FentonWorks, the big, ugly building on the corner of Mockingbird and Cedar, and were surprised to find no one home at all. Not even Jazz. And, for the first time since they’d known the Fentons, the doors were locked. And when they tried to talk to Jazz later, they would find that they’ve officially filed a police report.

ー

Danny Fenton is missing. The last time Sam talked to him she was making fun of him, for being too scared to go check out the Fentons’ new Ghost Portal. She knew he was freaked out by stuff like thatーby ghosts. Now she doesn’t know if she’ll ever see him again.

There’s just no way. He can’t be gone. She literally saw him on Saturday. His empty seat in homeroom on the first day of school is the thing that does it. There’s this gap in the desks where he should be, but he’s not. Like he’s already haunting her.

It makes her sick. Everythingーeverything in her head, everything she knows. Despite what Dash and his asshole friends say, Danny wouldn’t run away. And the longer a person is missing, the more likely it is that they’reー

Sam doesn’t wait for the bell. She leaves Tucker in homeroom, goes straight to the bathroom, and wipes her face down in the sink, water turning black. Suddenly, everything macabre, everything dark and creepyーit just disgusts her.

She goes home early. No one even says anything, not the school, not her parents, not Tucker. Alone in her room, Sam starts to shake. She sobs once, something seething just under her skin. She stalks over to the wall where most of her horror movie posters are taped and starts tearing them down, one by one.

ー

Danny Fenton has been missing for a week, and Tucker, staring at the sweater his best friend forgot at his house, laid across his computer chair, thinks he’s starting to feel it.

Opening his phone, he feels it again. Looking at his texts, he feels it again, and again, and again.

Saturday • 4:47 p.m. Danny Phantom: xD Danny Phantom: not playing tonight, ghost portal opening night 👻 Danny Phantom: can play tmrw tho Too Fine: hell ya txt u then Danny Phantom: 👍 Sunday • 10:20 a.m. Too Fine: yo still up 4 doomed Too Fine: dued Too Fine: dude* Too Fine: you there Sunday • 10:21 a.m. Too Fine: txt me when you wanna play Sunday • 11:58 a.m. Too Fine: you up?

Tucker lets his phone fall on his bed. He doesn’t bother checking in with Sam. She’s been out of school and ignoring him for the last three days. It’s almost been a week sinceー

He gets up and stumbles to his chair. He sits down, careful not to mess up Danny’s NASA hoodie. Tucker turns on his desktop, types in his password, checks his emails. He messes around for as long as he can before he literally cannot take it anymore. He just can’t ignore it.

God. His best friend is gone. Is he coming back? Is heー

It’s like something inside his chest cracks. Without thinking, he pulls the NASA hoodie into his lap, and then over his head. It’s been here too long. It still has that smell of ozone and copper on it, though.

Tucker leans back in his chair and stares at the wall.

ー

Danny was home. That’s the thing. The last time Jazz saw him, he was inside the house, and she never saw him leave. He must have, at some point. She has no idea why, or for what, but he must have. It’s the only rational explanation. Danny left. Something happened. He never came home.

She feels the panic rising, gripping her throat again. She puts the candle down on the bleachers. Wipes her face. Whoever is speaking to the crowd of students holding vigil is a mess of white noise in her ears. It doesn’t help. It should and it doesn’t. A lot of things are the opposite of what Jazz knowsーthought they are.

She almost wishes it had just happened at home, been a little less drawn out.

As soon as it pops into her head, she feels sick, disgusted at herself.

But no one goes missing this long and lives. A very small percentage do. And if it had been some accident in the lab, like she always feared would happen, at least they’d have a body to mourn. At least they would know.

ー

Sam’s parents pretend they aren’t happy. They have to look worried, grieving, because what would the neighbours think if they didn’t? She can see through it, unlike them. They always hated the Fentons. They always hated Danny. They always hated Sam’s fascination with the macabre.

Well. They got what they wanted.

It’s like he’s in everything. She isn’t even looking for him, and he’s still there, still everywhereー

Sam rubs her eyes on her sleeve before she can properly cry. There’s no body. He could still come back. A month is a lot, but he could stillーhe could show up. Someone could find him alive. He could be alive.

Her parents look at her from across the lavish, stupidly large, solid wood table. She should know what type of wood it is but it’s like the information is behind a fogbank. She can see the silhouette. She just can’t make it out. Mom places her cutlery down neatly, dabs her mouth with a cloth napkin, and clears her throat.

“Sammy-kins…” She starts, and the rage inside Sam bubbles up like lava bursting through rock. “There’s been… We…”

She looks to the side for help, from dad. He looks incredibly awkward for a moment before turning to Sam with an expression she hasn’t seen since grandpa died.

“Saman… Sam.” He says, simply, slowly, and the lava in Sam’s gut turns cold, and heavy. “They’ve found evidence that has given them reasons to believe that… your friend is gone.” He’s never spoken this softly. Ever. His voice is barely audible above the blood rushing in her ears. “They’ve called off the search.”

ー

Tucker didn’t expect nightmares. He wakes up and he panic-cries into his pillow and hopes to whatever god or deity is listening that ghosts in dreams aren’t real. He can’t explain the fear. Everything is incredibly normal, more normal than his dreams ever have been, and then Danny walks in.

He would give anything for this to happen, right now, in real life. He’s afraid, though. In his dreams, a sheer terror overcomes him. He can’t get away fast enough. He can still hear his own voice echoing in his head. “You’re dead! You’re dead!”

It’s a wrongness he can’t quite graspーor doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to be afraid of his best friend. Tucker wants him back so badly. But his brain knows the truth, even if Tuck is digging his heels in and refusing to budge.

Someone knocks on his door, and he tenses.

“Tucker, sweetie? It’s…” Mom takes a deep breath. “It’s time to go.”

He grits his teeth and shoves his face into his pillow so hard he can’t get air. He stays like this until he can’t. He gets up.

Tucker walks across the floor like a zombie, barely aware of what he’s even doing. He manages to put on the suit his mom put out for him yesterday, and goes downstairs. He refuses breakfast. The three of themーmom, dad, Tuckerーgo out to the car, and drive to his best friend’s funeral.

ー

Jazz stares at the closed casket. There’s a pair of police officers out of uniform, or maybe detectives, standing in the corner by the photo album laid out on a table looking haunted. Aunt Alicia, uncharacteristically wearing a plain, black dress, sits with mom and dad at the other side of the room. Jazz stares at the casket and she tries to imagine that it’s not empty. That it isn’t making her scream inside with the frustration of it all. Her baby brother is gone. They couldn’t even find him. And probably never will. Because that’s how these things end.

Tucker walks into the room. Dark bags circle his unfocused eyes. His parents are right behind him, his father’s hand on his shoulder. Tucker looks at the casket. He turns away, catching sight of Jazz, and when his parents break off to meet hers, Tucker walks over.

He picks at his sleeves. Says nothing. Jazz tries to pick at the grief counseling she knows she’s studied for fun, but finds herself falling short.

She doesn’t see Sam or Mr. and Mrs. Manson walk in, but suddenly they’re there as well, smiling tightly and giving their condolences to Jazz’s parents. Sam doesn’t walk over. She stands in a corner and stares at a wall with purpose.

Jazz breathes slowly, willing her heart to stop pounding. She counts the stages she can see in front of her.

Too much Acceptance, all from strangers who never even knew him personally. She glances at Dash Baxter, tugging on his tie and looking annoyed. She can feel Anger in her. But also Denial. Bargaining. Depression.

And somehow, Acceptance, too.

They’re not stages. She never really got that before. You feel them all at once, all the time, and they don’t go away. The intensity changes, turning from a background hum to bright bursts of emotion at any little reminder.

She looks at Tucker out of the corner of her eye. She wonders if he’s feeling that way too. Being bombarded by the stages of grief in a way no one prepared them for. Is this why mom and dad never let them get any pets? Besides Danny’s gerbil, which promptly disappeared before she could even get used to the rodent’s smell. What happened to it? Was it rehomed, or is its body still somewhere around the house, unfound, unlooked for?

The stages start over, skipping between Depression, Anger, Denial, the emotions falling over themselves. She wished the cops would leave.

Not soon enough, it’s over. The funeral home employees usher them out, the rooms and halls now empty. The drive home is simultaneously the longest and shortest ever. She stares up at the brick and all she wants to do is sleep. She heads inside intending to do just that.

She takes her shoes off at the door. Mom and dad take off their jacks and move to settle in the living room. Mom is holding a tissue to her eye. Jazz hesitates for just a moment.

Should she do something? She feels like she should do something, anything. She wants to suggest therapy. She’s afraid to open her mouth, though. Jazz can feel the blame on the back of her tongue, ready to spill out. That would be the worst thing for her to do, and she doesn’t know if she has the strength to hold it back, because for fucks sake, if they just watched their children, this wouldn’t have happened.

Jazz turns to the stairs and starts climbing them. She doesn’t get halfway before she’s blinded by drywall dust and knocked off her feet.

#Danny Phantom #Let Grief Do Its Work #i'm surprised the format stayed. i literally just copy pasted the whole thing #me remembering The Gerbil: ohoho yes i can use this for evil purposes #btw this series (extended HOMSH universe) is like. supposed to be funny #but i also was literally so depressed at the time it ended up hella depressing. i don't like. remember anything from that year #HOMSH was a vent fic & then i promptly forgot it existed til i rediscovered it like 4 months later just after the 1st anniversary of. yeah.#i literally have no memory of writing it at all. it was literally like reading someone else's work #i vaguely remember figuring out the panic attack chapter but that's literally it #every time i reread it it's like. an all night affair. i put on Implode Alright by Built by Snow & read it til dawn #& it's funny. but also it's like. yeah. that's uh. that's where my mind was. & it's the only proof i have that i was even alive that year #dont worry i was pulled out of my severe depressive episode a year later when a kitten ran out of the woods & attacked me & stole my hotdog #i still have that half feral kitten. he's a lot bigger now & much more of a baby (only with me apparently though)#he even lets me pick him up without severely injuring me #i should just post HOMSH actually. it's unfinished but like. maybe that'll make me want to #posted this & then immediately got hit with the fanfic author's curse. uh. all my shit might get postponed

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